The Image

by Jean de Berg

  The knowing hand moved toward the cunt, from the rear, and once again disappeared into the crevice. I could hear Claire murmuring:

  “She is soaking, the little darling... ,” and after a while:

  “It’s a real lake.” Her thumb, easily finding the orifice, sank in up to the hilt, withdrew, and plunged in again. Anne began to moan.

  Her moans got longer, and harsher, as the caress continued, the hand moving to and fro between her thighs.

  From where I was sitting I couldn’t follow the exact movements of the fingers, but whatever they were, judging from the mounting cries of the girl, the undertaking was about to be crowned with success.

  For my part, I was content at first just to play with the moist mouth and the tips of the breasts, while contemplating the lovely buttocks surging back and forth now with an insistent rhythm. Then it occurred to me that Claire was not so naive as not to realize what irregularities she was exposing her friend to in presenting her to me in this position. I took out my own organ and held it to the lowered face of our prisoner.

  Shrinking back at first, she finally abandoned herself, even to rounding her lips indulgently and skillfully. Without any doubt this was not her first experience. I put my hand on the back of her neck to lightly guide the upward and downward movement of her willing head.

  When I felt that the little bitch was about to reap the fruits of her labors I shouted to Claire:

  “Whip her again, now!”

  Claire leaned back, one knee on the pillow, and began to whip the chained girl furiously, aiming her blows at the most sensitive areas, the inside of the thighs and the region between the anus and the vulva, which made the poor thing jump convulsively and utterly delightfully.

  To insure complete control I grasped the blonde head firmly with both hands so that I could immobilize it, or move it up and down, up and down, according to the dictates of my pleasure.

  VII : THE FITTING ROOM

  At the close of this last session Claire informed me that in the future I could have little Anne whenever I wanted her, and could amuse myself with her however I pleased. Any time I judged that she hadn’t been sufficiently obliging, or, sim ply, if a clumsy move on her part hadn’t been quite to my taste, she would be severely punished.

  These arrangements, made in the presence of the interested party in a bar near Saint-Sulpice, suited me admirably.

  I didn’t feel any pressing need to exercise my new prerogatives right away. In the days that followed we were content just to have dinner to gether, the three of us, in various restaurants of the quarter whose inner recesses provided some degree of privacy, so that I could sample, from time to time, the least offensive of my privileges. Claire watched the progress of her pupil with a critical eye, progress in the art of becoming a perfect slave.

  Sometimes the inquisitive look of a waiter or of an astonished customer would interrupt one of our wordless little scenes, or bizarre remarks... The hint of scandal, which only deepened Anne’s embarrassment, added immeasurably to our own passions.

  If by chance these practices aroused me beyond control I always had recourse to the car, parked in some deserted street, where I would have the girl caress and fondle me.

  One afternoon that week her mistress even let me have her all to myself: I was to take her shop ping for various items of lingerie which I was charged with selecting for her.

  Claire preferred narrow lace waistbands and stockings with embroidered tops. As for brassieres, she would only tolerate the skimpiest models which support the breast from underneath with out covering it entirely, leaving bare as much of the nipple as possible. Since Anne was not sup posed to wear either panties or a slip, we were limited to these three articles.

  I thought at once that the fun would lie in the trying on of these garments. But when I noticed in the window of a store on the Faubourg Saint Honore the charming features of a salesgirl, it came to me that such a ceremony could be far more lively than I’d imagined. Having learned from Claire that Anne had been savagely beaten that morning (for a very minor mistake, by the way) I could already picture her shame in front of the astonished fitters whom I would call, on purpose, for a consultation.

  Claire had given me no further instructions, so the whole thing was up to me. If she preferred not to come with us it must be that she didn’t want to complicate matters: a couple always seems less suspicious and naturally is more self-assured. All we needed was an amenable salesgirl: young and pretty as they often are in the better stores, and not too easily shocked. She should not, however, bring an overactive complicity to her services, but should simply be a witness, understanding yet discreet.

  This one seemed to fit the bill. The store was quiet and luxurious, and displayed many delecta ble models. The young woman who was waiting for some customers behind a showcase of pink slips on hangers must have been twenty-five or thirty. She was a brunette, and had a nice figure. Seeing me looking at her, she gave a little smile of en couragement: it is always wise to encourage a man who wants to buy feminine underthings. We went in.

  The pretty salesgirl turned to my companion to ask what we wanted, but it was I who answered, pointing to a white nylon garter belt that was shown in the window. Anne, as usual, held her tongue and lowered her eyes.

  The item was therefore presented to me for inspection, along with several other similar models. I gave my opinion on certain details of their res pective lines, making clear which ones I thought were most suitable, and stressing the necessity for wide openings both in front and in back. The sales girl smiled understandingly, and then went on to discuss the quality of the various garments.

  Our conversation was perfectly natural and pleasant. She didn’t seem to wonder too much about the self-effacing behavior of my companion.

  “This,” I said, “is in a sense the most amusing one. But it comes down a little too far: I’m afraid it won’t completely uncover the triangle, you know, at the lower part of the stomach.” The woman looked at me. Then she glanced at Anne and looked back at me.

