More of "Fall in Chastity"

Venus in Furs and how kink can be romantic.

Photo by Nick Nice on Unsplash

It was the book Venus in Furs, published in 1870, that first captured straight male masochism.

It’s not just that the book was written by the man who gave his name to masochism — Leopold von Sacher-Masoch — it’s that it is about more than merely taking a beating from a woman.

Venus in Furs is a love story, or perhaps a story of a botched love affair.

Though it has its kinky moments — for example, Wanda conveniently has some African maids who can torture Severin in in narrative summary and there’s a lot of fuss about whipping — most of the action is intimate, with some implied tormented embraces, and him sleeping at her feet.

Shorn of the fantastical elements, it perfectly captures the doomed relationship between a dominant woman with moral qualms and no real reference points, and a malesub, also with no real reference points.

Wanda teases him with her furs, professes confusion at his request to be her slave, but seems to enjoy it. The problem is, she doesn’t really know what to do with the relationship.

Severin, meanwhile, is really a slave looking for a mistress, but not just any mistress: she has to be worthy. Like Wanda, he doesn’t really know what to do with the relationship. It doesn’t help that for him, the ultimate expression of his masochism is to be betrayed… which is what he gets.

At the end of the book, he makes an interesting observation that maybe reveals the real problem with being a masochist in the 19th century:

…woman, as nature has created her, and man at present is educating her, is man's enemy. She can only be his slave or his despot, but never his companion. This she can become only when she has the same rights as he and is his equal in education and work.

OK, let’s take a moment to appreciate the angry despotic women with whips!

Now, having gotten that out of the way, think about the dynamics.

He’s overstating the case for dramatic effect. These words are from a character in a novel. In reality, there were some well-documented 19th century marriages based on mutual respect and companionship, for example Mr and Mrs Beeton (yes, the name does sound like a Victorian flagellation specialist), and we can guess a significant minority of marriages were like that at least behind closed doors.

However, the fact remains that under patriarchy, female power almost entirely relies on male acquiescence. A real life Wanda had nothing to fall back on, no separate source of power, no strong negotiating position. Severin could never be 100% sure she was truly enthusiastic about the dynamic, and she could never feel that her choices were truly unconstrained, or that there wouldn’t be sudden payback.

So, now, here we are in the 21st century. Equality in marriage is the default assumption, and companionship the expectation. It turns out that that this actually makes it easier for her to turn despot, and him slave. Masochism is revealed as one half of the love language of Femdom.

The suffering is still contingent, but on consent. The commitments are revocable, but with implied relationship costs. That’s probably an ethical sweetspot, and practically speaking, I think, its as good as it gets.

However, it’s intriguing to take Venus in Furs a step further and explore how that love language might play out in a world where the power exchange is still consensual, but commitments are not revocable.

And permanent chastity is interesting because it creates a power imbalance that the sufferer carries from relationship-to-relationship. David — the Severin of my story — can’t not be erotically enthralled by the women he meets, so must guard his affections. Any woman he falls for will automatically have power over him.

How will that play out?

---

Fall in Chastity continued…

"It's no good!" said David, lowering his camera. After fifteen minutes of trying, the frustration had become too much for him... but then it was good to be frustrated by something other than the hardware installed in his groin.

Heather twisted in the armchair and she was a dream of the mountains in her earth-toned sweater dress. Her voluptuous lips formed into a slight pout. "What's the matter?"

David's caged cock throbbed and his chaste collar suddenly felt too tight. He wanted to tug at the bulletproof glass band, but that would mean drawing attention to the fact it was still there, concealed beneath the roll-neck of his jumper.

"Seriously," she said. "What's the matter?"

So much for his respite! David swallowed and forced himself to ignore the bleak tide of hopeless lust rising from between his legs. "You're sitting like a manikin. Too stiff. Should we put more peat on the fire?"

Heather pulled at her knitted sleeve. "I'd just overheat." He sighed. "Really, I'm just feeling self-conscious. I used to use..."

"Henry the Cat as a model. I know." That came out sounding bitter.

"Oh? Don't you like Henry?"

David laughed. "Maybe I just feel envious of him. He got to live a normal cat life." He didn't want to say it, so changed tack. "He didn't have to hide out here in the back of beyond."

Her dark eyes twinkled. She dimpled. "Well I did have him neutered --- otherwise he'd be the one in the back of beyond, doing boy cat stuff like..." She blushed. "You know."

"I'm not sure I do any more." David shrugged. "OK. It's getting dark. The rain's cleared up a little. Let's try sunset in the window nook. You don't have to show your face. Maybe that will help."

Heather heaved herself out of the deep vintage arm chair, padded over to the window seat that pierced the thick walls of the old cottage. She paused to arrange some cushions with knitted covers.

"Yours?"

She nodded. "You can tell?"

"They're vintage without being vintage. That seems to be your style."

She gave a little squeak of pleasure that reminded him of the sound she'd made when he'd slid his fingers inside her that crazy day on the shore...

She flashed a wide smile. "You have a good eye for a grumpy old artist."

"Less of the old." David waved his fingers. "Come on, up you get."

Another delightful pout. "Bossy." She clambered up to sit across the bench with the red sky behind her. She wedged herself into the space, knees bent. The hem of the sweater dress fell away to reveal the tops of her soft woollen stockings and three fingers of pale thigh.

It was like being punched in the groin. David twitched back. His walking socks that served as slippers skidded. He flailed, nearly dropped his camera. "Fuck!"

