“I’ve never done that to you?” he protested.
“But you could,” she said. “When I’m at school, I get flashbacks. I’ll be sitting in a seminar and suddenly, I’ll feel like I’m mounted on the horse. Not just remembering or imagining, but feeling like I’m really up there and the seminar room is what’s imaginary. It’s horrible. People have heard me crying out in class. You can’t understand until you’ve experienced it. I never would have understood and I’m grateful that you did this for me. But I can’t do it any more.
“On top of that, I’ve been experiencing Stockholm syndrome in all its glory. Surely you’ve noticed that I’ve been clinging to you, trying desperately to appease you. Giving you sex constantly in order to keep you too busy to think about torturing me. Trying to create a bond between us so deep that you’ll take pity on me and let me stay off the horse. Don’t you see? You have to leave because I want you to stay so desperately. Stockholm syndrome isn’t fake. I’m not pretending to love you. I love you as deeply and strongly as it is possible for a woman to love a man because the reptile part of my brain believes that I have to love you that much to survive. The sex is wonderful. My libido has never been stronger and my orgasms have never been so earthshaking as in the past few weeks. But that’s a symptom of an emergent mental illness. My love is driven by terror, my lust driven by horror. It’s not natural.
“You have to leave now. I’m going to spend a week doing nothing but crying and mourning my loss because I love you so. I’m going to sob and suffer. And then I’m going to climb on a bus and spend Christmas with my parents trying to learn to be normal again. And then when I come back here, I’m going to have to accept that my life will never be normal again; that the best that I can hope for is tolerable. And then I’m going to publish a series of amazing papers about torture that will rock the field. I’ve outlined a few ideas already and my thesis committee is enthralled. They’re already talking about the possibility of turning my thesis into a book and I haven’t even started writing it yet. I have you to thank for that. Really, for the rest of my life, I’m going to be grateful to you for what you have done. But I can’t see you again. Ever. Do you understand? Please try to understand.”
She waited a long time for a response. He thought about what she had said and hated to have to accept it. He could argue, but that would be useless. Her mind was made up. She was adamant that he had to leave. He could blame her and pile as much guilt on her as he could, but that would do nothing for either of them. He had to admit that she was right. He also had to admire her for not once blaming him, not once accusing him of excess, not once accusing him of enjoying torturing her. She had left it to him to accuse himself. And he did. He knew that her unspoken accusations were true. He not only liked forcing her to service him in whatever sexual way he wished at any time he wished, he had come to enjoy hearing her whimper, take pleasure in seeing tears welling out of her eyes, love knowing that he had absolute power to punish her at his whim. Three months ago, when he had put her on the horse, he had suffered with her, had empathized with her pain. Now, he no longer felt her pain. Now he could watch her sit in agony on the horse while he sat on the sofa and felt not the slightest twinge of discomfort.
Having nothing else to say, he said the only thing that made any sense in the situation. “Mount the horse. But leave the handcuffs off and don’t pull the stirrup up.”
Her head hanging in shame because she was unable to refuse, she stood and disrobed in silence, then climbed up on the device. As soon as she was settled into the saddle, he said, “Pull your foot out of the stirrup and clasp your hands behind your head.”
She began moaning in pain as soon as her weight was resting on the hard maple ridge that followed the contours of her crotch. But she made no move to put her foot back into the stirrup nor to lower her hands from her neck.
It took almost half an hour for Trevor to move all his clothes and books out to his car. By the time he was finished, she was sobbing continuously. But she never made a move to relieve her pain.
He left the key to the apartment on the kitchen table and, as he walked out the door for the last time, said, “You can stop the torture whenever you want. You always could.”
She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps, could not even imagine hearing his footsteps, before she lowered her hands, put her foot in the stirrup and dismounted the horse for the last time.
She never saw Trevor again and worked hard to avoid thinking about him. But she kept his wooden horse near at hand for the rest of her life. It was appropriate furniture for a woman who spent a long and successful academic career investigating the nature of torture.
At the end of her career, she barely remembered that it all happened because an old boyfriend had once begged her to visit a certain museum in Amsterdam.
Notes from Roissy, Cleveland, Ohio
Sophia's Diary
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
This is my first diary entry ever. I have been motivated to begin keeping a diary at the late age of thirty-five only after reading my parents' diaries.
Two months ago, my parents, Gene and Emily Robins, were killed by a drunk driver. I was could not bring myself to begin sorting through their personal papers until last week. What I found shocked me nearly senseless. I found a letter from my mother to my father, dated 25 December 1972. Then I discovered that both of them had kept diaries. The letter and entries from their diaries during January 1973 and the first week of February 1973 tilted my world sideways.
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, in moments when I manage to distance myself from them, I love seeing how strongly they were committed to each other.
They were two people in love
I don’t know if anyone will ever read my diary – I guess I hope not – but I have to include copies of my parents' documents with it because it helps me make sense 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 a special 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 infer 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, I make my understanding of my condition during those five days 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 the lower regions of my body. 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 constant, 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 cuffs 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 new experiences when I entrust myself 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? Acting out “The Story of O” 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 S and M at all. 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.
No. 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 sailed into deep and dangerous waters and have 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 compass 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, to my eye, change the building into a middle-class, middle-America, Cleveland, Ohio version of Roissy Chateau. 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 the shed 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 wristbands. 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 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 but I can’t be sure because I’ve never been whipped before.
I hope that I can stand the pain. But, I guess, if I’m chained up, it won’t matter if I can stand it or not. I’ll still be whipped.
I hope that he understands that I included the horsewhip 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.
It wouldn’t be worth all my effort unless he throws himself into the game wholeheartedly.
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 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 going through with it.
When she sent me packing she didn't say anything except to tell me where the hotel was. She was so brusque that 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.”
A Bestiary of Unnatural Women Page 11