My second visitor is due today. A man and, because he maintains my website, the only person who knows two identities; as the respectable wife of my ditto husband in the normal reality and that as 'Vanna Vechian, erotic writer', exercised in the shadowy web world. I have resolved at the birth of my VV persona never to compromise my official identity, ultimately because my conventional husband abhors the notion that his wife is a sex prophetess outside the bedroom, in talk or action. I have jealously guarded my identity. Engaging this man to maintain my site infringed upon the idea, but the job was too technical for me. I knew, however, that he would be all the sport he proved to be.

Back to today, I am not interested in making out with him, but wonder whether I will dare to stay naked. I am certain that he will not assault me.

Floating on the cork of my success with my girlfriend and knowing the sport this man is, I will be adventurous and play with him. My attire I adjust by greasing back my hair and applying heavy face make-up, for the night rather than the broad daylight that prevails.

When I sit waiting for him, I am touched by a nervous anticipation. Why? It is over fifteen years since I last did anything like this, so there is lack of practice. I know I am 'well preserved', but I am not fool enough to think I am an indisputable work of wonder. And, if he gave me away to my husband, well, 'Vanna Vechian' might be subjected to a 'crime passionnelle'.

When the bell rings, my heart jumps. So do I, on towards the mirror. I like my look - severe and, after a few deep breaths, superior, ironic. My confidence restored, I move towards the door.

The severe Mrs. V. opens the door to him wide, uninhibited and shameless. His eyes open wide, he looks away and swallows. I see him muster up a weak smile. He then enters and kisses me on the cheek, as normal. His hand touches my upper arm, barely.

I explain the matter ('husband away, reliving my early exhibitionist days, being conscious of my body, gauging my shame.') 'And shocking people', he adds. I should not be surprised, as he knows my work. His directness puts me off guard. A sport indeed! I look down and gather myself for a moment.

To play then. I invite him to keep me from using hands or anything else for modesty, from crossing my legs and sitting with knees together. After all, someone is to keep me straight. He consents, with a sweet shy smile.

I make us coffee. I have directed him to my conservatory and offered him an armchair. The coffees in front of us, I get seated opposite him on a high chair. We discuss the activities we made the appointment for. When he suddenly rises and comes up to me, I am startled. But he simply indicates the mistake I have made and gently pecks me on the thigh. Now it is my turn to blush - I cannot help it. With a 'sorry', I uncross my legs while he stands by, whence he returns to his seat. 'So I do know shame,' I laugh, half-heartedly.

We sit in silence. This is not unusual for us. I take this opportunity to contemplate the incident and my shame. From his shy pokerface, I cannot tell whether the silence on his part is deliberate. He may be better at play than I thought! At a spur, I go for broke. I offer him to inspect me, for punishment - using the term lightly. I hope to fluster him. If I don't, I will have a chance to investigate my shame a little further. One rule, and one only: he cannot touch me. He can direct me, though. He agrees. Oh, dear! I have not flustered him yet.

He asks me to stand in the centre of the room. He remains silent and looks at me, collected, but tight. Is he more nervous than I? My confidence clings to that by its fingertips. He gets up, stands right in front of me and starts with my face. My eyes he considers at close range. Strange the way he looks at them, these gateways to my soul, like a doctor would, that is: without looking into them. I feel his breath - calm - in my face. He walks around me to see the back of my head. He then elects to go down my back first. I lose sight of him. Is this designed to disquiet me? At times I feel his breath, on a shoulder, at my lower back, in my crotch... I am to place my feet far apart. He considers my crotch again, at length, and asks me to bend over and spread my buttocks. The cheek! Before he continues downwards, I may resume my upright position. When he arrives at my feet, he asks me to lift them in turn. He is very methodical.

I am relieved to see him in front of me again. I see him inspect my breasts closely, one by one, in their hanging state and, after he has asked me to raise my arms, lifted. No, I may not lower them immediately. First my armpits. (Oh... slight stubble...) Hence, I may lower my left arm and keep it horizontal while he looks at the arm and hand (the most beautiful part of my body... my nails are green today.) Right arm follows. My chest, my belly.

He then dares asking me to lie down on the table and spread my legs widely, and proceeds to stand between them for inspection of my vagina. His audacity! I am genuinely shocked he has me do this. I started this game, yes, but feel humiliated all the same. My exhibitionism never took quite this avenue. We are friends, but that does not make us 'intimate.' A sport indeed! Upset as I am, I have to be a sport too.

He asks me to pull my nether lips apart and looks really close. Get off! If my husband could see me! As I feel his breath, he will smell my odours. He does not see my chilling look (or does he?)

Undisturbed, he inspects the front of my legs and feet, and finally declares me inspected and certified. He looks at me with a smile, sardonic to say the least. I am allowed to get seated. And I do.

We do not talk immediately. I consider my feelings. Am I a true exhibitionist? No doubt I take pleasure in the admiration or confusion my body creates in the beholders. The trouble was this. My friend was not confused and he was relentlessly methodical and detailed, as if I was an object. I feel violated. But my indignation and shame fade away during a minute or two. I am unhurt, untouched even. For his part, he will generally have admired my body and be affected by the gravity of the event, even if he plays coy. I can only say that the world is a wonderful place. My lips develop a smile and I look up.

I ask him whether he liked the job. He replies that he did. He now knows me better than his wife, he says. And, by the way, I suffer from fat hips and, no, he takes this back. Bastard!

