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Farm Animal

Am I mad or is she? Does all this arise out of an inventive, wanton
woman’s brain with the intention of surpassing my supersensual
fantasies, or is this woman really one of those Neronian characters
who take a diabolical pleasure in treading underfoot, like a worm,
human beings, who have thoughts and feelings and a will like theirs?

What have I experienced?

When I knelt with the coffee-tray beside her bed, Wanda suddenly
placed her hand on my shoulder and her eyes plunged deep into mine.

“What beautiful eyes you have,” she said softly, “and especially now
since you suffer. Are you very unhappy?”

I bowed my head, and kept silent.

“Severin, do you still love me,” she suddenly exclaimed
passionately, “can you still love me?”

She drew me close with such vehemence that the coffee-tray upset,
the can and cups fell to the floor, and the coffee ran over the
carpet.

“Wanda–my Wanda,” I cried out and held her passionately against me;
I covered her mouth, face, and breast with kisses.

“It is my unhappiness that I love you more and more madly the worse
you treat me, the more frequently you betray me. Oh, I shall die of
pain and love and jealousy.”

“But I haven’t betrayed you, as yet, Severin,” replied Wanda smiling.

“Not? Wanda! Don’t jest so mercilessly with me,” I cried. “Haven’t
I myself taken the letter to the Prince–”

“Of course, it was an invitation for luncheon.”

“You have, since we have been in Florence–”

“I have been absolutely faithful to you” replied Wanda, “I swear it
by all that is holy to me. All that I have done was merely to fulfill
your dream and it was done for your sake.

“However, I shall take a lover, otherwise things will be only half
accomplished, and in the end you will yet reproach me with not having
treated you cruelly enough, my dear beautiful slave! But to-day you
shall be Severin again, the only one I love. I haven’t given away
your clothes. They are here in the chest. Go and dress as you used
to in the little Carpathian health-resort when our love was so intimate.
Forget everything that has happened since; oh, you will forget it
easily in my arms; I shall kiss away all your sorrows.”

She began to treat me tenderly like a child, to kiss me and caress
me. Finally she said with a gracious smile, “Go now and dress, I too
will dress. Shall I put on my fur-jacket? Oh yes, I know, now run
along!”

When I returned she was standing in the center of the room in her
white satin dress, and the red _kazabaika_ edged with ermine; her hair
was white with powder and over her forehead she wore a small diamond
diadem. For a moment she reminded me in an uncanny way of Catherine
the Second, but she did not give me much time for reminiscences. She
drew me down on the ottoman beside her and we enjoyed two blissful
hours. She was no longer the stern capricious mistress, she was
entirely a fine lady, a tender sweetheart. She showed me photographs
and books which had just appeared, and talked about them with so much
intelligence, clarity, and good taste, that I more than once carried
her hand to my lips, enraptured. She then had me recite several of
Lermontov’s poems, and when I was all afire with enthusiasm, she
placed her small hand gently on mine. Her expression was soft, and her
eyes were filled with tender pleasure.

“Are you happy?”

“Not yet.”

She then leaned back on the cushions, and slowly opened her
_kazabaika_.

But I quickly covered the half-bared breast again with the ermine.
“You are driving me mad.” I stammered.

“Come!”

I was already lying in her arms, and like a serpent she was kissing
me with her tongue, when again she whispered, “Are you happy?”

“Infinitely!” I exclaimed.

She laughed aloud. It was an evil, shrill laugh which made cold
shivers run down by back.

“You used to dream of being the slave, the plaything of a beautiful
woman, and now you imagine you are a free human being, a man, my
lover-you fool! A sign from me, and you are a slave again. Down on
your knees!”

I sank down from the ottoman to her feet, but my eye still clung
doubtingly on hers.

“You can’t believe it,” she said, looking at me with her arms folded
across her breast. “I am bored, and you will just do to while away
a couple of hours of time. Don’t look at me that way–”

She kicked me with her foot.

“You are just what I want, a human being, a thing, an animal–”

She rang. The three negresses entered.

“Tie his hands behind his back.”