  “That is a drawback, wouldn’t you say?” I added.

  “It’s really very comfortable to wear, sir.”

  “I don’t mean to wear, of course. I mean it might interfere with the view... and with the hands, as well.” This time her smile was much less professional. She even blushed a little. I turned to Anne and said:

  “I think you’d better try it on.”

  Anne answered, “Yes, if that is your wish,” but a little too softly, and I’m not sure if the girl under stood the implications of the phrase.

  I said that we would take the opportunity to try on, at the same time, a matching bra, and I described the sort of thing I was looking for. The salesgirl unhesitatingly brought out the most indecent things she had.

  Having made my selection, on the pretext of wanting to show her the garter belt with the ruffle that Anne was wearing, I calmly lifted Anne’s dress up above her thighs:

  “This is what I mean, you see...”

  The pretty salesgirl stared at me in amazement, finally, and then turned her glance to the smooth, firm flesh I was showing her.

  “Yes, I see,” she answered simply.

  I asked Anne to hold up her dress herself while I explained the intricacies of lace ruffles hiding the elastic, using both hands to stretch them out in my demonstration.

  “Pull your dress up higher,” I told her, “and come closer to the light.”

  She obeyed me immediately. The girl, who had been leaning over to watch, had plenty of time to note that her young client wore no panties. She must even have been able to smell the penetrating perfume Claire made Anne put on her blonde pubic hair.

  While Anne was getting undressed to try on the garter belt and the bra in the fitting room, I stayed outside with the salesgirl talking about the weather. She entered quite freely into this most ordinary conversation, but her expression still had something bemused, and curious, about it. I saw that we could go further.

  I t
urned toward the fitting room:

  “Hello, are you ready yet?” There was no answer.

  I went on, in a benevolent, fatherly tone:

  “Well, now, let’s come have a look at you...” and I headed for the closed curtain which I opened to join Anne.

  She was quite charming, all in white. She had on only the new bra and the garter belt, each more delightfully immodest than the other. I pulled her close to me to kiss her.

  After a few moments I decided to call the sales girl. I stuck my head out between the curtains:

  “Would you mind coming here for a minute, please?” She came over smiling bravely, looking me straight in the eye.

  The room was large enough for three people. Anne was at the other end, facing us. The sales girl stood beside me. Anne held her arms out from her body so that we could see the effect more easily. Instinctively she had half opened her mouth and parted her knees. I held one of her wrists up higher and made her turn slightly, to the right, and then to the left.

  “As you can see,” I said, “they both will do. But I think you should take in the belt a little.”

  The young dark-haired woman went and put her finger between the nylon and the hollow of Anne’s waist. I had the impression that she was really beginning to be affected by this unusual spectacle.

  “Turn around!” I ordered Anne, letting go of her wrist.

  She hid her face in her hands and turned. The two round globes of her buttocks were crisscrossed by a dozen red lines which stood out clearly on the delicate skin. As several hours had passed since her punishment, the general discoloration had faded and only the marks of the whip itself were visible on the blonde flesh.

  I looked at the pretty salesgirl but she no longer dared to look at me, transfixed by this sudden revelation and, as it were, touched by its grace. Her arm, held out to adjust the hooks at the waist, had paused midway between herself and the revered object which she was now afraid even to touch.

  Upon closer examination the red marks did not seem to be uniform: the leather lash had left a series of dotted lines which corresponded to the bulges in the braiding, wounding the flesh unevenly. Claire must have hit very hard. Certain of the stripes still stood out clearly... I couldn’t help lightly running my fingertips over them to get a better idea, or to make Anne feel more deeply the ignominy of her condition, or to comfort her for having suffered so much...

  “It’s nothing,” I said to the salesgirl. “Don’t give it another thought. She was whipped a little, be cause she wasn’t a good girl, that’s all.”

  We joined our friend again at five o’clock in a very dignified tearoom where several old ladies conversed together in hushed voices.

  Claire, who was waiting for us, had chosen a table in the most propitious corner of the room. The pleasure I felt on seeing her astonished me, but then I realized that this day, unless I had seen her, would have been incomplete, would have even been of no value at all.

  All I said to her was that she was beautiful, which was quite a thing for me to say.

  She looked at me silently. She seemed to understand something, something far away, and she smiled at me mysteriously with a startling tender ness. Then she immediately demanded to see what we had bought.

  I handed her the paper bag Anne had laid on the table. She unwrapped the contents and evaluated, as an expert, the various advantages of the models we had chosen.

  In doing this she used, as always, the most crude, humiliating terms, which never failed to bring a blush to the fresh face of her pupil. For my part, I was lost in admiration at the ingenuity at her com mand: only a woman would be able to hit upon the most vulnerable spots of her own cunt with such knowing cruelty. The effect that her words had on me seemed to give me a glimpse of greater things to be expected from her in the future.

  Then she asked me for an account of our shopping trip. I described briefly the high points of the scene in the fitting room and the deep impression made on our young salesgirl.

