The chamber of pleasures (Pleasure,chamber,xxx,porno,sikis,stories)

The chamber of pleasures

A little outright bondage now and then was good for Victoria... or Tory, as she was called by then, hanging from the tight, binding straps and being forced to participate in the most astonishing of bizarre spectacles.

Opal Andrews has arrived on the scene with a trunk full of sensational manuscripts and a burning ambition to write more and more. Actually, from some of the kinky things Miss Andrews dreams up, we frankly suspect she'd like to be tied up a bit herself, perhaps in Tory's place.

Actually it was Aunt Isobel who really had the craving to be debased and degraded... and almost every night Tory watched her sneak off and offer herself, willingly, to all manner of bestial things. Little wonder that Tory herself began developing a need to really understand just what it was that pleased Aunt Isobel so frightenly.

All the others... the merciless leader... his insatiable teen-aged assistants... were past masters at the lash and the leather... wearing the most peculiar clothing she'd ever seen... by the time Tory was ready and eager for her own sexual initiation.



Well, deare olde diary, here I am home early again from a date. This time it was with Larry, the Reverend Mister Collier's son, and I certainly had every reason to believe that his sweet kind gentle Lawrence would be different from other boys.

He isn't. We went to a movie, and he tried to hold my hand. I resisted, several times, and then when it seemed I had taught him that I am no easy girl who holds hands with just anybody at all, I let him. It was rather nice, although hands get a little hot and perspirey (I don't know if that's a word, but I refuse to say "sweaty"!) after a while. Anyhow, after a while my hand was not only hot and perspirey, my arm was tired and getting cramped, so I detached my fmgers from his and moved my hand to my lap.

He reached over there to hold it! With his fingertips touching me! I could feel them, right through my dress!

After that, understandably enough, I reached over with my other hand, firmly detached his from mine, and transferred it back to the arm of the seat.

He tried twice more during the movie, but I wouldn't have any of that.

Then, when the movie was over and we were getting into his father's car, he tried to kiss me.

"This is our first date, Larry," I told him. "I think you're moving just a little too fast, don't you? What would your father think, for Heaven's sake?"

He stared at me as if I were some kind of nut. I hate having to record the word he used, right here in my own diary, but I must if this diary of my Life is going to be honest. No, I won't! I can't! Weil, the word he used was the four-letter one, but what he meant when he said just two words was this:

"Screw Dad!"

(Understand that he did not say "screw", but the four-letter word meaning the same thing, and I will not record it here.)

I immediately went as stiff as a board, stared straight ahead, and ordered him to bring me home. He did, and without even apologizing. We did not say one word all the way home.



It will be three months tomorrow that Daddy's been laid off. He hasn't been able to find anything else. Poor Daddy!

Poor us! I can tell Mother's very very worried, and money is just terribly tight. Oh yes, that reminds me. Although I agree with Mother that brassieres should be tight, I have definitely outgrown both the ones I have. (Oh if only God had blessed me with a diminutive bosom, like Mother's, rather than these... well. I suppose I am admirably suited to nurse babies, some day when I find a decent man...

Anyhow, I've had these bra's since my Freshman year in High School, and they're not only old and frayed and not too white any more, I have grown since then! They pinch. Mounds of soft white flesh bulge over the fabric. If only Mother would let me go to bed without wearing a bra!

Ah well, our Victoria says with a sigh, it's time for bed. My poor bosom feels so tight and painful, in this too-tight bra. Perhaps I'll be able to go to sleep on my back.


All my life I have been taught not to touch my body, or to allow it to be touched. I have not, and I have been very careful when bathing, especially not to touch my furry little Mound of Venus or my breasts, even though they always tingle and feel they want to be massaged once they're free of those awful bras. Only Ted has ever touched them, and I slapped him so hard that night my hand was red and tingly for hours. Just his touch made my bra feel even tighter, and I could tell the tip of my breast had gotten longer; it hurt, from being squeezed into the bra. But that night of all nights I did not touch myself or even dream of removing my bra before going to bed.

I record this tonight because I was whistled at today, just walking down the street. It made me feel all sorts of things; sort of warm and tingly, and angry, and rather nice, too. After all, someone thought I was pretty enough to whistle at!

I came home and couldn't seem to stop thinking about it, and I succumbed to the sin of vanity.

I came up here to my room and locked the door and kept looking at myself in the dresser mirror every time I passed. And I passed it a lot. I realized I was walking around on purpose, just so I could keep looking at myself. Admiring myself!

If MOTHER knew that!

Or Rev Coffler!

But if they'd ever known what I did after that...!

Well, I bathed. And came out of the bathroom wearing my robe. I couldn't help looking at myself again, some more, sort of checking. Is that a pretty girl, I thought? Is that the sort of girl men whistle at?

Oh gosh, I thought, is this the sort of body that incites men's lusts? Was I created a harlot, a Jezebel, in the body of a... a temptress, despite the family I belong to and the upbringing and beliefs I have?

I stood there in front of the mirror staring at myself. Just staring and staring. Large blue eyes, quite blue, and I don't know if I like that or not. They're sort of like a baby's eyes, they're always so much bluer than when the child gets older.

A perfectly ordinary nose, neither a button nor a handsome British one like Deborah Kerr's, but not a hook or anything, either, thank Heaven. (Ah, vanity, vanity!) A nice mouth, I guess; who knows about mouths? A little wide, maybe, to be honest, and a little full of the lower lip. And all this blonde hair.

"You look just like Justine," Mr. Grayson told me one day after Lit class in my Junior year, just before I had the asthma trouble and cost Mother and Daddy so much money and had to miss two years of school. (It's embarrassing, about to enter High School this fall as an EIGHTEEN-year-old SENIOR, for Heaven's sake! Besides, I'd rather just have stayed out, and gotten a job. Mother and Daddy need the help I could give them by bringing in some money. But Daddy and his PRIDE! He wouldn't hear of it. HE didn't finish High School, he said, and look at him. Dinky house old car and now he's laid off and we're REALLY hurting. I sigh.)

Anyhow, Mr. Grayson told me I looked just like Justine. "Justine?" I echoed, frowning. "Justine who?"

He laughed, making me feel sort of small. "There," he said, "that's just it. That little frown, the big wide blue eyes, so innocent, and that pursed mouth, so sensuous. That's your Justine look!"

"But who's Justine?"

He shook his head. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. She's the, ah, protagonist in a very wicked book. Its title is Justine. Actually I don't know if she was ever described or not. I don't remember. But all the way through I saw her as a soft pale blond with big blue eyes and a mouth like yours, wide, but with a full lower lip. Very sensuous. The perfect..."


He shook his head again. "I'm sorry," he said.

"The perfect what, Mr. Grayson?" Maybe I was flirting a little. Shameful me! But I was also fascinated, of course. I have had this terrible curiosity ever since I was a child. Everyone tells me it's going to get me into trouble some day. Humpf. Well, it hasn't!

