Notes from Roissy in Cleveland, Ohio

by Ashley B. D. Zacharias

Sophia's Diary

Tuesday, 2 December 2008

This is my first diary entry ever. I have been spurred to begin keeping a diary at the late age of thirty-five after reading my parents' diaries.

Two months ago, I became an orphan when when both of my parents, Gene and Emily Robins, were killed by a drunk driver. I was only able to bring myself to begin sorting through their personal papers last week. Some of those papers have shocked me nearly senseless. These shocking documents begin with a letter from my mother to my father, dated 25 December 1972, and include related entries from both their diaries during January 1973 and the first week of February 1973.

These are my parents. They're not supposed to know about things like this, much less do them. And they're certainly not supposed to keep a record of their perverted games for their unsuspecting daughter to find after their death. But I am happy that they did because it gives me an indication of how strongly they were committed to each other.

I am keeping copies of my parents' documents with my diary to help explain why I chose to begin keeping a diary now. I do not know what my own future will bring, but these documents may provide the background necessary to understand why I have decided to keep a documentary record of remainder of my life.

Emily's Letter

Monday, 25 December 1972

Dear Gene:

In celebration of the tenth Christmas that we have spent together, I offer this gift to you.

For some time, I have been aware that you keep “The Story of O” by Pauline Réage hidden in your workshop behind your yellow toolbox. Judging from the amount of wear on the edges of the pages, I can see that you have read it a lot and, though you have never said anything to me, I expect that you would like to act out that fantasy.

I have already booked the first week in February as vacation time and, over a period of five days from Monday, 5 February until Friday, 9 February, I am designating our home to be your private “Château Roissy”. I offer myself to be your “O”.

To ensure that you are able to enjoy my gift as fully as possible, it is necessary that I make my understanding of my condition during those five weeks explicit as follows:

First, O’s most important condition is that she is available for a man’s use for sex without reservation. She allows any man in Roissy to use any orifice at any time and in any way that he wishes without question, comment or complaint. Because this is your private Roissy, my availability is limited to you (sorry no Jacqueline). And, in order that you may take your pleasure from me more easily despite the shortcomings of human anatomy, I beg to be permitted to apply artificial lubricant liberally before some acts. Apart from that, I am prepared to assume any position you ask and receive you however you desire.

Second, O’s unconditional availability is shown by her clothing. Like her, I will wear no underclothes in Roissy; my sex will be naked and my breasts unrestrained. When I sit, no fabric will interpose itself between my rump and my resting place. I have already purchased and modified a gown so that it will lift and present my naked breasts to you. Its skirt may be raised and secured to the waist in front and back to allow you unfettered access to my lower parts. I will remove from Roissy all underwear, pants, and other restrictive clothing, leaving only blouses with buttons down the front and loose skirts – clothes that can be pushed aside or opened quickly. Thus, even if you allow me to wear normal clothes, I must, for lack of alternatives, wear only clothes that allow you immediate access to any part of my body.

Third, to further emphasize my availability for your use, I will not cross my legs, allow my knees to touch each other, cover my breasts with my hands, or allow my lips to fully close in your presence. I will keep my eyes lowered and only speak as required.

Fourth, I will obey your every instruction immediately, without comment or discussion, to the extent that it is physically possible.

Fifth, I expect to be physically restrained with rope, chains, or other such material, as you see fit. I will wear a leather collar, wrist and ankle bands during this time to provide convenient attachment points. These will be locked to my body and the sole key to my freedom will be in your possession. Roissy will be fitted with hooks and eye bolts at strategic locations on the walls and ceilings of all rooms so that you may immediately and easily restrain me at any time, to be freed only when you chose to release me.

Sixth, you have my permission to administer physical punishment if you find it necessary to correct my behavior or to adjust my attitude. I will furnish Roissy with suitable instruments of correction for your use. You may also use your belt. I expect that you will administer at least one gratuitous beating but I do not wish to suffer more than necessary, so I hope to avoid more than the minimum necessary punishment by being utterly obedient and doing my best to please you completely.

I do not expect to enjoy everything that happens during my week in Roissy, but I do look forward to a new experiences when entrusted to your care.

Love, Emily

Gene's Diary

Thursday, 4 January 1973

Did she really mean what she said in that letter? I can't believe that she would do something like this for me but I have it in writing. I've booked the first week of February off as vacation time, just in case she meant what she wrote. If she doesn't mention it again, then I guess I'll just spend the week working on the house. The basement really needs a new floor.

Emily's Diary

Friday, 19 January 1973

What have I done? It seemed like such a good idea when I wrote the letter and gave it to him at Christmas but he hasn't mentioned it since. Maybe he's already forgotten about it. Maybe I misread his interest completely and he doesn't like “The Story of O”. Maybe it was someone else's book and he hasn't even read it.

I don't really believe that. I saw the happy look in his eyes when he read my letter. I'm just afraid that I've made a terrible mistake. I'm afraid that I won't be able to keep my promise to him. Maybe I'll be too weak to be able to bear to pain of a beating. Maybe I'll be too proud to obey even reasonable commands. Or worst of all, maybe I'll be too squeamish to engage in the kinds of sex that he wants.

Or maybe I'm afraid of him. Maybe he's more perverted than I can imagine. Or maybe he'll turn out to be a dangerous lunatic once he has me helpless. Maybe he'll want to brand me with his initials as O was been branded; or hand her over to other men as O had been handed around; or even kill me at the end of the week as O had been killed in one possible ending of the book.

I don't believe that he'll do any of those things. I've been with him for five years. He's not a lunatic. He's a kind, gentle man who will enjoy a simple adventure in the spirit in which I offered it.

But if he's so kind and gentle and reasonable, why did he keep a copy of that terrible book hidden in his workshop?

I fear that I've entered dangerous territory and now I've left myself no way back. If I chicken out, I will disappoint him and damage our relationship, possibly irreparably. Yet I may do equal damage to our relationship if I press on despite my fears. I don't know what I should do, but I can't ask him if he wants me to carry through with my promise. He is such a gentleman that he would interpret the question as reluctance and automatically say that he did not want me to serve him. I do not doubt that, even if this were the most important thing in the world to him, he would sacrifice his desire for the sake of my happiness. How can I not do the same for him?

I have set my direction and have no choice but to continue onward despite my growing misgivings.

Emily's Diary

Monday, 5 February 1973

Today's the day. I sent Gene off to a hotel last night after supper and then stayed up until almost midnight preparing as best as I could. Our house looks almost the same but, in my mind, it is not longer my home. The few small changes that I have made stand out in my vision and change the building into a middle-class, middle-America, Cleveland, Ohio version of Roissy Chateau to my eye.  Mostly, I just moved furniture out of the way and mounted big eye screws into the ceiling and walls in the living room, bedroom, and family room. We're going to have to patch the holes and re-paint next week in order to make this feel like my home again.

I set a few objects out in the living room for Gene's use and these draw my attention like an irresistible force.

