The Real Story of O and Sir Stephen

The Real Story of O and Sir Stephen

A Love Story

A novel by Sir Stephen Master

Preface

My mother was an extraordinary woman. And it is not just me who will tell you that, but all men who ever met her. Whenever she entered a room, it was as if time had been suspended. Instantly, everything and everybody else in the world became trivial. Suddenly, the stock tips, golfing stories, Knicks games, became irrelevant. Conversations ceased, drinks were spilled, hor d'ouvres were dropped upon her entrance. Beautiful, yes. Elegant, bien sur. But what took the oxygen out of the room was her PRESENCE. Her preternatural aura . It was immediately clear to anyone fortunate enough to come within her orbit, that she was absolutely at peace... completely sure of who she was and her place in the world. Perhaps contentment is a better word, but I am floundering. Suffice it say, that my mother was the embodiment of the perfect feminine nature and everyone recognized this the moment they were in her presence.

My father adored her. It was obvious to all the feeling was mutual although O's (excuse me), my mother's feelings bordered closer to worship than the usual definition of love and adoration most couples understand. The phenomenon that was most admired is that, even in their 60's after decades of marriage and raising a child they still couldn't keep their hands off each other. It was almost as if they were perpetual newlyweds.

After she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at the change of the millennium and at the age of 70, my father immediately retired from his medical practice and took her back to her beloved Paris where they lived out her final days. My father forbid me to visit, and insisted we say our goodbyes before they left. He simply explained that ma mere wanted me to remember her as she was, and not what she dreaded becoming. Six months after leaving, my father returned with a half-empty urn that he gave me to hold until his demise. He never spoke of their last days together nor, in fact, any details of my mother's last days on the earth.

The only fact he related from his trip was that Charles de Gaulle airport was built in a Paris suburb called Roissy. He said this with a wry smile and chuckled. the significance of that sentence would not become apparent to me until 10 years hence, after my father died and joined ma mere.

After my father's funeral, the family attorney asked to see me. Sitting in his office, I realized I had never been here before, even though this man had been to my birthday parties, my wedding, and attended many family events. He handed a manilla envelope closed with sealing wax and an impression of a crest I did not recognize. He informed me that my parents had requested that he protect this envelope until their death, at which time it should be given to me, their only child. He told me he did not have any idea of the contents.

Instead of returning home, I went to my office, locked the door, and tore open the envelop. On the top was a handwritten note. My mother's elegant penmanship was unmistakable. It was dated June 19, 2000.

Mon chou,

If you are reading this, it means your father has recently died. I hope I have preceded him by many years. I hope you are not triste. Your father and I were blessed because we met each other early in our lives, recognized that we were soulmates and then spent the remainder of our lives together. We had a love for the ages, made perfect by watching you grow. Your father and I had a unique kind of love, not the traditional love one reads about in romance novels and sees in the cinema. Our love was complex. We chose to shield you from the details of our sexuality to allow you to make your own choices in life. Now that we are gone, we wanted to share our story with you in the hopes that you might gain a better understanding of who we were. Some of the things you will read you might find shocking, others might seem understandable. We hope your memory of us will be enhanced, rather than diminished by our revelations.

What matters in the end is that we loved each other, completely, utterly, without reservation. We completed each other and fulfilled all of each other's needs. So please read with empathy and compassion. You are free to dispose of the manuscript was you see fit. The fireplace or the editor's office. Should you decide to destroy it, this is the only copy. I miss you, Mon Chou, je t'aime.

It was simply signed, Maman.

There was a postscript in my father's doctor's scrawl.

"This is who I am. This is who your mother is. I make no excuses and have no regrets.

Do what you will with the manuscript, but please remember I loved you and was proud of you.

It was signed with his Christian name and dated 11/12/2010.

Inside that envelope was the manuscript that you are about to read. For me it was a revelation and irrevocably altered my understanding of my extraordinary parents. This was not just a New York power couple; a gifted surgeon and an acclaimed fashion designer, but these were 2 lives so intricately intertwined that it is impossible to discern where one life begins and the other ends. These were my parents, and I love them still.