"The perfect... victim," he said, in a low voice, and he looked at me so intensely I was paralyzed, like a mouse or a rabbit staring at a cobra.

Well, the bell rang, and that was that. And after that I was very careful not to be anywhere alone with Mr. Grayson!

Eventually, of course, very carefully and sneakily, I found out who had written a "very wicked book" called Justine.

I was shocked. I am STILL shocked.

Justine was a book written by... The Marquis de Sade! Everyone knows what a monster HE was! And I look like... oh, that's terrible!

I wander here in my diary, don't I? I must try to stop that, curb it. A wandering mind is an idle one, and one should have a fixed purpose in all things. I've heard that often enough, from more mouths than one. Even...

Um-hm! I'm wandering AGAIN!

I was about to write down what I did after my bath. Well... I stood there and kept staring at myself, and maybe it was an accident or maybe it was deliberate. I had been on my way to bed, after all, and I hadn't even bothered to tie my robe. It fell open.

There I was, staring at myself in the mirror, and... NAKED!

I... I studied myself. Shamelessly... and shamefully, how clever I am sometimes!... for quite a while.

The pale fringes around my eyes are like... are like... oh come on, Victoria, this is YOUR diary!

The pale fringes around my eyes are like the almost invisible little fringe that hems, but doesn't even cover, the little pink slit right at the bottom of my belly. The hair there is tenderly, curling like silk all around and even on that little pink stripe down the center of the swollen place, the lips. (Silly to call them that; they're not a they, they're an it, and it's turned the wrong way to be a mouth, anyhow!

Rounded, snowy thighs that touch each other all the way down to the knees, and knees with delicate little dimples, and then legs below that that I STILL think are too calfy. Small feet, that's a blessing; surely my fanny is too much, all round and white and sticky-outy. Just too prominent and round to be decent!

Not much stomach to speak of, on that pale girl in the mirror, just a slight narrow swelling between the cradle formed by the hips, with a shallow, longish navel denting it just in the center.

But both that tummy and its navel are shadowed. Shadowed, by what it is that makes my brassieres so painfully tight and that makes Mother make me wear tight bras anyhow, and loose blouses. Well, tonight I really studied them. It, I mean, my bosom. In two halves. Even and equal and identical, as far as I was able to tell.

They stood there before me, round and very white and solid looking, pushing out from my chest as if they were about to spring free of me, to fly or float about in the air. So buoyant looking. Surging up and out, forward, with each breath I took. They bounced with every little movement I made, jiggling and rippling, sort of like Jell-O when you drop it onto your plate if Jell-O were white.

And with pink, pink tips set in paler pink circles like... well, like silver dollars, I guess, but whoever sees silver dollars any more? (Well, more people than see the preposterously developed halves of my ridiculous bosom, anyhow!) (What a thought!)

They don't droop at all, the breasts I am stuck with for life. They just stand there, jiggling and shaking. Looking like they'd make me float and float, if I were to jump.

I jumped.

They bounced way up, and when they come down it hurt. They dragged at me, and I realized they are HEAVY, and so now I know one good reason to keep on wearing those nasty tight brassieres!

I have a bra on now, under my nightgown as I write this. And I am going to stop. They hurt. They're very tight-feeling, as they are every month -- right before The Curse begins. I can feel a little pain right at the tips. They've gotten long again.


Aunt Isobel is coming to visit us! How exciting! And it's been four months since Daddy was laid off; how terrible!


Another date. He tried to kiss me at the door. He'd been a perfect gentleman up to then. But he would have to put his hands on me and try to kiss me, right at the door. For a moment I felt weak, my eyelids heavy, wanting to close, and my stomach fluttered. But I was strong. I reminded myself. I tore away from him and fled inside.

This awful tight bra hurts again.


Aunt Isobel must be about forty, quite thin with jet, JET black hair and too much lipstick, pink. She studied me as if I were in a fair and she was the judge. Then she looked at Daddy and Mother.

"Doesn't look any the worse for that asthma, I'll say that. A fine-looking girl you've raised, George. And you too, Mary, of course." She looked again at me. "Don't let that go to your head, girl," she said, just as clipped-off and abrupt, and she swung her face back to Mother and Daddy. "She'd never suffer from asthma in Denver! And certainly not where I live."

Denver? I suppose not... but how could we go to Denver? Is the work situation... for Daddy... any better out there? And what would we use for money to move? Aunt Isobel has some money, I know that. But that doesn't make it ours!

I don't know if I like her or not. She talks like she has springs on her jaws snapping them shut on each word.


No time! I am not happy, but I am not wholly unhappy either. I just don't know. At least it will be a new experience, and I can understand that it will help Mother and Daddy a lot, the money and all. But I hate to leave.

I am going to Denver with Aunt Isobel. I've just packed. We leave in the morning. I'm going to LIVE there. Her companion and maid and... I don't know. Something like that. Someone to be with her. And of course Mother and Daddy won't have to worry about buying my food and clothing and everything. Aunt Isobel made it very plain that I would be expected to work.

Fine. It will pass the time, particularly if I find that I don't like Denver, or living with her.

I still don't know whether I like her or not, but I suppose I'd better. It's too late to worry about it now!

I admit that I am excited. I've crossed out three words already. It's time to stop. But will I get to sleep?


I don't know if I like Denver or not. I haven't really seen it. It's big, I know that. I've been here a month, though, and have scarcely been out of the house. Aunt Isobel has groceries and everything else sent in. I think she must have a lot more money than we thought. I don't even remember what Uncle William did before he died so young. Some sort of engineer.

And the house! It's big, it's huge. It's enough for ten. There are five bedrooms, for Heaven's sake. And two baths, and a dining room, and a basement, and an attic, and an enormous kitchen and a garage and even servant's quarters, out back, although no one lives there. She says we... we!... have eight acres. It's mostly trees.

Oh, and the other things!

I came out of the tub one night to find my robe gone, although I was sure I'd hung it right there on the wall. Sort of scared, I came out sneakily.

There in my bedroom sat Aunt Isobel! My robe was in her hands, and on her lap lay my brassieres... both of them! I squeaked, covered myself with my hands, and ducked back into the bathroom.

"What I thought," she said. "You're a large-bosomed girl, and probably injuring your health wearing those terrible old cotton bras."

Each of the last two words was said with great vehemence, and I heard ripping sounds. Later I discovered why: she had torn each bra, right through the cups, while she was talking.

"And this robe is a disgrace. And your panties. And this ancient gown! You must understand, Victoria... ridiculous name!... that I cannot have a ragamuffin living with me! Not one of those nasty little no-bra girls in the miniskirts, either, but not a ragamuffin! Now I am leaving this room. I am leaving behind one of my gowns, and you are to sleep in it tonight."

"But..." I started, peeping around the doorjamb.

She stared. Eyes like ice. Hair like midnight. Voice like a sword, cuts right through you. "BUT? But WHAT, Miss?"

