Free The Image by Jean de Berg Page A

obligingly left naked all that one would wish to see.
    While we were drinking, the girl, who had had to serve us on her knees, was made to stay in that position until we had finished.
    Her posture was the same one I had already had occasion to enjoy: thighs open, body very straight, arms raised, lips apart.
    Her large green eyes shone with a deep, almost supernatural brilliance that carried us back several centuries to the time of the ecstasies of the Christian martyrs.

    We were aware, all three of us, that the tortures scheduled for the evening were by no means imaginary. The thought that they would, in a mo ment, wrench from this tender young girl the most voluptuous spasms of pain gave her flesh, which was desirable anyway, an incomparable allure. I made her come closer so that I could run my fingers over the curves and hollows which we were about to wound, with abandon, as long as it seemed entertaining.
    Her cunt was still moist, probably from our embrace in the bathroom; unless her humiliating posture, the immodesty that was required of her, or perhaps the anticipation of the torture, as Claire led one to believe, was enough to arouse her.
    I felt like exciting her more by touching certain parts of her, but then I thought that it would be fun, in such a cruel situation, to make her do it herself.
    â€œSupposing we made her play with herself first?” I said to Claire.
    Claire, naturally, agreed. But she first wanted to put the black band over the girl’s eyes. Anne, at the command, stood up to go and get the band, and also the whip, which were put away in a small chest in a corner of the room. After presenting them to her mistress, she resumed her former posture.
    Claire showed the things to me. The whip was not the same one we had used the other day: in stead of being braided it had a plain leather lash, more supple and cutting. Claire tried it out right away, on the girl’s thighs. She winced, and turned her head to one side. A thin red line appeared on the smooth flesh.
    â€œThe little bitch chose a good one,” Claire said. “She went and bought it herself, this morning.” With the help of a black velvet elastic ribbon Claire then masked her eyes, a charming finishing touch to her costume.
    Still on her knees, one of the lights aimed at her, we made her caress herself: the upper parts of her breasts first, and their little rouged tips left ex posed by her bra; then the interior of her cunt under the arch of white nylon. She was made to use both hands, to open herself wide, at the same time hiding as little as possible from us with her fingers.
    While this was going on we quietly finished our orangeade.
    As though we had planned it, Claire and I turned to each other at the same moment. I was thinking of the last photograph, the one for which Anne had not been the model, which portrayed a similar scene.
    I realized that Claire was thinking the same thing . . , and knew that I was thinking it... Her face was in the shadows, but I could make out that same troubled expression, once again.
    Anne couldn’t see anything through her blind fold. I got up silently and leaned down over my neighbor’s armchair. Her startled face was turned up to mine and I kissed it, scarcely brushing her lips, then covering her whole mouth, which began to soften...

    â€œLeave me alone,” she suddenly cried out, standing up herself.
    As an outlet for this emotion, which hadn’t figured in her program, she turned on the kneeling girl. She seized the whip and began lashing her thighs, from in front, still not letting her interrupt her activities.
    â€œPlay with yourself, you whore!” Claire said, whipping her.
    Under the blows the girl instead stopped. Claire hit her again:
    â€œGo on, play with yourself!” The terrified girl began again at once. “Better than that!” Claire said, landing a sharp blow on her thighs.
    Beyond endurance, Claire finally threw her to the floor and began