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you no longer need nor want to be beaten. As for me, then, how will I be able to love you?”
    ***
    Pain and humiliation: a strange therapy...
    He arrives when I am getting out of the shower, jovial and charming. Completely nude, I press myself against him—my skin moist against the drops of rain on his leather jacket, Chills.
    He tells me not to get dressed.
    Puts me on all fours, on my elbows, my thighs slightly spread, in the middle of the room. The hardness of the tiles, I glance sideways in order to see myself in the big mirror. Grotesque and pitiful. My hanging breasts make me look like the she-wolf that suckled Rome.
    With ropes brought expressly for the purpose, he puts me in tight bondage: my arms tied to my knees, ankles tied to a radiator six feet farther off, and my head bound by another rope, which handcuffs my wrists to the foot of the bed and prevents me from standing. A purely decorative rope, pulled very tight, makes a double loop over my chest and back and pushes my breasts forward, making them look like hands extended through hemp bars.
    He allows me a brief glance in the mirror so I may appreciate myself as a trussed-up offering, the gift I have become. Then he blindfolds me.
    He gets behind me and smears my sex and anus with Vaseline, inside and outside. His gestures are medically precise and I feel nothing, no excitation. Nothing but absolute terror.
    After a series of little metallic clicks, the light of a flash goes off under the blindfold, and I hear the battle sounds of the camera being reloaded.
    I still have these photos of myself, and today I cannot look without inexpressible emotion at these images of an anonymous girl, a black blindfold over her eyes, her flesh creased with complicated knots, submissive to all expectations, her heart in her throat. The very picture of anguish.
    There I am, on all fours, my buttocks lifted up by the crouching position he makes me adopt. The ropes saw into my skin. I hear the door close. I call out. No answer. My voice seems strange to me, curiously broken.
    I wait for quite some time; my knees hurt a lot. The ropes are stretched tight and have no play in them. I can hardly breathe. I try to slide the blindfold from my eyes by rubbing my temple against my shoulder, but without success.
    The door again. The sound of a footfall clacking against the tile, but it's not his. The certainty that there are at least two people there.
    An enormous lump in my belly. Palms moist against the tile.
Hands grip my hips; a cock plunges into me, rapid and rectilinear, and bumps roughly against the back wall of my vagina. I cannot help crying out.
    The light of a flash shining under the blindfold. The man moves about in my cunt. Nearly as quickly, someone raises my head—the rope saws into the nape of my neck—and another cock forces my lips open.
    Nausea.
Photo.
I will not go into detail. He left me tied up like that all day.
    He only freed me once; without taking the blindfold from my eyes, he took me to pee, and tied me up just as tightly afterwards.
    He never stopped taking photographs, shooting in frames so tight I could not identify anybody later: could see just my buttocks, mouth, cunt, and hips, and the cocks of the guys who fucked me.
    He must have established a certain protocol for them: once installed, they were to ejaculate where they had first thrust. That day I drank more sperm than I have ever swallowed, I was sodomized often, too. Perhaps that was part of the rite. Some, more rarely, preferred my cunt—they were numerous enough, however, that I very quickly felt streams of jism running down my thighs,
    Who were they? J. P. showed me the photos two days later: beautiful, brilliant 5" x 7" prints, with the clear, frank colors of finely grained film. In all, twenty-three guys had fucked me that day. Some of them had big stomachs, with curly hair' on comfortable pot bellies, or bulging muscles, There were few blonds. One of them had gray hair all over. Their