I looked at the floor. "But... tomorrow... my underclothes..."

"Worry about tomorrow, Victoria, when tomorrow comes! Now go to bed and don't stir out of this room before eleven A.M.."

"Elev... b..." Oh no, I thought, I won't say "but" again! "Uh, breakfast, Aunt Isobel?"

"You really must try to stop questioning me, Vic... you know I really dislike that name? I shall have to call you something else. What's your other name?"


"Victoria Marie?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She shook her head. "Ignorant, ignorant. The name of a terrible English dictatrix, coupled with a French name, for mercy sake! Well. What have you always WANTED to be called?"

"Umm... most everyone at school called me Vicky..."

"That is NOT what I asked," she snapped, and her gaze pierced me until I was sure she could see right through the wall and the towel I held before me. It was damp, and I was nervous about the wall. It was papered.

"I... ummm..." All I could think of was "Justine", for some ridiculous and perverse reason, but I was not ABOUT to say THAT!

"All right al right, I haven't all night. Step out here. STEP OUT HERE IN THE OPEN, I say! There. Um-hm. Now drop that ridiculous towel. VICTORIA MARIE OLDENKAMP! Drop that damned towel, do you think I am Satan's agent or something? I am NOT interested in your childish body, merely in trying to size up its measurements. Good Heavens, that someone with a past like mine could be taken to be interested in girls... Well. DROP it."

Trembling, feeling very humiliated and embarrassed and ashamed, I dropped the towel. I was close onto tears. Dreadful woman!

"Good... Heavens," she said, staring. "Good Heavens." She jerked her head up as though she'd been asleep. "Turn around." I did, and I felt as though my backside were going goose-pimply all over. I heard her little intake of breath. "Now present me with your profile."

I did so, staring straight ahead and blushing from the roots of my hair to my toenails.

"Heavens," she said, in a low voice. "You are just beautifully structured, girl! Unbelievable, I swear. Certainly that is the finest rump I have ever seen and you must be the biggest-titted girl in Colorado!"

I gasped, and stood there trembling, and finally I had had quite enough. Summoning all my strength and courage, I spun to face her.

She was gone.

I dived into bed and wept. I slept naked.

It felt glorious.


I have a new name. It comes from Victoria, but I'd never have thought of it. I don't know if I like it or not Aunt Isobel says it is just delightful, and that it is really just the opposite of the word "rebel" and thus fits someone as meek as I am.(MEEK! If she only knew I had spun around to TELL HER OFF! Aargh... that woman!)

My name is Tory. Thus sayeth Isobel, and so let it be done.

I sigh, and I record it here again, an admission and a statement:

I am Tory.

And it is only fitting that I should have a new name. For... I HAVE ALL NEW CLOTHING!

I don't know how she does it.

Yes I do; she ORDERS people, and they quail before that rocky thin face and that magnificent black hair and those iceberg eyes!

At five minutes to eleven, when I was still moping about my room, wearing, by then, her nightgown (all perfumey-smelling), there was a sharp knock at the door. Then it opened. A hand came in; hers. It held a box. It dropped the box. The hand disappeared; another box came in and was dropped. Then a third. Thump, on the floor, three white boxes with "Allen's" on them, in royal blue script, with a little crown.

"You have received these boxes in order. There are things in them that will fit you and probably some that will not. Hurry along and try them out, and when you've found what does fit, come right along to the library." That was my Aunt Isobel's voice, and that was all. The door closed.

Should I gush and gush for pages and pages, and talk about every thing in those boxes, or shall I try to be restrained and brief?

The first box contained five brassieres of some white artificial fabric, very slicky and smooth. They were unpadded and unboned. The first I tried on was too large, even for my bosom. The second fitted, and felt wonderful, but I tried the other three, too. Two of them were all right, but the second was perfect. I left it on, bouncing and pirouetting shamelessly before the mirror. I looked MAGNIFICENT!

That first box also contained four pairs of dainty little slicky laboratory-fabric pants briefs! They were all white, and one was too small and I suppose the one I liked best was a shade loose. But I decided on that. Then there were two half-slips, a pale blue and a white. Both fit superbly.

When at last I went down, walking on air and yet feeling rather embarrassed, I wore a new bra and new naughty brief panties and a huge-collared blue blouse with very blousy sleeves and snug cuffs and plain white buttons, and a dark blue straight skirt. I carried everything else.

Aunt Isobel waited in the library, with a woman of about thirty-five or forty, I don't know, I'm not much of a judge. She was blond, short-haired, and wore a beautiful pants-suit just a little darker than sky-blue. It did not look at all indecent I never learned her name. Aunt I didn't bother to introduce us. She was from Allen's. Allen's is not the most expensive store in Denver, but it is far from cheap, I have learned that.

"What a beautiful girl!" the woman from Allen's said. "What a magnificent figure!"

"Isn't it," Aunt Isobel snapped. "Tory, are you quite sure you chose the underwear that fits best?"

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

She sighed, "I suppose I shall take your word for it. And the blouse and skirt certainly do. Well then. You have the sizes?"

The woman nodded. "I know what I brought, and all I have to do is check off what's missing."

"Good. This over-brought-up child is very, very modest indeed. All right then. One more of the brassieres in white, and one each in black and in blue. A half-dozen blouses in assorted colors... she waved her hand... and some skirts, and um, perhaps a wide belt or two. Hose... pantyhose."

I stood there with my mouth open. The woman from Allen's sat there very coolly, smiling and nodding and writing it down, and then she picked up the three boxes to go. As she passed me she stopped, smiled, and said, "You really are a lovely girl, Tory," and then she left while I stood there with a burning face.

"Before you say anything, Tory," Aunt Isobel said, "don't. That's all. I don't want you getting breast-cancer from those God-awful cinch-straps you came here with, and I can't abide the sight of the rest of that junk. When's your birthday?"

"October... eighteen," I stammered, feeling as though there were a hickory nut in my throat.

She nodded. "Good then. I am remembering your birthday early this year. Happy birthday. And start fixing us a decent lunch for a change. Going without breakfast for once won't hurt you."

"Aunt Isobel..."

"You're quite welcome," she said. Another dismissal. It was very hard for me, but I went to the door, heading for the kitchen.

"Tory," she said.

I stopped and half-turned.

"You answer very nicely to a very nice name," she said, and she was almost smiling. Almost. "And you really are very lovely girl. Shoulders UP! Chest OUT! But then you can't help that, I suppose..." She fluttered a hand. "Well, go along, go along, was up early and all I had was toast and coffee and I'll want a big lunch!" She got a big lunch.


Tory is a doll. Tory is beautiful. Tory has the most beautiful clothing in the world, and her Aunt Isobel isn't her Aunt Isobel at all; she's her fairy Godmother!


My curiosity peeketh. Aunt Isobel goes out some place at night. Out through the trees at the rear of the house. WHERE? I dare not even ask.