I remained kneeling and unresistingly let them do this. They led me
into the garden, down to the little vineyard, which forms the
southern boundary. Corn had been planted between the espaliers, and
here and there a few dead stalks still stood. To one side was a
plough.

The negresses tied me to a post, and amused themselves sticking me
with their golden hair-needles. But this did not last long, before
Wanda appeared with her ermine cap on her head, and with her hands
in the pockets of her jacket. She had me untied, and then my hands
were fastened together on my back. She finally had a yoke put around
my neck, and harnessed me to the plough.

Then her black demons drove me out into the field. One of them held
the plough, the other one led me by a line, the third applied the
whip, and Venus in Furs stood to one side and looked on.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:42:03.

Contractual Agreement

For a moment I thought of taking vengeance, of killing him, but I
was bound by the abominable agreement. So nothing was left for me to
do except to keep my pledged word and grit my teeth.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:49:56.

Venus in Furs in Photographs

These photographs are from a fashion layout entitled Venus in Furs.

Venus in Furs Fashion Photograph

I don’t think the classic Femdom novel is really being referenced. Though photographer Steven Meisel is too sophisticated to not be aware of the book.

Venus in Furs Naked Women

But given the title and the great beauty of the set I thought I ould post a few images here.

Venus in Furs Sexy Photograph

You can see all the photographs and credits for the feature here; All You Need is Fur.

Venus in Furs : Chapter One

But the Almighty Lord hath struck him,
and hath delivered him into the hands of
a woman.

The Vulgate, Judith, xvi. 7.

My company was charming.

Opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace sat Venus; she was
not a casual woman of the half-world, who under this pseudonym wages
war against the enemy sex, like Mademoiselle Cleopatra, but the real,
true goddess of love.

She sat in an armchair and had kindled a crackling fire, whose
reflection ran in red flames over her pale face with its white eyes,
and from time to time over her feet when she sought to warm them.

Her head was wonderful in spite of the dead stony eyes; it was all
I could see of her. She had wrapped her marble-like body in a huge
fur, and rolled herself up trembling like a cat.

“I don’t understand it,” I exclaimed, “It isn’t really cold any
longer. For two weeks past we have had perfect spring weather. You
must be nervous.”

“Much obliged for your spring,” she replied with a low stony voice,
and immediately afterwards sneezed divinely, twice in succession. “I
really can’t stand it here much longer, and I am beginning to
understand–”

“What, dear lady?”

“I am beginning to believe the unbelievable and to understand the un-
understandable. All of a sudden I understand the Germanic virtue of
woman, and German philosophy, and I am no longer surprised that you
of the North do not know how to love, haven’t even an idea of what
love is.”

“But, madame,” I replied flaring up, “I surely haven’t given you any
reason.”

“Oh, you–” The divinity sneezed for the third time, and shrugged
her shoulders with inimitable grace. “That’s why I have always been
nice to you, and even come to see you now and then, although I catch
a cold every time, in spite of all my furs. Do you remember the first
time we met?”

“How could I forget it,” I said. “You wore your abundant hair in
brown curls, and you had brown eyes and a red mouth, but I recognized
you immediately by the outline of your face and its marble-like
pallor–you always wore a violet-blue velvet jacket edged with
squirrel-skin.”

“You were really in love with the costume, and awfully docile.”

“You have taught me what love is. Your serene form of worship let me
forget two thousand years.”

“And my faithfulness to you was without equal!”

“Well, as far as faithfulness goes–”

“Ungrateful!”

“I will not reproach you with anything. You are a divine woman, but
nevertheless a woman, and like every woman cruel in love.”

“What you call cruel,” the goddess of love replied eagerly, “is
simply the element of passion and of natural love, which is woman’s
nature and makes her give herself where she loves, and makes her love
everything, that pleases her.”

“Can there be any greater cruelty for a lover than the
unfaithfulness of the woman he loves?”

“Indeed!” she replied. “We are faithful as long as we love, but you
demand faithfulness of a woman without love, and the giving of
herself without enjoyment. Who is cruel there–woman or man? You of
the North in general take love too soberly and seriously. You talk
of duties where there should be only a question of pleasure.”