I didn't sleep well last night. I'm too nervous. It's an excited kind of nervous, like you feel when you're going on an adventure, but a big part of it is fear. Maybe everything will go wrong or maybe it will all be wonderful. I don't know. The only thing that I know for certain is that it will be a challenge.

God, I hope I haven't screwed everything up between Gene and me.

This morning, I shed my identity as Emily when I shed my clothes became O. I bathed and perfumed myself, put on makeup, even darkening my nipples with a touch of rouge, and dressed myself in nothing but a long red cape. Gene should be arriving in another half hour and I'm trembling so much that I can hardly write. I've locked a leather collar around my neck and leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles. They have steel rings on them so that Gene can lock things to them. I had to go to a sex shop downtown to buy them and I was petrified that someone that I know would see me. They aren't quite like the ones described in the book – I had to lock these ones on with little padlocks that fit through little loops on the buckles – but the result is the same: no matter how much I hate them, I can't remove them again until the padlock are unlocked. I put the keys to the padlocks in the storage shed out back along with most of my clothes and locked it with a new padlock. I put the only keys to that padlock in Gene's overnight case when I packed it. Now that I've closed the locks, only he can open the shed and get the keys to remove them again.

The locks click and jingle as I'm writing this, reminding me constantly that my body is no longer mine to control.

I also bought a pair of handcuffs because I can't lock my hands together by myself using the leather wrist bands. I can't reach the rings on my own wrists. When Gene comes, I'll have to use the handcuffs to secure my hands behind my back. That way, when present myself to him, I won't be able to hold the front of the cape closed. With every step I take the cape will blow open and he'll see that my body is already naked and ready for his use.

He should be here in about fifteen minutes. If he follows the book, then he'll begin by chaining my hands above my head and whipping me. I bought a couple of of whips and a leather paddle and left them on the coffee table for him. The worst of the three is the riding crop. I think that will leave real marks. I hope that he understands that I included that one mostly for show.

When I've been well whipped, then he'll use me for sex. In the book different men penetrated O in every orifice. I don't know if he'll try to do all that by himself but I bought a big jar of Vaseline and I'm going to smear it on myself in the back, just in case. I don't need it in the front, I'm already so wet there that I'm dripping on the chair.

I'm so scared that I feel nauseous. Every sound I hear makes me jump with fear that he's come back early.

It's five minutes to eleven now. It's time to stop writing and cuff my hands behind my back.

I hope that he doesn't treat me too cruelly.

Or maybe I hope that he does.

Gene's Diary

Monday, 5 February 1973

I'm sitting in a Holiday Inn, waiting for the clock to say 10:30. I'm tired because I didn't sleep well last night. Partly it's because I was in a strange bed in the strange room, but mostly it's because of what might happen today. I didn't think that Emily'd go through with it. She's never offered to anything kinky before – not that I'd ever asked – so I'd decided that she'd written her letter in a fit of insanity and had already forgotten about it, or was going to pretend that she'd forgotten, and never mention it again. Then, on the eve of the day before her service as O was to begin, she handed me my overnight case, already packed, and told me that I had a reservation at the Holiday Inn downtown. I can't believe it. She hadn't said a word about her promise to spend a week in submission to me since Christmas and now, right on schedule, she's really going through with it.

When she sent me packing she didn't say anything except to tell me where the hotel was. The idea that she might be kicking me out for good crossed my mind. But I opened my bag as soon as I got to my room last night and found an envelope lying on top of my pajamas. It contained a key and a note that said, “Please keep this key safe. Come to Roissy at 11:00 tomorrow and wait for O in the living room. You'll need the key to release her at 9:00 on Friday, 9 February.”

Can you believe it? Emily really is making it happen. Today. I've barely slept a wink since getting the key.

God, I love her so much.

It's only 8:00 so I've got two and a half hours to kill until ten thirty. I'm dying here. Just dying. I'm so hard that I'm hurting but I can't get any relief until I get home. I need to save my strength for Emily. Or should I say 'O'.

God, I love my wife.

Gene's Diary

Monday, 5 February 1973

It's 4:00 and I've sent O into the kitchen to make supper for me. I'm exhausted and we still have the evening to look forward to. I think I'll keep her busy cooking. Right now, she's been told to cook supper for me. I'm going to have her cook a separate meal for herself later. I don't think it's appropriate for us to eat together tonight. Or sleep together.

I came back at exactly 11:00 this morning. In fact, I waited in the car for five minutes to make sure that I came in the front door exactly when I was supposed to. I went straight to the living room. It was dimly lit because all the drapes were drawn and only one lamp was turned on. There was a carafe of ice water and a clean glass sitting on the coffee table along with some other things. I sat in the recliner and poured myself a glass of water because that seemed to be the thing to do. The water was still cold so she must have put it out just before I got home. Maybe she heard me coming up the driveway. Anyway, there was a black leather whip with lots of short flexible strands, maybe a couple of dozen, on the table. Next to it on one side was a black leather paddle and, on the other side, a riding crop like you use on horses. There was a heavy silver chain hanging from sturdy-looking hook in the ceiling in the middle of the room. I swear there was no hook there yesterday. There's also some big eye screws in the wall where the sofa should be. The sofa's now been dragged over in front of the picture window.

I like the way she redecorated.

I was only waiting for a couple of minutes when when Emily entered the room. It was obvious that she was no longer Emily. She was now O. She was wearing a long shiny red cape that was tied around her neck and hung to her ankles and red satin shoes and that was all. Every time she moved, the cape was knocked open and I caught glimpses of her body. She was stark naked underneath the cape. She couldn't hold it closed because her hands were handcuffed behind her back.

That's how I know she was O – the Emily, my wife, would never do such a thing to herself.

She looked pale and I guess she had good reason because she knew what was coming next. She'd provided the whips and chains. She didn't look at me, I guess because that's the way O was supposed to act, not raising her eyes above a man's waist. She didn't say a word to me. Just walked over and stood in front of me, waiting on my pleasure.

I've never seen a woman look so submissive.

When I untied the cape and took it off, I could see that she had a leather collar locked around her neck with a little padlock. Her wrists had the same things and her ankles, too. She kind of jingled when she moved because of all the locks.

I can hear her jingling in the kitchen right now because she's moving around cooking me my dinner. I'm keeping her naked except for the leather cuffs and collar because I like looking at her.

The chain that hung down from the ceiling only came down about as far as the top of my head, so I couldn't chain her to it without unlocking the handcuffs. I had to ask her where the key was and she said that it was on the coffee table. I'd been so busy looking at the whips that I didn't notice the key. It was the first thing she had said to me and she sounded kind of snarky when she said that so I figured that I was supposed to beat the snark out of her.

I unlocked the handcuffs and fastened her wrists to the chain. There were a couple of clips on the table, too, – the kind of clips that mountain climbers use – so I figured that I should use those. It saves messing with keys and I don't think that she could have bent her wrists far enough down to reach the clip and undo it no matter how hard she tried. When her wrists were clipped up, arms were held just above her head. She looked beautiful like that, all naked and exposed and helpless.