  “And the little girl, did she behave herself?” Claire asked.

  I made a face and shrugged as though I weren’t quite sure, for suddenly I felt like exacting further tortures from our victim.

  At this, Claire turned to her friend:

  “You must have been happy, weren’t you? To have everyone know what a little whore you are?” Then, more harshly, “Well, answer me!”

  “Yes... I was happy...”

  “Happy about what?”

  “I was happy... to show... how I had been whipped...” It was a barely audible murmur. Was she reciting something without understanding it, or was this what she really thought?

  “You like being whipped?” her tormentor continued.

  The obedient lips formed a silent “Yes.”

  “Stand up!” Claire ordered.

  She was sitting opposite me. Anne, on my left between the two of us, stood up against the table. Her back was facing the rear wall. Claire went on:

  “Put your hands on the table and lean forward... Open your legs... Bend your knees...” The girl carried out the orders.

  Taking advantage of the fact that no one was looking, Claire put her hand up under her dress, from behind. She announced the results to me at once:

  “She’s wet already, the little bitch! You only have to promise to whip her... Would you like to see for yourself?” I reached up, also, under the dress, and felt two agile fingers moving between the moist lips.

  And again my eyes met Claire’s, warm and conspiratorial, dreaming up the most terrible violences.

  The waiter, a very young man, came to take our order. I was obliged to remove my hand.

  Claire, on the contrary, had pushed her chair back against the wall to make her position seem more natural while continuing with her scandalous pursuit. Little Anne, panic-stricken, tried to straighten up. But she didn’t have the courage to break away completely from her friend’s attentions. So she stood there, desperately clinging to the table, staring in a daze at the dumfounded young man.

  I took as long as possible giving all the details of our order.

  The waiter, I might add, didn’t seem to hear me at all, for he couldn’t take his eyes off the pretty girl with the distracted face, wide-eyed, lips parted, writhing in the grip of some invisible power across from him.

  When I finally said:

  “That will be all for the moment,” he fled in terror. Claire, in a peaceful voice, asked:

  “Well now, little one, does it feel nice?”

  “Let me go, I beg of you,” Anne implored all in one breath.

  But Claire continued, saying:

  “Which do you like better: when I embarrass you, or when I hurt you?” Then, turning to me, “Let’s see, Jean, didn’t you say that she wasn’t good this afternoon?”

  I affirmed that the girl indeed deserved a punishment.

  Claire didn’t ask for an explanation. She probably knew only too well that it wasn’t true.

  “Good,” she said, “then we’re going to make her cry.” Anne’s contortions became more and more painful. Her mistress was now torturing her under her dress.

  After a few minutes, since a waiter was com ing with our tray, she finally withdrew her hand. “Don’t think I’m letting you off so easily,” she said. “When would you like to come over to my place, Jean?”

  “Tomorrow evening,” I said, “after dinner.”

  “Very well. It will be tomorrow, then. You may sit down.” The waiter, no longer the same young man as before, arranged the cups and plates and silver ware on the table, paying no attention to us.

  Claire sniffed her fingers, then put them under her friend’s nose.

  “Smell,” she said, “see how good you smell.” The girl blushed again.

  “Lick them!”

  The girl opened her mouth and sweetly licked the finger tips impregnated with her own odor.

  VIII : IN THE BATHROOM

  The following evening, rue Jacob, I found Claire in her favorite indoor costume:
tight pants and a narrow black sweater.

  Her greeting struck me as being very impersonal, but no more so than usual, I suppose. At that time it was only when I was away from her that I could imagine her being more accessible. We sat down, each in one of the armchairs. I didn’t ask where Anne was.

  After exchanging a few remarks, of no real interest, I said:

  “It’s getting hotter and hotter outside. You might think it was the middle of August.”

  Claire looked at me with that somewhat distant, haughty expression that I had always known. Then, an idea apparently having crossed her mind, she gave me a friendlier, although ironical, smile, and answered:

  “I regret, my dear, that we are obliged to keep our clothes on. But in our role, you understand... it’s indispensable...” That word “our” sounded like a good omen.

  “That’s true,” I said, “it’s indispensable. To you especially, no doubt?”

  She was willing to agree.

  “Yes, perhaps, to me especially...”

  There was something like a hint of regret in her words. At the same time her look grew vaguer, less guarded. Once again I thought she might be stirred by temptations of a different nature.

  She was beautiful this way, much more beautiful... I hazarded an oblique approach:

  “But all covered up like that, don’t you ever get too hot?” Claire stared at me unflinchingly, and little by little her features hardened. Then her eyes nar rowed and the corners of her mouth turned down in a parody of amused disdain:

  “No, never,” she said.

  Then she got up from her chair:

  “The little girl must be ready. Follow me!” All her self-possession had returned.

  The door that she opened, without knocking, led into a room where I had never been before. It was the bathroom.

  Its vast dimensions, as well as its luxury, most unusual in these old apartment buildings, clearly indicated that it had been installed recently, probably by Claire herself. She must have sacrificed a whole room of the apartment to it.