“That is why our emotions are honorable and virtuous, and our
relations permanent.”

“And yet a restless, always unsatisfied craving for the nudity of
paganism,” she interrupted, “but that love, which is the highest joy,
which is divine simplicity itself, is not for you moderns, you
children of reflection. It works only evil in you. _As soon as you
wish to be natural, you become common._ To you nature seems something
hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and
out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay
yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one of
you has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefoot
pilgrimage to Rome in penitential robes and expects flowers to grow
from his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, and
myrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree with
you. Stay among your northern fogs and Christian incense; let us
pagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava; do not disinter us.
Pompeii was not built for you, nor our villas, our baths, our temples.
You do not require gods. We are chilled in your world.”

The beautiful marble woman coughed, and drew the dark sables still
closer about her shoulders.

“Much obliged for the classical lesson,” I replied, “but you cannot
deny, that man and woman are mortal enemies, in your serene sunlit
world as well as in our foggy one. In love there is union into a
single being for a short time only, capable of only one thought, one
sensation, one will, in order to be then further disunited. And you
know this better than I; whichever of the two fails to subjugate will
soon feel the feet of the other on his neck–”

“And as a rule the man that of the woman,” cried Madame Venus with
proud mockery, “which you know better than I.”

“Of course, and that is why I don’t have any illusions.”

“You mean you are now my slave without illusions, and for that
reason you shall feel the weight of my foot without mercy.”

“Madame!”

“Don’t you know me yet? Yes, I am _cruel_–since you take so much
delight in that word-and am I not entitled to be so? Man is the one
who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman’s entire but
decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into
woman’s hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her
subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the
end is not wise.”

“Exactly your principles,” I interrupted angrily.

“They are based on the experience of thousands of years,” she
replied ironically, while her white fingers played over the dark fur.
“The more devoted a woman shows herself, the sooner the man sobers
down and becomes domineering. The more cruelly she treats him and the
more faithless she is, the worse she uses him, the more wantonly she
plays with him, the less pity she shows him, by so much the more will
she increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him. So it has
always been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherine
the Second and Lola Montez.”

“I cannot deny,” I said, “that nothing will attract a man more than
the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who
wantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with her
whim–”

“And in addition wears furs,” exclaimed the divinity.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I know your predilection.”

“Do you know,” I interrupted, “that, since we last saw each other,
you have grown very coquettish.”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“In that there is no way of accentuating your white body to greater
advantage than by these dark furs, and that–”

The divinity laughed.

“You are dreaming,” she cried, “wake up!” and she clasped my arm
with her marble-white hand. “Do wake up,” she repeated raucously with
the low register of her voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty.

I saw the hand which shook me, and suddenly it was brown as bronze;
the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my cossack servant who
stood before me at his full height of nearly six feet.

“Do get up,” continued the good fellow, “it is really disgraceful.”

“What is disgraceful?”

“To fall asleep in your clothes and with a book besides.” He snuffed
the candles which had burned down, and picked up the volume which had
fallen from my hand, “with a book by”–he looked at the title page–
“by Hegel. Besides it is high time you were starting for Mr.
Severin’s who is expecting us for tea.”

“A curious dream,” said Severin when I had finished. He supported
his arms on his knees, resting his face in his delicate, finely
veined hands, and fell to pondering.

I knew that he wouldn’t move for a long time, hardly even breathe.
This actually happened, but I didn’t consider his behavior as in any
way remarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for
nearly three years, and gotten used to his peculiarities. For it
cannot be denied that he was peculiar, although he wasn’t quite the
dangerous madman that the neighborhood, or indeed the entire district
of Kolomea, considered him to be. I found his personality not only
interesting–and that is why many also regarded me a bit mad–but to
a degree sympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and land-owner, and
considering his age–he was hardly over thirty–he displayed
surprising sobriety, a certain seriousness, even pedantry. He lived
according to a minutely elaborated, half-philosophical, half-
practical system, like clock-work; not this alone, but also by the
thermometer, barometer, aerometer, hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hufeland,
Plato, Kant, Knigge, and Lord Chesterfield. But at times he had
violent attacks of sudden passion, and gave the impression of being
about to run with his head right through a wall. At such times every
one preferred to get out of his way.

