I wear no panties. Because I am asked not to. It is a beautiful free feeling, for most of the time. (During my periods - yes, I am a woman - I am to wear an old-fashioned rag between my legs, held up by a girdle. Just to leave my buttocks naked. A old-fashioned nuisance, but it has to be so!) When it is cold outside, the feeling is free alright, but it is the freedom of the homeless; freedom I can do without. Fortunately, I live in mild Mediterranean climes.
They follow me on my excursions. I see their stately black car parked along the way, here or there. I see them in cafes, on park benches, behind newspapers, wherever I pass.
I never wear jeans or any other trousers. When I sit down, I am to feel the texture, the fabric, the cool sensation of the leather on my buttocks and my sex. My lips are to kiss the leather.
They highly emphasise that I do this even when they are not there. Especially when they are not, they say. Skirts are what I wear, or dresses. Preferably made from light, sheer materials.
I wear a tight cotton corset every other day. They like a narrow waist between the solid base of my hips and my torso embellished with its full bosom. The alternate days I wear not even a bra. On those days I prefer to wear short loose dresses. It is like being naked in public, without people being aware. Occasionally, on a rare windy day, my dress is swept up. Nothing to be done to prevent this! Imagine the faces of the people who happen to see it. Hilarious! The power one has with a naked body! Why, does not everyone have a naked body underneath their clothes? Seeing me still throws many people out.
I have had to practise walking without my breasts badly bobbing up and down, as they are not small. How to walk steadily in my condition I was taught by an old school mistress, an acquaintance of my masters. She made me walk with a book on my head, like in a traditional rich girl's school (so I am led to believe - I certainly did not go to one.) Also, the great art of sitting down without flashing one's private parts required a great deal of practice. I am a shy girl after all. No help from the school mistress here. I learnt this in real life, while trying not to flash my parts and meanwhile watching the faces. It was quite easy to distinguish failure from success. The dirty old men (and women) watching me!
Once a week I am required to go to this place. There, the one that employs me to do all that, the Lord (so he calls himself!) receives me, alone or with his friends and associates. Shameless individuals, some impotent at that. I walk around naked (you guessed!) and remain silent, while serving them with brandies & cigars with them pretending that everything is normal. I bend over generously when I kindle the fire, to give them a fine look at my snatch. They do look, discretely, with watering mouths, let me tell you, as is obvious to me when I look back through my legs.
There is an assortment of whips there, hanging on the wall. They have not been used on me. I suppose they are there to tell me I could be subordinated if I were not to know my place. I know my place, so never mind. I cannot say how I would react, if I were to be whipped. Anyway, they are not the masters they think they are.
I am not to go to the toilet, but when the need arises, in them that is, I am to sit on their laps and pee right there. I have got a wet feeling it turns them on. Respectable men with base desires.
I spend the night there in my special room. There is an enormous mirror in that room. They are on the other side, looking at me in panoramic view. I have heard their gasps and groans. I give them a good show. Having dressed again with a multitude of layers, which includes the corset, I undress in front of the mirror, lingering, with expressive, slow movements, turning regularly to give them a full frontal, a left profile, a view from behind, profile from the right, stretching myself standing, bending over, sitting in a chair. Undressed, I brush my hair, I oil my body, I weigh my breasts in my hands and fondle them, I languish while my fingers aimlessly traverse my pubic area, combing my pubic hair, masturbating, my eyes closed and my face celestially contorted.
Now the Lord has asked me to shave. He says pubic hair is untidy and, when you get down to it, a hairy woman is not naked. (Says the pedophile.) So on my night there, I first take a bath. They have prepared it and added jasmine scented oil. The bathroom is a large luxurious room, with green marble tiles, an old cast-iron tub in the centre with gilded lion's paw feet and golden taps. There are heavy drapes, plenty of comfortable seats and palm trees in pots. The bathroom adjoins the gents' drawing room and the big double doors are open. They casually walk in and out while I take my bath.