It has been nearly a month since I have written here. I have thought about it, but I have not felt like writing. Nor can I bear to write very much. I shall merely make a record, and try to do it without crying again. Aunt Isobel told me today that I have had red-eyes for a month, and she is getting tired of it. I am to "Straighten up, Tory girl!"

Mother and Daddy are dead.

Daddy did it. He was still laid off, and still not able to get other work, and too proud to take help from all these Federal things. So he killed them both. I hope it was an agreement... oh I can't...


That was yesterday. There's a big tear-blotch on the paper; these felt point pens run when they're wet.

Daddy and Mother were found dead in the car in the garage with the door shut and overcoats and rugs stuffed against it and the car windows down and the key on and the gas gauge on empty. Carbon monoxide poisoning. No note. There was an overdrawn notice on the living room table beside the lamp, and a piece of baloney and a half-pint of milk in the refrigerator. We went, with Aunt Isobel taking charge and bustling me along, thank God, and somehow we got through the funeral and burial and the life insurance man told her they would pay even though it was suicide: Daddy had a thousand-dollar policy and another one for thirty-five-hundred. The house was rented, of course, and the car worth about a hundred dollars.

She sat me down and stared into my face; she had to hold my chin up with one kid-gloved hand.

"Tory. Listen a moment, and think carefully. Do you want anything from here?" I shook my head.

"Nothing? Not even a remembrance? A letter-opener or an old lamp or an old teddy-bear or whatever? Nothing?"

I shook my head.

She told somebody she knew to sell the car for whatever it brought, auction or give away everything else, take anything he wanted, pay off the funeral home and anything else Daddy owed, and keep what was left as his fee. She turned aside when he started to talk, probably to say no, he'd do it for nothing, and she scribbled something out and signed it. She handed it to him.

We left. We returned to Denver. A week later a box came in the mail. She showed it to me, told me it was a memento from home, and asked if I wanted to open it. I didn't. She put it in the top of the front hall closet. It wasn't all that simple; we both had to sign legal thing and all that, but I think all that's over by now. I am an orphan. I live in Denver, with my fairy Godmother, who was my father's sister -- and whom I call Isobel because she's tired of hearing "Aunt" and says it's a terrible waste of breath to preface her name with it all the time.

I wished I were dead for a long while, wished I'd been there to die with them. I'm over that now.



I don't know what to do. It's been a long month since I have written anything here, and I am not the lame person as she who wrote the last entry. And that girl, Tory, was not the same as the Victoria who first began this diary. Now I don't know what to do, and I should... I must... tell it to someone SO... this little book with all its blank pages and empty lines.

There is so much.

Our nearest neighbor, although there are eight acres here, is less than one mile away. Straight through the woods out back. I met him a few weeks after... after their deaths. He is Mr. Parker, and Aunt... I mean Isobel... calls him Erik. Erik Parker. A tall man, thin or rather slim, with large hands with long fingers. A great deal of black-and-gray hair, combed straight back from a high forehead. Beautiful gray sideburns, almost white in places. A very well-trimmed beard. Is he fifty? Forty-five? Fifty-five? I don't know. He has eyes every bit as piercing as Au... as Isobel's, but his are a deep brown.

He is a very handsome man.

He lives in a strange stone place that was some sort of gamekeeper's lodge long, long ago when not only our property and his but a lot of the surrounding area was one vast estate. His place ii surrounded by trees and grapevines and all sorts of underbrush. I don't think the grapevines bear. He isn't interested in agriculture.

He is as strange as Isobel. He lives alone... well, no. That's another strange part. There are a young man and woman living with him. She cooks and launders and does the housework, and the young man, I assume, does everything else there is to do.

I was very shocked to learn that they are not married. It is not only a strange, but doubtless a sinful household.

Mr. Parker, of course, has money. He reads a great deal, he says, and thinks, he says, with his great dark eyes piercing while he speaks and his beard writhing a bit, and he writes. Articles, and he says he is doing the story of his life and of all humankind. Whatever that means.

It is to his place that Aunt Isobel has been going at nights. Walking, through the woods, all alone, to return sometime before I awake. It is all too strange, and a little scary. I know why I have begun to write here but even as I write I am trying to talk myself out of it, what I am thinking, but the mystery, the suspense, is far too much for anyone, certainly, and definitely far far too much for anyone with my curiosity. I must try to dissuade myself.

No, I have only steeled my resolve.

I shall.

I shall follow her.


Oh no, no, no! I must be crazy, I must be going out of my MIND, I must have been dreaming! It just couldn't be! Nothing like that could be, surely! Not in this country, not in this century! Oh my God, I can't even write about it. No, No. NO!


It happened. I wasn't dreaming. I am sure, now. I was not dreaming, or hallucinating, or anything else other than seeing exactly what I thought I saw.

I will try to record it here, in every detail.

To begin with, it's been five days... or rather five nights, since I watched Aunt Isobel slip from the house and begin that strange and lonely walk through the woods behind the house. She wore a blouse and skirt, both navy blue, and boots. Since I had planned to follow her, I had slipped into one of the snug-sleeved blouses she recently purchased for me, and slacks, and I wore soft-soled house slippers so as not to make noise. I too wore dark colors; the blouse is red and the slacks black. And I followed her, through the woods. I was very careful to move from tree to tree and make no noise, and now and again when a branch rustled at my passage or a twig snapped beneath my foot I froze behind a free or squatted and froze. But to my knowledge my aunt Isobel did not even glance around. She just moved swiftly on through the frees, scrambled easily over the old rock fence at the place where it has fallen nearly to the ground, and approached the old house where Erik Parker lives with the young man and woman who are his servants: Lois and Miles.

The house was dark, but she went right up to knock at the door, anyhow, and I slipped in as closely as I could, behind a huge old oak not thirty feet froth the door. I saw her knock, and then I heard the voice from inside. "Who's there?"

"A wayward woman in need of counsel," she called back. Strange words! I frowned, wondering.

"There is no counsel here for wayward women, whore of the night!" I beard Mr. Parker's voice call back from inside, and I had to press my hand over my mouth as if to physically hold back my gasp. He used that word to my aunt; he called her that awful name! AND he was going on:

"Here there is only chastisement for your sinful body, which you must accept without question."

"I accept it," she replied, and I felt a prickling under my arms. "Strip, then, right where you are."

My eyes flared wide. Even in the darkness I could see that she obeyed, stripping off her clothing and dropping it right there on the little porch of that old stone house with its charming tiled roof. When she had finished, she announced that she was now naked... she said naked, not "nude"... and suddenly the door opened. She went into the dark house.

I stood there and stared and stared, listening without hearing anything at all. I was fearful, horrified, frightened... my emotions were many, and I trembled. I was sure that I had heard and partially witnessed some strange rite, and I felt certain that it was not the first time just such words and actions had taken place here.

