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At Roissy, O's lover whips her and uses her mercilessly - O adores him. Her lover offers O to others - she worships him. Then he gives her away to the cold and stern Sir Stephen - and O falls in love at last. When Sir Stephen puts her to work in a brothel, O faces new challenges. What is there in the world to tempt a young woman who has explored the limits of suffering, and love, and ecstasy? What does she want now? Power to rule women, power to break men. Power to wield the whip as well as revel in its sting.

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Read a Sample Chapter

The New Story of O

BLUE MOON BOOKS, INC.

Chapter One

She disdained underwear. Her stockings were held up with
garters. Beneath her clothes, her breasts, her buttocks and
her sex were naked. This had been her custom since the first
time she had been delivered to Roissy by Rene R, her lover.

With a leather handbag over her shoulder O was standing
in wait near the revolving door of one of the tall glass
structures that cluster at the outskirts of Paris: the structures
in which businessmen fuel their expansionary dreams. The
towers dominate the city as their inhabitants hope to
dominate the world.

It was the end of lunchtime, and the offices were filling
up again. On their way back to work men turned to stare
at O. That slim figure; those pale green eyes; those lips
touched with just a hint of wine-dark lipstick; she was
provocative, that was clear at a glance, and all the more so
because she seemed completely indifferent. O didn't go out
of her way to please; she didn't behave like the girls who
flirt with you in the street, who seduce you with a silent look.
O simply made herself available to everyone, as she had
learnt to do in the rooms of Roissy; it was a submissiveness
that could be taken for insolence.

Although she had previously seen him only in a secretly-taken
photograph, she recognised the man she was waiting
for among a group that was hurrying towards the lifts. He
had black and slightly curly hair, and concealed his youthful
looks behind tortoiseshell glasses. His light summer suit,
like everyone else's, was of beige flannel; like everyone else
he had one of the financial newspapers tucked under his
arm.

O fell into step behind him. As he entered one of the lifts,
O slipped in with him and pressed the button to close the
doors. They were alone together. O waited. The man began
to feel uneasy. Unnecessarily, he adjusted the knot of his
tie. O's face was averted, her eyes downcast, as if she
couldn't look at him.

'Which floor are you going to?' he asked, in a somewhat
strangled voice.

'To the top,' O answered.

The man started the lift and leant again one of its
mirrored surfaces. O stayed where she was standing, at the
other side of the cabin, straight and motionless. The man
became aware of her scent: bitter woods and marshland
herbs, a sharp and wild perfume.

Luminous numbers indicating the passing floors flickered
on the screen above the doors.

'Me too - I'm going to the top floor,' the man said. O
made no reply. He wished she would give him just one look,
just a glance to show that she knew he was there. 'The lift
takes fifty-two seconds to reach the top. And I'm afraid
that's not enough.' Then, as the young woman still said
nothing, still looked away, he added: 'That's not enough
time for me to seduce you.'

O looked up at the screen. 'You have forty seconds left,'
she said.

'Forty seconds is useless. You must give me a bit longer
than that. Have dinner with me tonight.'

'That won't be necessary,' O said. 'If you need more time,
I'll give it to you.' She reached out and pressed the red
button. The lift stopped. For the first time, O raised her
pale green eyes to look into the man's. 'There you are,' she
said.

The man looked down at her with a worried gaze. 'What
do you want?' he said.

'Nothing that you don't want yourself,' O replied; and
she placed one hand on his arm, leant towards him, and
parted his lips with her mouth. His tongue searched for hers
but she pulled away, smiled, and moved her hand down to
rest against his trousers. His manhood hardened against her
palm. The man tried to push her away, but she tightened
her grip. Her delicate fingers unbuckled his snakeskin belt;
she unbuttoned his trousers; and took his organ in her hand.

A bell started ringing: the alarm was programmed to go
off whenever the lift was stopped between floors for more
than twenty seconds. O parted her lips and brushed them
along the man's jawline.

'I had better start the lift again,' she whispered. 'But I
guarantee you'll be satisfied before we reach the top.'

The man made no reply. The lift moved, and the ringing
ceased.

