Author’s Note: “The Image / L’Image” – written by Jean de Berg, it is one of the most famous erotic novels of all time. It was produced as a movie and the scenes I watched in it have had a profound effect on me. This story puts me in the roll of a librarian who ends up playing the role of Anne in a scene with one of the library’s patrons. If you have never seen the film, I recommend it and I hope you do not become confused by the role I play. Either way, I hope you enjoy this piece of erotica and look forward to any feedback.
Narrator – The Librarian
Catherine – The Professor
Anne – Submissive in “The Image”
Claire – Domme in “The Image”
Jean – Narrator, male voyeur and dominant in “The Image”
In my mind, I gave her a nickname; I called her “Dark Storm”. She moved around the library where I worked with hurricane speed, touching down at her selected shelves, leaving a trail of destruction and chaos in her wake. Her face was habitually dark and thunderous, her eyes squinting as if staring into the pouring rain, a dark and gloomy demeanor that telegraphed menace and malevolence for all that stood in her path.
There were occasions though, when she actually interacted with me and it was then that the magnificence of her nature came to the fore. Her smile lit up the darkness with mega-watts of brilliance, flashing down in electrifying forks, jolting pure white light into the deepest darkness. On occasion, the smile was accompanied by laughter; sheet lightening that seemed to ripple on and on, casting a surreal light on the scene that lasted for seconds rather than its momentary norm.
I was attracted to her dominating character yet wary of her power. She had never harmed me, never confronted me, but I knew it was in my best interests to treat her with respect and deference. It was with some trepidation then, that I watched her approach the Information Desk where I was stationed, a couple of books clutched to her breast, but obviously some unfinished business on her mind.
Catherine held a copy of “L’Image” out to show me. Published in French, it was a sadomasochistic work of erotica by Jean de Berg. The library also had a copy of the movie in its collection, and this is what she was also after.
My heart seemed to stop beating and my stomach seemed to roil when she asked me to help her locate it. I could feel the blood rush to my face and my fingers begin to shake. The truth is that I had personally removed the DVD from the library’s collection and taken it home to watch many months earlier; it was still sitting in my player well watched, the scenes that titillated me on the player’s quick-search. I was fascinated by certain of the scenes depicted in the movie and wrapped up in the relationship between Claire and Anne, repulsed by Jean and distraught by the tangle of emotional involvements between the male narrator and the two women.
In that moment that Catherine rested her arms on my desk, looked into my eyes, and asked me where the DVD was, I had instant flashbacks to the scenes that I had found so erotic:
Anne being made to squat down in a secluded area of a public park and pee under the harsh supervision of a menacing Claire; Anne selecting the whip with which the leather clad Claire was to beat her; Anne standing on a platform in a lingerie shop, bottom and thighs protected only by a lacy set of suspenders and being made by Jean to turn around so that the lovely sales assistant could see her whip marks.
The images tumbled through my mind, haunting me with their erotic promise, leaving me at once feeling aroused and disturbed. Yet ever present in the movies scenes was Jean, an ego-centric male who I had come to detest. I loved the images that lingered in my mind for they enabled me to wipe him from the scene and replace him, when necessary, with Claire; to imagine out that which I found objectionable and refashion the images into ones that fed my deepest and dark desires.
“Well, where is it?” Catherine asked. “Who exactly has checked it out?”
My embarrassment was so obvious, my discomfort so blatant, that I could not even start to lie. It had been on the tip of my tongue to say simply that another library member had checked it out, yet I could not bring myself to say that now.
My voice sounded husky and low, a cross between a whisper and a croak.
“I have it; I took it home and forgot to return it.”
“You did, did you?”
A look of bemusement crossed her face and her eyebrows rose up as she appraised me with an intense look. I sat still, waiting for the storm to erupt, for the rain to start lashing down.
“It just so happens that I need it rather urgently,” she continued. “Now what would I tell the head librarian about this misappropriated treasure?”
My defenses were down and I was tongue tied, scrambling for a suitable response.
“I could bring it to your office this evening. I just need a chance to get straight home after work and pick it up.”