I used the riding crop. I didn't bother with the paddle or multi-strand thing. There'll be lots of time this week to try everything. I didn't hit her as hard as I could but she sure yelled and the crop raised some pretty good welts. I gave her a couple of strokes across the shoulder blades, but mostly I aimed for her butt. She was squirming around so much that sometimes I caught her on she side of the thighs.

I put quite a few red welts on her. It would be clear to anyone who saw her that she has taken a pretty good licking.

She was crying real tears, but she didn't say anything when I unclipped her from the chain.

I was hard as a rock so I pushed her to her knees, dropped my pants and made her suck me for a while. She's done that for me before a little bit but she always made it clear that she never liked it much. This week it doesn't matter what she doesn't like. After a couple of minutes, I pushed her head to the floor, walked around behind her and finished up doggy style.

It sure felt good.

Emily's Diary

Monday, 5 February 1973

The bastard! He whipped me black and blue with the riding crop. It hurt like hell and I've got welts all over my legs and back. How could he do that to me? The bastard! I thought that I could trust him to show a little good judgment. My letter was pretty clear that the whole whipping thing was supposed to be mostly symbolic; that the point of the week is supposed to be about him getting all the sex he wants. It's not supposed to be about beating me half to death. The bastard!

He didn't even care that I was screaming and yelling in pain. I haven't cried so hard since I was a baby. The bastard actually made me cry. For real. The bastard! I've got black, raised welts across my butt and it hurts just sitting here. The bastard!

He made me go down on him after he beat me with the damned whip. That's expected, I guess, but he knows that I don't like having him in my mouth. If he was going to beat me for real, he could have shown a little mercy and left that part out.

He took me from behind. I guess that was somewhat merciful. If he'd made my lie down on the floor to take me, I would have been lying on my poor beat up butt and back and that would have hurt worse than being on my hands and knees.

Then he made me cook dinner for him. Naked. Well, almost naked. I put on an apron. I felt guilty doing that much; I was afraid that he was going to punish me for wearing an apron without his permission. Is that sick or what? But I had to have something to wipe my hands on. I cooked a steak with onions and mushrooms with a baked potato and a Greek salad on the side for him. I'm glad that I stocked up the refrigerator. It just occurred to me that I can't take the collar and cuffs off. If I have to go grocery shopping, I don't have any clothes to wear that would hide them. I packed up all my pants, high-necked sweaters, and underwear into a big box yesterday and locked the box in the storage shed with the lawn mower. That's where the keys to the collar and cuffs are and Gene has the only key to it.

I wasn't allowed to eat when he was eating, so I stayed standing beside the table, naked, while he ate, in case he needed me to do anything for him: fill his wine glass, get salt or pepper, whatever. He kept looking at me all the time that he was eating. It was embarrassing. After he ate, he went into the living room to read the newspaper while I fed myself. I wasn't hungry, so I just finished off the salad and ate some bread and butter.

When I finished cleaning the kitchen, I went into the living room and asked Gene if he wanted anything else.

He did.

He bent me over the dining room table and took me in the rear. It hurt even though I had smeared a lot of Vaseline up there into myself before he arrived this morning and I was still slippery. Once he was inside me, it didn't hurt nearly as much. When he was finished, he told me that I felt really good. I think he's going to want to do this to me a lot over the next few days. I'm going to have to keep my rear coated with Vaseline all the time. Afterward, he made me get a wet washcloth from the bathroom and wash him off. He told me that I better get him clean because he might want me to suck him again. He didn't, though.

We watched television until bed time. He kept my hands clipped together behind my back and played with my chest all night. I never guessed that he would want to spend so much time feeling my breasts. They're kind of sore from all his pulling and kneading.

My wrists are still clipped together, but he's letting me have them in front of me so that I can write in my diary like I always do before going to bed. So that's what I'm doing now. Sitting on my aching ass at my writing desk in the bedroom, naked, with my hands cuffed together, writing out every humiliating detail of the most painful and humiliating day of my life, wondering what ever possessed me to volunteer for this.

I must really, really love the bastard.

I wonder if he's worn out yet or if he's going to take me again tonight. Am I'm going to have to sleep with my hands clipped to my collar all night like in the book? I wonder if he's going to wake me up in the middle of the night to whip me some more like the valet did to O in the book.

I bet the bastard is going to do all of those things to me.

It's going to be a long, long week.

Gene's Diary

Tuesday, 6 February 1973

I was surprised yesterday by how much I liked sodomizing O. She's so hot and tight back there, it's like she's grabbing onto me and squeezing. I'm going to do that again today. Maybe more than once. I want her to be clean inside when I do it, though, so I sent her out to the drug store this morning to buy an enema bag and some Ex-lax tablets.

When I told her that she had to go out, she looked like she didn't want to, but O doesn't get any say in the matter, does she? I think that she was bothered because she was wearing the leather collar and no clothes, but that's no big deal. It's January in Cleveland, for heaven's sake. She's wearing a coat and winter boots. No one's going to be able to see anything. And if she gets into an automobile accident, it's not like the doctor in the emergency ward is going to find her wearing ragged underpants.

I don't know how closely I'm supposed to be following the book. According to the book, I was supposed to get up before dawn and whip the front and back of her thighs and leave her standing chained in front of the window to watch the sun come up. I noticed that she put an eye screw in the right place for that, set into the ceiling about five feet back from the bedroom window. But I was too lazy to set an alarm for myself and I slept in until almost nine o'clock. I hope she doesn't mind. I'll have to give her the pre-dawn beating tomorrow morning instead.

Maybe today I'll try out the whip with all the strips of soft leather. I'm sure that she wants to know how that one feels. Mostly, I'd rather just take her to bed and make love to her but I wouldn't want to disappoint her and not use all the equipment. After all, she's gone to a lot of trouble to get it for me.

I hope she hurries back with the enema stuff. I'm feeling like I want to go up her backside again soon.

Emily's Diary

Tuesday, 6 February 1973

Another day in hell. Which was appropriate considering that it followed a night in hell. I never would have guessed how hard it would be to sleep with my hands clipped to my neck and my neck chained to the wall. Every time I tried to roll over, I pulled on the collar and woke myself up. And I had to pee in the middle of the night and couldn't get out of bed. By the time the sun came up, I had to pee so bad that I couldn't sleep any more. I was lying there awake, staring up at the chain and suddenly I realized something that I hadn't thought of before. My wrists were clipped to my collar and my collar to the chain and I couldn't reach those clips to undo them, but the other end of the chain was clipped to the eye screw above the head of the bed. It wasn't locked on. All I had to do was stand up on the bed and I could unclip the chain from the wall. Boy, let me tell you, I was in that bathroom lickety-split. I peed and peed and peed some more. I never thought my bladder was going to be empty. It was such a relief, you wouldn't believe it.