I had not known the little stone house had a basement until I saw the light appear, near the ground. At last realizing that it came from within, that there were casement windows, I approached stealthily, fearfully, and with pounding heart. All sorts of shrubs and some mums had been planted there, and I scratched my arm and was just able to avoid crying out when I came into contact with a little thorny tree. Fearing I had made a noise they might have heard, within the house, I was still for perhaps a minute. It seemed, of course, like hours.

At last I moved further in, espying the window now. Staying just outside the square of light emanating from the window, I peered within. And my mind was staggered by a second shock far greater than the first, when I had heard those strange exchanges of words and had watched my aunt stripping off her clothing.

In that basement, or wine-cellar, or whatever it had once been, I saw my aunt and Mr. Parker and both Miles and Lois.

My aunt still wore no clothing, and I really believe my first reaction was one of astonishment at the fact that her loins were as smoothly-shorn as a child's, as a girl's before she reaches that age at which her breasts begin to swell and the soft fur begins to grow to conceal the mound and the nether lips of her sex. Those soft pink lips were very visible, obscenely bared, for my aunt's lower belly was entirely hairless. Furthermore, it was some time before I realized that she wore rouge or dye of some sort; at first I was so naive as to believe that the intensely red color of her puffy little lips was either, natural pigmentation or the fiery result of... what had been done to them.

She stood awkwardly, her bare thighs and legs apart, for one of those roughly X-shaped, spring-closing clothespins had been clamped to each of her nether lips. They drooped low, long red lobes that framed an open cavity into her, body, not, a tight line such as that which pierces my vulva as though incised with a single, swift drawing of a razor blade down the mound. (What a horrid thought! I shudder as I find myself entering here auth a terrible analogy!)

I tried to imagine the pain to those soft, so-tender lips, of having clothespins clamped to each of them and then left there, to squeeze and pinch the flesh and draw it downward as they dangled beneath her, between her thighs.

I do not know in what order to record all this. I shall put it down as each incredible portion rushes redly back into my staggering mind.

Around each of Isobel's ankles was a leather band with a huge buckle; the straps were perhaps three inches high, and thick-looking, like a shortened version of a hippy's belt. The leather was black.

She wore the same leather straps around her wrists, and another circled her neck, and I could see that her waist was fearfully constricted by the belt, also of black leather but surely five inches high, that encircled her. Despite her slimness, her flesh bulged whitely above and below that tightly-drawn and buckled strap. She was blindfolded with a strip of black, cloth, and her wrists were linked together behind her back; each of the straps was equipped with rings and hooks, making them resemble the horse harnesses one sees hanging in small town hardware stores.

Her breasts!

They were rather fuller than I had expected, and I am sure now that she wears no brassiere, not ever, which makes her look less bosomy than she is. Those soft, intensely white hemispheres were set well apart on her chest. They were not huge and perhaps they could not be called large, certainly not by comparison with my own bosom's twin lobes. But the tips, like her sexual lips, were incredibly red, and again I realized that her aureole and thick nipples had been dyed or painted with something; perhaps vegetable dye?

That deep red color was visible to me despite the fact that... that... ah horror!... that to each of her nipples was clamped another of those spring clothespins! They dragged each deep pink nipple downward, making it look long...

At last, with a sinking feeling, I recognized the other adornments to the satiny half-spheres of her breasts. I shuddered violently and closed my eyes, digging my nails into the palms of my hands. But I had to open my eyes and look on; I was totally incapable of not watching them!

Into each of her breasts, including the crimson aureoles circling the clothes pinned tips, had been thrust several of the thorns from the bush or slim tree I had just encountered! They varied from the thickness of a needle to that of ordinary pencil-lead, which is quite thick indeed to be stabbed into human flesh and left there to sting and throb! Most of them were about the length of an ordinary sewing-needle, and they protruded from her flesh at varying lengths; some had been thrust in deeper, perhaps with more force than others.

I could not understand why I had not heard her agonized screams while those TERRIBLE THORNS WERE BEING IMBEDDED IN THE ENCHANTING SWELLS OF HER BOSOM!

Thus have I described my aunt, whose body, I am forced and rather proud to declare, looked more like that of a woman of perhaps thirty than of forty, which I believed her to be.

Now the others. The monsters. Her tormentors. (Yes, I know, and I will say so now: the tormentors of a willing victim!)

Erik Parker wore a long brown robe with a thrown-back cowl. I mean a long robe; past his ankles. Had he been tonsured he'd have resembled a monk. As it was, just that robe, girt with a shiny belt of black leather matching that of his boots, added flavor of the Inquisition to that medieval scene of horror and obscenity; he looked for all the world like a monk with a full head of hair and a beard.

Nearby stood the girl Lois. I do not know how old she is. Perhaps my age? Fifteen or twenty, eighteen or twenty-five? I do not know. She wore a black body stocking that covered her from the tips of her toes to her chin, where it rose in a turtle neck. But... either that sheath of black that fitted her like her own skin had been made extraordinarily, or it had been altered with scissors and new hems. For, with shocking lasciviousness and unbelievable immodesty, it had been left open to reveal her naked and painted breasts, her lower sexual parts.

She too was shorn to reveal the intimate deft between the puffy, hot-pink lips of her sex; She too had had paint or dye applied to the enviable and deep swells of her breasts, which jutted forth from her black sheath in a display that drew the eye like twin, snow-colored magnets with rust-red tips.

Even as I stared at her, she plucked another thorn from the silver tray in her left hand, poised her hand while she took careful aim, and rammed it so hard into Isobel's left breast that the lovely globe bounded and quivered in the air. I saw my aunt's mouth open wide, but heard no sound. She only gasped, I thought, despite what must have been terrible pain; what a strong and brave woman she is!

(What am I thinking? I asked myself. She is here voluntarily. She is naked voluntarily. She submits voluntarily to their lascivious gazes and their torment, and this is not the first time! She is as much monster as they!)

As to young, well-built Miles;... I shudder and blush even at the memory of his display of himself! I stared and stared, shivering and yet trying to tear my gaze from him. Impossible; it was as though my eyes were fastened to his body by invisible chains.

He wore boots, blood-red tights, and a broad black belt, and one glove, on his left hand. And... his tights, like those of Lois, were open at the most obscene of places. From that hole... which I saw had been cut in the shape of a heart; what perversity!... jutted a great and swollen shaft of an angry pink color, with, a mushrooming bead that at once looked bloated and soft, not like the shaft which seemed iron-like to me as I stared at them through that window... and purplish in color. Beneath dangled--no, hung, for they did not appear dangling, which implies a looseness... a very tight-looking sac of flesh containing two large round objects.

I am seeing, I thought with horror and a tingling tightening throughout my body, I am seeing, for the first time, a man's sexual equipment! That... that is his penis, and those are his... his... balls!

I shudder again at the thought of that first shocking sight. The angry throbbing arrogant way that bludgeon of flesh stood out before his hairy loins!