While he remained silent, the fire sang in the chimney and the large
venerable samovar sang; and the ancient chair in which I sat rocking
to and fro smoking my cigar, and the cricket in the old walls sang
too. I let my eyes glide over the curious apparatus, skeletons of
animals, stuffed birds, globes, plaster-casts, with which his room
was heaped full, until by chance my glance remained fixed on a
picture which I had seen often enough before. But to-day, under the
reflected red glow of the fire, it made an indescribable impression
on me.

It was a large oil painting, done in the robust full-bodied manner
of the Belgian school. Its subject was strange enough.

A beautiful woman with a radiant smile upon her face, with abundant
hair tied into a classical knot, on which white powder lay like a
soft hoarfrost, was resting on an ottoman, supported on her left arm.
She was nude in her dark furs. Her right hand played with a lash,
while her bare foot rested carelessly on a man, lying before her like
a slave, like a dog. In the sharply outlined, but well-formed
linaments of this man lay brooding melancholy and passionate
devotion; he looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of a
martyr. This man, the footstool for her feet, was Severin, but
beardless, and, it seemed, some ten years younger.

“_Venus in Furs_,” I cried, pointing to the picture. “That is the way
I saw her in my dream.”

“I, too,” said Severin, “only I dreamed my dream with open eyes.”

“Indeed?”

“It is a tiresome story.”

“Your picture apparently suggested my dream,” I continued. “But do
tell me what it means. I can imagine that it played a role in your
life, and perhaps a very decisive one. But the details I can only get
from you.”

“Look at its counterpart,” replied my strange friend, without
heeding my question.

The counterpart was an excellent copy of Titian’s well-known “Venus
with the Mirror” in the Dresden Gallery.

“And what is the significance?”

Severin rose and pointed with his finger at the fur with which
Titian garbed his goddess of love.

“It, too, is a ‘Venus in Furs,’” he said with a slight smile. “I
don’t believe that the old Venetian had any secondary intention. He
simply painted the portrait of some aristocratic Mesalina, and was
tactful enough to let Cupid hold the mirror in which she tests her
majestic allure with cold satisfaction. He looks as though his task
were becoming burdensome enough. The picture is painted flattery.
Later an ‘expert’ in the Rococo period baptized the lady with the
name of Venus. The furs of the despot in which Titian’s fair model
wrapped herself, probably more for fear of a cold than out of
modesty, have become a symbol of the tyranny and cruelty that
constitute woman’s essence and her beauty.

“But enough of that. The picture, as it now exists, is a bitter
satire on our love. Venus in this abstract North, in this icy
Christian world, has to creep into huge black furs so as not to catch
cold–”

Severin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

Just then the door opened and an attractive, stoutish, blonde girl
entered. She had wise, kindly eyes, was dressed in black silk, and
brought us cold meat and eggs with our tea. Severin took one of the
latter, and decapitated it with his knife.

“Didn’t I tell you that I want them soft-boiled?” he cried with a
violence that made the young woman tremble.

“But my dear Sevtchu–” she said timidly.

“Sevtchu, nothing,” he yelled, “you are to obey, obey, do you
understand?” and he tore the _kantchuk_ [Footnote: A long whip with a
short handle.] which was hanging beside the weapons from its hook.

The woman fled from the chamber quickly and timidly like a doe.

“Just wait, I’ll get you yet,” he called after her.

“But Severin,” I said placing my hand on his arm, “how can you treat
a pretty young woman thus?”

“Look at the woman,” he replied, blinking humorously with his eyes.
“Had I flattered her, she would have cast the noose around my neck,
but now, when I bring her up with the _kantchuk_, she adores me.”

“Nonsense!”

“Nonsense, nothing, that is the way you have to break in women.”

