H and S, as they were known at the château, stood in front of their Maître. Neither of them had been at the château for a whole week: H had come just the day before, and S only two days before that. H's real name was Hélène, but she was not allowed to tell anyone that, or even to say it to herself; she had had her first flogging for forgetting, and saying "Je m'appelle Hélène" to S, on that terrible first day when she had also been given to all the Maîtres in the great hall. S had turned white, knowing what was coming, and their Maître had instantly taken his whip from his belt, and told H to lay herself over the whipping bench that stood in the room they shared as a never-absent reminder of what happened to girls who broke the rules of the château, or failed to please their Maîtres. Then he had told S to stand behind him and caress his sex while he beat H's poor bare bottom until it was laced with fiery redness all over, and, then, suitably prepared by S (whom he also had prepare H's rear entrance), he had spent his essence inside it, while H (who had never had a man's hardness in there before) sobbed in shame and discomfort.
Thus, H did not know S's real name. As they stood there in front of their Maître, though, she felt love well up in her heart for her new training-partner, who had risked the punishment they were certainly now going to receive to climb into H's bed and try to give her a bit of comfort.
"So, girls," said the Maître. "You decided to have a little fun."
S reached out and took H's hand, and brought it to the small of her back. H was so touched by this gesture of sympathy that she wanted to cry, standing there in the château uniform of stockings, thong, garter-belt, and spiked heels that made her feel always furnished to her Maître, always ready to be enjoyed or punished. How could she be both that château-pucelle, as they were all called, and this sympathetic friend? It seemed somehow both impossible and yet exactly right.
That night they were tied to posts set side-by-side in the great hall, and flogged in front of all the girls, then used by the Maîtres, then finally used by two girls wearing the disciplinary strap-ons the Maîtres made them wear. Through it all, though, H was able to look into S's eyes, and see that they were united not only by the ordeal they underwent, but by the submissive flame they shared.
AnalysisWhat I can't quite figure out about me and Story of O is whether Réage's fantasies were so similar to my own that it only seems like 90% of my fantasies are found in their most essential forms in that book, and I actually had those fantasies before I ever picked it up, or whether Story of O actually did take over my imagination so thoroughly that I can't write a story about two mostly naked females standing in a room that seems to be elegantly French without it borrowing its most basic tropes from Réage.
I suppose there's a third alternative--that this particular image wouldn't have struck me in that characteristic "You must masturbate NOW!" way if Story of O weren't the formative work it is for me. I'll go with that for now--as I look at the image, it really is a very Réagean sort of affair.
The essential hotness in my view isn't, surprisingly enough, the lingerie at all. Rather, it's the hand-holding behind the back, in relation to the clothed man standing behind the chair. I spent some time trying to figure out what's on the chair, but I couldn't make it out; if it were evidence of wrong-doing on the part of the girls, that would be lovely. So, even though I didn't put it in the story since I wasn't sure, feel free to imagine that it's the proof that S climbed into H's bed.
One of the reasons I chose this image, with that essential hotness, is that I'm writing a part of the Victorian Emily story in EXPLORATIONS where Victorian Emily meets her new best friend--the pose of the girls in the photo is one that would be perfect for Emily and Susan, Lady S---- (Victorian Emily is rising meteorically in the world of Victorian BDSM, just as Mrs. Smith predicted!).