I have the blindfold still on when I wake up in the large bed. He instructed me to do so, but I would not have wanted it any other way. I am inclined to leave it on. Introspection is what I am about at this moment in time. The confused image I have of him... I don't know. I have no alternative but trust his mysterious ways. Yet I take the blindfold off. I shouldn't wallow in yesterday.
The brightness of the day is startling. Lying on the bed, I take my time getting used to the light again. I then inspect my body and observe a few bruises, but, really, it could have been worse. My poor hole is somewhat sore. Both the chain between my breasts and the ring though my labia are intact. I should hate the violators, but my peace of mind is greater than that.

The day is as warm and beautiful as the others have been. The panorama is unchanged, the mountains, the plains, the lake, the cloudless skies. It is moving, but unmoved and eternal.

I sit on the stool next to the telephone and dial the number. Again, a recorded message. 'This is the fourth consecutive day you listen to me. You are doing well. I can see your naked body with its adornments sitting there on the stool, listening to my now familiar voice. You look beautiful that way. I realise yesterday will not have been easy to you. Let me just say that you have not disappointed me.
For today, I have a different task for you. You are to leave the comfortable surroundings that you have become used to. You are to walk back to the road you have come along. You are then to follow the road further out for a hour until you arrive in a little town. It is vacant, except for one of the houses. You will find it and are to knock on the door. The person that opens the door will expect you and tell you what to do. This person will dismiss you late today, after which you will walk back to where you are now.
You are to make the journey as you are, naked. You will attach a small bell to your ring by a short chain. This will weigh you down a little and announce your advance to whoever will hear. To protect your feet you will find boots in the wardrobe in the bedroom. You will also find a parasol to shelter you from excessive sunburn. Chances are that you will meet no one along the way.'

I am to be the visitor now, instead of the involuntary host. I can only guess who my host will be. Him? Oh, I have no way of knowing! I have no choice. I am uneasy, sure, but my safety is guaranteed as much there as it is here. I have put my trust in him and I have to travel this way on my actual journey, that is: my journey to him. So I collect the boots and the parasol and set off.
It is a strange feeling to leave the house. It feels like I have been there forever. Though the house did not prove a safe haven, leaving it feels like entering the great unknown jungle with predators behind every tree. Trees? I meet none on my way, none along the 3 miles that I walk. I must be grateful to him for allowing me the parasol. My body was not exposed to the sun for any great length of time yet. Unprotected, my nude skin would be roasted along this long march. As it is, the walk is unpleasant enough. My breasts bouncing, the chain pulling at the nipples makes them smart. The farther I get, the more gently I have to stride. My sense of security is kept on edge by the silvery ringing bell and the clanging discs. They announce me to anybody, should there be anybody there. The world is deserted in this part of the world. If not for yesterday's visit, I would have assumed that the human race were dissipated.
When I am somewhere in the middle of the great nothingness between the bungalow and my destination, I am greatly disturbed by the sound of a roaring car behind me. When I turn that way I see a black car in a great cloud of dust hurrying near. For a moment I am taken back to yesterday and what the cars then brought me. Is the present car one of them? Does it contain an innocent passer-by, who will be amazed to see me? I stand away from the road and observe the car speeding past me. I hide my face in my arms for protection against its cloud of dust.

When I finally approach the town, I find that it contains a dozen or so houses. No signs of life are evident. A single car, a dusty black Corvette, is parked in the yard of one of them. It is the car that passed me along the way. I have refused to think in detail about what would be in store for me here. My main trait - to naively, blindly accept life as it appears to me - is still intact. Someone else might have rebelled (to whom?), run away (to where?), gone crazy (yes!). Would he be there? Was it his car? Does 'he' even exist?
I knock on the door of this house. For a moment, the thought now does run my mind that the occupant (man or woman?) is innocently unaware of my coming. I might get shooed, like a dog, a naked stray bitch, tagged and complete with chain. The loner, the sick maniac who lives here, might eat me alive. Certainly, respect is not what expects from someone who chooses to inhabit a ghost town.

Then the door slowly opens. 'Ah, welcome, there you are!', a kind female voice says. I sigh with relief. When the door fully opens, I see a woman in her mid thirties, I guess, dressed in a red summer dress. To my surprise she wears a blindfold around her bob-length dark hair. 'Come in, I have been expecting you.' She moves out of the way, though barely creating enough room for me to slide by. My breasts and belly brush against her for a moment. Her hand faintly touches my waist.
She tells me to enter the living room. The room is comfortably furnished, but with the anonymous atmosphere of a random motel room. She follows me in, saying: 'You must consider it strange to find a woman living here on her own. But I like it that way. Like you, I was a normal hustling and bustling city girl. Like you, I thought I was content that way. Content perhaps, but not happy. I was made to realise this, to cut a long story short, events took over and I came to live here. The queen of this town, as well as its humblest citizen.
'So, dear, please stand at the centre of the room.' I do so. She follows with her arms stretched out. She feels her way around by touching my body, until she stands right in front of me.
'Thank you. Now, as I cannot see you, you must describe yourself to me. Do not be short on detail, as the soul resides in the details.'