“Well, if you like it, live like a pasha in your harem, but don’t
lay down theories for me–”

“Why not,” he said animatedly. “Goethe’s ‘you must be hammer or anvil’
is absolutely appropriate to the relation between man and woman.
Didn’t Lady Venus in your dream prove that to you? Woman’s power lies
in man’s passion, and she knows how to use it, if man doesn’t
understand himself. He has only one choice: to be the _tyrant_ over or
the _slave_ of woman. As soon as he gives in, his neck is under the
yoke, and the lash will soon fall upon him.”

“Strange maxims!”

“Not maxims, but experiences,” he replied, nodding his head, “_I have
actually felt the lash_. I am cured. Do you care to know how?”

He rose, and got a small manuscript from his massive desk, and put
it in front of me.

“You have already asked about the picture. I have long owed you an
explanation. Here–read!”

Severin sat down by the chimney with his back toward me, and seemed
to dream with open eyes. Silence had fallen again, and again the fire
sang in the chimney, and the samovar and the cricket in the old
walls. I opened the manuscript and read:

Read more of Venus in Furs.

His Tears

To-day she is attending the ball at the Greek ambassador’s. Does she
know, that she will meet him there?

At any rate she dressed, as if she did. A heavy sea-green silk dress
plastically encloses her divine form, leaving the bust and arms bare.
In her hair, which is done into a single flaming knot, a white water-
lily blossoms; from it the leaves of reeds interwoven with a few
loose strands fall down toward her neck. There no longer is any trace
of agitation or trembling feverishness in her being. She is calm, so
calm, that I feel my blood congealing and my heart growing cold under
her glance. Slowly, with a weary, indolent majesty, she ascends the
marble staircase, lets her precious wrap slide off, and listlessly
enters the hall, where the smoke of a hundred candles has formed a
silvery mist.

For a few moments my eyes follow her in a daze, then I pick up her
furs, which without my being aware, had slipped from my hands. They
are still warm from her shoulders.

I kiss the spot, and my eyes fill with tears.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:23:48.

Severin Barely Exists

The drawing-room has already thinned out to a marked degree, but she
apparently has no thought of leaving.

Morning is already peering through the blinds.

At last I hear the rustling of her heavy gown which flows along
behind her like green waves. She advances step by step, engaged in
conversation with him.

I hardly exist for her any longer; she doesn’t even trouble to give
me an order.

“The cloak for madame,” he commands. He, of course, doesn’t think of
looking after her himself.

While I put her furs about her, he stands to one side with his arms
crossed. While I am on my knees putting on her fur over-shoes, she
lightly supports herself with her hand on his shoulder. She asks:

“And what about the lioness?”

“When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is
attacked by another,” the Greek went on with his narrative, “the
lioness quietly lies down and watches the battle. Even if her mate
is worsted she does not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as
he bleeds to death under his opponent’s claws, and follows the victor,
the stronger–that is the female’s nature.”

At this moment my lioness looked quickly and curiously at me.

It made me shudder, though I didn’t know why–and the red dawn
immerses me and her and him in blood.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:29:03.

Venus & Adonis in Furs

Venus and Adonis is an erotic narrative Shakespeare poem.

Venus in Furs is the orginal novel of female domination vy Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.

We can only guess what was on the greedy publisher’s mind.

Venus Adonis Furs

He is Master

All night long I waited in the ante-room, raving as in a fever.
Strange images hovered past my inner eye. I saw their meeting–their
long exchange of looks. I saw her float through the hall in his arms,
drunken, lying with half-closed lids against his breast. I saw him
in the holy of holies of love, lying on the ottoman, not as slave,
but as master, and she at his feet. On my knees I served them, the
tea-tray faltering in my hands, and I saw him reach for the whip.
But now the servants are talking about him.

He is a man who is like a woman; he knows that he is beautiful, and
he acts accordingly. He changes his clothes four or five times a day,
like a vain courtesan.

In Paris he appeared first in woman’s dress, and the men assailed
him with love-letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for his art
and his passionate intensity, even invaded his home, and lying on his
knees before him threatened to commit suicide if he wouldn’t be his.

“I am sorry,” he replied, smiling, “I should like to do you the
favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I am a man.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:26:48.

Never Feel Secure With the Woman You Love

“My friend has complained about you,” said Wanda to-day.

“Perhaps she feels that I despise her.”

