She has posted me in the adjoining room behind a heavy curtain,
where I can’t be seen, but can see everything.

What does she intend now?

Is she afraid of him? She has driven him insane enough to be sure,
or is she hatching a new torment for me? My knees tremble.

They are talking. He has lowered his voice so that I cannot
understand a word, and she replies in the same way. What is the
meaning of this? Is there an understanding between them?

I suffer frightful torments; my heart seems about to burst.

He kneels down before her, embraces her, and presses his head
against her breast, and she–in her heartlessness–laughs–and now
I hear her saying aloud:

“Ah! You need another application of the whip.”

“Woman! Goddess! Are you without a heart–can’t you love,” exclaimed
the German, “don’t you even know, what it means to love, to be
consumed with desire and passion, can’t you even imagine what I
suffer? Have you no pity for me?”

“No!” she replied proudly and mockingly, “but I have the whip.”

She drew it quickly from the pocket of her fur-coat, and struck him
in the face with the handle. He rose, and drew back a couple of paces.

“Now, are you ready to paint again?” she asked indifferently. He did
not reply, but again went to the easel and took up his brush and
palette.

The painting is marvellously successful. It is a portrait which as
far as the likeness goes couldn’t be better, and at the same time it
seems to have an ideal quality. The colors glow, are supernatural;
almost diabolical, I would call them.

The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his
execration into the picture.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:14:22. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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The Power of Her Whip
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Finally I fell asleep, and dreamed that I murdered Wanda in a
violent attack of jealousy. I was condemned to death, and saw myself
strapped on the board; the knife fell, I felt it on my neck, but I
was still alive–

Then the executioner slapped my face.

No, it wasn’t the executioner; it was Wanda who stood wrathfully
before me demanding her furs. I am at her side in a moment, and help
her on with it.

There is a deep joy in wrapping a beautiful woman into her furs, and
in seeing and feeling how her neck and magnificent limbs nestle in
the precious soft furs, and to lift the flowing hair over the collar.
When she throws it off a soft warmth and a faint fragrance of her
body still clings to the ends of the hairs of sable. It is enough to
drive one mad.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:38:11. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Jealousy
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We spent marvellous days together; we visited the mountains and
lakes, we read together, and I completed Wanda’s portrait. And how
we loved one another, how beautiful her smiling face was!

Then a friend of hers arrived, a divorced woman somewhat older, more
experienced, and less scrupulous than Wanda. Her influence is already
making itself felt in every direction.

Wanda wrinkles her brows, and displays a certain impatience with me.

Has she ceased loving me?

Originally posted 2007-06-19 14:50:46. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Has She Ceased Loving
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“What have I a servant for,” she says, “Gregor–here is the ticket–
get the luggage.”

She wraps herself in her furs and sits quietly in the carriage while I
drag the heavy trunks hither, one after another. I break down for a
moment under the last one; a good-natured _carabiniere_ with an
intelligent face comes to my assistance. She laughs.

“It must be heavy,” said she, “all my furs are in it.”

I get up on the driver’s seat, wiping drops of perspiration from my
brow. She gives the name of the hotel, and the driver urges on his
horse. In a few minutes we halt at the brilliantly illuminated
entrance.

“Have you any rooms?” she asks the portier.

“Yes, madame.”

“Two for me, one for my servant, all with stoves.”

“Two first-class rooms for you, madame, both with stoves,” replied
the waiter who had hastily come up, “and one without heat for your
servant.”

She looked at them, and then abruptly said: “they are satisfactory,
have fires built at once; my servant can sleep in the unheated room.”

I merely looked at her.

“Bring up the trunks, Gregor,” she commands, paying no attention to
my looks. “In the meantime I’ll be dressing, and then will go down
to the dining-room, and you can eat something for supper.”

As she goes into the adjoining room, I drag the trunks upstairs and
help the waiter build a fire in her bed-room. He tries to question
me in bad French about my employer. With a brief glance I see the
blazing fire, the fragrant white poster-bed, and the rugs which cover
the floor. Tired and hungry I then descend the stairs, and ask for
something to eat. A good-natured waiter, who used to be in the
Austrian army and takes all sorts of pains to entertain me in German,
shows me the dining-room and waits on me. I have just had the first
fresh drink in thirty-six hours and the first bite of warm food on
my fork, when she enters.

I rise.

“What do you mean by taking me into a dining-room in which my
servant is eating,” she snaps at the waiter, flaring with anger. She
turns around and leaves.

