Anne-Marie and O

I: Meeting O


My name is Anne-Marie. I am an older woman. In many ways, I am past it, past burning sexual desire and all that. Not past love, not past invoking love, not past instilling the archetypical fear of women in men, not past influencing men. And women, for that matter. Fine, I have no desire to be madly in love, be torn apart, frustrated by love, be rejected. I get what I want, but it is not mad love.

I am a Madam now, a governess of love and desire. My clientele is special, different. They are rich, powerful. Their tastes are different. They want submission.

Most of them were my lovers once, in the days when they were strong, acquiring power and riches, when I was young and attractive to them, chiefly because I was not young and sheepish, but young, strong like them and self-assured. So we had stimulating fighting relationships, did not get married, oh no!

We took from each other what we needed to advance in life. They satisfied their libido, they made their rivals jealous with me at their arm in the opera, at receptions and what not. I got the chance to mix with high society and the powers that be, but remained independent and acquired the experience to remain independent to this day.

My lovers and I, we would drift apart, but never completely. After all, power loves power, but cannot bear it too close to home. We would call it a day, but we would keep seeing each other, my ex-lovers and I. They knew each other as rival powers in business, but allies in their pursuits of love, with me as the bonding agent.


And so it came to be that they set me up in a large country house and garden, just outside of Paris. Away from the madding crowd in the centre of Paris, my home for the first forty-five years of my life. There was space inside: some twenty rooms, including a ballroom with French windows, opening to the garden. The garden, the space outside, had never ending lawns and large shadowy oak trees. A reward for services rendered? Not quite. They expected something of me.

Their pursuits of love, the rites, the altar and I, the high priestess. Powerful men needing to dominate, they recruited young women, in their twenties, and forced them into submission. Where from? I know no more than that they had their network and that they apparently had no great trouble to enslave these girls with their consent. There are simply those fellow-women, who need masters to be able to love. And then there are those to whom only scornful dominating masters are man enough. That is the way I see it, but I am not one of them! They would bring these subservient girls to the house. I would teach them the required manners and furthermore groom them for the service.


They are brought to me with their personalities already minimised. I generally receive them together with their masters in my study. They utter not a word without being asked. Pretty girls, though. I ask them to undress for inspection and for allowing their masters to indicate what modifications are required. I feel the firmness of their breasts and consider their waist. They have to lie down for me to open their legs and inspect their lips, their primary hole. Turning around, I inspect the narrowness of the second hole between their buttocks, though it is often the primary hole in their masters' minds. Many girls bear to a lesser or greater extent the marks of the whipping they have undergone. These marks somehow suit these frail girls and enhance their beauty. Voluntary slaves deserve the worst.

I generally have four or five girls staying with me at any time. When they stay with me they are always naked, apart from any corset or butt plug they wear at the masters' request to make the waist narrow or the second entrance wider respectively. As much as possible, they spend the time outside in the garden, sunbathing or in the shady seclusion of the trees. They have no household chores to do - I have got my maids and cook. During the day, they linger or occasionally play games together or in pairs. They quarrel at times, but nothing serious. These are not the circumstances for making great friends or enemies. During the evening, lessons in obedience are on the agenda. Each night, one of them in turn has the privilege of being whipped, another of whipping. The recipient is tied between a pair of columns in the whipping room. Her arms and legs are spread-eagled in order to give all round access. Surely, it is awkward for a girl to whip one of her fellow slaves. They have no choice, of course, but does it not debase the slave even further being forced to hurt one's helpless brethren? Besides, within a day or two, they will be in a position to bring penitence, when they get whipped themselves. The victim of the night sleeps with me and satisfies me. And herself that way.

Mind you, they are with me entirely voluntarily. They are not normally restrained. Even when they are, the rule is that, would they have had enough, they need only speak up and they are free to go. But in that case they may never return to their former secure state as slaves. It turns out that they seldom leave. Mind you, I am not a hard task mistress. I do not need force to make them do or undergo the things they do. They have little will of their own and what will power they have is not strong enough to oppose mine. They do not even try. But they know that I am only their keeper and not their master, whom they love. You may wonder how I can co-operate in this 'degradation' of my fellow women? I do not know. I do not feel any kinship with them at all. I cannot respect them, these voluntary slaves. Pity alright, but it is as if I want to mistreat them more and more, in order to reach the limit where they would have enough and then rebel and be someone! But they never rebel.


O was brought to me on a sweet summer's day. She underwent the customary inspection in the study. Through the window I could see the other girls all lazily biding their time outside, a fine sight, these naked young bodies, like those of girls without a worry in the world. Those girls and many others had come before her, but I immediately recognised O as unique. A beautiful girl, with a girlish frailty. Yet her full breasts and the blooming flower of her sex were signs of maturity. She was as much subservient as any of the others - no, more! But whereas the others were pitifully humble, O was proud. Proud to belong to her Master, proud to serve him and obey his every wish, however cruel and demeaning. In hindsight, I must have fallen in love with her there and then. Her Master must have been aware of O's preciousness. Perhaps he even realised that I was impressed, more than ever before. Precisely her pride and my attraction made him want to establish his ownership unmistakably and to torture her especially hard.



To be continued



Copyright by Vanna Vechian, 1997. Reproduction allowed only for personal use.



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