“But why do you despise her, you foolish young man?” exclaimed
Wanda, pulling my ears with both hands.

“Because she is a hypocrite,” I said. “I respect only a woman who is
actually virtuous, or who openly lives for pleasure’s sake.”

“Like me, for instance,” replied Wanda jestingly, “but you see,
child, a woman can only do that in the rarest cases. She can neither
be as gaily sensual, nor as spiritually free as man; her state is
always a mixture of the sensual and spiritual. Her heart desires to
enchain man permanently, while she herself is ever subject to the
desire for change. The result is a conflict, and thus usually against
her wishes lies and deception enter into her actions and personality
and corrupt her character.”

“Certainly that is true,” I said. “The transcendental character with
which woman wants to stamp love leads her to deception.”

“But the world likewise demands it,” Wanda interrupted. “Look at
this woman. She has a husband and a lover in Lemberg and has found
a new admirer here. She deceives all three and yet is honored by all
and respected by the world.”

“I don’t care,” I exclaimed, “but she is to leave you alone; she
treats you like an article of commerce.”

“Why not?” the beautiful woman interrupted vivaciously. “Every woman
has the instinct or desire to draw advantage out of her attractions,
and much is to be said for giving one’s self without love or pleasure
because if you do it in cold blood, you can reap profit to best
advantage.”

“Wanda, what are you saying?”

“Why not?” she said, “and take note of what I am about to say to you.
_Never feel secure with the woman you love,_ for there are more
dangers in woman’s nature than you imagine. Women are neither as
_good_ as their admirers and defenders maintain, nor as _bad_ as their
enemies make them out to be. _Woman’s character is characterlessness._
The best woman will momentarily go down into the mire, and the worst
unexpectedly rises to deeds of greatness and goodness and puts to
shame those that despise her. No woman is so good or so bad, but that
at any moment she is capable of the most diabolical as well as of the
most divine, of the filthiest as well as of the purest, thoughts,
emotions, and actions. In spite of all the advances of civilization,
woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the
nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or
cruel, according to the impulse that dominates at the moment.
Throughout history it has always been a serious deep culture which has
produced moral character. Man even when he is selfish or evil always
follows _principles,_ woman never follows anything but _impulses._
Don’t ever forget that, and never feel secure with the woman you
love.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 14:58:18.

A Slave’s Love is Worthless

The painter has gone. It is a hazardous thing to do, but I risk it.
I go up to the gallery, quite close, and ask Wanda “Do you love the
painter, mistress?”

She looks at me without getting angry, shakes her head, and finally
even smiles.

“I feel sorry for him,” she replies, “but I do not love him. I love no
one. _I used to love you, as ardently, as passionately, as deeply as
it was possible for me to love,_ but now I don’t love even you any
more; my heart is a void, dead, and this makes me sad.”

“Wanda!” I exclaimed, deeply moved.

“Soon, you too will no longer love me,” she continued, “tell me when
you have reached that point, and I will give back to you your
freedom.”

“Then I shall remain your slave, all my life long, for I adore you
and shall always adore you,” I cried, seized by that fanaticism of
love which has repeatedly been so fatal to me.

Wanda looked at me with a curious pleasure. “Consider well what you
do,” she said. “I have loved you infinitely and have been despotic
towards you so that I might fulfil your dream. Something of my old
feeling, a sort of real sympathy for you, still trembles in my
breast. When that too has gone who knows whether then I shall give
you your liberty; whether I shall not then become really cruel,
merciless, even brutal toward; whether I shall not take a diabolical
pleasure in tormenting and putting on the rack the man who worships
me idolatrously, the while I remain indifferent or love someone else;
perhaps, I shall enjoy seeing him die of his love for me. Consider
this well.”

“I have long since considered all that,” I replied as in a glow of
fever. “I cannot exist, cannot live without you; I shall die if you
set me at liberty; let me remain your slave, kill me, but do not
drive me away.”

“Very well then, be my slave,” she replied, “but don’t forget that
I no longer love you, and your love doesn’t mean any more to me than
a dog’s, and dogs are kicked.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:03:01.