Meanwhile I thank heaven that I am permitted to go on eating. Later
I climb the four flights upstairs to my room. My small trunk is
already there, and a miserable little oil-lamp is burning. It is a
narrow room without fire-place, without a window, but with a small
air-hole. If it weren’t so beastly cold, it would remind me of one
of the Venetian _piombi_. [Footnote: These were notorious prisons
under the leaden roof of the Palace of the Doges.] Involuntarily I
have to laugh out aloud, so that it re-echoes, and I am startled by
my own laughter.

Suddenly the door is pulled open and the waiter with a theatrical
Italian gesture calls “You are to come down to madame, at once.” I
pick up my cap, stumble down the first few steps, but finally arrive
in front of her door on the first floor and knock.

“Come in!”

I enter, shut the door, and stand attention.

Wanda has made herself comfortable. She is sitting in a neglige of
white muslin and laces on a small red divan with her feet on a
footstool that matches. She has thrown her fur-cloak about her. It
is the identical cloak in which she appeared to me for the first time,
as goddess of love.

The yellow lights of the candelabra which stand on projections,
their reflections in the large mirrors, and the red flames from the
open fireplace play beautifully on the green velvet, the dark-brown
sable of the cloak, the smooth white skin, and the red, flaming hair
of the beautiful woman. Her clear, but cold face is turned toward me,
and her cold green eyes rest upon me.

“I am satisfied with you, Gregor,” she began.

I bowed.

“Come closer.”

I obeyed.

“Still closer,” she looked down, and stroked the sable with her
hand. “Venus in Furs receives her slave. I can see that you are more
than an ordinary dreamer, you don’t remain far in arrears of your
dreams; you are the sort of man who is ready to carry his dreams into
effect, no matter how mad they are. I confess, I like this; it
impresses me. There is strength in this, and strength is the only
thing one respects. I actually believe that under unusual
circumstances, in a period of great deeds, what seems to be your
weakness would reveal itself as extraordinary power. Under the early
emperors you would have been a martyr, at the time of the Reformation
an anabaptist, during the French Revolution one of those inspired
Girondists who mounted the guillotine with the marseillaise on their
lips. But you are my slave, my–”

She suddenly leaped up; the furs slipped down, and she threw her
arms with soft pressure about my neck.

“My beloved slave, Severin, oh, how I love you, how I adore you, how
handsome you are in your Cracovian costume! You will be cold to-night
up in your wretched room without a fire. Shall I give you one of my
furs, dear heart, the large one there–”

She quickly picked it up, throwing it over my shoulders, and before
I knew what had happened I was completely wrapped up in it.

“How wonderfully becoming furs are to your face, they bring out your
noble lines. As soon as you cease being my slave, you must wear a
velvet coat with sable, do you understand? Otherwise I shall never
put on my fur-jacket again.”

And again she began to caress me and kiss me; finally she drew me
down on the little divan.

“You seem to be pleased with yourself in furs,” she said. “Quick,
quick, give them to me, or I will lose all sense of dignity.”

I placed the furs about her, and Wanda slipped her right arm into
the sleeve.

“This is the pose in Titian’s picture. But now enough of joking.
Don’t always look so solemn, it makes me feel sad. As far as the
world is concerned you are still merely my servant; you are not yet
my slave, for you have not yet signed the contract. You are still
free, and can leave me any moment. You have played your part
magnificently. I have been delighted, but aren’t you tired of it
already, and don’t you think I am abominable? Well, say something–I
command it.”

“Must I confess to you, Wanda?” I began.

“Yes, you must.”

“Even it you take advantage of it,” I continued, “I shall love you
the more deeply, adore you the more fanatically, the worse you treat
me. What you have just done inflames my blood and intoxicates all my
senses.” I held her close to me and clung for several moments to her
moist lips.

“Oh, you beautiful woman,” I then exclaimed, looking at her. In my
enthusiasm I tore the sable from her shoulders and pressed my mouth
against her neck.

“You love me even when I am cruel,” said Wanda, “now go!–you bore
me–don’t you hear?”

She boxed my ears so that I saw stars and bells rang in my ears.

“Help me into my furs, slave.”

I helped her, as well as I could.

“How awkward,” she exclaimed, and was scarcely in it before she
struck me in the face again. I felt myself growing pale.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, softly touching me with her hand.

“No, no,” I exclaimed.

“At any rate you have no reason to complain, you want it thus; now
kiss me again.”

I threw my arms about her, and her lips clung closely to mine. As
she lay against my breast in her large heavy furs, I had a curiously
oppressive sensation. It was as if a wild beast, a she-bear, were
embracing me. It seemed as if I were about to feel her claws in my
flesh. But this time the she-bear let me off easily.

