INTRODUCTION
Most novels dealing with BDSM are geared more to the sadistic side of the practice than
the masochistic.
The Marquis de Sade’s works are the classics in the sadistic genre and his novel
Justine is one of the world’s great classics.
Masochism, the necessary flip-side of the subject, tends to be underplayed in
literature.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, the nineteenth century Austrian writer, published Venus in
Furs in 1870. The work instantly became the prime novel celebrating masochism. So, just
as the Marquis de Sade’s name gave birth to the word sadism, so did von Sacher-Masoch’s
name enter the European languages with the word masochism.
Venus in Furs is not an easy read. Nor is it widely read today.
I have translated the book into a twenty-first century setting and have moved the
essential story to the American continents. I am hopeful this will make the story more
accessible to today’s readers.
So get ready to enjoy the pleasures of masochism as you read on.
Because, for the cognoscenti, it is well known that nothing beats a good whipping
spiced with jolly humiliation to give a chap a roaring good time.
Eleanor Tremaine
Hollywood
2010
CHAPTER ONE
BAREFOOT IN ZIHUATANEJO
Where will I begin my story?
Of course, the story really began when one of my father’s sperm cells wiggled its
little way into my mother’s ripe ovum. Because at that moment I became who and what I am.
I know that I was already, at that moment, a masochist. And, of course, I remain one to
this day.
But rather than launching this story with speculations about my parent’s love life, I
prefer to begin it some twenty four years later. For I was fully mature when I met Wanda.
And, in a sense, that was when it all began.
I was on vacation in Zihuatanejo, a tropical town on the west coast of Mexico, when I
fell in love.
* * * *
Although Zihuatanejo is physically located in a region known as the Mexican Riviera,
the town is not really a part of it.
Adjacent to Zihuatanejo is the tourist resort town of Ixtapa. It is an area of luxury
hotels where the lingua franca is not Spanish but English.
Although I was easily able to walk barefoot from Zihuatanejo to Ixtapa, and frequently
did so, the two communities are miles…leagues apart socially, economically and
culturally.
I regularly flew down to Zihuatanejo from my home in San Diego when my employer, the
San Diego Library System, saw fit to allow me a week or so’s respite from my arduous
duties as an assistant branch librarian.
The flight from San Diego to Zihuatanejo is pleasant enough, with only one stop in
Arizona.
I arrived at my destination with a suitcase full of tropical clothing, a supply of
linen rope with which to be bound, and carrying my rattan cane in hand. The better to be
beaten with.
I always stayed at the Hotel Pancho Villa, which has very low rates. I might even say
dirt cheap.
Because the place is a dump.
The hotel is only a block from La Madera Beach.
No one working at the hotel speaks a word of English. Because no Gringo (other than a
wretch like me) would ever stay at the dismal place.
My grasp of the Spanish language is adequate. I need to resort to my Spanish-English
dictionary with fair regularity to make myself understood. But I generally am able to
satisfy my peculiar needs in Zihuatanejo one way or another.
Why did I come to Zihuatanejo for my vacations? Well, chiefly to read porn, to get
whipped, abused and fucked by whores, and to jack off under the palm trees by the sea at
night.
In short, because I was into “self-abuse” in any sense you wish to take the term.
* * * *
What I appreciated about the Pancho Villa Hotel was the ease with which I could get
whores into my room. Chuy, the proprietor and desk clerk, could always get his “sister,”
his “sweetheart,” or his “neighbor’s girl” for me for twenty dollars American. He assured
me that each one was barely sixteen years old. And, of course, was a certified virgin.
In person, the “girls” looked more like I imagined Chuy’s mother, aunt or grandmother
might appear. Fat, ugly and forty plus years of age.
But I have always hated myself. I am replete with self-disgust. So I never felt I
deserved better than that.
And, let’s face it. What can one expect for twenty bucks a pop?
* * * *
I want to tell you about an encounter I had on a fateful vacation I took during my
twenty-fifth year.
Chuy sent a whore named Fulana to my room.
She was just what I needed. Fat, ugly, fortyish, with fetid breath and a bad
attitude.
I had doused myself well with cheap tequila before she arrived. With the combination
of the booze and the whore’s unattractiveness I could hardly get it up to begin with. But,
as it always did, my potency increased with hearty female abuse.
Fulana well knew what I expected from her. Chuy always prepped the whores about the
weird desires of the Gringo loco.
Fulana stepped into my room and unattractively disrobed. Her body was less than
appealing.
Without so much as a verbal greeting, she went directly to the rickety dresser in the
room and picked up the lengths of rope I had waiting for her.
Once she had the ropes in hand she deigned to cast a disdainful glance at the bed where
she knew I would be lying naked atop the sheets stroking my prick into as stiff a hard-on
as I could raise under the circumstances.
I turned over onto my stomach, placing my wrists together behind my back. My pecker
was hard enough to make me experience a bit of discomfort from the pressure on it. The
aggravation to my staff turned out to be more stimulating, sexually, than the nude woman
approaching me.
Like all the whores Chuy had ever sent me, this broad could tie a mean knot. Mexican
women of her social caste did lots of tying, tethering and wrapping with rope in their
peon lives.
Once she had immobilized my hands behind my back, she brutally yanked me up and onto my
feet by the side of the bed.
Still without muttering a word, she jerked her end of the rope down towards the floor,
forcing me onto my knees beside the bed, as though I was preparing to say my prayers.
She slammed my face onto the sheets, so my head was pressed awkwardly to the side.
She took a second length of rope, made a slipknot noose of it and circled the noose
around my neck.
Then, throwing that rope across the width of the bed, Fulana stepped around to the
other side and pulled the rope roughly so that the noose was frighteningly tight around my
throat.
She attached the rope to the creaky bedsprings, leaving me uncomfortably gasping for
breath and as securely pinioned to that ugly bed as I had ever been bound in my life.
I heard the soles of her big bare feet slapping the concrete floor as she returned to
the dresser.
I knew what she was doing. She was fetching my wondrous rattan cane.
What a work of delight is the rattan cane. For centuries it has been wielded by
sadistic schoolmasters on the exposed butts of errant schoolboys. The opportunity to beat
scholarly bottoms can be a more potent incentive for one of sadistic bent than any
monetary remuneration for the would-be teacher. Inherent sadism is a major incentive for
cruel men to enter the profession of teaching.
With my head pressed against the bed’s surface, I could not observe the expression on
Fulana’s face as she approached my bare exposed back and ass. But I summoned up visions
of cruel glee illuminating her unlovely face.
I could hardly wait for her to begin.
But Fulana hesitated, taking pleasure at the discomfort she undoubtedly knew I felt in
anticipation of the painful blows she would soon deliver to my tender naked skin.
She landed her first blow square across the middle of my buns. It was a masterful
stroke. Solid, firm and impassioned. The thwack was a physical manifestation of the
hatred, disgust and contempt she felt for the creepy Norteamericano who had flown down to
her village to get his ass walloped.
It was glorious.
Her second swipe landed directly upon the welt raised by her first smack.
Yikes!
I could tell that this woman had mercilessly beaten recalcitrant burros, disobedient
dogs and bothersome children into cringing submission to her will again and again. I had
an expert disciplinarian venting a boiling fury upon my despicable being.
What could be more perfect?
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