“Yes, you do that!”
She rose abruptly and dug into her purse. She found a business card and she dropped it down onto the desk in front of my screen.
Mlle. Catherine Discret
Professor – Room 69
Dept. Classic French Literature
Faculty of Arts
Catherine bestowed one of her dazzling smiles on me, one that made me feel both privileged and dismayed, turned on her heels and stormed out through the aisles. My fingers were trembling as I turned back to my keyboard, yet I felt a disturbing wetness between my thighs, a warmth and delightful tingling in my breasts, and a disturbing emotion that oscillated between anticipation and dread.
There was a little platform rather than the traditional visitor’s chair in front of her desk; it reminded me of the dressing platform that Anne had presented on in the lingerie boutique. I laid the DVD on Catherine’s vintage desk and watched nervously as she picked it up. Her eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul, melting my insides, turning my muscles to jelly.
“Well, you’ve watched the movie, so why are you standing there?” she asked. She was back into her mood of threatening clouds, a promise of dark and stormy weather ahead. I stared at her blankly for a moment, then realized what she was demanding.
The platform was perhaps eighteen inches high and two foot square; high enough to make me feel self conscious though ridiculous was perhaps closer to the truth.
“Your skirts; lift them!”
I slowly raised my skirts, the realization that I had adopted the ways of Anne so closely, now seeming childish, most definitely immature. Beneath my floral skirt, breezy and feminine, I wore a white lace garter belt; it held my stockings in place, but provided no other modesty of which to speak. Intimate and delicate, tasteful yet coquettish, it united me to Anne in my mind, made me at one with my fantasy world.
Catherine had risen from her chair and come around her wooden desk. She rested against it and eyed me up and down. I felt like a slave on a block, chattel being appraised.
“Turn,” she commanded.
I slowly rotated, shuffling around, hearing the heels of my courts clicking on the platform, the soles rubbing on its varnished surface. I did not hear her rise, but felt the smoothness of her fingers as they traced their way down the lace straps, the warmth of her palms as she brushed them against my bottom, the wild scent of her perfume as she leaned forward to kiss the back of my neck.
I closed my eyes and breathed in as her wonderful fragrances washed over me; notes of heather and moss, ferns and a hint of lavender. I was transported into a world of French perfumeries, Paris Couture, Eighteen Hundreds erotica, boudoir secrets.
“Your bottom, it’s so perfect!” she murmured in my ear, “but still unmarked. We must fix that, you know we must!”
Her voice was smooth and hypnotic, sultry yet persuasive; she expressed no doubts that she would be completely obeyed. I felt her fingers tweak the fasteners on my dress, tease the zipper. A gentle tug and the dress fell, half draped across the platform, tumbling across to the floor at its edge.
“The whip, you know where it is, Anne; go and get it.”
I felt delirious, it all felt so right. I was Anne…she had called me Anne!
The Cut Glass Window
I stepped off the platform as if in a dream. The cupboard was directly in front of me, looking just as I had known it would be from that movie: ‘The Image’. It was an antique oak, self standing dresser; a window, its diamond shaped glass panes held in place by dull lead moldings, offered a peek into what lay behind the door.
I slowly swung the door open, lost in my own world, oblivious now of Catherine’s eyes watching my every move. A number of implements hung from the rail inside; it was exactly as I had imagined it would be. Leather straps, heavy and supple, the ends split into tongues that would cut into punished flesh. Gags and halters that look like they had come straight from the equestrian shop, the leather bits chewed and gnarled from agonizing screams. Single tail whips, some braided in tight leather thongs, others in the reds and whites and blues of corded rope.
Canes hung from the rail, rocking gently on their crooked handles as I reached in and disturbed their rest. A set of chains hung down, its links dull and scuffed; a set of handcuffs clipped loosely to the bar; a chain with shiny chrome ankle cuffs lay coiled on the cupboard floor.
I reached in slowly, selected a tawse. It felt heavy in my hand, but oddly alive and full of menace. I brought it to my lips, rubbed the dark leather across my face. It was smooth and supple, polished to a dull luster. Saddle soap and pine, tears and pain. The sensations and promise of what to come washed over in a wave, driving me deeper into my lust, further into my submission.
