The English master

Touch is a strange thing, isn’t it? Ingrid was thinking that, as she screamed once again. She was totally naked, suspended from leather cuffs attached to steel chains that hung from the ceiling of the dungeon she had happily entered an hour ago, not realizing the enormous appetite for torture and humiliation her tormentor would ably demonstrate. Her nipples were being pinched hard by a handsome silver-haired man, in his early fifties, with whom she had had the most interesting dialogue in a fashionable Parisian bistro, less than three hours ago…

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Anyway, that’s a story yet to be told. I’ll explain.

We have to go back several weeks to New York City…


‘Miss Cooper, Professor Jordan will see you now,’ said a young bespectacled secretary. Ingrid thanked her, stood up and went into to the office of her boss, Professor Janet Jordan, an internationally renowned academic; an iconoclast and virulent critic of the more extreme fringes of the avant-garde. Prof Jordan always had the effect on the somewhat shy and timid Ingrid of a parent figure, a matriarch who might just announce that her underlying deserved a damned good spanking! Oh, how Ingrid would’ve loved that. To have her skirt pulled up and her curvaceous bottom expose while forced to lie across the sexy Prod Jordan’s lap, waiting for her red-nailed right hand to slap her helpless skin…

‘Got something you’re gonna love,’ Prof Jordan told Ingrid as she came in and sat down opposite her at a huge old oak desk.

‘Oh really, Professor,’ said Ingrid.

She smiled at her superior and then asked, ‘What is it?’

The ravishing dark-haired Prof Jordan, who looked uncannily like the movie star, Raquel Welch, stared at Ingrid. Ingrid felt the little girl thing come over her as the forty-something woman’s intense brown eyes bored into her. ‘I want you to go to Paris and check out some new info about one of your favorite authors…’ Ingrid’s mind raced. Would it be Racine, Voltaire, Dumas, de Maupassant, Balzac, Camus; maybe Sartre or Foucault? Prof Jordan smiled and said, ‘I hear there are some unpublished letters of Dominic Aury’s that have come to light…’

Ingrid squinted and asked, ‘The Dominique Aury, the author of The Story of O?’

‘The very same,’ said Prof Jordan. ‘A contact of mine gave me an email address and a phone number. The owner of these letters has a keen interest in arcane pornography I hear.’

Ingrid shuffled her legs and asked, ‘How so?’

‘He’s a collector, I believe,’ replied the Prof.

‘When do you want me to go to Paris?’ asked Ingrid, excited at the prospect.

‘Next week, if you can make it,’ replied the Prof.

‘Yes, certainly, I’d be glad to go,’ said Ingrid. ‘Oh, one thing, Prof Jordan; am I empowered to bid for these letters?’

‘Discreetly, yes,’ said the Prof. ‘I’ve heard they’re very controversial, some sort of lesbian revelation, that’s all I know. You must find out the rest. I’ll leave it to your able judgment as to the worth of these documents. I know you’ve made a specialism of Madame Aury’s life.’

Ingrid smiled. ‘I’m fascinated as to what they might reveal,’ she said.

‘Yes indeed,’ agreed Prof Jordan.

‘Go and find out…Oh, and good luck.’


Ingrid settled into her hotel in the Les Halles area. It was a modest place with clean rooms and non-descript fixtures and fittings. As usual, the staff on the desk and were rude to a point of exasperation. Ingrid knew Paris well as she had completed her Ph.D. at the Sorbonne, so the rudeness of Parisians was not a surprise to her at all.

After a shower, she called the phone number she’d been given by Prof Jordan. A deep male voice answered. Ingrid established her credentials and what her purpose was. The man asked her if she knew much about Dominic Aury and Ingrid said she had thoroughly researched her life and work.

‘You are aware of her [Aury’s] real name, I suppose?’ the man asked.

Ingrid coughed and then replied, ‘Of course I am. It’s Anne Desclos; Dominique Aury was a pseudonym of hers, just as Pauline Reage [author of Story of O] was.’

