Vanessa Duries - The Classmate

I regret only that, due to financial reasons, Franck did not agree to my request: reproduce the manuscript pages, the ones that Vanessa left. The ones that I read the first time—those forty-three pages of quadrille paper, written in the regular handwriting of little schoolgirls who have not yet graduated, a regular oval handwriting with little circles dotting the ‘i’.

It is a story of love and death...here she narrates only of love–and that is just as well. Death has come to put a full stop to Vanessa’s human trajectory— the arc of a circle that ejected her body from a car, while the pages of her love flew away on the winds.

Chapter One

How many of them were there? Because she is blindfolded, she really has no idea. Five men have already cum in her mouth. Two others, at least, in her ass. All of them in her cunt as best as she could determine, because she is nothing more than hot lava and bruises, and when they ejaculated inside her their fluids were confused with her own secretions.

Much later when she was released she realized that she carried on her thighs long mixed strings of sweat and cum.

V*** is bound to a block placed at the center of the basement. She rests on her stomach on an old piece of wood eroded by the strokes that over generations traced the stigmata of butchered animals. To the extent that she can judge, it is not the odor of her own scarred flesh. For two hours she has regularly been whipped or struck on her buttocks, thighs and back.

Sometimes the executioners would pause and take her in one way or another.

Her dear Master was absent, and no one held her hand. Why had he submitted her to this slaughter? Oh, for just a minor fault, she tells herself.

Did she really have to be so committed to be punished? as he had tried to convince her. He had made an appointment for her at an esthetician, to have her completely waxed. And at the last moment, she canceled because her buttocks and the interior of her thighs were still freshly marked with the whip. Of course, he had expressly arranged for the appointment with the express purpose of exhibiting to that anonymous woman who would look with her wax and tweezers between V***’s buttocks and her anus, V*** as his submissive, his dog, his object. And it was less due to shame than due to respect for others that she had wanted to wait a few days for the cuts to fade. “To the block,” her Master decided, “you’ll be tied to the block!” She knew what that meant, because he had imposed the punishment before, at the beginning of her training. But that night he had accompanied her and had held her hand while four men manipulated her at their whim.

That night was nothing like this night. She answered the door, nude under a trench coat. Her gestures and responses had been written in advance and all she had to do was recite the lesson she had learnt. “Good evening, I am V***, Master J-L’s dog, and I need to be seriously punished.” At the entrance she removed her raincoat and got on her knees, her hands behind her back.

Master Damien, at whose home she finds herself, has told her something along the lines of, “Very well, you’re a good little slave.” She does not remember the exact phrase, they always use the same words, the same codes. There is nothing more predictable than the rites of S&M. He leads her to the basement, a cave set up like a dungeon. He immediately binds her to the block, on her stomach, her legs spread, her arms and legs tied with cords to the legs of the block. Then he carefully covers her eyes. He left her there for a good while. She could hear, upstairs, laughter and the tinkling of glasses. How many of them are there? she asked herself.

Strangely, she felt unaffected. Unstimulated. She wondered if she hadn’t begun to change. During those first times, the simple sight of a whip was enough to make her abundantly wet. The thought of being taken by another man in front of her beloved Master excited her considerably. Then, little by little, the excitement diminished as the idea dawned on her, unconsciously at first, and later in a more and more obvious fashion, that she had been exploited, sexually and psychologically, by people who did not respect her.

By common people completely enslaved by the idea of fucking a girl who was so pretty, so willing; to make her suffer abuse and humiliations. The kind with potbellies who came to shake their fat against her pretty little ass, the ones who wanted everything their women refused them, the women who refused to participate in the parties.

After a while, she heard them come down the wooden stairs. “let’s whip her first” a man’s voice said. “No,” another protested, “I want to take her dry.” She felt two hands spread her buttocks wide in the Oriental fashion. A man took her in the ass with difficulty. She cried out–all of a sudden and guiltily for having done so. One of them would tell her Master, surely...The man thrusted for a minute or two, then another came and forced her mouth open. Though she sucked him with determination, she couldn’t help but notice that neither of the two men were well-endowed by nature–a seeming constant within the world of S&M. It was as if the “Masters” compensated for their indelible personal humiliation with the whip, their orders and restraints.

Afterward they whipped her, then came the lash. The men who followed in her rectum were oiled by previous ejaculations. It was only after the fifth or sixth penetration that one of them realized she had a vagina.

“How many of them are there?”she repeated to herself. You would think that Master Damien had convened all the dominators and debauchées of Toulouse by proclamation and forced conscription. “Master J-L’s dog is at our disposition tonight.”

At a certain point, a voice said, “She’s made of paper maché, you can’t even see the new marks...” so they put her on her back, spread out like a frog in a laboratory dissection. They made two or three inept comments about the two gold rings that pierced her.

For a while they mostly fucked her in front, while the others whipped her breasts and her stomach. “Let’s mark her on her shaved pussy,” one suggested. And one of them administered six blows of the lash on her Mons Venus and the labia majora, making her scream.

In the beginning, she had heard the clicks of cameras. She could also recognize the special friction of paper leaving a Polaroid. Then she noticed

a soft purring, and she realized that they were filming.

Then they put her back on her stomach, because they wanted her mouth.

The odor of old blood from the block filled her nostrils. She felt a wave of nausea, causing her to spit, without wanting to, the cum of one of the participants that sprayed down her throat. She would have to be severely chastised, of course.

“Nausea,” she thought to herself, under the rain of blows. “Nausea,” and she suddenly realized that she really was nauseous, not physically, but morally. Inside that sordid cave there was no passion, nor love, nor tenderness. “Have I experienced any part of love?” she asked herself.

It was like a revelation. No, her “Master” did not love her, and already in her head she had put the word in quotes.

She burst into tears.

Since, just then, the largest participant was annihilating her ass, one might think that she had started crying because of the barbarous intrusion into her ass–which she barely felt because the blows and the successive ejaculations had almost anesthetized her. Pain has a peak and beyond that she would come down. “Take it out of her mouth, she is going to choke,” a voice counselled. The queue that scraped her throat withdrew, and she began to weep, to cry to the point of losing consciousness. She would have loved a friendly voice to comfort her, to speak words of love, a hand to caress her hair. . .Instead all she heard were the same ritual and vulgar exclamations. One of the men who sodomized her said to another in attendance, “Take her from behind, I’ve really opened her up.”