Of course, I couldn't flush when I was finished because he might have heard and then he'd know that I wasn't locked to the wall by the bed like I was supposed to be.

The night wasn't all bad, I have to admit. When Gene first chained me up for the night, he made love to me the regular way, except that I couldn't use my hands for anything because they were stuck to my collar. All I could do was hold his face and kiss him. But my legs were free and I could wrap them right around him and pull him into me that way. It was surprisingly sexy, not being able to use my hands much. And he was kind of slow because he'd already done me twice earlier in the day. I blush to say that I came like that. Twice. I never came twice before. And then when he finally finished, he tucked me in so careful. But, of course, I lost the blankets almost as soon as the light was out and couldn't get them back on right. So I was cold for most of the night on top of not being able to turn over without waking up and then needing to pee so bad.

I don't know if I should tell him that he has to lock the chain to the wall to keep me in bed at night or not. I ought to. It would only be fair. I am supposed to be helpless when he wants me helpless. On the other hand, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. If he thinks I'm locked in the bed all night and he doesn't know any different, it'd be the same for him as if I really was, wouldn't it?

The day started all right. He came into the bedroom where I was lying, still pretending that I was trapped, and he unhooked my cuffs from my collar and told me to get cleaned up. I asked him if he wanted me to wear my special Roissy dress and he looked surprised. I think he'd forgotten that I'd made one.

Showering was a bit of a problem because I couldn't keep the leather collar and cuffs dry and then afterward, couldn't dry my skin underneath them very well. They got kind of stiff. I think they'll be totally ruined by the end of the week, but I don't care. I won't be using them again anyway. I just hope they aren't chafing my skin too bad by next Sunday.

I forgot about the wrist cuffs when I was making the dress and it was a little hard to fit the sleeves over them, but I got it on. Except for the padlocks, the cuffs aren't much wider than my hands so I can manage by working the fabric around the locks carefully. I made the dress from a pattern for a regular long gown with a wide skirt like a ball gown. I used a pale green satin because it highlights my eyes. Modifying the bust so that it stops underneath my breasts instead of covering them was pretty easy, though it flops a little in the front. I should have added some stiffeners. The shoulder straps have to go around the outside of my breasts so sometimes they slip off the shoulders a little but that doesn't matter. It's not like I have to worry about the bodice flopping down and exposing me. The only other modification that I had to make was to attach some ribbons to the inside of the waistband in the front and back and sew a couple of loops to the outside of the waistband.

I also bought black stockings and a black garter belt. In the book, a garter belt was permitted as long as O wasn't wearing panties or a bra. The stockings have a seam down the back, just like O would have had in the '50s.

When I finished dressing and went out to the kitchen, Gene was already cooking eggs and toast. I guess I'm not a total slave. I don't have to do all the cooking. It makes sense. In the book, there were staff – cooks and servants and the valet – who were separate from O and the other women.

Gene stared at my naked chest for a long time. I asked him if he wanted me to display my front or back below the waist as well. He said that he likes seeing my front, so I raised the front of the skirt in a bunch to expose the two ribbons hanging inside and then tied them to the loops on the outside of the waistband to keep the skirt raised. His eyeballs almost rolled across the floor, he stared so hard. I think he liked it.

I remembered that O wasn't allowed to sit on her skirt, so I was careful to pull it out of the way and sit on the chair with my bare butt while I ate. He told me to keep my hands in my lap and he fed me one bite at a time like I was a helpless baby. It was kind of an annoying way to eat, but if it's what he wants, then I'm happy to do it that way for him. This week.

After breakfast, things got bad.

He told me that he wanted me to clean myself out by taking an Ex-lax and then giving myself an enema. I told him that we didn't have any Ex-lax or enema equipment. “So go buy it,” he said.

I thought that I'd spend all week in the house. O never left Roissy in the book. I don't have any clothes to wear outside, no panties, no bra, no slacks or sweaters. I had my duffel coat and winter boots in the closet for emergencies – you don't leave yourself without winter clothing in February in Cleveland if you want to survive – but one mid-thigh-length wool coat that has lapels open to my cleavage is hardly enough to make me feel secure.

I objected. He objected to my objection by telling me that I didn't deserve the comfort of a blouse and skirt, either. I said that the coat was too short. That I'd get arrested for indecent exposure. He said that if I said one more word, I'd be shopping completely nude and it'd be a race to see if I could get back to the car before the police arrived. So I shut up and had to wear my boots and duffel coat on my shopping trip and nothing else: no blouse, no skirt, no stockings, nothing.

When I took the dress off and put the coat on, he told me that I looked okay. He didn't sound convincing. The bottom comes down to mid thigh but the front closes with loop and horn fasteners that only come down to my hips. When I walk normally, it flashes open almost to my crotch. He saw that and warned me that I'd have to walk slowly and carefully, just taking small steps. Worse, the neck does not button up high enough to hide the leather collar.  Once I had the coat on, he didn't let me take it off again. He told me to put my boots on, gave me a handful of money and the car keys and told me not to come back until I had the Ex-lax and enema bag.

My tears froze to my eyelashes before I got the car started.

I didn't want to go the the drugstore close to home where I usually shop, so I drove all the way downtown. That gave me a long time to think about having to walk around in public naked but for my coat. It was only twenty degrees outside and blowing hard. Snow was peppering against my bare legs and the lining of the coat was cold against my nipples as I walked across the parking lot. Gusts of wind that were blowing up the open bottom of the coat practically froze my crotch, but I didn't dare hurry for fear that the lower front part of the coat would blow open and flash my private parts to the world.

I'd never seen an enema bag and nozzle for sale before, but there it was, sitting right out on a bottom shelf below the laxatives. I guess I never looked down there before. I had to hold the bottom of my coat closed when I squatted down to get it or I would have been showing my naked ass to anyone who happened to be looking.

The old man at the cash looked at me with a most peculiar expression. I'd turned the collar around so that the padlock was hidden at the back by the coat collar and shoved the wrist cuffs as far up the sleeves as possible but it must have been obvious that I was naked underneath the coat because there wasn't a speck of clothing showing anywhere. When you see a woman wearing a coat, you always see the collar of her blouse, a bit of cuff, a hem of a skirt hanging down, nylons. He saw nothing on me anywhere but the wool coat. I didn't even have a scarf that could be hiding the scoop neck of a sweater or gloves to hide the naked skin above my wrist. When he gave me my change, he said, “Cold out there?”

“Sure is,” I said and left. My face was hot and flushed with embarrassment.

I spent the rest of the morning on the toilet. We didn't use the laxative because the package said that it could take twelve hours to work and Gene wanted to take me in the rear sooner than than. Instead, he made me fill myself twice with warm water enemas.  He made me put as much into myself as I could hold by filling myself up, then waiting for a couple of minutes until the water worked around inside me to make more room, and then topping me up again. I don't know how much the bag holds, but I know that he filled the bag right up to the top and then watched to make sure that I took every drop inside me no matter how long it took. And then, each time, he made me hold it inside for another fifteen minutes before he let me go to the toilet. Do you have any idea how long fifteen minutes is when you're practically doubled over with cramps? I felt like I was going to throw up all the time. And it doesn't come out all at once. You have to go over and over again. I felt too nauseous to eat lunch but I made a couple of ham sandwiches for Gene between trips to the can. His appetite is just fine.