The man chuckled. ‘Just checking that you really know you subject, Miss Cooper,’ he said.

‘When can we meet?’ asked Ingrid, ‘I’m anxious to look at these letters you say are attributed to Aury,’

‘They are completely authentic,’ said the man.

Ingrid grew impatient and said, ‘I’m sure they are, Mr…?’

The man laughed. ‘You’ll get my name when we meet,’ he replied.

‘Fine, what’s your address,’ asked Ingrid.

The man told her. ‘Oh yes, a charming area of the Left Bank, I know it well,’ she said.

‘Tell me, Miss Cooper,’ the man enquired, ‘do you have a private interest in the kind of things Aury wrote about in The Story of O?’

Ingrid giggled. ‘I suppose I do,’ she replied.

‘Would you like to understand more about it?’ the man asked.

‘Are you a teacher then?’ she asked cheekily.

‘Depends if I find you a suitable subject,’ the man said with a sly laugh.

Ingrid felt a rising excitement and asked, ‘What time shall we meet?’

The man suggested an initial meeting at a Bistro around the corner from where he lived. Ingrid agreed and he gave her the address.

She took a taxi and was there in twenty minutes.

A tall well-built man was waiting for Ingrid at the Bistro Fontana. He got up from a discreet corner table he occupied and pulling out a stout wooden chair for Ingrid, he sat back down and faced her. She found him immediately attractive and quite mesmerising as she surveyed his heavily lined face. It reminded her of those later photographs of Samuel Beckett. The stranger asked, ‘Wine?’ Ingrid nodded and he clicked his fingers. A handsome young waiter came over and took an order for a glass of Chablis. Ingrid sat back in the warm Parisian summer heat and slipped off her black silk jacket. ‘You have good proportions,’ the man said, his sharp blue eyes roving over her entire figure. She was flattered but didn’t want to show it. ‘Shall we get to the letters,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?’ The man extended his hand to her across the table.

‘Simon, Simon Desclos,’ he revealed.

Ingrid raised her eyebrows. ‘Desclos, the same name as Aury’s; are you a relative of Anne Desclos?’

‘I’m her nephew,’ said Desclos.

‘I was left some of her things in an old wooden trunk. There are a lot of letters to friends and also to various lovers both male and female. There are also graphic descriptions of the kind of things she mentions in The Story of O.’

Ingrid felt her mouth start to dry. ‘What makes these letters different from others already published?’ she asked.

‘Look at this,’ Desclos said, pulling a faded old letter from his brown leather briefcase and putting it down in front of Ingrid. She picked it up and read it. She gulped as she read crudity upon crudity, describing the filthiest and most sadomasochistic practices that were obviously going on between Dominique Aury and a named lover, a post-war female politician and Resistance heroine who Ingrid knew was very well-known in France. ‘Is this who I think it is?’ she asked Desclos. He nodded and said, ‘For eight years, before Aury wrote the Story of O, she carried on an S&M relationship with that woman, who I must say was a very accomplished sadist. She put Aury through a lot of pain and also a great deal of sexual ecstasy.’

‘She was a government minister, how is it that the security services didn’t warn her about her scandalous behaviour,’ Ingrid asked.

‘This is Paris not Washington, Miss Cooper,’ Desclos said cynically.

‘Politicians are expected to be sexually perverse over here, as long as it doesn’t affect their work. It was even rumored that De Gaulle himself knew about this lesbian S&M tryst and may have even encouraged it, just to annoy his prudish wife.’

‘If these letters are real,’ said Ingrid, ‘they are literary dynamite. Monsieur Desclos.’

‘I’m fully aware of their literary importance,’ he replied.

‘That is not the end of it, Miss Cooper. There are also a lot of black and white photographs of the lovers disporting themselves in, shall we say, a most pornographic manner…’

Ingrid’s eyes widened. ‘Are you kidding me?’ she asked.

‘Not in the least,’ Desclos replied. ‘I have them all in my house.’

‘What would it cost to use them in a book?’ Ingrid asked.

‘Money is so vulgar,’ said Desclos, smiling.

