Copyright Mind Imperator 2005.
All Rights Reserved.
I have decided to take you for a while to the Château d´Eperon in the region of Reims.
The owners are friends there from my time in Paris. They are also in the hierarchy of the commissariat and I share some leisure interests with them.
Our car pulls up along the stable-flanked gravel entrance road, in front of the oaken main door. Getting out, you notice a fishpond full of large yellow carp attracted to the surface by the gentle falling rain and by fish feed slowly sprinkled by a hefty, rough-featured gardener.
We are soon inside and I bring in two large suitcases and your own. We are the only guests this warm May night, and the intendants feed us efficiently and convivially, imbuing us with mature red Bordeaux Rouge, and then, perhaps uncannily, they melt away into the long corridors. I lead you up the back stairs into a large sequestered, well-appointed, warm, ancient attic bedroom under bare black rafters.
I uncork Schreiner champagne from the bar and pour two glasses. You sit quietly and somewhat self-consciously on the dark red sofa, sipping the sharp white wine, the ephemeral bubbles tingling on the roof of your mouth. I arrange a few things in the bedroom next door, and then come to sit by you. We toast together and you see I am starting to look at you in a more concentrated, single-minded way. I put my hand on your jeans, on your right thigh.
“Wait. What are you doing?” you blurt. I do not remove my hand but gently stroke your forehead with the other one. You respond immediately, as you always do, arching your neck back, following the caress of my fingers as they travel over your forehead. This response is automatic, one of your stirring dances. It testifies only to your subordination before the rule of Eros and carnal pleasure, no more than that. Many men have taken you only in this way, eventually jading the thrill for you.
The hand on your thigh moves further up. You issue a soft, preliminary, gentle “No” into thin air. But the hand is now at the top of your thigh and the other has taken hold of your hair, turning your face towards me. You think that maybe you can see the first light of desire somewhere in the depths of my eyes. We have now taken the first tiny step in the long journey towards my ultimate goal this week.
You snap out of it. “Not yet. Let’s talk a bit, first,” you say. And many men stop there, not recognizing your well-camouflaged desires, this quintessential behavioural self-contradiction a la Japonaise. But this time you know it there will be no stopping, that in coming here with me you have already irrevocably crossed some threshold…
Still holding your hair I speak to you, for the first time softly but firmly. “Listen, now, Pia. You are pretty and intelligent. But you have much to learn, so much to understand about the structural truths of heterosexual interaction, the raw nature that was seared into our souls long before the advent of significant human consciousness. But you will learn here with me.”
You feel uncomfortable with this demeanour of mine, which resembles that of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest. Is he trying to belittle me? Does he respect me? But I am anxious to persuade and explain, and you are, naturally, curious. “What do you mean, learn?” you retort.
“You will learn here slowly as our time together elapses. But firstly, you must understand that I will have zero tolerance of resistance this week. And I mean absolutely zero.”
I pull your head towards me, kiss your lips softly, then more forcefully, relishing your sweet femininity, your vibrant youth. For an instant your previous thoughts and doubts disappear and you yield, luxuriating in being kissed in this way.
“Now, take off your clothes.”
“What?” You had hoped things would go more slowly, idyllically…
“Pia, either you take off your clothes now or I will have to do it. And if I have to do it I can assure you that neither you nor your clothes will like it one bit.”
“No. Not yet. I don’t want to. Not yet… I want to go for a walk outside.” You move to get up.
I assert myself in my usual and practised manner. Slow and controlled, I take hold of your wrists, the first clear act of physical domination, then take out handcuffs from my pocket and clip your wrists behind your back. You do not resist but look straight ahead and agitatedly but softly, almost under your breath, exclaiming, “What do you think you are doing!?”
I do not answer but take hold of your hair again and carefully pull you up onto your feet and over to a wooden post in the centre of the room. I unfasten the handcuffs and refasten them with your hands cuffed behind the post.
I leave you wedded to the post and go back into the bedroom. Because I am gone you feel a strong reality check, a swell of shame at having allowed this to happen, then waves of defiance invade you. You grapple for the safety catches on the handcuffs, but there are none. These are different from the ones in Heidelberg. There is no way of opening them without the key. The first pangs of frustration.
I return to the lounge holding a sharp, six-inch-long steel hunting knife with a black leather handle and curved at the tip. A quick surge of panic and adrenaline runs through you. “What are you going to do?” you blurt.
I bring the knife close to your face. “My dear, I gave you a chance to cooperate. Unfortunately you declined and now it is too late”. I hook the tip of the curved blade through the front of your blouse, and slide it down.