It is embarrassing to describe your every detail to a complete stranger. I am comfortable with my body, but I have never had to name every detail and aspect. She pushes for details when I traverse my body and checks my descriptions through the touch of her hands. 'Your belly, has it started to bulge yet? Ah, it is fairly firm.' 'Your nipples, are they hard now that I stroke them? I'll squeeze them for you.' 'Are their haloes large? Dark coloured?', as she goes round my nipples. 'Your breasts, if they are not small, have they started sagging yet?', she asks while weighing and kneading them in her hands. 'You should wear a bra, should you not? Do you normally?' 'Can your inner labia and your clitoris be seen easily?', as she pulls the outer ones apart and probes. 'So you have a nice ass? Nice and firm, yet soft?' 'Has anyone ever entered you there?', while touching my anus with her finger.

'My, by the sound of it you are like me. I could be your older sister, do you know that! We shall trade places.' She then instructs me to take off her clothes and put them on myself. I have not touched a grown woman like this before. I peel back her layer after layer and put them on, layer after layer. As I pull down her panties, I uncover a clean-shaven abdomen, like mine, and a set of discs, like mine. (Is she his too? Does he entertain two women?) Her clothes fit me well. It is she now that stands naked before me, as I stood before her a few minutes ago. She is quite beautiful .... I have to hold myself back not to touch her soft breasts, her soft belly ... I must hold myself back. She does not see my confusion. Yet it is strong enough for her to register it through my uncertain motions.

She tells me to take a seat and disappears. I watch her nude shape leave the room, blindfolded and arms outstretched, but moving swiftly still. There is the sound of her feet upon the stairs; hence the house is silent for a while. I sit and wonder what to do. I am dressed now, in red this time. How odd to be dressed! Who is this woman, whose dress I was instructed to wear? Why is she here? What is her relation with him? We have something in common. She could be my sister.

Then I suddenly hear frantic sounds of footsteps above my head. It seems there is a struggle going on. (She is not alone!) And then the noises subside. The sound of cracking is what I hear next, and again, repeatedly... I hear shouts ... Five, ten minutes... I sit on the edge of my seat.

She reappears, panting and her naked body glistening with sweat. She has removed the blindfold and carries it in her hand. The look in her eyes is pre-occupied, somewhat resigned. In her other hand she carries a video tape. She says not a word and proceeds to the corner of the room, where she inserts the tape in a video player.
The image on the monitor flickers on and we see a naked woman, seen at the back. In front of her, a man is standing with his arms stretched out ahead and chained to the ceiling. He is clad in a rubber suit, with his crotch, chest and eye areas open, but with his mouth covered. His features cannot be made out, but he looks straight ahead and stands firmly upright. She carries a whip in her hand, but remains still for a few moments while looking him in the face. Then, still watching him, she cracks it on the floor. And again. And again. The video is silent, so the events are strangely remote. I do not hear the sounds the man will have made when the woman finally lashed out at him, with all her might, and again, repeatedly. His eyes are closed. After she is through, he no longer stands upright. He is suspended by the arms from the chains and his head is drooping. The woman then turns to the camera and I see she is blindfolded. When she takes the blindfold off, I see: it is she. She casts one furtive look into the camera, at me, before she reaches for it and switches it off.

She has cooled down, meanwhile. Her chest rises and falls in a controlled manner now. She looks at me and says: 'Do you see this whip? Go upstairs, where you will find him. He is expecting you and you are not to disappoint him. He needs you.' Then she embraces me and kisses me.

I climb the stairs and enter the room with the open door. The man from the video is there in the same downcast posture. I see the camera facing me. When I enter he raises his head. His mouth is gagged. I am unsure: the muffled sounds he makes I cannot help interpreting as encouragement rather than protests. The look in his green eyes is also ambiguous: desire mixed with fear. A voice behinds me, the woman's. 'Come on. You are here to obey. Give it to him. He deserves it. Come on, go ahead. I tell you he deserves it. It is your turn. There, hit him!' I am in two minds: he does deserve it, but if this is really him, my love... I hesitate. Looking at her, I see her eyes pierce me. They are like mirrors, knowing what I know. Then she puts the blindfold over my eyes. My hesitation is taken away with my vision. I cross the line and I lash out, and hit, hit, hit... I hear his muffled cries, but do not see. I forget myself. All the false expectations he created and hence frustrated... I avenge them.

I only regain myself after having left the house. I find myself on the road running back towards where I came from. On the way back, I shed the dress she gave me. I no longer want part of it. As fast I can, I make my way back to my safe haven. My body, my feet, my breasts hurt, but I am safe. My lonely rush back is only interrupted by a car zipping by. The black Corvette, carrying ... whom?

What went before - To be continued

BACK TO VANNA's HOMEPAGE