He kept me naked all morning after I got back from the drug store because it was convenient when I had to run to the bathroom all the time.

After all the preparations all morning, actually getting taken back there was anticlimactic. I lubed myself good with Vaseline, bent over the ottoman in the living room, spread my knees as wide apart as I could, and let him go to town on me. It hurt more this time than yesterday. I think I was extra tight from having kept myself clenched to hold the enemas in for so long and, also, he was more eager to get into me this time than last time so he didn't give me enough time to open up for him. I let myself scream loud when he went in and kept crying and whimpering throughout. That seemed to make him more excited.

Have I unleashed a monster in my husband?

I am disquieted to see that the possibility intrigues me more than frightens me.

I spent the early afternoon baking chocolate chip cookies. They're Gene's favorite.

Showing a distinct lack of gratitude, he spent the late afternoon beating me with the multi-tail flogger. He secured me face to the the wall by clipping my wrist cuffs to the eye screws in the living room wall and clipping my ankles together. I could barely move with my arms spread wide apart over my head and my ankles clipped to each other. He beat me methodically from my upper shoulders all the way down to my lower calves. I was facing the wall, but he blindfolded me with one of my silk scarves anyway, just to be sure that I couldn't see the strokes coming. I could hear them, though, and that was just as bad, if not worse than seeing them. He did not hit me too hard but every blow stung. He worked very slowly, pausing for a long, long time between each blow, giving me time to feel the pain of each lash build then begin to fade. He knew that I was terrified waiting in anticipation of the next whistle of the lashes and the next explosion of pain and he deliberately making me wait far longer to than I could tolerate because he knew that I would have to tolerate it anyway. I had no choice. The blows overlapped, the top edge of each blow falling on the bottom edge of the previous and creating a special line of particularly intense sensation.

Every time he hit me, my body jerked against the wall and the locks on my collar and wrists clanked.

The pain was worse when he was working his way over my butt because I was still badly bruised there from his introductory whipping with the riding crop yesterday.

I knew that Gene was studying the marks that he was making because he told me how my skin would turn white under the impact, then slowly flush bright red as the blood flooded back to the surface. He is fast becoming a connoisseur of my suffering. I don't know how I feel about that.

When I agreed to serve a week in Roissy, I anticipated more sex and less whipping. I'll have to go back and re-read the book when I get a chance and see if I failed to notice how often O was whipped. Maybe Gene can't get it up as often as he'd like so he's punishing me for his deficiency. Or maybe he's whipping me just to fill the time.

I began trembling uncontrollably from the tension and the pain and the fear before he got half way down my back. I tried but I couldn't stop quivering. I began crying after his second blow and kept crying until he was finished. The silk scarf was so wet from my tears that he could barely unknot it.

He doesn't seem bothered by these things.

As soon as he unclipped my wrists from the wall, he clipped them together behind my back, pushed me to my knees and made me service him with my mouth and lips and tongue. I don't know if he had washed himself since using my other end a few hours earlier, but tried not to think about it. Anyway, after the enemas, I was as clean there as anywhere else.

He made me swallow. O always swallows.

It's the only think that I've eaten since he fed me breakfast.

He cooked spaghetti with meat sauce for supper. He left my wrists clipped together behind my back and my ankles clipped together until supper was over. I can shuffle slowly when my ankles are clipped together but I am terrified of falling; with my hands cuffed behind my back, I wouldn't be able to break my fall and would likely hit the floor face first. I don't know if he thought about how badly I might be injured when I have to move like this.

He didn't feed me. Because my hands were cuffed behind my back, I had to push my face into the spaghetti and suck it up. He gave me a glass of wine but I couldn't drink it until he put a straw in it for me. He laughed at the mess I made of my face. I tried to be as neat as I could but the sauce was puddled all over the top of the spaghetti, not mixed in so I had to push through it to eat. I had sauce dribbling down my chin and dripping down between my breasts with every bite. It practically ran all the way to my crotch My hair kept dragging through the food no matter how I tried to toss it out of the way. It was the most humiliating meal I have ever eaten.

To rub it in, he did not let me clean myself until after I'd cleaned the kitchen. He said that everything had to be spotless and he kept my ankles clipped together to make sure that I had to work slowly as I carried the dishes to the sink and put the food away. Worse, he used a piece of chain to attach my wrists to my crotch – it was wrapped around my waist and then fed between my legs and back through the front, held in place with padlocks – to make sure that I couldn't move my hands higher than my nipples. He was just making sure that I couldn't wipe my face. And every time I tried to reach too high, the chain was pulled tight between my legs to remind me what part of me Gene considers most important.  It took over an hour to get the kitchen cleaned to his satisfaction. The spaghetti sauce that was smeared all over me was drying and itchy by the time I finished.

A shower never felt so good before.

He let me spend the rest of the evening wearing the Roissy dress that left my breasts bare, sitting at his feet in the family room, watching television with him. He let me keep the skirt down instead of tied up.

He loves Sixty Minutes. It bores me stiff.

After I finish writing this diary entry, I expect that he'll chain me back in bed for the night. I'm so tired, I think I'll sleep like a log no matter how he chains me up. And now that I know that I can unhook the chain from the wall, it won't be nearly as bad as last night.

Gene's Diary

Wednesday, 7 February 1973

I think I went a little bit overboard yesterday. When I went into O’s room this morning to unchain her, she was lying on her stomach because her whole back was a mass of bruises from her neck to her ankles. Except for the back of her knees. I was careful not to hit her there because there's a lot of nerves close to the skin that might have been damaged. Also, she's not much bruised on her lower back because I didn't want to damage her kidneys. The rest is pretty bad, though. I didn't realize how hard I was hitting her. I know that I wasn’t hitting her nearly as hard as I could have. Now I’m a little afraid to do it again. At least, I won't whip her until she's had a chance to recover. I still haven’t tried the leather paddle that she left in the living room, so I'll have to use it some time but I can wait until the end of the week. At least the paddle is obvious. It's for her butt only so I don't have to worry about doing more damage to her back or legs when I use it. She also wrote about using my belt in her letter but I'm going to ignore that part. She suffers enough with the whips.

Of course, I can't tell her that. She's got to think that she's always a misstep from being punished if she fails to obey me promptly and fully. And I will punish her for disobedience even if that means that I have to bruise her again where she's already been bruised. But I won't hurt her again for no reason, only for some disobedience that’s so obvious that I have no choice.

Like her backtalk about not going to the drugstore yesterday. I was going to let her wear a skirt and blouse but she started fussing at me. O can’t be allowed to fuss. I had to take the blouse and skirt away from her just to show her that there're consequences for any failure to obey right away. I didn’t like sending her into a store wearing only her winter coat and boots, but she made me do it to her. And I know that she really hated it, but that’s just tough. O reaps what she sows and then some.