O enclosed the man's stiff member in her hand and,
keeping her body a little apart from his, she alternately
pressed with her fingers and then released his flesh. He could
see into the opening of her blouse, where little beads of
perspiration were forming in the valley between her breasts.
Above the doors, the numbers continued their inexorable
parade: thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-six ... The man was
breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, and was unable to hold
back a moan. O clenched one hand round the shaft and
fondled the purple crown with the other. The man sighed
and tilted his head backwards. Thirty-eight, forty ... The
top floor was approaching. He grabbed a rail: he was
beginning to come, he could feel nothing but the young
woman's insistent fingers; and then he felt only the gushing
pleasure, the pulsing release of his orgasm. The lift stopped.
The doors opened. O left, her bag swinging from her
shoulder, giving no indication that anything unusual had
occurred.

The man was still trying to adjust his clothes when he was
blinded by a flash of light. Of course - a photograph. He
blundered out on to the landing to see who had trapped him;
but nobody was there. All the identical corridors with their
identical carpeting led to identical closed doors. The young
woman, too, had disappeared.

The man shook his head; he was angry about being caught
in a trap, and even more furious that he had failed to hold
on to the mysterious beauty whose hand had given him such
precisely timed pleasure.

As he recalled her manipulations he felt his groin begin
to tingle again. He had known quite a few prostitutes; but
not one of them had been capable of combining such sweet
dexterity with such an air of detachment. Her fingers had
played on his instrument with a virtuoso's skill; but it was
her haughtiness as she performed that obsessed him.

The man sighed, adjusted his suit, and ran his fingers
through his hair. Once again he looked like any other
businessman as he made his way to the boardroom of the
multinational conglomerate Capitol Industries.

Chapter Two

No-one knew anything about Gina's private life; but
hypotheses, suppositions and fantasies flourished at Capitol
Industries. Victor Bergil, the Marketing Director, liked to
picture his boss's secretary living with her octagenarian
mother in a gloomy, wainscoted apartment in the Avenue
Mozart. Gina's mother, Bergil imagined, was a harridan
who insisted that her daughter should return home each
evening no later than eight o'clock; and Gina's only treat
would be to accompany her mother on Saturday afternoons
to an old-fashioned patisserie near the Trocadero where,
amongst a circle of friends which diminished from year to
year, the old lady recalled the ostentatious glories of the
Third Republic.

And of course Bergil fantasised about Gina's solitary
pleasures, the lonely activities that were all the girl had to
enjoy once she had put her aged mother to bed and retired
to her own bedroom. 'I can see her,' Bergil would say, 'as
if I were watching her through the keyhole. She is coming
into the room; she is bolting the door so she can't be
disturbed. She stops in front of the mirror set in the
mahogany wardrobe. She looks at her reflection for a long
time; and then, inch by inch, she starts to remove her T-shirt.
At first she exposes only her stomach, which is flat
and smooth and freckled. She caresses the skin with her
fingertips as if she were another woman, an inexpert lover
exploring an unknown body. Then she stretches out the
material and pulls it up to uncover the generous mounds
of her bosom. She flattens her breasts with the palms of her
hands, and I see her shiver slightly. Her fingers play with
her nipples; she cups her breasts in her hands and takes each
nipple between a finger and a thumb, squeezing and twisting
the hardening tips. She releases her breasts and undoes her
skirt, which slides down her thighs. She rolls down her tights,
stopping to tousle the long curls that can clearly be seen
through the fine silk of her knickers; and then she parts her
thighs and, standing on one trembling leg at a time, she
removes the red tights. She is now naked except for her white
knickers; one hand caresses the material where it is taut
across her buttocks, while the other is imprisoned under the
silk, its painted fingernails playing with the trapped curls.
Her lips are apart; her eyes are almost closed, but not quite:
she is still watching herself in the mirror, as if she were
watching someone else, as if the reflected hand so
rhythmically moving belonged to her lover. She doesn't want
to rush things; it's important not to come too soon. Her
other hand is now inside her knickers, too, stroking her soft
cheeks, circling closer and closer to the warm haven between
her thighs. Her fingertips reach the place, they press, pinch,
pull, and almost penetrate. Quickly now, and almost
furtively, she removes the knickers. She parts the lips of her
sex, and pushes in one finger, and then two. As she twists
her body in order to see herself from every angle, her hand
diasappears into her flesh. She starts to moan, faster and
faster, in time with the thrusting of her fingers; and finally
she cries out from the depths of her soul. And with her eyes
closed at last she collapses on the bed, with one hand still
clutching the seat of her pleasure.'

