Once again I’m waiting desperately for Him to call. I sit staring at my phone and have to stop myself from dialing the number of His law firm.
What would I say to Him? “You said you’d call, I’ve waited too long, I have to see you. I can’t wait anymore, I have so much to offer you, you haven’t let me show you, let me try, maybe I’d be able to give you an erection, maybe I’d make you want me, if only you knew how I dream about you in bed at night, your hands on me, your cock inside me, give me a chance.”
That’s absurd. It’s up to Him to call me. What’s the point of telling a man without desire about my desire for Him? If He wanted to see me, He’d say so.
My secretary tells me He’s on the phone and wants to talk to me. I barely have time to regain my composure before I hear His voice: “I’ve missed you a lot. You should have called me, these last few weeks have been so hard. I was waiting for a sign from you.”
I must be dreaming. He’s making fun of me, but I don’t contradict Him.
He wants to see me. As soon as possible. He demands that I make myself available the day after tomorrow, “Thursday evening.”
I go through my wardrobe in my mind, my underwear, my shoes.
I have to choose the stockings, the garter belt, the bustier: tulle or lace?
I return home and my son holds out his arms to me. I’m moved but I don’t linger. I love him more than anything in the world but he’s not enough for me.
I’m dreaming with my eyes open, preparing my body, making it smooth and glossy, exfoliating, plucking, and taking Ambien to get to sleep.
The day arrives, and I wake up with a start, at dawn. I’ve been dreaming about Him all night. Like the other nights. Except that tonight, I know I’ll be in His hands. Tonight.
I’m afraid. I’m paralyzed with impatience. I know I’m ready for anything. I’d like to know my limits.
I drink my usual two quarts of tea, but do without my daily sliced bread with salted butter and black cherry jam. I don’t look at my husband. My son is still asleep when I slam the door shut behind me. I don’t want to hear his gurgles.
My stomach feels bad again. It’s anxiety, I suppose.
By the time I arrive at my firm, my face is wreathed in smiles. None of my cases can take them away.
My period has started. I cry with rage. There’s nothing I can do. Even if I stuff myself full of Methergin to control the bleeding, I can’t take the risk. I feel so ashamed. I just can’t believe it. I have to call Him. But what can I say? What can I suggest?
While I’m struggling with this insoluble problem, Léon, an old friend of mine and a past master at seduction, calls me to invite us to dinner next Tuesday.
The thing that’s special about his dinners is that he always invites a lot of unusual and eccentric people. This one, which is being organized by his wife, the incredible Astrid, looks like it’s sure to be a colorful affair. The guests include a falsely modest philosopher who wrote an encyclopedia all on his own; my mysterious colleague Hassan with his fine features and his dark skin, who’s envied by half the lawyers in Paris for his women and his high media profile and who makes the other half (the female half) jealous for the same reasons, and a well-known sexologist whose reputation probably owes a lot to the special care he lavishes on his female patients, and who’ll be there with his girlfriend, a model and actress with an extraordinarily sensual mouth. Who else? There’s a financier who, after a few setbacks in the stock market, thinks the whole town has it in for him; his wife, a pretty fortysomething who has nothing to recommend her except her family jewels; a few ultrarespectable company directors whose daughters are all called Marie something or other; a specialist in face-lifts for very rich and very neurotic women; and a pretty woman in her forties who finds it impossible to choose between her husband and her lover. There’s Aurélien, whom everyone is attracted to, and who seduced my dear friend, the lovely Léa, on the eve of her nineteenth birthday—three years later she still has a glint in her eyes when she talks about him. There’s a woman director of erotic neorealist films; an ambassador who knows my husband well; Bérénice, who’s absolutely my best friend, the most loyal, the most reliable, but whom I still can’t tell, plus a few others who are well accepted in polite society—and Him!
When I hear His name, my heart skips a beat.
I knew they were friends. In fact, I’d already met Him at Léon’s, but now my heart starts racing again, the excitement is unbearable—all these friends, my husband, Him, and me.
I thank Léon, tell him I’ll definitely be there, and quickly hang up. I immediately dial the number of His law firm.
Without preparing what I’m going to say, I plunge in: “I’m really sorry, I can’t make it tomorrow evening. But I think we’ll see each other at Léon’s dinner next Tuesday. Anyway, I thought maybe you’d like to meet after the dinner, maybe Wednesday evening. The whole of Tuesday evening we’ll be having dinner together with mutual friends, both knowing I’ll be yours the next day.”
“Yes. All right. Bye, then.”
That’s all. He’s already hung up.
I’m overexcited. Everything’s churning inside me. I’m very proud that I managed to speak to Him without stammering, and I even convince myself that I could call Him again next Monday to ask if He’d like to go with me to choose the underwear I’ll be wearing on Tuesday evening. Only He would know.