I replaced the tawse and watched enraptured as the chains jangled, the whips swung from the straps at their base, the canes rocked gently; they offered no hint of the pain they promised to deliver.
I selected the whip that was furthest to my right. It had a short handle, the core covered by braided leather strips; white and black, interlocked, Catherine’s dominance, my submission. The tail was perhaps a meter long; it was made of braided leather thongs that came down to a tightly lashed tip. I closed the door slowly, and turned towards Catherine. My heart was pounding and I knew now that there was no going back. Waves of submission washed over me; I knew that whatever Catherine demanded, I would be compliant; whatever pain she offered, I would accept and cherish.
The Velvet Pillow
A red velvet pillow had materialized while I had been lost in my reverie; it now covered the top of the little platform over which I was instructed to lie. It felt warm against my belly, silky and plush. By contrast, my hands resting on the hard wooden floor in front of me ached from the pressure, felt dusty and exposed. I had removed my court shoes at her bidding and my legs were now stretched out behind me, my thighs spread apart, my aroused sex on display.
Catherine stopped and reached down to my gaping sex, her fingers tracing the outline of my lips, probing my depths, circling my clit.
“You are wet, you slut! You want to be whipped!”
Her words were harsh, intended to cut and hurt; she wanted to humble me, to show me my place. I felt myself flush, abject humiliation rocking me to the core.
I watched Catherine walk around the front of me, the staccato tapping of her heels reminding me of the roll of the executioner’s drum. Slow and deliberate, she circled me twice, raising my fear level, reducing me to a wreck.
When the lash whipped down into my bottom, I whimpered, astounded by the pain and shocked by its depth. She had lashed me from the top of my buttocks across to my right thigh, a diagonal line of fury that seemed to cut right into my flesh.
I had watched the movie and knew what would come next; my brain barely had to register this thought before the lash hit me again. A parallel line to the first, from the top of my left thigh to the center of my bottom. Indescribable pain, as if a scalpel had been slashed across my back side. I heard myself whimper again, felt the tears running freely down my cheeks.
I couldn’t take another blow; my body and mind simply wouldn’t take it. The wild gyrations of my hips, my falling off the platform, my tears, my pathetic pleadings.
“No more, no more…please, I beg you, no more.”
None of this seemed to soften Catherine; she seemed impervious to my pain.
“Kneel, now! Thighs apart! Look at me!” With teary eyes, I scrambled into a kneeling position, my knees spread apart on the hard floor. I held my hands up high as I knew Anne had done, pushed my breasts out lewdly, and looked up into Catherine’s eyes in fear. Waves of pain continued to course through my bottom and flanks, yet I knew that my aroused cunt expressed my abject shame.
She bent down and her lips covered mine, her tongue pressed between my lips, her sweet breath inflamed my passion. Once again, I became aware of her perfume, her distinctive animal scent. She did not need much time to drive me over the edge; her fingering was gentle but persistent and her rhythm exquisitely timed.
My moans were of pleasure this time and not of pain. Somehow the terrible fire that her lash had ignited, melded with my internal flames; waves of pleasure overcame me, and with my arms still in the air, I shuddered, felt my thighs spasm, felt my juices flow freely.
I came there on Catherine’s office floor, naked except for my lingerie, my bottom striped like a wretch’s, my sex on show like a common tart’s. In just one short evening, I had become Catherine’s slut, humiliated and whipped, broken and submissive. Yet rather than feeling self pity, I felt awakened, my erotic dreams had become reality, Anne’s persona had become my own.
It was a better outcome than in the L’Image though: it was just Catherine and I, her dominance and my submission; there was no Jean, no one to come between us, no third party to upset the balance. When the Dark Storm blew over for the evening, I knew that rainbows would arch over us and in the morning, the healing sunshine would melt the physical pain to a delicious glow.
We both knew instinctively, though, that when the conditions were right, the Dark Storm was sure to blow through the Library again.