After I am done, I install myself on the edge of a stool that stands on top of a mirror, for improved visibility. I am naked, rosy and jasmine scented. They sit around me. They hand me the scissors. I stroke the bushy triangle down there, mine since I was thirteen. Still a pity to see this private patch go. Bit by bit, it gets closely cropped, while the hairs gather below. I see myself reflected underneath, a juicy, ripe fruit being skinned. I lather up and shave clean, bit by bit. I must say, a solemn atmosphere prevails. The old bastards are impressed by the result of the transformation they ordered. Lolita.
I admit it: I am impressed myself. I do feel clean and tidy. After these introspective moments, I raise my head and look at them triumphantly, reborn as a goddess. I look at the Lord, who sits down in the centre of his entourage. His attitude is humble. I walk towards him. My newly shaved Lolita snatch is close to his face. He admires the result of his command, he blushes. He looks up to my full breasts and down again, sees my navel, my strong legs. He is no longer commanding. The slave in him has taken over. (Was he ever the master?)
He extends his hands in order to grab my hips. I sharply say: 'No!' He looks at me, startled, and obeys. I slap one of his cheeks with my flat hand and then slap his other. He does not react, nor do his associates. I can tell that I am in charge. What to do? What to do to my Lord and employer? I know what he wants.
I command him to strip. He protests. I will not hear of it. His dinner jacket goes, his shoes, his trousers. He look insecurely at his associates. They look back, but furtively, before returning to me. Their gaze is feverish. I urge him to continue. He nervously removes his tie, his shirt, his vest. His white, flabby upper body is pitiful. But I am not to be moved, he does not want me to. His socks go, his shorts. He is naked. His penis is erect.
Picture the scene: a richly decorated large room, nine men in dinner suits, anticipating strange proceedings, one naked man, previously of authority and commanding respect, presently a miser, waiting to be humiliated in front of his inner circle. I am at the centre of all this, naked as well, smooth, strong, an almost glowing apparition, an avenging angel.
I make him go down on all fours on top of the mirror I sat on before. He may study his own face now. Then I break through the circle of associates and stride towards the collection of whips. I take a mild whip, with fairly wide strands without knots. He will glow, not bleed. I know my place.
I return to him and whip him forcefully on his buttocks. He raises his head and groans. I hit him again, and again. I stand legs apart. A rhythm establishes itself, punctuated by his ever louder cries. My torso rotates, my back arches. I raise my arms, I make large, athletic movements. (I am conscious of my role as the principal actress. Must look good.) My breasts sway, my hair flies. I sweat, as I complete twenty, thirty hits, before I stop and stand there, breathing heavily. He has collapsed on the floor and sobs.
Having regained myself, I look around. His associates look down and avoid my gaze, but they feel it. I need not say a word, as one after the other removes his clothes and goes down like his leader. Ten naked shadows of men.
When I finally stop whipping them, an hour has passed and I am exhausted. Before I dress and go my way, I go to stand behind the Lord and urinate on his red, aching bottom. When I close the front door, I can only imagine how sooner or later each of them in turn will raise himself and leave the scene without saying a word.
Next week I present myself as usual (although I have kept myself freshly shaved, as this enhances my free, naked feeling.) They are there, as if nothing has happened. I serve them, parade before them as I have done and spend the night there as before. I never again play the role of the avenging angel. I know my place. One thing has changed: the whips are no longer there.
You say I am an exhibitionist? If my body is a thing of beauty, why not show it?
You say I enjoy this? Sure, I earn a good living for precious little work.
You say I am a prostitute? I get paid, but I am not a victim. Who do you think is in charge?
You say I victimise them? Not as long they respect themselves.
I promote their base desires by giving in? They are men, synonymous with base desires, so help them, Lord!
Shameless? Indeed, but leave your bourgeois moral values out of it, please.
Copyright by Vanna Vechian, 1998. Reproduction allowed only for personal use.
BACK TO VANNA's HOMEPAGE