‘I have an idea, Miss Cooper, how you may be able to get what you wish.’

‘What is your idea?’ asked Ingrid.

‘I’ll let you see all I have if you’ll come to my dungeon. We’ll see what you are made of and how much of Madame Aury’s world you really understand. Are you up for the challenge?’

Ingrid giggled. ‘We’ll get to enact the kind of things described in The Story of O, is that what you suggest?’

‘More or less,’ replied Desclos.

‘How can you be sure I’m a masochist, like O?’ Ingrid queried.

‘One gets to sense these things after a while when a suitable woman comes along,’ Desclos replied.

‘You find me suitable then?’ asked Ingrid.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Desclos.

‘Okay,’ said Ingrid. ‘You’ll be Sir Stephen, and I’ll be O, how’s that?’

‘Shall we go and see how we get along?’ Desclos countered.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ said Ingrid, finishing her Chablis.


In two minutes they were outside Desclos’ house with its white stucco work and shuttered windows. Ingrid looked it over admiringly, having always wanted to live in such a fine understated building. Desclos keyed the big blue wooden door and they went inside.

‘As charming inside as it is outside,’ said Ingrid as she surveyed Desclos’ reception room.

‘I’m pleased you find it so,’ Desclos replied.

‘You have very singular taste,’ she added as she looked at the many Marquis de Sade-influenced prints mounted in frames on the white walls. They were all highly pornographic, depicting multiple orgies and various sadomasochistic practices.

Ingrid felt a wave of arousal pass over her groin. ‘What do you do for a living?’ she asked.

‘I make girls and women see themselves as they really are,’ Desclos told her.

‘You’re a councillor?’

‘No. I’m a professional sadist.’

‘What? I never knew such things constituted a profession. Mr Desclos.’

‘They do in Paris.’

‘You’re paid to torture women, are you serious?’

‘Yes, completely, I’m known as the English Master.

‘Why English?’

‘My father was from London.’

‘I see, and your mother was Aury’s sister?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Shall we go to the dungeon and I’ll show you what I do?’

‘Sure, how bad can it be?’

‘That’s up to you. You’ll soon find out.’


Desclos and Ingrid went down the steep stone steps to the dungeon. Kneeling by a black door was Kiko, Desclos’s Japanese slave. The beautiful (nude)doll-like creature crouched passively.

‘You will assist me,’ he said coldly to the girl.

‘Oh my God, you actually do live the life of Roissy! I thought it was only a fantasy of yours…’ gasped Ingrid, a sudden sense of panicked excitement coming over her. She’d thought and fantasised about being naked and helpless in front of a Dominant Master, similar to Sir Stephen, the English sadist in The Story of O, for years, and now here she was about to realize it.

Desclos opened the black door and waved Ingrid into a subtly-lit torture chamber. ‘So much equipment,’ said Ingrid, checking out all the BDSM paraphernalia. The place reminded her of a showroom for perversity and deviance, as if a perverted sexual dream had somehow become real. Hairs stood up on the back of her neck when Desclos said, ‘Strip, c’mon you slut, let’s see that body of yours!’ She felt the small hands of Kiko unbutton her crisp white blouse and slip it off and then nimbly unclasp the white bra she had on underneath it. Strangely, she felt no shame or guilt when her breasts were exposed. Desclos handled them, saying, ‘Mm, as I thought, nice round tits, very firm for a woman of… what are you, about 40, Miss Cooper?’

Ingrid glowed with pride. ‘I wish I was,’ she replied.

‘I’m 47, Mr Desclos.’

Desclos tweaked her erect nipples and hurt them. ‘Ugh!’ she gasped and flashed her teeth at her tormentor. ‘You’ll refer to me as sir, down here,’ he said. ‘If you don’t, bitch, you’ll be severely punished for it!’ Despite being a hyper-intelligent feminist, Ingrid found herself relishing being called nasty names by the urbane man in front of her.

‘Of course, sir, my apologies,’ she found herself saying.