She turned to give him a sharp look. "Language!" Then she saw where his gaze was. Smiling slyly, she drew back one knee and slid a foot up the inside of the window nook, exposing even more thigh. "Do socks really do that to you?"

His collar seemed to shrink around his throat. It was hard to think over the throb of the blood in his ears. "Stockings," he managed.

"But my legs are fat."

David took a drunken step forward, realised he had no idea what he was doing. "Curves."

"You know you're becoming very monosyllabic," she said. She put the leg down, arranged her hem more decorously. "Why don't you hand me my mug?"

After some good shots, the rain picked up and she pronounced the hot chocolate "too cold". He followed her toward the kitchen, but she dived off into what had once been a child's bedroom --- maybe a girl, judging from the faded Wonder Woman posters. The bed seemed vaguely too long, as if it were a custom size. It was covered in neatly folded knitted garments.

"Quick change," she said.

David started to turn away.

Heather whipped the sweater dress over her head. Her dark tresses fell back over an expanse of inviting white flesh, all the way to her bra strap. And there was her plump bottom, barely constrained by her little black panties, and her soft thighs and the curves of her stocking-clad calves.

The blood went out of David's brain and drained into his caged groin. He swayed and lent on the door frame.

Heather pulled on a different sweater dress, primped her hair and turned back to him.

David tried to muster an apology for watching while she changed.

"What do you think?" she said, smoothing down the new garment which was tantalisingly shorter than the first one, coming to just above her knees.

"Oh. Looks great..."

David was still hard in his cage while he documented her making hot chocolate in her stockinged feet, all for the benefit of the internet.

And he was still hard when Heather closed the curtains against the weather then settled back into the old armchair by the fire.

She seemed more relaxed now, playful even, as she posed pretending to knit and read, and finally sip her drink.

David managed until she licked cream off her lips. He was kneeling to get the shot. Now he lowered his camera and sank down to sit on his heels while the wind howled in the chimney.

Heather contemplated him with her big dark eyes. "Is your wife a Virago like my friend Shona?"

"Ex," said David, feeling his groin slacken. It should have been a relief, but it felt like a hot water bottle going cold. "We've been separated for... years," he said. "I can call her my ex."

"So is she?"

"My ex? Yes. A Virgo? Yes. A Virago, though...?" David thought for a moment. "I'm not sure."

"Why on earth did you agree to..." She leaned forward and pointed at his groin. "...you know?" she whispered.

"She was my first love," said David. "And we only ever..." Suddenly the fire seemed too hot. Who was he kidding. She knew about the collar. He took off his jumper. "She was --- is --- religious. She didn't want to use a coil or pill, and didn't want to trust condoms until she was established in her career... just in case..." He couldn't meet her gaze, found himself staring at her deliciously curved stockinged feet. "It all made sense at the time."

Heather stretched one softly-sheathed leg, pointed her toes. It was close enough he could smell the wool. Dare he lean over and kiss it?

"It doesn't sound entirely crazy," she said. "I mean, I suppose it's a bit like a woman getting the coil fitted, only on the outside."

"They're really very..." He wanted to say different, because they were, damn it. But somehow frustration about her wrong-headedness mingled with his sexual frustration, and it was hard to think. "I mean... that's one way to look at it."

She withdrew the foot. "So what went wrong?"

"Her career took off. She was always off at glamorous receptions and making work trips and she didn't include me in, just wanted me waiting at home. And I was fine with it, proud of her, until I realised she was cheating on me."

"But, CARGO marriage?" said Heather.

David shrugged. "She hadn't asked for financial control, so it was OK to leave. I've never seen somebody so angry." He touched his glass collar and made himself look her in the eye. "Anyway, as long as I'm officially a Chaste, I can go straight back to normal when she finally grants me a divorce."

He held his breath, waiting for her to tell him what an idiot he was.

The fire hissed. Rain rattled the window.

"You poor, poor thing," she said. "You must have loved her very much. Oh hang on --- she was your first love. Does that mean you're a ... you've never had... never done it?"

David stifled a sob. Some how this sweet girl saying it out loud made it worse.

"Come here," she said. She patted her lap as if he were a cat. "Have a cuddle."

He shuffled forward, nuzzled his head onto her thighs, wept.

Heather stroked his hair. "There... there... there..."

He was suddenly aware of her body heat on his cheek, the proximity of his face to her crotch, the musky feminine scent teasing his nostrils. Like a chained monster, his lost penis heaved awake in its prison. He shuddered.

"What's the matter?"

He raised his head a little. "This has... um... stopped being comforting."

"Perhaps you need a different sort of comfort," she said. "Get off a moment." He knelt away and she deftly fished under her sweater dress to remove her panties --- evidently it was easier without walking boots on. Then she settled back into the old arm chair, spread her stockinged legs and rested her plump feet on his shoulders.

A vista opened up before him: grey cashmere curves suddenly giving way to welcoming white thighs, and there between them in the dim light under her woollen dress, her pubic bush, as thick and luxuriant as her hair, but curly.

David's chastity cage became a barbed wire tourniquet. He whimpered and turned his face away, but that just meant brushing his cheek against the soft material of her stockings.

She let out an amused squeak. "Oh, what's the matter now?"

David shuddered. "I can't. I'll go mad."

"Aren't I worth it? Besides..." He could practically hear the pout. "Won't you go a little bit mad wondering what you missed?" A soft foot turned his head.

David closed his eyes. "I can't look."

"Oh, too bad then." Both feet withdrew.

"No!" He opened his eyes.

(Don’t miss the latest episide of Shona’s Surprising Slave!)