The adventures of Dora Salonica

The second commandment was this: humility.

Humility, my love. Find humility. Where will you find humility? You are my love and my thing. But first, humility.

Undo all those years. Unlearn yourself. Pick at the thread of your story. Pull at it until it frays away. Bring yourself down. Bend your knees, lie at my feet in ruins. Does it hurt? No. Who are you? What are you? What are you thinking? What?

I need to go and pee. I go. Every three hours I go. I drink water and coffee and juice and tea and every three hours I go. May I go? Yes, you may.

The wall of my slavery is rising higher and higher. I stand naked, place the palms of my hands against the wall and I go. I hold on to the wall of my slavery so that I do not fall down. and I go. It runs out of my body, like a river. It runs down my thighs. Yellow river down my thighs. Humility flows out of me. Half of it is spilled on the floor. I have to clean it up. I was careless again.

Careless girl. Hold it open with your hands like a man. But I cannot do it like this. You will. You must. You will get used to it.

I bend over and lick the humility. It is mine. I lap it up and take it in me again. I find humility.

Humility is made of yellow drops. Humility tastes sweet. Humility is mine. I drink humility and become whole again. Next time I will be more careful.

Who am I? What am I? What are you thinking? What? Does it hurt?

No. I am His love and His thing. 

The second commandment was this: humility.

Humility, my love. Find humility. Where will you find humility? You are my love and my thing. But first, humility.

Undo all those years. Unlearn yourself. Pick at the thread of your story. Pull at it until it frays away. Bring yourself down. Bend your knees, lie at my feet in ruins. Does it hurt? No. Who are you? What are you? What are you thinking? What?

I need to go and pee. I go. Every three hours I go. I drink water and coffee and juice and tea and every three hours I go. May I go? Yes, you may.

The wall of my slavery is rising higher and higher. I stand naked, place the palms of my hands against the wall and I go. I hold on to the wall of my slavery so that I do not fall down. and I go. It runs out of my body, like a river. It runs down my thighs. Yellow river down my thighs. Humility flows out of me. Half of it is spilled on the floor. I have to clean it up. I was careless again.

Careless girl. Hold it open with your hands like a man. But I cannot do it like this. You will. You must. You will get used to it.

I bend over and lick the humility. It is mine. I lap it up and take it in me again. I find humility.

Humility is made of yellow drops. Humility tastes sweet. Humility is mine. I drink humility and become whole again. Next time I will be more careful.

Who am I? What am I? What are you thinking? What? Does it hurt?

No. I am His love and His thing. 

I am that I am. I am the am and the was and the is to come. I will be what I will be…

How shall I write a message to a slave, a woman who aspires to become property? Should I whisper that I read her profile, in which she was claiming her needs, her desire to suffer, her call for life imprisonment, torture and love? Or should I leave the pictures, their understandings, meanings or brutal poetic translations to Shakespeare and Virginia Woolf under Anais Nin’s influence? Or leave the words and the stories behind these words to Voltaire, Sade and Mandiargues? 

But the words are missing. What happened to the words in your profile? Only the pictures are left. What a shame, pictures will not say all. They say a lot about obedience, dependence, capacity to serve, sexual authenticity, but they do not say all. They do not say about humility, sense of property and all the sensitivities, mental and psychological ones, a slave needs in her relationship with a Master. You could be simply a masochist living what she had been dreaming for years. Or a prostitute, offering at a high price what others dream about. 

J’ ai besoin de tous les sens pour percevoir l’ intensité d’ un personnage. L’ image ne suffit pas. J’ ai besoin de ses odeurs, ses regards, sa voix, ses sensibilités, sa dépendance naturelle, sa soumission…

If you are who I think you are – and you are much more than a sewn up cunt – you might like this exercise. I will not turn a slave into a princess, unless she begs me for what she desires. And a princess will never become a slave unless…

I am a writer, dividing my time between Luxembourg and New York. I am 57 and not a Daddy, but an Owner. I do not even know if you speak French - but then nobody is perfect…If not, in the worst case I might use this message as the beginning of a short story… 

THE FIRST COMMANDMENT

                                                                                           This is not a romantic story

                                                                                                      It is a biblical story

                                                                                                         The Night Porter

The first commandment was simple: thou shalt not touch thyself.

It seemed quite simple at first. I lay in my bed naked and tried to become very little. Become a child again. I will say my prayers and then I will snuggle next to the cat, put one hand under the pillow and close my eyes. Sleep will come soon. My breathing will slow down and I will shut out all the noise, and the room and I will sink into darkness and the cat will go on purring and my feet will warm up. It was so cool under the sheet and I went on smiling and listening to my heart and feeling so safe now that I had His command. Was this love?

Then my hand found the wound between my legs. It was bleeding colorless blood, wet and slippery. I touched it and it burned. I opened the flesh flower with my hand and it smelled so nice under the sheet. It smelled of warm bread and it smelled of milk and it smelled of wet green grass and it smelled of the sea and then my other hand joined in the dance with all these smells of my life and we all started whirling around like crazy. My body fell into the wound of love. Was this love?

The commandment was clear: thou shalt not touch thyself. But then… that meant that my body was not mine. It did not belong to me anymore. So I pulled my hands away and held them by my side and I placed my body on a pedestal and worshipped it. It was forbidden, so I worshipped it. It was sacred, it could not be touched. I kept opening and closing my legs, opening and closing, without touching. I opened my legs for the last time and looked at the flesh folds and they were unfolding now, opening. Oh, it was a wound alright. But I did not touch myself. And the wound kept opening and spreading all over my body. Was this love?

I closed my legs and fell asleep. The body was forbidden. The body and I, we kept the first commandment and we became His.

Then came the second commandment.