On Monday morning, I wait impatiently until eleven o’clock, when I think I’m more likely to find Him in His office. In the end, I have to leave a message. Then I wait.
The hours pass. As soon as I leave my office, I switch all incoming calls to my secretarial staff.
At last, at seven o’clock, He phones. I immediately make my suggestion, which he accepts without much enthusiasm. Appointment at twelve o’clock tomorrow, at La Perla.
I decide I won’t eat till then. It’s not hard to do.
Tuesday. At 11:58, I’m stuck in a massive traffic jam in the place de la Concorde. To think that I left my scooter behind this morning so that I’d be impeccable in my favorite gear: stilettos and stockings and garters. And now I’m definitely late.
At 12:28, I park, blocking a driveway opposite La Perla, and run into the shop. He isn’t there. The assistant—who’s very unpleasant—tells me He waited for me, but left five minutes ago.
My eyes fill with tears. I’m desperate. My legs won’t carry me anymore.
I stand there in my stilettos, in the boulevard Saint-Germain, and look down at the sidewalk, feeling hopeless. I cross the street, narrowly avoiding being run over. The drivers blow their horns noisily to show their disapproval, or maybe to jolt me out of my torpor.
Staring into space, I light a cigarette and smoke it and walk aimlessly like a zombie.
Suddenly I see Him. He’s just a few yards away, sitting on the terrace of the Flore. I quickly join Him, summoning all my energy to put on a bold front.
It’s true. I lower my eyes and mutter some inaudible excuses.
“This is quite unacceptable. If it wasn’t for the fact that I have an appointment with a journalist at one o’clock, I’d take you home with me and punish you.”
I don’t say anything. I want Him, maybe I also want Him to punish me.
I’m transported by His voice as He tells me I’m His, He can do what he wants with me, He likes my sensuality and my submissiveness. He’ll look at me tonight and think about His hands on my breasts, the smell of my cunt, His tongue in my ass. He’ll want to tie my hands and take me behind a column. He’ll want to fuck me. He’ll want me to suck Him.
He tells me that when I go home, I’ll think about Him and masturbate.
He tells me I look beautiful in my severe navy blue suit, He can see from the glances of other men how much I’m desired, but only He knows how submissive I am, how ready to carry out all His orders.
He talks about Catherine Millet.
Although I admire her sincerity, the endless succession of penetrations she describes isn’t my kind of fantasy at all.
He takes me by the arm and we go into L’Écume des Pages, where He buys me Dolorosa Soror by Florence Dugas and Le Lien by Vanessa Duries.
“These books could have been written for you,” He says as He hands them to me. “Maybe one day you’ll feel the need to write about your experiences with me.”
He walks me to my car and opens the door for me. I’m just about to drive off when He asks: “How did your riding competition go on Sunday?”
I’m astonished He remembers about this event since we hardly touched on it during our short conversations these last few days.
“Um, very well, thanks, I came in third in the jumping.”
“Do you carry a whip when you ride?”
“A riding crop? Yes, but I never use it, my mare’s so good—”
“What’s the whip like?”
“Uh, black.”
“Tonight, I want you to leave it in the hall of Léon’s building, under the stairs. You were late today. You have to be punished.”
And He’s gone.
His last words have left me stunned. I rush to the riding department at Hermès to buy a whip worthy of Him. Obviously, I couldn’t give Him the old piece of plastic I’ve had hanging around in my tack room for the last ten years.
I choose a black latticework leather cane, with a broad lash. I don’t know if the clerk has guessed what I’m planning to use it for, but from his questions he sounds suspicious.
“Is it for you? Are you jumping? If you are, there’s no point in buying something so beautiful, this one’s cheaper and better suited from a technical point of view.”
What business is it of his?
I try to put him off the scent by making him show me all the bits he has in stock—the only one missing, of course, is the one that would fit my mare’s mouth—just to prove to this jumped-up idiot that I really do ride. All the same, I don’t know if I’ll ever get this thing out of here without stammering.
“Th-thanks. I told you it was for me! No need to gift-wrap it!”
I promise myself that next time I’ll prepare myself in advance by going to buy some lubricant at the drugstore below my office.
At last, I throw the whip on the backseat and drive back to work. But I don’t work, just try to think of the most discreet way to hide the thing in Léon’s hall without anyone noticing—especially with my husband there.
In the end, it all happens without fuss. As usual, I’m late, trying to decide what to wear: my figure-hugging black Versace dress, which is a bit short, the Prada suit Léa has lent me, or my black leather skirt with the slit up the side, which has the disadvantage of showing the top of my stockings. In the end, I opt for the Prada suit.