With my heart filled with smiling hopes, I went up to my miserable
servant’s room, and threw myself down on my hard couch.

“Life is really amazingly droll,” I thought. “A short time ago the
most beautiful woman, Venus herself, rested against your breast, and
now you have an opportunity for studying the Chinese hell. Unlike us,
they don’t hurl the damned into flames, but they have devils chasing
them out into fields of ice.

“Very likely the founders of their religion also slept in unheated
rooms.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:24:58. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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You Love Me Even When I’m Cruel
Female Led Relationships - Stories of submissive, masochistic men, dominant women - femdom erotica

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:42:40. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Quite Moment
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Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:12:27. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Indifference
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Wanda stands in front of the canvas with her arms crossed over her
breast.

“This picture, like many of those of the Venetian school, is
simultaneously to represent a portrait and to tell a story,”
explained the painter, who again had become pale as death.

“And what will you call it?” she asked, “but what is the matter with
you, are you ill?”

“I am afraid–” he answered with a consuming look fixed on the
beautiful woman in furs, “but let us talk of the picture.”

“Yes, let us talk about the picture.”

“I imagine the goddess of love as having descended from Mount Olympus
for the sake of some mortal man. And always cold in this modern world
of ours, she seeks to keep her sublime body warm in a large heavy fur
and her feet in the lap of her lover. I imagine the favorite of a
beautiful despot, who whips her slave, when she is tired of kissing
him, and the more she treads him underfoot, the more insanely he loves
her. And so I shall call the picture: Venus in Furs.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:10:58. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Beautiful Despot
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So I quietly returned home and for two years helped him bear his
burdens, and learned how to look after the estate which I had never
done before. To _labor_ and to _do my duty_ was comforting like a
drink of fresh water. Then my father died, and I inherited the estate,
but it meant no change.

I had put on my own Spanish boots and went on living just as
rationally as if the old man were standing behind me, looking over
my shoulder with his large wise eyes.

One day a box arrived, accompanied by a letter. I recognized Wanda’s
writing.

Curiously moved, I opened it, and read.

Sir.–

Now that over three years have passed since that night in Florence,
I suppose, I may confess to you that I loved you deeply. You
yourself, however, stifled my love by your fantastic devotion and
your insane passion. From the moment that you became my slave, I knew
it would be impossible for you ever to become my husband. However,
I found it interesting to have you realize your ideal in my own person,
and, while I gloriously amused myself, perhaps, to cure you.

I found the strong man for whom I felt a need, and I was as happy
with him as, I suppose, it is possible for any one to be on this
funny ball of clay.

But my happiness, like all things mortal, was of short duration.
About a year ago he fell in a duel, and since then I have been living
in Paris, like an Aspasia–

And you?–Your life surely is not without its sunshine, if you have
gained control of your imagination, and those qualities in you have
materialized, which at first so attracted me to you–your clarity of
intellect, kindness of heart, and, above all else, your–_moral
seriousness_.

I hope you have been cured under my whip; the cure was cruel, but
radical. In memory of that time and of a woman who loved you
passionately, I am sending you the portrait by the poor German.

Venus in Furs

I had to smile, and as I fell to musing the beautiful woman suddenly
stood before me in her velvet jacket trimmed with ermine, with the
whip in her hand. And I continued to smile at the woman I had once
loved so insanely, at the fur-jacket that had once so entranced me,
at the whip, and ended by smiling at myself and saying: The cure was
cruel, but radical; but the main point is, I have been cured.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:52:35. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Insane Passion
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Her head appeared in the window, luminous like a flame under the
sunlight.

“Gregor!”

I hurried up the stairs, through the gallery, into the studio.

“Lead him to the bath,” Wanda commanded, while she herself hurried
away.

A few moments passed and Wanda arrived; dressed in nothing but the
sable fur, with the whip in her hand; she descended the stairs and
stretched out on the velvet cushions as on the former occasion. I lay
at her feet and she placed one of her feet upon me; her right hand
played with the whip. “Look at me,” she said, “with your deep,
fanatical look, that’s it.”

The painter had turned terribly pale. He devoured the scene with his
beautiful dreamy blue eyes; his lips opened, but he remained dumb.

“Well, how do you like the picture?”

“Yes, that is how I want to paint you,” said the German, but it was
really not a spoken language; it was the eloquent moaning, the
weeping of a sick soul, a soul sick unto death.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:09:06. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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2. Venus of Medici
3. Am I Not the Cruel Northern Venus in Furs?