Desclos flicked his fingers. ‘Kiko, remove the rest…’ he instructed.

The Japanese girl carefully unzipped Ingrid’s black pencil skirt and slipped it down over her open-toed shoes. Ingrid stepped out of the skirt and Kiko eased her white knickers down slowly, all the way to her ankles. Again, she felt no shame having her genitals exposed; a little tangle of brown pubic hair covered her vulva. Desclos knelt before Ingrid and while Kiko skinned back her sex-lips, using both her tiny hands, he spat on the pink inner slit of her pussy, before slipping several fingers up it.

‘Ssh!’ Ingrid groaned through her teeth.

‘You’re very wet, you slut!’ Desclos observed. ‘Aren’t you?’

Ingrid stammered, ‘Y-e-s, sir.’

‘Kiko, lower the gantry,’ Desclos said, pulling the Japanese girl’s long black hair. She got up and pressed a button on a control panel on the opposite wall. Ingrid heard a whirring sound and saw a steel bar – attached to thick steel chains – descend from the dungeon ceiling.

Desclos barked at Ingrid, ‘Hands up, above your head!’

She did as he said and he slipped a blindfold on her. She felt his strong hands fasten leather restraints to her wrists and heard the whirring again. In seconds, her toes barely touched the stone floor. She trembled as she heard Desclos say, ‘Kiko, fetch the single-tail.’ During heated masturbation sessions in her NY apartment, Ingrid had often fantasized her way to multiple climaxes imagining phrases like that.

The sting of the whip was not long in coming. She howled as the epicenter of pain that started across her buttocks, spread up her belly and breasts. The whip fell twenty times on her bottom and back, each stroke harder and more vicious than the last. Ingrid found herself screaming in a primal way, like an animal, something she’d never ever done before. The pain was intense and thrilling, frightening Ingrid as much as sexually exciting her, although she was very turned on by the whole thing. Her entire back and ass were soon glowing. After Desclos ceased whipping, she was panting, trying to conquer the agony the many welts tattooed on her pale skin were emitting. She felt as if her skin was opening like a can.

‘What do you think, Kiko?’ Ingrid heard Desclos ask.

‘Very beautiful, sir, so many crimson marks, it’s a work of art,’ Kiko said softly.

Ingrid then heard unbuttoning of clothes and the unmistakable sounds of oral sex. Desclos groaned ‘Mm, you gorgeous little whore…’ and slapped Kiko’s bottom as she fellated him. ‘Nasty little bitch!’ he commented as the pleasure reached him. Ingrid wished he would put her to work in a similar manner.

‘Enough,’ said Desclos after a while, ‘…fetch the cloverleaf clamps.’

Ingrid heard Kiko’s high-heeled shoes clack on the stone floor and then a jangling of steel when she returned. ‘I can tell your nipples are very sensitive, so I’m going to work on them for a while,’ Desclos said. Ingrid screamed when the tight jaws of a pair of cloverleaf clamps pinched her teats with a vivid pain she’d never felt in her life before. ‘Oh! Ah!’ she howled as Desclos let the clasps swing below her throbbing nips. She howled a lot louder when Desclos hung a couple of heavy lead weights from the ends of the clasps.

‘Ooh! Oh! Ugh!’ she squealed, jerking around against the restraints.

‘Those perky titties really suit the steel on their tips, don’t they, Kiko?’ asked Desclos.

‘Ooh, yes, sir,’ replied Kiko, ‘very beautiful stretching, sir.’

Ingrid yelped, ‘Oh, my God!’ as the agony overwhelmed her senses. ‘Please sir, take them off… it’s quite unbearable!!’

‘You want an exclusive on those Aury letters and photos, don’t you?’ Desclos asked.

Ingrid nodded and replied, ‘Yes, sir… more than anything!’

‘Then beg me for more torture,’ he whispered.

Ingrid thought of the boost to her career the scoop about Dominique Aury would provide. She quickly came to a conclusion and she said, ‘Please sir, hurt me as you please.’

‘What do you fear most?’ asked her tormentor.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Ingrid replied.