To the attack! Did he get a hard on? Well, he cannot possibly comment! But is he willing to reveal himself in all his glory, post-examination, and be examined himself? He sighs but accepts.

I can only say that I am disappointed by his weak chest, his belly (fat, on a slender frame... hmmm), at his body hair. His penis is, well, semi-erect and curving distinctly left. When I go to inspect it up close, I observe a slight throbbing and the erection growing a little. I then stare him in the face at close range, with an ironic smile, silently, and return to his member. By repeating this twice I have him erect and offer him a curtsey.

Dismissed! Next!

We stay this way for the remaining hour of his visit. A good sport until the end, but distinctly self-conscious, he will not qualify for honours in the exhibitionism department. While showing him out I kiss him on the cheek and put a finger across his lips. Hush! He smiles and nods.

I remember this favourite passage in 'O'... I like it because she undresses for the first time 'alone, her own sole spectator. And yet never had she felt more totally committed to a will which was not her own, more totally a slave, and more content to be so.' My therapy will be following in her footsteps. I will immerse myself in my wardrobe. I will sift through my clothes, putting the ones that prohibit 'access' to one side and the ones that allow it to the other.

Unlike her I am already nude when I look in the full-length mirror. Why, before, I used this mirror to check my image after dressing. Now, to see how I wear my bareness. I see an utterly natural and relaxed woman. 'When she bent down to open a drawer, she saw her breasts stir gently.' I do indeed and I like them that way.

The chore of going through my wardrobe is immense. I have fifteen, twenty dresses, most of which are tight fitting and with a zipper at the back. René would allow me three, one with buttons at the front and two shoulderless, strapless numbers, which may be drawn up or down quickly by a pair of strong hands. Five of the others are ready for charity anyway. My evening dresses, which may be shed by a mere shrug of the shoulders, I keep. When coming to skirts, I evidently like tight ones, which go, but I have a few flaring (including a gorgeous green satin one) or pleated ones (old-fashioned to even my husband), which will stay. Belts, away! My suits, which I love so dearly, all have tight-fitting skirts. They go. The jackets would be alright, but what is a suit jacket without the skirt? On the stack labeled 'unsuitable!' I retain the separate jackets. The masses of jumpers I have... 'René ... would also decide about the jumpers, which ... could be pulled up from the waist and thus release the breasts.' The blouses I keep without exception. Simple. The panties, away with them all! I am playing, however, unlike O, so I make two piles. Those with elastic bands all around, the rest with merely waistbands. Girdles... away! The brassières, likewise, away with them all! Here, however, I also make two piles, one with light and revealing items and the other with the more utilitarian ones. Trousers... I do not like to wear them and I have only a few for out of door, sporty activities etc. No mention of trousers in 'O', but a modern day René would give them no further thought: away! Slips and chemises... away. Pantyhoses... away. Stockings and garter belts can stay.

'[O] was sensitive to the cold, and she suddenly wondered how in the world she would stand the cold in winter when she was dressed so lightly?'

Like O, I am left with much less than half my wardrobe. I see the piles of unsuitable clothes and the smaller collection of what would be allowed. Three dresses, a few skirts, a few jackets, some evening dresses, stockings, no underwear... The thought delights me somewhat, unlike O. For all I care, I'd be left with nothing at all.

I close the session by storing everything back in the wardrobes and drawers, minus the clothes for charity - a two-way gain! The separate categories of panties and bras I keep that way. I may decide to throw out the disagreeable selections. I resolve wear out my pantyhoses and not replace them.

And then I rest.

'Thus she waited for him, curled up in a big easy chair, the tea tray beside her, waited for him to come home, but this time she waited, the way he had ordered her to, naked.'

The last few hours I spend them reading. I could put on a dress and shoes (no more), go into town and buy the most comfortable and expensive underwear I can find, extravagant within bounds and likely to excite my husband.

My husband returned. He is asleep now. I look at him in the bed next to me, entirely satisfied.

I did go out to shop and found a tasteful sea-green underwear ensemble. Embroidered and sheer. The panties are known as 'boxer briefs', slack at the thighs. Mightily expensive, a revenge for having to wear them.

My underwear disappeared under a deep purple dress, semi-short, square cut neck, sleeveless. No stockings, 2" heels. My tan had been greatly enhanced and we looked ravishing, my dress and me. I heard his car coming up the drive and my heart jumped.

Ravishing he thought me too. He smiled from ear to ear, very glad to see me. And, do not get the wrong impression, I was glad too, so much so that when I threw myself in his arms I silently shed a pair of tears.

And we did go to bed immediately, thankfully, neglecting the spread of wine and snacks I had set out in case we needed to get reacquainted.

Did he notice the exquisite new set of underwear? Not sure. Did he notice my now shaven mound? He may have. Did he comment, negatively, as I feared, positively, as I hoped? No. Did he secretly like me this way? Well, he liked me. As if he had not satisfied himself (I hope!) during the entire week. His behaviour was passionate and sensitive. He managed to muster up the sensitivity, think of me and stretch the event beyond seconds... - I love him!

I have thrown out all of my restricting panties and have only kept the light, nice and expensive ones. I burned one, for the fun, hanging on a clothesline. Funny sight, to see it reduced to elastic bands in seconds, which then fell and smoldered.

As to the question whether the period of 'freedom' was worth it, now that it has been taken away again, I am adamant. 'I would do it again!'