Erik Parker, with his back almost turned to me, waved a hand, and Miles went behind my aunt. Seizing her linked hands, he pulled them roughly behind her. That of course forced the poor woman to bend swiftly forward in order to avoid having her shoulders displaced. Her clothespin-pinched, thorn-pierced and festooned breasts swung below her bowed body like great white pears from a windblown tree.

And then I saw the whip that Erik Parker held, and even as I saw it he was swinging it... up!

It lashed across the already-tormented breasts of my poor aunt! She was utterly helpless to protect the soft dangling flesh from the five angry strips of leather that lashed the twin pear-shapes! She jerked violently, but behind her Miles only planted his feet... I could see the tensing of the excellent muscles in his calves... and held her there, bent helplessly forward as if... as if proffering her sweet bosom in silent invitation to the lash!

The monster lashed them twice again.

Then, while Erik looked on and Miles continued to hold Isobel in her bowed position, the girl stepped forward... she wore a great deal of red hair, have I mentioned that?... and began to seize and jerk forth the thorns piercing her whip-marked, teardrop breasts! Now I counted, shivering and helplessly watching, as she jerked each thorn out and dropped them into Erik's outstretched palm.

There were nine. Five of them emerged to be closely followed by a bright red bubble of blood that soon swelled and over-weighted itself to race down white flesh and drop onto the floor. I saw old stains, there, from past bloody droplets!

And then further horror: Handing Lois his whip, Erik, bent forward to lick and, suck away the blood from those horribly mistreated globes of soft flesh! The blood flow soon ceased, so tiny were the punctures, and soon there were only the dark spots on her breasts to mark where the thorns had sunk into the silken white flesh and had been liked forth again by that vicious red-haired harpy.

Now Miles began to walk slowly toward the far wall, forcing my still forward-bent aunt to follow, backward, and forcing me to change my position slightly in order to see clearly. The poor mistreated ripe melons of her breasts jiggled and bounced and swung wildly.

The far wall was adorned with a number of large metal rings bolted in place in the stone. To one of these rings, about four feet up, Miles clipped the hook on one of Isobel's leather manacles. Thus he no longer had to hold her arms up, but she was still forced to bend forward. The pain must have been considerable to her, with her wrists drawn up behind her like that.

Miles then stepped around in front of her, quite close, and though Erik and Lois moved in on either side to peer down between his body and my aunt's forward-bent head, I was unable to see other than Miles back. His arms were slightly bent. Although I could not see his hands, I felt that they were in my aunt's hair, or on her face. I watched his buttocks tighten beneath the close-fitting leotards he wore.

I could not imagine what was occurring, so stupid was I... and so stupid am I still, really, despite what I have seen.

But when at last be moved away I saw that the ferociously purple-red head of his sexual member was glistening strangely. Then I realized it was wet! And finally, since I am not after all stupid, I knew what I had seen without seeing: that doubtless smelly monstrosity had been implanted in my Aunt Isobel's mouth!

Though I had not really, literally seen it, I knew that I had indeed seen it, even from the back. Just the thought of it was enough nearly to overcome me with horror and disgust. My stomach rumbled and writhed within me. I swallowed again and again to keep my supper down. Shiver after violent shiver passed through my body and it was not for many minutes that I realized I was clutching my own bosom with fingers like talons. They rose and fell heavily and rapidly with my accelerated breathing.

I must now record the rest of it.

Miles stepped aside and Erik replaced him directly before the pitifully naked woman bending forward from the wail. Again I did not actually see it... thank God!... but again I knew: he like Miles before him, was forcing her mouth to round wide to take into its tender warmth the great head of his swollen organ of generation!

After a time he stepped back, staggering a little, I thought. I wondered if she had bitten him. I suppose not; I suppose he was that greatly sensually excited by the lascivious and obnoxious act to which he forced her. Again he gestured and by this time I had decided that they were speaking, that Aunt Isobel had most likely cried out at the unexpected arid visions jerking of the thorns from her aching breasts, but that they had somehow contrived to soundproof that chamber, despite the window through which I watched them. At another gesture... doubtless accompanied by a sentence or two... from Erik, Lois moved quickly to him and knelt beside him. Slowly, he turned.

My head swam. My stomach knotted and my eyes bused. Again, unconsciously, I dug the nails of my left hand into my palm while my right hand pressed hard into my breast.

From his disarranged robe now thrust a great shaft of angry red flesh, veined and curving upward toward the huge dark tip which I could clearly see was WET AND GLISTENING FROM ISOBEL'S RAVAGED MOUTH.

But now, even as I stared, that menacing cylinder of steely sexual flesh throbbed and jerked before the face of the kneeling Lois. She tilted back her head, closed her eyes, and opened wide her mouth. Wider. She put her hands behind her back. (I assume now that she was being instructed... commanded, more likely.)

I saw it clearly. He moved forward, bending a little. The huge dark head of his engorged and pulsating member touched her wide-held mouth. Then he plunged it within, and I was astonished to see the entire head of it disappear into her poor, mouth, and another inch or more of the shaft immediately behind that plum-sized crown was soon contained within the kneeling girl's face.

I saw the naked missile-shapes of her dark-tipped breasts quiver and quake as she gasped for breath... through, I assume, her nose. The nostrils flared. Her eyes remained shut. Her body was jerked, her hands still crossed atop her burgeoning rump-globes, as he thrust himself in and out of her helplessly hollowed face, several times.

Then, stepping back, he half-bent to seize the girl by her nudely proffered bubs and raise her thus to her feet. I assume that she helped herself rise and thus relieved a great deal of what would have been agony, surely. But I am sure she still felt pain.

I had watched them, rather than Miles and Isobel, and I now saw that he had taken her loose from the wall and forced the poor nude woman forward, on her soft belly, over a pair of ordinary sawhorses set close together, side by side. Thus was formed a platform for her prone torso, a platform perhaps three inches across her naked breast-swells dangled, one on either side of the sawhorses. Her legs, too bestrode them, and I was sure she felt pain and discomfort from the rough wood against that soft, soft flesh of her inner thighs... and... and against the poor, hairless, lower lips that were still held apart by the pinching clothespins!

Forcing her to bend her legs in such a manner that her unclothed rump was thrust well upward in a helplessly obscene invitation, he bound her ankles and then her wrists. Another piece of cord was laid over her back, just on the leather belt, and then pulled down beneath the sawhorses and back up, where he knotted it tightly on her back. She was thus bound very securely to the sawhorses and prevented from all but the tiniest of movements.

The three monsters of the woods then BEAT my naked and defenseless aunt.

Lois' breasts leaped high and shuddered down, bouncing, as she raised a three-thonged whip and brought it down with what I could plainly see was considerable force. The thongs lashed vertically down the gleaming white, trembling right hemisphere of my aunt's bottom, and rose again to sweep down once more, this time vertically striping the left half-globe of white flesh. I saw Isobel clench those whipped cheeks tightly together, and I saw the dark lines left by the the whip.