Desclos suggested, ‘Needles through your breasts and cunt; being forced to consume urine and excrement; being beaten with whips and canes until you pass out; or maybe being gang-raped by a group of evil and pitiless men… tell me, what frightens you the most?’ Ingrid was afraid and horrified by all the things Desclos mentioned.

She thought quickly and said, ‘Needles, sir. I’m very afraid of needles.’

‘Kiko, you heard the slut… fetch!’ said Desclos.

Ingrid heard Kiko’s clacking high-heeled shoes once more, a steel drawer being opened and the sound of plastic wrapping being torn off something. What the hell is that? she thought, her mind racing. I must’ve been insane to agree to this!’ When Kiko removed the clamps, Ingrid howled deafeningly. ‘Shut up, you baby!’ Desclos said and slapped her pussy very hard. Ingrid’s belly heaved and she sucked in air and struggled against her restraints. Kiko pinched Ingrid’s nipples into two pointy cones as Desclos jabbed several hypodermic needles through the base of each one, forming an x-shape. ‘Oh, shit-t-t-t-t-t-t!’ screeched Ingrid as a lightning bolt of agony shot across her chest and radiated out.

A burst of pleasure came next.

Completely without warning, Desclos’ huge phallus slipped inside Ingrid’s slit and filled it to bursting. He held her left leg up high and fucked in and out of her, sideways, teasing her pierced nipples by twisting and turning the needles with his fingers. The more Ingrid struggled and screamed, the better he seemed to like it and the harder his prick became. Ingrid was realizing that the reality of pain and pleasure cannot be explained to anyone – they have to live it, to find out for themselves. In truth, the reality of BDSM was proving to be even more exciting than she’d dared imagine. ‘Yes, yes, rape me, you bastard!’ she found herself thinking, willing Desclos to use and abuse her further, just as O does in the novel.

‘You’re not wearing a condom, sir!’ Ingrid protested, the pleasure momentarily lulling her senses.

‘Ha-ha, you silly slut,’ Desclos said, ‘Masters always fuck bareback… What’s the point in having sex-slaves, otherwise?’

‘Don’t shoot inside me, please, sir!’ Ingrid yelled.

Desclos yelled, ‘…Too late!’ and Ingrid felt her cunt filling with warn fluid. She was aware of him groaning and stabbing away inside her like an animal, his powerful hips thrusting and thrusting as she groaned along with him, his orgasm soon turning into hers as Kiko licked her clitoris and the Master’s thrusting cock.

Ingrid screamed, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ! Oh, fuck! Oh shit!’ over and over…

When Desclos had emptied himself he pulled out of Ingrid’s dripping vagina and she once again heard the sounds of oral sex, as Kiko sucked the Master’s prick clean of sperm and pussy-juice. ‘You should see what this little whore is doing with my semen,’ he whispered to Ingrid.

‘She’s using her tongue as a brush…’

Ingrid imagined kissing the huge cock with Kiko and she gasped when she felt the slave’s pretty mouth glue itself to her pussy lips and suck on them hard. She could hear vacuuming sounds and feel the beautiful sensations as the jizz was slurped out of her insides. ‘Good little whore,’ Desclos said, now and then administering a whack (with a cane) to Kiko’s bare bottom. The Japanese girl shrieked when it was done and her pain excited Ingrid, surprising her with the vividness of her sadistic feelings and also the strong feelings of schadenfreude that accompanied it.

When Kiko had finished cleaning Ingrid’s pussy, she rose and assisted the Master in removing the needles. Ingrid shrieked out loud as each one was drawn out slowly. ‘Don’t resist, enjoy it, I know you want to…’ Desclos whispered. He was right. The flashes of agony brought Ingrid wild sensations that she’d only vaguely encountered during intense masturbation with her enormous collection of dildos, vibrators and anal butt-plugs. Even that level of excitement paled into insignificance with the kind of thoughts and feelings she was now experiencing on a moment-by-moment basis. ‘Just a dab of this, to prevent infection,’ Desclos told her and pressed a cotton wool pad of disinfectant to her bleeding nipples. It stung and Ingrid howled her head off, shedding real tears, letting years of frustration and angst flood out.