In the meantime, my husband has lost patience and left in the car, telling me to join him as soon as possible.
If only he knew how grateful I am to him!
About twenty minutes later, I emerge from the taxi at the-quai de Béthune with the whip concealed inside my bustier, making sure first that nobody else has just arrived. I’m shaking.
I don’t have much time to hide the thing. Every second counts. But I’m still standing undecided in the entrance hall with the whip in my hands, looking at the front door, the steps, the pedestal table, when I hear the door opening behind me.
I immediately throw the whip, with its promise of pain, into a baby’s stroller, take a deep breath, try to regain my composure, and walk into Léon’s apartment. I look around the group. He isn’t here.
I immediately drown myself in champagne.
Time passes and He still isn’t here. What if He doesn’t come? I think of the hours I waited at the Montalembert. How can I retrieve the whip?
Trying to look as natural as possible, I keep my eyes trained on the door, watching out for His tall figure.
Almost ten o’clock and still nothing. Everyone else is here except Him.
One of the guests hands me a huge joint. I inhale deeply. Once. Twice. Three times.
I feel sick. I want to vomit, I want to laugh, I want to cry. At moments, my mind goes blank and I wonder where I am.
I feel ill. I sit down on the floor at Léon’s feet, my knees bent under me, and laugh like an idiot and really don’t feel well.
And then I see Him. He’s sitting opposite me, watching me. I don’t know if what I see in His eyes is disdain or amusement. He came in without my noticing and sat down opposite me, and I don’t know how long He’s been watching me.
I try to get a grip on myself and control my ridiculous giggling.
I put down my glass and take a deep breath to regain my composure. I have a nasty feeling everyone here can see how flustered I am. In addition to which, my husband’s looking at me and it’s clear he isn’t pleased at all. I lower my eyes, unable to sustain his gaze.
As for Him, He’s talking to Léon and not taking any notice of me. He didn’t even kiss me when He came in, didn’t even say hello.
I feel alone in the middle of all these friends.
I feel like running away but I can’t move. Then, with great effort, I get to my feet and go to freshen up.
As I come out of the toilet, I feel a hand on my hip and He pushes me toward the staircase leading downstairs. It’s a big apartment, and there’s a cellar.
I’m drunk and I’m high, both at the same time. He forces me down the stairs.
My legs falter and I almost fall.
He’s behind me, with His hand over my mouth.
I feel His other hand moving up my stockings and feeling between my legs.
“You’re soaking wet.”
I’m alive again. I feel the whole of Him against me. He’s going to make use of me.
It’s dark and I don’t know where we are. A rope snags my ear, and instinctively I put my hand up to touch it.
It feels like a clothesline.
Behind me, He bites the back of my neck. I moan, but He puts His hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.
I can’t see Him, all I can feel is His body against my back and His fingers burrowing in my cunt.
I want to cry out and turn around and kiss Him, but I can’t because He’s holding me too tight.
“You’re ridiculous, completely drunk, completely stoned; next time I’ll beat you till you bleed. You’ll feel the sting of the whip on your hips and buttocks and back.
“You’ll want to scream, but you’ll be gagged.
“You’ll want to cry, but you’ll be blindfolded.
“You’ll want to run away, but you’ll be tied up.
“You’ll have no way of begging me, I’ll do what I want with you.
“Maybe I’ll bring other men along, you’ll never know who.
“Maybe I’ll fuck you in the ass, the whip will be nothing compared with what you feel when I butt-fuck you, I’ll plunge into you then withdraw, then plunge in again, I’ll hurt you, I’ll be brutal, I’ll start all over again, I’ll tear you apart, maybe I’ll let other men have you, you’ll never know if it’s still me or if I’m watching you being plowed into by a man, maybe several men, men you’ve never seen, men you haven’t chosen.
“Maybe I’ll bring other girls along as well, and then I’ll lift the blindfold so you can watch me fuck them.
“Nobody will ever treat you as I’m going to treat you, you’ll live in fear of me leaving you.
“You’ll give me your life if I want it.
“You’re mine. I’m your Master.
“Every time I send for you, you’ll come running, you’ll be afraid it’s the last time.
“You’ll never rebel.”
His voice is strong and solemn and hypnotic. Nobody, ever, has talked to me like Him. Nobody has ever treated me like Him.
How did He know? How did He recognize me?
Does he treat others the same way?
I’d like the earth to stop turning. I’d like to die here in this laundry room, with His voice in my head.
His fingers are burrowing into me, exciting me more and more. He bites me. I’m going to come.
Just as I’m feeling the first tremors, He takes His fingers out and moves away from me and I’m so bereft I could scream.