My parents' story is inextricably tangled with the novel the Story of O that shocked the world when first published in 1954. I have overcome my initial shock at finding out that the Sir Stephen and O were based on my parents. I have come to the conclusion that theirs is a Love Story for the ages. Not a conventional Love story, for certain, but a story of deep love and caring never-the-less. So I decided to publish it. If for no other reason than to correct the record, since my parents had nothing but contempt for the novel that purported to describe their relationship. I hope you will enjoy reading the truth about the real Sir Stephen and O and hope that this will correct many of the misconceptions created by the woman known to world as Pauline Reage. I leave and judgements to you, the reader.

Introduction

Sir Stephen

I have often regretted the decision I made, decades ago, to allow the woman known to world as Pauline Reage to interview the woman the world now knows as O. She assured me that If I allowed her to interview O, she would write a book accurately describing our world. She promised that should I give her access to O, that she would protect our true identities, an offer that I took to be a veiled threat that if I did not grant her request, our identities might be at risk. In any event, I acquiesced, to my perpetual regret.

Her novel, the Story of O, based on that interview, was, in our opinion, an unmitigated disaster, despite its popular success. Although Pauline got the facts right (mostly) she got the emotions completely (mostly) wrong. The only thing she actually succeeded in was in protecting our identity. She made me a British Aristocrat when I was an American Surgeon doing a sabbatical at the Sorbonne. She made O a fashion photographer, when, in fact, she was a fashion designer. She even changed my car from a Bentley to a Buick [rolling my eyes] demonstrating that she knew even less about cars than about alternative relationships. Me, drive a Buick? Are you kidding me? But I digress.

It is true that no one ever suspected that we were the basis for her Novel, and for that we are, at least, grateful. What we find most upsetting, is that The Story of O has been the sole reference point for many in the vanilla world into our World. Since the view is inaccurate and skewed, that means that generations of individuals have a complete misunderstanding of this alternative form of human interaction.

For the record, O and I were deeply in love and my treatment of her was what she craved more than anything else in the world. I fulfilled her needs as she fulfilled mine. The perfect pairing. My hope is by the time you finish reading our words, you will understand what Pauline obviously did not, namely that relationships are unique and when two soulmates find each other that is a cause of celebration, not of disgust or disapproval.

From the first moment I saw her sitting in the Parisian Café with my twit of a nephew, my life was forever changed. I knew we were put on this earth to be together, forever. And I was correct. From the outside, we appeared as a normal married couple, although many have pointed out that we still seem to be passionately in love despite having an adult child. And that this state of affairs is exceedingly not normal [wink]. People often ask us the secret to our success, and we can only smile....If only they knew about the dungeon hidden under the garage....about the cuffs, collar, whips, floggers, riding crops, nipple clamps, spanking bench, St Andrews Cross......but I digress. Now that our son has fledged the nest, and flown the wilderness of the north (New Hampshire) we have more time to ourselves, I feel it is time that O and I take pen to paper and correct the record. The following is our effort to do so. I know that O is having difficulty adjusting to our empty nest, and I hope that assigning her this task will lead her thoughts elsewhere.

I have decided that we will both be writing our own account of the events described in the novel and what we were feeling to the best of our recollection. I expect there will be discrepancies in our memories, especially when it comes to O's time in residence at Roissy, but as examined in Roshomon, the truth often appears differently when viewed from varying perspectives. We hope to provide a better understanding for those contemplating an alternative lifestyle especially as regards to the emotional aspects of such a relationship. We will not discuss anything before we write, nor will we edit or alter what we have written based on the writings of the other. This is not a consensus document, but one of two intertwined personal memoirs representing two intertwined lives. Like a DNA molecule, two strands intertwined forever.