Lois stepped back, handing the whip to Miles. Lois watched, each of her hands cupping her own naked mammary globes and squeezing them, her eyes flashing and her bosom heaving in excitement as she stared at the helplessly upturned target.

In Miles' hand, the three-tailed lash whistled down to sear its way across both striped and quivering cheeks of Isobel's upturned bottom. I saw her twist frantically back and forth, quivering and doubtless screaming... and bound helplessly. Her naked body shook in pain and fear, quivering in hysteria, while he directed another lash down to lay what I knew was a path of excruciating pain across both her soft hemispheres.

Forgetting myself, I sobbed aloud to see the force of the blows, the abject slavish helplessness of their bound victim, my own aunt who fed and clothed me and treated me more kindly than had my own parents. My face, I am sure was as contorted as hers, as tear stained, my throat as choked with horror. I could practically see the pain shoot, my mouth gaping open and working like that of a fish jerked from the water it needed for life, as the lash had its way with her helpless and pinioned body. Her hips jerked and her rump's sweet round halves trembled, exacerbated by the burning, coiling caress of the whip. My scalp crawled as I watched her eyes squeeze shut, leaking tears, and her lips, so recently invaded by the terrible members of both her male tormentors, work and gape wide so that I knew agonized shrieks were pouring from her mouth.

She jerked in renewed pain, looking stricken and utterly defeated as Miles brought down a third vicious lash onto soft, rippling, cringing flesh.

Now Erik Parker, brown-robed and monkish, took the whip. He raised it on high and delivered a fearful lash that made her start and wince as electric pain jolted and sizzled through her trembling bottom. I watched shudders and tremors writhing through her excoriated body, and I felt them ripple my own flesh, as though I were a mirror-image of that poor whipped woman. Blood rushed angrily to the lashed surface of her satiny skin. Her eyes dilated, her nostrils flaring in convulsive breaths. Tears were falling down her cheeks.

Erik whipped on. His arm rose and fell. Her rounded backside became no longer white, but red. He snapped the whip just across the bases of those poor hemispheres, no more than the whips own breath from the silken flesh of her thighs. She jerked herself, pushing at the floor with her toes, plunging her belly and naked breasts against the sawhorses on which she lay bound. I could almost fancy I beard her scream, like a child's, high and shrill and agonized.

He did not care. He was a monster, an iron man, a machine, a thing with no heart, a whipping-machine. Stepping back a pace or two, he swung the lash down once more, so that it descended like a blazing brand onto the upper portion of her right buttock. She screamed her noiseless... to me... scream, and went on, I am sure, groaning. Her head sagged, her eyes pouring tears down her hot cheeks. I knew that her body boiled. Her soft thighs quivered against the rough wood of the twinned sawhorses. Her belly fluttered against it. Her dangling breasts, each still pinched with a clothespin clamped onto the fiery tip, shivered and heaved.

Fondling herself like a common whore in her whore's clothing, Lois turned and walked away, out of my line of vision.

Erik struck on.

Lois returned, and I gasped with horror.

Her thighs and waist were constricted with leather straps, buckled in place. They formed a harness that supported the strange black cylinder, shining like plastic or metal, that jutted from her in an incredibly obscene parody of the two men's sexual parts.

"No, oh-h-h-h n-o-o-o-o-ooo..." I murmured, somehow knowing at once what that bobbing monstrosity was and what she would do with it.

She did. Slapping her hands down, onto Isobel's well-marked hindcheeks, she hunched her pelvis and forced the knobby head of her awful dildo between the helplessly-spread lower lips of their victim. As I watched in absolute honor, the thing slid in, and in, and in, until fully seven of its nine or ten inches had passed within the soft open body of the bound woman.

Clinging to her buttocks and hunching her pelvis against them, Lois then stood there and drove that unyielding obscenity in and out and in and out of my aunt until the black length of it was coated and glistening in the cellar lights with her inner juices.

I watched Miles, his own fleshy shaft still fantastically swollen and angry-looking, step behind, the girl without realizing what he intended. I soon learned. With only a slight bending of his knees and a swift forward jerk, he plunged his own organ into Lois just as she had pierced Isobel with the artificial one.

They achieved a rhythm.

Miles withdrew a little, though clinging to Lois' hips, each time she lunged forward in brutal impalement of the bound woman whose soft sexual lips she ravaged. Then, as Lois withdrew for her next stroke, Miles lunged forward against her back, slapping his lower belly against her naked buttocks that jutted from her black body-stocking. I could tell he was ensconced in her to the very hair that curled about his pelvic area.

My poor eyes bulged and my breath came in ragged gasps as I stared at them as though hypnotized.

"Uh... uh... uh... uh..." I was gasping, in unconscious rhythm with the thrusting participants in that licentious scene out of a medieval dungeon. Unconsciously my thighs drifted apart to alleviate the terrible heat between them. Without my awareness my own hands caught and massaged my bosom's soft round bulges, unconsciously crushing and worrying the swollen tips until I find them still tender as I write this scene here in my diary of... horror, and rampant, licentious sexuality!

Erik now stood close to the other end of the sawhorse, and my aunt had to strain her neck to do as he doubtless ordered. I could clearly see the emergence of her pink tongue, see it lap at the big crown of his throbbing sexual spear, like a kitten lapping cream. I saw her lave it, cover it with her own saliva, and all the while she was being violently jerked and rocked as Lois raped her from behind.

Then Miles was quaking, stiffening, his arms rushing around the girl to hold her hard against him, deeply impaled and forced forward to deeply impale Isobel. I saw Miles' face become red, watched him jerk and quiver and strain, saw, with a little frown, his weakening legs and his sudden sagging.

When at last he stepped back from the shivering girl, his great organ was no longer standing before him, but swinging wetly, ponderously between his thighs. Depleted and empty! I crammed my knuckles into my mouth knowing that he had filled her palpitating belly with the boiling essence of his sexuality.

She, too, withdrew her "organ" from her rape victim. But it was not flagging, still as ramrod stiff and huge as before. She turned to kiss him, but Erik's lips moved and gestured.

The girl went immediately to him, kissed him, and turned to press her lower parts against the face of the bound woman.

My stomach lurched and again I clamped my lips against my rising gorge. I knew that they were now forcing poor Isobel to lick from that obscene girl's thighs and lower lips the sickening ichor that Miles had pumped into her.

Miles, meanwhile, was untying Isobel, and I saw that his sensual member had become only a little worm. I marveled that it could become so tiny, almost pitiful, after having been such a monster of unyielding flesh. Evidently once a man's organ has spent itself within a woman's intimate cleft, it becomes much less imposing. I have learned much from viewing that incredible and agonizingly horrifying scene, though what I have learned is surely not the sort of lesson any virginal daughter of good parents should ever know, much less witness!

I could see that Aunt Isobel was stiff and sore as they aided her to her feet and backed her off the sawhorses. They left her ankles and wrists free, though she still wore the leather manacles.