We didn't do much yet today. I had her make love to me once already but that's enough for the morning.

I have to think of something for her to do for me this afternoon.

Emily's Diary

Wednesday, 7 February 1973

What a boring day. Gene didn't make me do hardly anything interesting. I wore the Roissy dress all day while I cooked breakfast and lunch. Mostly we just sat around. In the mid morning, he made me make love to him but even that wasn't very interesting. He laid on the bed naked and made me climb on top of him, still wearing the dress, and straddle him and do him. He didn't even tie me up. I had to work hard for a long time but it didn't excite me. I didn't get close to coming.

After lunch, he went down to his workshop and came back up with his copy of “The Story of O” and made me read the whole thing to him from cover to cover, even the introduction that was really dull and tedious. The woman who wrote the book understood a lot more about submission and sexual slavery than the guy who wrote the introduction.

I watched Gene while I was reading. Some parts made his eyes glitter. Some parts made my stomach clench. They were the same parts.

After supper, we watched a little television and now he's letting me write in my diary until bedtime. Even last night was easy. Despite having my hands clipped to my collar so that I couldn't touch any part of myself but my face, I slept right through.

If this is all we're going to do for the rest of the week, I want to go back to work and stop wasting my vacation time.

He better think of something more interesting to do to me tomorrow or I'm going to be very disappointed in him.

Gene's Diary

Tuesday, 2 February 1973

Today, I get educated. I’m going to learn some things about O that I never knew before.

Emily's Diary

Tuesday, 2 February 1973

I can’t believe what Gene made me do today. It was appalling. Even when I was being beaten black and blue the entire length of my body, I wasn’t ready to give up. But now I'm seriously thinking that I won't be able to last until the end of the week.

The morning went well enough. Puttering around in my Roissy dress, cleaning the house, watching a little television, then preparing lunch. Gene was quiet. Thoughtful. I should have guessed that he was planning something, but I never would have guessed what he had in mind. He has an evil, perverted streak in him that I never saw before. Or even suspected.

It all started after lunch. He made me sit quietly while he cleaned up the kitchen. I knew that something was coming, but had no idea what it could be. My wrists and ankles were free. I remembered to keep my knees slightly separated, my lips slightly parted , and my eyes lowered, as O was instructed.

After he was finished, he took me into the living room and told me to remove all my clothes. When I was naked, he made me to sit in the recliner. He tied a black scarf around my eyes to blindfold me and then had me lay back all the way and spread my legs apart, not far, just far enough to expose my sex.

I heard him sit on the sofa across the room from me; the springs creaked a little as he made himself comfortable. I felt nervous because I knew that something was going to happen now.

He asked me a question, “When was the first time you kissed a man romantically?”

I told him. It was no big deal. I've told him a few things about my first boy friend, and about some other boys that I'd dated before I met him. But this time he wanted details. How did I feel? What was I thinking? He kept asking questions and I kept answering them. O has no privacy.

He spent all afternoon doing that: looting my life, raping my memories, demanding to know everything I've ever done with any other man. He went all the way back to the first sex games that I played with my cousin when I was eight or nine years old, daring each other to pull down our pants. He asked about my fantasies. What did I think when I was making love to him? Had I ever thought about a movie star when I was in bed with him? How did I get myself in the mood? Had I ever imagined being raped? By more than one man? What did I think when I was watching the movie, “Billy Jack”? “Straw Dogs?” What actress did I think was the sexiest? Could I imagine myself kissing her? When was the first time I played with myself? When was the most recent time? What did I fantasize about when I did that? Did I ever play with my own breasts? Did I ever put my fingers inside myself?

His questions went on and on. I told him the truth. And the more truth he heard, the more he wanted to hear.

He tore every secret from me that he could and left me as naked as any person could ever be. No husband should know that much about his wife. I would never want to know that much about him.

What did he think when I told him that I once came when I was playing with myself and imagined being raped by a motorcycle gang? Does he think that means that I want to be raped by hairy, brutal strangers? Is he going to take me down to the Hell's Angels club house tomorrow afternoon and leave me naked on their front porch? Does he understand the difference between fantasy and reality? Does he care?

And why does the thought of being sent naked into a motorcycle gang headquarters make me wet when I'm sitting here writing in my diary tonight?

Gene's Diary

Thursday, 8 February 1973

I can't believe that my wife told me as much as she did yesterday. But I do believe that every word was the truth. And I believe that she was telling me truths about the real Emily, not about the imaginary O. It sounded true, not made up. O said the words but Emily supplied the memories.

In a single afternoon, I was given a greater gift than any husband has ever received or deserved.

I do not know how to return that gift, but I will have to think of something that shows her the same degree of love and trust that she has shown to me.

It will be difficult because I have learned that my wife is a more exciting person than I ever knew or imagined.

Emily's Diary

Thursday, 8 February 1973

It was another terrible day. I can't believe what Gene made me do. I can't believe that I was able to make myself obey him. If you'd asked me this morning if I could do the things that I did today, I would have said that it was impossible. That, even if I had wanted to, I couldn't have done it; that I'd have died first. But I did. I didn't know what was coming and I was only told one thing at a time, only had to take one little step at a time, so I kept doing it until I’d done it all it. I’m I really that obedient now? Can I actually toss my ego aside this quickly?  What does this say about my self-identity as an independent person?

It began when Gene took me shopping. This time, he made me wear black stockings and the garter belt underneath my duffel coat and winter boots. Nothing else, of course. And this time he drove rather than sending me out on my own. That meant that I had to pull the bottom of my coat out from under me when I got in the car. It wasn't as cold out as on Tuesday, just below freezing, but the car seat was still so cold beneath my bare butt that I shivered so hard my teeth were rattling before we got halfway downtown and the car warmed up enough.

Gene sent me into a sex shop with a shopping list. He didn't know that it was the same shop where I bought the collar and cuffs and whips and I didn't tell him. He made me buy a vibrator, a realistic-looking dildo, and three porn magazines, one about bondage, one about anal sex, and one with pictures of Betty Page taken by Irving Klaw. I think he was specific about that because he wanted to make me to spend a long time looking through all the magazines to find the right ones. I wasn’t allowed to just rush in, grab a few things at random and rush out.

Buying the items was humiliating enough but it was worse than Gene knew because the clerk recognized me and he recognized the collar that was locked around my neck. He had another one in the display case right beneath his fingers. Two days ago, the clerk in the drug store only hoped that I was naked underneath the coat; this guy was certain. I was sweating when I bought the stuff so he grinned and told me that if I was too hot, I could take my coat off. He said that the windows were blacked out so it would be all right by him.