At the conclusion of our task, we will combine our memoirs into a single manuscript. In order to protect our identities and those of our son, we have decided to let him decide whether or when to publish these memoirs after our death. We hope that by reading this memoir he will better understand his parents better. We hope that following the initial shock he will understand the awe of O's commitment to me and mine to her.

Note: For convenience of those familiar with the novel The Story of O, and to retain our anonymity, we will refer to all the individuals who appeared in the novel by their fictional names so as not to confuse the reader. This convention includes the pseudonym of the author, Pauline Reage. However, it is not necessary to have read Story of O in order appreciate our memoirs. They can be read as an independent document. Actually, I would prefer that situation since you will not have made any prejudgments.

0.

I adore Master. I worship Master. Master understands what I need and makes me whole. He protects me, makes me feel safe, he is my life. He is my teacher, He is my lover. He brings me intense pain, but also intense pleasure. I go through life in a nearly constant state of sexual arousal and rarely does a day go by without me experiencing several of what we French call Les Petite Morts the little deaths or what you Americans crudely describe as orgasms. It is remarkable that even in my mid forties, I still am addicted to my daily doses of 'morts. I know that some Masters punish their slaves by withholding climaxes, but Master and I are well beyond that pretense.

I have the perfect Master. He often says I may be the perfect Master for you, but I might be a terrible Master for another. So I guess I should say, I have the perfect Master for me. Master controls me...If I am restrained or if I am free to move...what I wear, what I eat, where and when I pee, when and where I poop, when and where I sleep, and most importantly he absolutely controls my pain and my pleasure. Whenever I am in the presence of my Master I become aroused to the point of needing creative accomodations to manage my wetness, since I am not allowed undergarments that would limit Master's access to my breasts and nether parts.

I should explain my curious relationship with pain. On the one hand, like any same person, I hate pain and try to avoid it at all costs. On the other hand, experiencing pain given to me by Master, even horrendous, mind blowing pain, causes incredible sexual arousal. When Master squeezes my nipples, my thighs become sopping wet. I never get used to the pain. I have not developed a tolerance, even after all these years. The prospect of a flogging or caning terrifies me, but during the pain, is when my small deaths become huge deaths. It is not that I must be in pain to climax. My Master can bring me to ecstasy by simply fondling me or even by a simple command without any physical contact, but these petite morts are mere infants compared to release I feel when I am bound to a spanking bench with Master caning me.

I am sure it has something to do with the fact that my acceptance of pain is a gift to my Master. A demonstration of my love for him. I know that he becomes aroused by inflicting it and that excites me because I love Him and want nothing more in life than to please Him. After an extreme session he will often whisper in my ear, "I am proud of you" and this makes me so happy tears well up in my eyes. At that moment I feel complete.

Master takes care of me and cares for me. There are so many things I do not have to worry about....Whether I can pay the bills, what to wear in the morning, what to order in a restaurant, what movie to go to, where to vacation, whether or not to have an affair (never). Those decisions are made for me. This frees me to think only of the 2 most important people in my life....my son and my Master and to pursue my career unfettered. For this I will always be grateful to Master.

He has instructed me to write about our early days in Paris; About what I told Madame Reage following that night at the Commander's. I know Master was very upset when he first read that dreadful novel. But in many ways, I am to blame. I did not want to share my feelings with that awful, prying harridan. I felt it was better to simply narrate the events in a dispassionate way. I also was embarrassed to confide to a stranger how aroused I become when being a am being tortured or humiliated (or both). This memoir is my atonement. No one will read it until after our deaths, and I fervently I hope that we will not judged harshly. I leave it to the reader to decide, but as Master reassures me, we will be in Heaven and it won't matter a sou.

Interspersed with my narrative will be descriptions of my current day situation in order to give the reader a sense of what life has evolved into in the 20 or so years since I first entered the doors of the chateau at Roissy. These asides with appear in brackets. So now Master and I present, for your reading pleasure [wink and a smile] the true story of O and Sir Stephen. Bon apetite!