I watched her go to Erik and caress the blood-suffused shaft that protruded so vengefully from his robe. My eyes widened; she went slowly to her knees. She KISSED the great rounded head of his organ, again and again. She licked it. I saw her cheeks sink inward and knew with lurching insides that she was sucking at it.

Then she... TOOK it INTO HER MOUTH! I nearly fell forward against and perhaps through the window. She was doing all this willingly, to a man who had beaten and monstrously mistreated her!

She slid her face up and down that pole of lust, raised her two hands to push them within his robe and fondle the globes of his scrotum. Her cheeks sagged in and I knew that she was applying deep suction, again and again. His hands dropped to her head, his fingers slipping up into her deeply black hair. I watched him thrust his body back and forth, against and into her face, on and on until he threw his head back and then pulled away.

She looked stricken to have lost her obscene plaything.

But now she received its libation. Suddenly I saw an arcing streak of white leap from the tip of his organ and dash through the air to splash on her face. Like milk, it dribbled down her chin. Another jet, and then another, each shortening its trajectory, until the fifth and sixth struck her naked breasts and the final droplets would have dribbled to the floor had he not moved swiftly forward.

Her own hands were smearing her breasts with his obscene juice while she licked the last of it from his already-dropping saber of flesh.

I now know that I fainted at that moment.

Nor do I know how long I lay unconscious, overcome by what I had seen. She had smeared herself... she had licked him clean...

I awoke to a foul smell, which I found emanated from the little pool of vomit beside my face. Slowly, wearily, shuddering and retching, I forced myself to my knees. Not wanting to look but unable not to do so, I again peered through that casement window. Aunt Isobel and Lois were on their hands and knees on the floor, side by side. Their heads were pillowed on their hands, pressed flat to the stone floor.

Behind them crouched the two men, Miles at Lois' back and Erik immediately; to the rear of my aunt.

I saw what they were doing, but I do not believe it. I must be mistaken! Just a short time ago, starting to rise from the commode, I shakily explored the tight little aperture between my rump-cheeks with a quivering, careful finger. It hurt!

NO ONE COULD POSSIBLY DO WHAT THEY appeared TO BE DOING! IT CANNOT BE POSSIBLE TO LODGE ONE OF THOSE MONSTROUS SHAFTS INTO SUCH A TINY CHANNEL! Neither woman appeared in pain, and I am sure the agony would be exquisite!

God help me... I have got it all, down. And now what?



The previous entry, I see, is the longest in this journal. And it is all about others!

And yet... yet I did not put it all down, not quite. It has now been three days since I sat up so late, writing all that, and... It has been eight days since the... the occurrence itself.

My motive for writing it down in the first place was...


I had a dream, four nights after seeing what I saw. In the dream I saw it all again, save only that time I felt some of what my imagination has told me Aunt Isobel felt. It was awful.

And now I have dreamed again. Last night I again dreamed of that dungeon-like basement or cellar beneath Erik Parker's stone house in the woods.

But last night Aunt Isobel was not the victim. Last night's dream did not contain Aunt Isobel at all. I was the victim!

And it was not... all... painful.

And... and I awoke... before dawn, having been beaten and poked and... and entered in my dream. I awoke...

Well, I must try to write these things down without being so childish. This after all is a record and I may have some want of it someday.

Certainly no one else will ever see it.

When I awoke my breasts felt very very tight and congested... though I now sleep without a bra... and the nipples were tight and stiff and swollen, and not only was I moist in my, my secret nook, but... some of that inner moisture was on the lips themselves, obviously having seeped forth from my very interior!

I sat there in the dark, shamelessly exploring myself, and shivering. For a time I thought that the dream must have been reality.

It was not. The mucousy juice was not that white male stuff I had seen in the basement of Erik's home. Nor was it urine.

What is happening to me? What will become of me?


It is so hard to admit, even here.

I find it extremely difficult not to think... no, that isn't the way to put it.

I think of Erik and Miles and Lois all the time.


Aunt Isobel went there again last night, and this is the third day since my last entry. I desperately wanted to follow her again. I did not. One must prove to oneself that one has some control! I did not follow her. I am proud of that.

But I could not go to sleep, and all I could think about was that place, and them.

All day today Aunt Isobel had worn a black leather choker. I have said nothing about it. I am sure that she would have some clever explanation. But I know what it is, that leather band about her neck. He must have ordered her not to remove it.

Oh. I have, noticed that she has not sat down all day today, too, and she walks... strangely. I cannot keep my mind off what might have happened to her there.

I have been reading Stoker's Dracula. Even that evokes erotic images and thoughts. The Master, Dracula, coming by night to his women...



It's been a week since the last entry here. It has been a nice day. It rained, but I like the rain, and it ended in mid-afternoon and the sun was very beautiful, and the dripping trees and power-lines with water on them like tiny silver bubbles.

For breakfast I had a very lovely piece of ham.

Today I cleaned the upstairs, every room, even those we do not use, the other bedrooms.

Tonight for dinner we...

What's the use?

I can't think of anything else but that night, and them.


Erik Parker was to dinner tonight. I was stricken. I could not speak, I could not look at him. But I could not keep from looking at him, again and again.

He looked much at me, too. His eyes are so intense. Thank you, God, for not allowing him to say anything to me that approached an order... how could one disobey that man and his eyes and his handsome face and body and that long brown ro...

NO NO! He didn't wear THAT here! He wore a deep blue shirt with a blue-and-green silk scarf knotted about his neck and short black boots with buckles, and snug-fitting black whipcords, sort of British looking, and his belt was black leather, very wide, shiny, with a huge silver buckle with two tongues and a double row of ungrommeted holes running all the way around it so that his waist was nicely constricted and his shoulders made even broader.

My God, did I notice all that? And then write it, without even realizing the detail I was putting down?

He is still downstairs. They are talking, very quietly. My door is closed. I even locked it; how silly I am! I am so restless.


I am going to bed. You are going to bed, Victoria Marie "Tory"! NOW.

I shall read. I will read Plato's Republic. That's guaranteed to put me to sleep.


Or perhaps this is a continuation of the last entry, but I wrote that last night and now it is today.

I TRIED to sleep. I TRIED to read. I couldn't.

At last, in the darkness, I arose and crept to the door. I unlocked it, opened it inch by quarter-inch, holding my breath against any noise it might make, and slipped out into the hall like a thief. My room was dark; the hail was dark; I could see only a little light from downstairs, emanating from the library. They were in there. Isobel and Mr. Parker.

I could hear them.

I heard every word.

I remember every word. It's as though my brain and memory were a sponge, soaking up every word, or as if every word were emblazoned in my head with a branding-iron.

I heard his voice, first. Some of the words are wicked. It is all wicked! But I am going to record it here, all of it.

First, his voice. He said:

"I am your Master, your Lord."

I trembled. He spoke in a low, steady tone. His voice was almost flat. I fancied I could see his steady, dark ey

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