This was what Victor Bergil used to say. His colleagues
listened to him with tight throats and racing pulses. Only
Moreau, the Director of Planning, remained sceptical. He
had an alternative theory: he had convinced himself that
Gina led a double life. By day she was a secretary; but at
night he imagined her a fashionable prostitute, gliding along
the Avenue Foch and round the Place de l'Etoile at the wheel
of a white Mercedes. To Moreau, it was an obvious
transformation: she didn't even need to change her clothing,
except to remove her conspicuous tights and thus expose her
rounded thighs in an invitation that nobody could resist.

And so that day, as Gina was distributing papers to the
men sitting round the table in the air-conditioned
boardroom, Gilles Moreau caught her wrist in his hand.

'Well then, Gina: how much?'

The girl decided to misunderstand the question; pushing
her breasts in front of Moreau's face, she leant forward to
point to a column of figures. 'The usual, monsieur, as you
can see.'

Bergil, jealous of his colleague's audacity, quickly
intervened: 'I have to ask myself whether these papers serve
any purpose. They always contain much the same
information.'

There was a general murmur of agreement. At Capitol
Industries lengthy meetings which meandered round every
topic were neither unusual nor taken seriously. Gina freed
her arm from Moreau's grip and said, drily: 'I was told by
Monsieur Botterweg to give the files to you. And I have to
do as he tells me.'

Moreau hefted the bundle of documents, and sighed.
Victor Bergil couldn't take his eyes off Gina's T-shirt.
He could picture her breasts: full and firm and heavy,
with a sprinkling of freckles, and tipped with thick brown
nipples. He imagined enfolding those breasts in his hands;
squeezing them, licking them, sucking them; sliding his
throbbing member up and down between them. He
groaned aloud, and was pulled back to reality by the
sharp voice of Bernard Vielle, the young scion of an old
family, who had joined the company through the old boy
network.

'The only purpose of all this paperwork is to convince
us that Botterweg earns his salary. If it weren't for the
endless bumph we might start asking what it is he actually
does with his time.'

Bergil jumped, almost as if he really had been caught
fondling Gina's breasts. 'This time, I think you'll find things
are rather different. One of these files is sealed, and marked
Top Secret.'

Gina graced him with a mischievous smile. Bergil would
no doubt have relapsed into one of his dreams about her
had he not been interrupted by Gilles Moreau's
contemptuous laugh.

'Daniel Botterweg likes nothing better than cloaking his
actions in mystery,' he said. 'But I'll tell you something else,
and unfortunately it's not "top secret": Pembroke is coming
to France. And he's coming to buy us up. If we don't defend
our position, he'll gobble up Capitol Industries - and spit
us out.'

'You worry too much,' Bergil replied. 'Pembroke Senior
was the big man, the real Pembroke; and he died five years
ago. Against him we wouldn't have stood a snowflake's
chance in hell. But we're dealing with his son; that gives us
at least some hope.'

'From what I've heard, the son is at least as formidable
as his father,' Moreau grumbled; and then the door opened,
and everyone fell silent.

The man who strolled in had had time to recover his
dignity. His face had resumed the expression of a decision-maker,
and revealed no hint of his pre-occupations or of his
encounter with O.

Gina scurried forward to hold the door for him, but he
didn't reward her with his customary appreciative glance.
He threw his papers on to the conference table.

Gina pouted. 'Everyone is present, sir,' she said.

'So I see. You can leave now,' said Henri Carel.

Henri Carel was the Chairman and Managing Director
of Capitol Industries. He had inherited an initial
shareholding, and little else, from his father. Carel Senior
had started his career as an army officer, posted to Indo-China
and then to Morocco; and he had been in North
Africa, and about to retire from military life, when he met
Jeanne Duval.
Continues...

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Excerpted from The New Story of O

Copyright © 1990 by Blue Moon Books, Inc..
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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