‘Now for your final initiation rite,’ Desclos said.

The blindfold was removed and Ingrid blinked her pretty blue eyes in Desclos’ direction. He was holding a long metal rod via a wooden handle. It glowed faintly red at its tip and he waved it around near Ingrid’s pussy.

‘What the hell is that thing, sir?’ Ingrid asked; her face pale with fear.

Desclos replied, ‘You remember the ultimate chapter of the novel, where O agrees to be marked with the seal of Roissy?’ Ingrid nodded. ‘Well,’ Desclos said, ‘this is a hot iron for that purpose. Are you willing to suffer for your art, Miss Cooper, or are you like all the other dilettantes, just a phony?’ Ingrid stared at the tip of the branding iron and saw the letters E and M there, obviously meaning English Master, she thought. Her mind raced. The permanence of the act excited her, as if she’d be forever wedded to the sadist standing before her, it was something she’d often toyed with and fantasized about.

‘If you let me use the letters and photographs free of charge, I’ll allow you to mark me, sir,’ Ingrid proposed.

‘Yes alright, we have a deal,’ said Desclos.

‘Kiko, turn her around,’ he instructed.

The Japanese girl revolved Ingrid’s chains so that her back was facing the Master. ‘Now breathe in, deeply,’ he whispered. Ingrid trembled and took a deep breath. She felt the heat of the iron on her left upper thigh and heard her flesh sizzle. A smell not unlike cooked bacon wafted up and Ingrid let out an ear-splitting cry of ‘Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!’ as the pain throbbed and throbbed. Desclos removed the iron and handed it to Kiko who doused it in water. Turning Ingrid to him, he hugged her tight and kissed her mouth. Through a haze of pain and relief, Ingrid’s tongue flicked against his and he sucked it right down to the root. His hands were all over her naked body, pressing and pulling and tweaking and amazingly, she felt herself get fully sexually aroused.

‘Before you leave, would you like to experience sex in ways you only thought were possible in pornography,’ Desclos asked.

Ingrid found herself muttering, ‘Yes, oh yes, sir, I would…’

‘Kiko, clean up that brand first and then bring Miss Cooper to my bedroom,’ Desclos ordered.

He added, ‘You may join us, oh, and bring your toys.’

Kiko smiled and looked at the floor before replying, ‘You are a generous Master, sir.’


All the way back on the Air France flight from Paris Ingrid thought about the night she’d spent at Desclos’ house, glancing around at the other passengers and wanting to scream, ‘*I had a huge prick in my pussy and a big strap-on dildo up my ass and you know what, you fucks? I came like a bitch, over and over again! She felt elevated somehow, she wasn’t normal anymore; something had been revealed and added to her consciousness.

An extra room, a new highway…

The first thing Ingrid did when she got back to her apartment in New York was to strip and have a bath. Before she got in the tub, she turned her body to a long mirror and stared at the vivid purple and black mark on her left upper thigh, touching the almost embossed skin with her fingertips and saying over and over, E – M.

Inevitably, she started masturbating and just the recollection of the torture and the vivid sex that had occurred in Paris caused her to orgasm unusually quickly.



Ingrid Cooper’s book, entitled ‘The Secret Life of O,’ was a runaway success and brought its author international plaudits and nominations for all manner of literary prizes and awards.

Her happiest day came when her old university, the Sorbonne in Paris, offered her a full-time position as a senior reader in French literature. It would mean living permanently in Paris, the offer proclaimed.

Ingrid couldn’t have been happier.

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She immediately emailed Desclos with the news. He replied within hours, writing: ‘Now, at last, you can become one of my concubines. After all, you’re wearing my mark, aren’t you, you little slut?’ Ingrid smiled and pinched her nipples, hard. ‘Yes, sir, I am your slut,’ she thought. She knew in her heart that from now on she would be forever linked to the enigmatic English Master.