Chapter 1: Prelude to the Night of the Owl (2 Days Before)

[I am currently kneeling naked, under my Master's desk. He has made me a special desk at the correct height so that I can write in this position. Master has placed cloverleaf nipple climps on my nubs and there is a dull ache from their relentless pressure. As instructed, I am letting my mind wander to 2 days before the Commander's party. As instructed, I am beginning my memoire where the novel ended. I am wondering how long the clamps will remain on my sensitive nipples, but am resigned to the fact that it will not be up to me. I have to resist the urge to remove them myself but know better than to do that. This is another subtle way in which Master diabolically makes me participate in my own torture. I take a deep breath and let my mind wander to the Chateau in the hills behind Cannes with a magnificent view of the sea.]

Cannes, Summer 1953

I was sitting naked, (as usual) on the stool in front of my dressing table. Sir Stephen, my model friend (and former lover) Jacquiline, and her 18 year old sister Natalie were all clothed and in attendance. Natalie had just brought up a box containing several exquisite, elaborate masks. I tried on each one and stood up to model them for my intimate audience. Since I was looking away from the mirrors I had no inkling of how I looked in any of them. After the first series they had narrowed the selection to a Lion and an Owl. Both had similar tawny coloring. Master said the colors complimented my hair, both on my head and in my intimate parts. I blushed at the crudeness of the statement. It is ironic that there I was standing stark naked in front of 3 clothed people without a second thought, and the fact that my Master had offhandedly referred to my pubic region made me blush. Little did I know that what covered my pubic mound would become irrelevant by tomorrow evening. It was not like Master to be crude. I believe Jacqueline brought on the worst in Him. I had begun to hate her.

Master then told me we were going to a party and I would be the "centerpiece."

[Owwww. "Thank you Master." Master has pulled on the chain connecting the cloverleaf clamps he has placed on my nipples making me rise up on knees in order to ease the pressure. I must bend my neck to prevent hitting my head on the bottom of the massive desk. Cloverleaf clamps are diabolical in that they are designed to increase the pressure on the nipple when pressure is applied to the chain. Sometimes Master will put weights on the chain to increase the pressure but more often than not he likes to lift the chain up and then let it fall. This is what he has just done. I should explain. Nipple clamps hurt when they are put on but then the pain dulls after the circulation is restricted. Then all is bearable until tugged or weighted. But even that pain pales in comparison to the pain when they are removed. That is several fold in higher in intensity. Knowing this fact, makes wearing nipple clamps a particularly intriguing activity. They hurt when applied, they hurt while wearing them, but they REALLY hurt when they come off. So as soon as they go on, I begin dreading when they will be coming off. The longer they stay on and the more they are pulled, the more it will hurt when they come off.

I truly HATE pain, but experiencing pain is incredibly arousing to me sexually. As soon as Master puts the clamps on me, I begun gushing in my neither parts. It's as if there is a wire between my pain center and my privates. Master knows this he uses this to give me intense pleasure. I am also certain that when the clamps are removed not only will I feel almost unbearable pain, but that Master will give me incredible climaxes to compensate for the pain. I am delighted to accept the pain from Master because I know it excites him to have me accept the pain for him....and selfishly I know that by accepting the pain I will be rewarded. Americans call them orgasms, we French call them petit morts (little deaths). I have become addicted to my deaths. I really can't call them little deaths because they have become enormously powerful.

"Owwww." I moan again as He drops the chain, causing cascades of pain to move from nipples and arousal to my nether parts. I can feel the juices seeping onto my leg. I pant with need. I have to resist the need to touch myself. It is not allowed. I am used to being in a state of nearly constant arousal. It is difficult to believe that this is still case after more 20 years of being together....but it is. I am not allowed to wear panties or slacks, because Master requires complete access to me at all times. Managing my nearly constant state of arousal has required creative solutions. I have pads sewn into my clothing to absorb the copious fluids. Master allows me to sit on towels in our cars to avoid ruining the upholstery. Now that the pain has subsided a bit, I can go back to my narrative]