Gracious Master. You bless me with these instructions. How I have suffered! But you have mercy and spoil me now!

Loud exciting pop music! Pulsating. I face the mirror and move with the rhythm of the music. My hips sway, my breasts vibrate, my hair does. My gaze is telling me: I am alive; I am a woman, well endowed and beautiful; I am irresistible and dangerous. Yet I am not my own property: it is to my Master that this irresistible, living creature belongs. My energy increases. I warm to him.

I pour a swig of olive oil on my chest. A river of oil cascades down the crevice between my breasts. I catch the flow with one hand and spread it over my chest. Another swig. I catch the oil in a hand after it has traversed the crevice. Coming up from underneath, the hand spreads it across a breast, cupping, pressing, squeezing it with my hand. Another for the other - spreading, cupping, pressing, squeezing. (Merciful Master! You spoil me.) The rhythm of the music.

More oil on my chest, a good helping. I set the bottle down, catch the oil with both hands and massage my belly. I dare not touch my vagina yet. I couldn't be relied upon.

More oil, on my belly this time. I see and feel the oil make its way down my legs (and between my legs! Lord!) I catch the oil as it reaches my knees and massage my thighs. More oil. My shins and calves. My feet. I feel the beat of the music.

More oil down my shoulders. My arms, one after the other. My back. I bend and twist to cover my back adequately. My luscious buttocks.

All that remains: my head. I look at myself. My familiar countenance, my familiar hair on this shiny, sly, slippery, luscious body. I close my eyes as I pour a good serving of oil on top of my head. It flows down, over my hair and face. Oh, the heavy, sticky fluid flowing across my eye-lids, my nose, my lips, into my ears... I take a deep breath. Another swig and I set the bottle down. My face; I rub the oil all over it. My hair, my oily, oily hair; I slick it back and it remains so. Excess oil drips out of my hair as I press it against my skull.

I turn up the volume, until I feel the sound on my exposed body (the underbelly), until the dense air can be cut with a knife. I am a rough, earthy, angular dancer now. My movements are quick, hyper-energetic, raw. I massage my body, but the massage is not of a smooth, gentle, soothing variety. I slap myself on the oily buttocks and thighs, on my slippery belly, my face, my glowing tits. I grab my tits, press my nails into them; I twist, pull and push as if I want them removed. I hate, I love, I LOVE my womanhood! My buttocks - I tear them apart and expose my virgin anus. I find the anus with a finger and stroke the sphincter that guards it jealously, like a father a virgin daughter. The touch - I (the virgin) am not insensitive to the touch (- I may be compelled to persuade my father to...) My labia... I penetrate my primary orifice. I am not a virgin there and my fingers, four, six of them, all slippery, have no trouble entering. I am exposing myself to the full, to myself, to M... (It is as if I want to dissect my body and become aware of all its constituent parts. The paradoxical objective is to render me and my body whole.)

I dance. My lungs devour masses of air. I am dangerously warm, as my skin is sealed, and the release of my sweat is impeded.

I am ecstatic, not like a nun now, but like the chosen one, who is to perish dancing during ancient rites of spring.