I got out of there as soon as I could. In the car, Gene made me tell him what happened before he would drive away. I was afraid that he was going to send me back into the store and take my coat off for the clerk, but I forced myself to tell him everything anyway. Gene didn't send me back inside; he just laughed and drove me to a drugstore. It was a different one than I had shopped at last time. He sent me in to buy a box of condoms and another jar of Vaseline. Then, he took me to a hardware store and sent me inside to buy four ten-foot lengths of steel chain, sixty feet of medium nylon rope, and six new padlocks.

The next stop was a camera store. He made me buy a Polaroid camera, a dozen film packs, and a dozen packages of flash bulbs. I was worried that he was thinking that I'd let him take pictures of me naked and was going to tell him that he's got another think coming. Even O has limits. Actually O doesn't, but Emily does and there aren't going to be any pictures that might still exist when O disappears and Emily comes back.

Little did I guess what he really had in mind. Letting him take a few lewd pictures of me and then destroying them right away would have been an easier way to spend the day.

The naked-but-for-the-coat shopping never got any easier, though. I got so tired of seeing clerks all over the city leering at me. It's like they're raping me with their eyes. And, just to make sure that I was experiencing the humiliation fully, every time I got back into the car, Gene made me tell him exactly what happened in the store. What the clerk said, what I said, how the clerk looked at me. If he was that interested, he should have come inside with me and watched for himself. I think the main reason that he didn't was because he was embarrassed that he might be seen walking across the parking lot with a woman who's obviously naked under her coat.

Next, he took me to the bank and told me to take five hundred dollars out of our savings account. By chance, the teller was the first woman who served me today. She was years younger than me but she knew what I wasn't wearing and looked at me with plain disgust.

The final stop was the capper. Gene drove me back down to the part of town with the porn shops and strip clubs, I guess you'd call it the red light district, and explained to me exactly what I had to do. I had to go into the strip clubs until I found a woman who would agree to be a photographic model for us for the rest of the afternoon. I had to make she that she understood exactly what she was agreeing to do. I had to show her the magazines and tell her that we would want her to pose like the models in the pictures, except that there wouldn't be any men posing with her. She would use a dildo on herself instead of letting a man penetrate her. I could tell her that she wouldn't have to sign a release because the pictures were for our private enjoyment alone. We would pay her a hundred dollars an hour for her services.

Gene told me not to come back to the car until I had a woman who would model for me.

I thought that I was going to die.

When I got out of the car, I told myself that I would go inside just to make it look good, and then come back after a half hour and tell him that it was hopeless, that no one would pose for us. But I was astounded to find out how easy it was. As soon as I went inside the first club, a woman asked what I wanted and I told her that I was looking for a women to model for some photographs and she told me to talk to another woman named Purty who was standing by the bar. Purty, I think that was a stage name but I didn't ask, looked at me and asked right out if I was naked under my coat. I told her that I was, that my husband was doing this to humiliate me. Then I told her what we wanted and showed her the magazines. I blushed when she looked through them but she didn't even look surprised. She just asked if she would be safe around my husband and me. I showed her my driver's license – I had it with me in case I needed to drive – so she told her friend who she would be with for the rest of the afternoon and came back to the car with me.

I can't believe how some women would let themselves be used. Don't they have any self respect?

Gene let me go to the bedroom and put on a blouse and skirt. He didn't make me be naked in front of Purty, even though Purty had to be naked in front of us all afternoon.

I spent the rest of the day selecting pictures from the magazines, posing Purty in the same way as the models, and taking pictures with the Polaroid camera. All Gene did was sit in his chair and watched. He said almost nothing and never tried to touch Purty.

I was more grateful than you could know because Purty was such a sport. She didn’t mind even when she had to coat the dildo with Vaseline and work it up into her backside. She even helped tie herself up and lock on the chains in the bondage shots. It took a little less than four hours to use up all the film, but I gave her the whole five hundred anyway. She deserved the tip.

Gene let me drive her back downtown by myself. This time he let me keep wearing the blouse and skirt underneath the coat. He's such a peach. But, of course, I still don't have any underwear in the house – that's still locked in the shed in the back and Gene still has the key.

When I dropped her off, Purty offered to model again but I said that I think this was a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. She laughed and said it wasn't once-in-a-lifetime for her. She told me that I was lucky; that Gene seems like a nice guy. She's right.

This has been the weirdest day yet. We're getting a long way from my original offer to do, within limits, what O did and– God! I just got it. I'm so dumb. This isn't getting away from the book at all. This is exactly right for a slightly-twisted interpretation of O. In the book she was a photographer. And she was forced to bring one of her models, Jacqueline, to Roissy. It was different, of course. O was a fashion photographer and Jacqueline was her lover and she never took photographs at Roissy. But this was how Gene could fit that aspect of “The Story of O” into our Cleveland version of Roissy. He made me be a photographer and made me recruit another woman to come here.

I should have expected something like this when I offered to act as O for a week.

Tomorrow is the last day. Gene has to release me at 9:00 tomorrow night, just about exactly twenty-four hours from now. I can't imagine what he has planned but I'll be relieved when it's all over.

I'm not just physically sore, I'm emotionally raw. At first, I was going to offer to serve as O from Saturday until the following Sunday, eight days. I'm glad that I decided to cut it down to just the five weekdays. I don't know if I could have lasted for any longer. This experience has been far more intense than I anticipated.

Gene's Diary

Friday, 9 February 1973

Today's the last day of Roissy and last night was the last night. I had to take care of unfinished business early this morning. I set an alarm to wake me up just before dawn so that I could wake O, stand her in the middle of the room with her arms chained over her head, whip her butt and thighs, front and back, and leave her there to watch the sunrise. She started whimpering as soon as I turned the lamp on and she saw me standing over her with the riding crop in my hand. She knew exactly what was coming from having read it in the book. She knew that this was going to be the most brutal whipping of all.

It didn't take long to give her the whipping. I didn't hold back much, this was her last whipping as O so she deserved a full measure. She screamed after every stroke and was sobbing most piteously when I turned out the light and left her standing naked in the dark, her arms still chained over her head, waiting for dawn.

Now I'm tired from having to get up so early and haven't been able to get back to sleep. Taking care of O properly is tough work.

For the rest of the day, she'll serve me with her Roissy dress tied up both in the front and back so that all her marks are displayed.

All we are going to do today is have sex. Lots and lots of sex of all kinds. Because she was clear in her original letter that she considers that to be the most salient feature of Roissy – that O was constantly available for use – her tenure as O should end that way.

Emily's Diary

Friday, 9 February 1973

It's over. Gene gave me the key to the shed at 9:00 tonight and sent me out naked into the snow to bring back everything that I'd put in storage last Sunday night: the keys to the cuffs and my underwear and most of my clothing. Going outside naked was his final humiliation; equivalent to O being taken naked to a party where everyone else was clothed. He made that clear because he said pretty much exactly that. It was dark enough and we have big hedges so I'm sure that the neighbors didn't see anything, but it was cold out there so I ran back and forth as fast as I could. It took three trips. I had a lot of clothes in storage. He turned the outside lights on and I felt like I was on display for the whole world.