I put my hand out to Him. He’s moved back, but I manage to feel His cock. He has a hard-on. The material of his trousers is stretched to the breaking point.
“The whip will be nothing in comparison.” He’s warned me.
I want Him. I want to feel Him inside me. At least once. If only He’d have me. Somehow, I find the courage to whisper: “Please, take me, I beg you, fuck me.”
He puts His hand back on my cunt, and my legs sag.
I suddenly feel a tremendous pain.
He’s pressing my cunt very hard, I’m not sure where, but it hurts a lot.
He takes His hand away from my crotch but the pain remains.
He pushes me toward the staircase and forces me to walk up, despite the unbearable pain, which is getting worse.
Halfway up the stairs, He stops me and whispers very softly in my ear. “This is my punishment for tonight. Keep this object on you all evening. I order you not to touch it before you leave here. If you disobey me, I’ll never see you again. You’re free but I know you’ll keep it. Now I’m going back up alone. Join me in a few minutes.”
And He continues walking up to the first floor.
I collapse in the middle of the stairs, and try to regain my composure.
The pain is extreme. But it doesn’t occur to me to remove what’s causing it. I like the torture.
I’m going to go back upstairs and take my place among the guests and join in the conversation.
Only He will know.
The words He whispered echo in my head like a cry in a cave. I want to be His, I want Him to beat me all over, I want every inch of my skin to bear His stamp.
I want Him to mistreat me and humiliate me, I want Him to fuck me in every orifice, I imagine His cock moving from my cunt to my ass.
I drink wine and think about blood, my blood, He might like to see it flow, I’m sure my blood forming on my white skin would give Him a hard-on, I can already see the bright gleam in His gray eyes, His thick white sperm flowing in the crimson stripes He’ll have adorned my body with.
I want Him so much I could die. I don’t understand why He doesn’t fuck me. I don’t understand the effect He has on me. I don’t understand. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of not being worthy of Him. I’m afraid He’ll tire of me. I’m afraid He’ll want to play other games with another woman. I’d like to make myself indispensable to Him.
My only desire is to be the object of His desire.
I look at the women around me. They’ve never known the things He’s inflicting on me, they’ve never been paid such a tribute. They haven’t been so fortunate. I think again about the women I know who’ve belonged to Him. Did He treat them the same way? I’ll never ask Him, and I’ll never know the answer.
My cunt hurts, it’s burning for Him.
I’m soaking wet.
I look at my husband and his indifference reassures me. I love him. I care about him, he’s my father, my brother, my best friend. I need the family cocoon I’ve created. I think about my baby.
I’m diving into a bottomless well, but I delight in what I’m feeling. I’m alive.
He’s pushing His chair back and standing up, and I’m brought back with a jolt to the quai de Béthune.
He’s leaving!
My whole body strains in His direction.
I wait for Him to lean over and say good-bye to me, I wait for His lips on my cheek, His hand on my shoulder, a nod of the head, an understanding look.
But He doesn’t even turn to look at me.
I hear Him apologize for leaving so soon, He has a case to plead in Orléans or Chartres tomorrow, His taxi’s waiting, He’s already kissing the hostess and crossing the room to the door, leaving me alone with my inflamed cunt.
Will He even think of the whip?
Will He even remember our date tomorrow?
I hear the door close. I’m alone in the middle of everyone.
I’m carrying the cross of my tortured body, enjoying my suffering in expectation of the pleasure He might derive from it. I remember a sentence by Montherlant—“I think that what I love in her is the pain I cause her”—and for a fleeting moment, I close my eyes and dream that He, too, loves the pain He’s inflicting on me.
I down another glass of champagne and try to smile at my neighbor, to allay suspicion: I haven’t been able to string four words together since my return from the underworld.
My husband takes my arm.
Like a broken doll, I stand up and follow him. All I can think about is the whip hidden in the stroller.
Did He see it and take it?
My husband scolds me gently for drinking too much, or smoking too much, both I suppose. I’m shaky on my feet, and he holds my arm to support me and pulls me out of the apartment.
As we cross the entrance hall, past the child’s stroller, his broad body blocks my view, so I’m not able to check whether or not He took the whip.
A few seconds later, I find myself in the car taking me back to the family home. My eyes fill with tears.
What if He didn’t find it?
As soon as we’re home, I rush to the bathroom and lock myself in to relieve my body of the thing that’s causing me so much pain.
From the lips of my swollen cunt, I pull a clothespin.
A few hours later, I’m still lying awake with my eyes open in the big bed. My husband’s fast asleep.
But I can’t get to sleep.
All I can think about is Him. I toss and turn, remembering every minute of the unreal evening. The night is endless.
The next day is worse. He doesn’t call me, which means I won’t see Him tonight as we arranged.