Painting Venus
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And she–she veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes–and
did everything possible to meet him again.

The cunning coquetry with which she walked, moved, and looked at
him, almost stifled me. On the way home I remarked about it. She knit
her brows.

“What do you want,” she said, “the prince is a man whom I might
like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I can do what I please–”

“Don’t you love me any longer–” I stammered, frightened.

“I love only you,” she replied, “but I shall have the prince pay
court to me.”

“Wanda!”

“Aren’t you my slave?” she said calmly. “Am I not Venus, the cruel
northern Venus in Furs?”

I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words; her cold look
entered my heart like a dagger.

“You will find out immediately the prince’s name, residence, and
circumstances,” she continued. “Do you understand?”

“But–”

“No argument, obey!” exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have
thought possible for her, “and don’t dare to enter my sight until you
can answer my questions.”

It was not till afternoon that I could obtain the desired
information for Wanda. She let me stand before her like a servant,
while she leaned back in her arm-chair and listened to me, smiling.
Then she nodded; she seemed to be satisfied.

“Bring me my footstool,” she commanded shortly.

I obeyed, and after having put it before her and having put her feet
on it, I remained kneeling.

“How will this end?” I asked sadly after a short pause.

She broke into playful laughter. “Why things haven’t even begun yet.”

“You are more heartless than I imagined,” I replied, hurt.

“Severin,” Wanda began earnestly. “I haven’t done anything yet, not
the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What
will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization,
when I shall lead a gay, free life and have a circle of admirers
about me, when I shall actually fulfil your ideal, tread you
underfoot and apply the lash?”

“You take my dreams too seriously.”

“Too seriously? I can’t stop at make-believe, when once I begin,”
she replied. “You know I hate all play-acting and comedy. You have
wished it. Was it my idea or yours? Did I persuade you or did you
inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now.”

“Wanda,” I replied, caressingly, “listen quietly to me. We love each
other infinitely, we are very happy, will you sacrifice our entire
future to a whim?”

“It is no longer a whim,” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” I asked frightened.

“Something that was probably latent in me,” she said quietly and
thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had
not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a
powerful impulse, fills my whole being, now that I enjoy it, now that
I cannot and do not want to do otherwise, now you want to back out–
you–are you a man?”

“Dear, sweet Wanda!” I began to caress her, kiss her.

“Don’t–you are not a man–”

“And you,” I flared up.

“I am stubborn,” she said, “you know that. I haven’t a strong
imagination, and like you I am weak in execution. But when I make up
my mind to do something, I carry it through, and the more certainly,
the more opposition I meet. Leave me alone!”

She pushed me away, and got up.

“Wanda!” I likewise rose, and stood facing her.

“Now you know what I am,” she continued. “Once more I warn you. You
still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave.”

“Wanda,” I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes, “don’t
you know how I love you?”

Her lips quivered contemptuously.

“You are mistaken, you make yourself out worse than you are; you are
good and noble by nature–”

“What do you know about my nature,” she interrupted vehemently, “you
will get to know me as I am.”

“Wanda!”

“Decide, will you submit, unconditionally?”

“And if I say no.”

“Then–”

She stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood
before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile
about her lips, she was in fact the despotic woman of my dreams. Her
expression seemed hard, and nothing lay in her eyes that promised
kindness or mercy.

“Well–” she said at last.

“You are angry,” I cried, “you will punish me.”

“Oh no!” she replied, “I shall let you go. You are free. I am not
holding you.”

“Wanda–I, who love you so–”

“Yes, you, my dear sir, you who adore me,” she exclaimed
contemptuously, “but who are a coward, a liar, and a breaker of
promises. Leave me instantly–”

“Wanda I–”

“Wretch!”

My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began
to cry.

“Tears, too!” She began to laugh. Oh, this laughter was frightful.
“Leave me–I don’t want to see you again.”

“Oh my God!” I cried, beside myself. “I will do whatever you
command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you
will–only don’t send me away–I can’t bear it–I cannot live without
you.” I embraced her knees, and covered her hand with kisses.

“Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash, for you are not a
man,” she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure,
not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt most. “Now I
know you, your dog-like nature, that adores where it is kicked, and
the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you
shall come to know me.”

She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed
on my knees; my head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes.

“Come here,” Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman.
I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me
sombrely, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior
of her eye. Smiling, she drew me toward her breast, and began to kiss
the tears out of my eyes.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:06:53. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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2. Venus in Furs in Photographs
3. Venus is Jealous of Her Slave

Am I Not the Cruel Northern Venus in Furs?
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