I should say something about the main part of the day. He woke me up before dawn. As soon as I saw him standing there fully clothed with the riding crop in his hand and it still dark outside, I knew exactly what he was going to do because that was one of the things that was described clearly in the book. He stood me in front of the bedroom window, stretched my arms high over my head and then whipped me as hard as he could with the riding crop from my waist to my knees behind and my crotch to knees in front. Now I know that he had not been using his full strength before. I screamed bloody murder and don't apologize for that. It hurt like hell. It still does. I suffered a lot more beatings this week than I expected. And none of them were symbolic. I didn't like it when it was happening and don't like it now. But now that it's over, I can forgive Gene. I allowed him to do it and I can't blame him for taking advantage of an opportunity that he won't get again. It hurt something awful, but it didn't kill me. Now I know what it’s like to really be whipped. By this time next month, it'll be a memory that I'll be putting behind me but I know that he'll be holding the same memory close to his heart. He told me so tonight, after I was no longer O. He held me tenderly and looked into my eyes and told me that he loved me and that he'd treasure what I had done for him for the rest of his life. He looked so grateful that I guess it was worth it.

Not much happened in the morning between an early breakfast and an earlier lunch, I mostly had to stand in the middle living room with my hands chained to the ceiling wearing my Roissy dress with the back and front tied up, turning around whenever Gene asked me to. He tried to pretend that he was mostly reading the newspaper, but I could see that he spent most of the time staring at my breasts and butt and crotch. He was looking at me like he was afraid that he was never going to see me naked again.

We had a late morning snack at ten thirty, then Gene said that we were going to play a game for the rest of the day. He told me to get the vibrator that I bought yesterday. His 'game' wasn't much of a game. He told me that I was going to be flipping a quarter and when it came up heads, I had to make myself have an orgasm with the vibrator. When it came up tails, I had to give him an orgasm any way I could using my hands, mouth, pussy or ass. Every time one of us came, I had to set a kitchen timer for an hour. When it dinged, I had to flip the coin again and make either myself or him come again depending on whether it fell heads or tails. He said that I had to keep playing the 'game' until one of us had come five times.

It's harder than it sounds.

I got the vibrator with the first flip. I've never had to make myself come in front of anyone before and felt more humiliated than I had ever felt before in my life. It was more degrading than anything else that I had been made to do this week. In the book, even O wouldn't play with herself when someone was watching, no matter how much they whipped her.

I guess I'm more obedient than O because I did it. I did it with Gene staring at me throughout. It was bad enough that he watched what I was doing between my legs, but when I came, he kept staring at my face like I was some kind of freak.

As soon as I finished, Gene told me to set the timer for an hour.

When it dinged again, I flipped the coin and got the vibrator again. It was a little harder to come the second time, but I didn't feel quite so self-conscious. Gene was looking a little left out, but he made up the game, so tough.

After another hour, I flipped tails and I got Gene. I sucked him for a few minutes until he came in my mouth. It didn't take long. After setting the timer, I had time to fix us both a mid afternoon snack before it dinged again.

This time, I got Gene again. It was harder to get him to come a second time, but I got him hard with my fingers and mouth and then lay on my back and put him inside me. He came after about ten minutes and I set the timer again.

After another hour, I got the vibrator again. I was feeling rather sore between my legs but managed to come a third time after working on myself for a few minutes. I was tempted to fake it, but I've never faked it in my life and I have too much pride to do it now. The vibrator really helped; I don't think I could have done it with just my hands.

Just after five, I flipped again and got the vibrator for the fourth time. Now I was quite sore between my legs. It took a long time to come and my orgasm was barely strong enough to qualify, but it was an honest orgasm. Finally getting there was such a relief, you can't imagine.

At half past six, I got Gene for the third time. I made my hands slippery with a gob of Vaseline and worked on him for a minute to get him hard, then put him on his back and rode him hard. He didn't come for the longest time and I was almost exhausted when he finally did it. I was so sore between my legs that I could barely climb off him.

It was almost eight when I flipped tails and got him for the fourth time. I was too sore to want him the normal way again, so I took him up my butt. A week ago, I never dreamed that a time would come when I’d rather have a man in my butt than in my pussy, but there you go. Life is unpredictable. He likes my butt and came after only a few minutes even though he was almost exhausted.

We never managed to finish his game because there was less than an hour to go until nine and my week as O was over. But we both got off four times in one day and that's a lot. I don't think either one of us could have made it a fifth time.

Instead of continuing his game for the last forty-five, Gene cuffed my hands behind my back one last time and spent the time playing with my naked breasts. I never knew that a man could spend that long enjoying my breasts without getting bored, especially after all the sex we had had. But there you go – a woman never really knows a man until she lets him do anything he wants to her for a few days.

My breasts were a little sore when he finally finished but not nearly as sore as my crotch, or my butt that was bruised and welted almost to the point of bleeding. He unclipped my hands, and gave me the key and sent me out to the shed where I had put most of my clothes, as well as the keys to my collar and cuffs.

It was a mean trick, making me go out to the shed in the back yard through the snow naked and barefoot to retrieve my clothes and keys but I understand the reason for it.

When I got back, he was already running a hot bath for me. He bathed me, even washing my hair, and then dressed me in my thickest flannel pajamas and put me to bed.

He told me that he loved me more than he had known he could love anyone.

I told him that I felt the same way. That is the honest truth. My heart feels full to the brim tonight.

Sophia's Diary

Tuesday, 2 December 2008

That's it. I've read the rest of my parents' diaries and there's no other mention of O or Roissy, no looking back or drawing conclusions about the effect of their adventure on the rest of their lives. And there's no indication that they every tried such a thing again. The last word that either wrote about it was my mother being put to bed in her thickest flannel pajamas after five days of suffering and loving my father more deeply than ever.

I never found any Polaroids of a stripper in bondage poses. I never found a leather cuff or padlock. I never found a vibrator among my mother's possessions. There was no enema bag and nozzle. Nor did I find any copy of “The Story of O” in my father's workshop or anywhere else in their house.

For all I know, the letter and entire week of diary entries might have been nothing but fantasies that they wrote to amuse each other and never acted out in real life.

But they must have amused each other some way because they stayed married for the rest of their lives; and I've never met any couple who seemed happier with each other.

Her diary contains one other bit of information. Every twenty-eight days, more or less, she ends her diary entry with an “M” printed in red. I was born on the 28th of October in 1973. The last “M” before she became pregnant with me appears on 22 January 1973. My mother would have been at the peak of her fertility during her week of sexual submission to my father. She was sent to buy condoms but she never wrote that they used any of them during that week. And I was born about nine months later.

Maybe I inherited a meme that was implanted during that week. Maybe that's why I've enjoyed fantasizing about bondage since I was a child. I've decided that it's time to find out if I can translate those fantasies into reality. Christmas is coming and I have a letter to write to my husband.

If my mother could do it for her husband, then I sure as hell can do it for mine, too.