The honed knife quietly slides down, bisecting your blouse, and the fabric parts without a fight, obediently falling asunder, revealing your lacy black bra.
“Look what you’ve just done,” you angrily complain. “Asshole!”
“Well, well!” I retort, with an amused smile. “Foul words and frowns cannot repel an ardent man. You will now be stripped of your modesty, my dear. You will be fully exposed to me.”
I stop, and admire you, before sliding the knife under the bra straps.
“No, don’t!” Again loudly. “That’s my nicest bra. Please!”
The ‘Please’ has pleased me. It is the first sign of imploring. But the knife talks only by action. With a satisfied smile I deftly nick through the bra straps. The bra falls softly to the ground and your charms are open to my gaze. You sigh, frustrated. I pause again, admiring your rounded breasts and pert nipples.
You watch as I take your right nipple between thumb and forefinger, and squeeze it slightly, sending a charge running from your nipple directly between your legs, and your knees weaken palpably. Moving closer, I whisper in your ear: “Your nipples are erect. Clearly, you are already turned on by the shame of having delivered yourself so easily up to me and at the realization that you are powerless to resist whatever I wish to do to you.” You are shaking your head, trying to deny this. I continue. “Your breasts are exquisite, my dear. And I have had much enjoyment with these nipples on past nights, have I not?”
You reply this time, softly, almost inaudibly, as if only to yourself, “I hope so.”
Standing back slightly, I slowly run the flat surface of the knife across your right nipple, which stiffens further under the cold steel. This elicits another soft “No, please” but your breathing is accelerating now, giving you unmistakably away. You are fundamentally easy, helpless prey, now squarely pinned in the sights of a strong, merciless predator. Smiling, I place the tip of the knife under a nipple and push upwards slightly, not enough to break the skin.
“No don’t! Please!” You burst out, standing on your tiptoes, adrenaline surging now, straining upwards futilely trying to escape the knife point.
“Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy, Pia. You seemed to place some value on your bra. How much do you treasure your nipple? It is significantly more difficult to replace. I could now push this knife point up into it, couldn’t I? And I can assure you that would give me infinitely more pleasure than simply snipping your polyester bra straps.”
I remove the knife. “I will pay closer attention to your nipples later. But remember it is within my power to do anything I wish to you. And that the only way you can possibly influence what happens to you is by submission.”
Your jeans are tight fitting. I start on them with the knife at your feet but you kick out, half-heartedly, but enough to prevent easy work. Without the slightest annoyance, and saying nothing, I return to the bedroom, and then come back with a metre-long metal bar and three lengths of rope. The metal bar is placed on the ground and I take hold of an ankle, pulling it to one side. Tight clove hitches are made and your ankles are lashed solidly to the bar, wide apart. The third length ties the middle of the bar to the post in a neat figure-of-eight. Your legs are now spread and immobile.
The knife is slipped under your jeans and works its way up the tight fitting inside of one leg, then the other. Cutting the jeans from your hips is more delicate but I of course succeed, without grazing your skin. I remove your shoes and you are left in only your panties.
I stand back again, appreciating the curve of your hips, your slim, athletic body. “Now, how should I cut the panties off?” I ask you. “Should I cut through the side? Well, what do you think?”
You look away from my face. You would not answer such a question.
“No. This is what I will do,” I decide. I am now behind you, and I pull your panties upwards, tight between your sex lips and buttocks.
“The school kids in their changing rooms call this a `wedgie` and the word is even in the Oxford English Dictionary now, you know.”
But now the knife is cutting downwards behind you, tearing the back of your panties, and you feel the blunt edge sliding between your ass cheeks, then under, between your splayed legs. I linger there, and push the edge up between your lips. I hold the knife handle with both hands, and more firmly press upwards, the blunt edge now pushing strongly into you. No pain, but discomfort. You try again to tiptoe but cannot now. A small movement of the knife and the pressure is on your clitoris and your delicate piercing ring.
“Can you feel the cold steel?” I ask. “Does it turn you on? Let’s find out, shall we?” I remove the knife and my finger now slides in your panties and caresses your vaginal lips, before moving inwards inside you.
“Much as I thought, Pia. You are hot for this aren’t you?”
“No! That’s not true!” you cry, breaking your calm, in heated shame. “Stop it. Untie me. Let me go,” you shout.
I quickly slash with the knife through your panties and they are now halved. Nicking the sides, they drop to the ground and you are completely naked before me, your breasts heaving in anger.
End of Part One.