#verona

Verona blinked in the sudden bright light, but saw a man dressed similarly to the way the valet named Pierre had been earlier. But this was not Pierre; this man was younger, taller and more slender. He had a full head of black hair and a stern look on his face. He quickly went to the chain hanging from a ring set in the wall, several meters above the bed. The other end of the chain was attached to the ring set in the leather collar around Verona’s neck, where her hands were also secured. Pulling on the chain caused Verona to rise. She quickly got on her knees, and then as the man pulled the chain some more, she got to her feet. She stood naked, her feet on the bed, her hands at her throat as the bracelets she wore on her wrists were clamped to the ring in the collar around her neck. She looked down in fear at the valet and saw him draw a riding crop from his belt. “Turn to the wall,” he said. Then he put a foot on the bed to steady himself.

Verona heard the whistle of the crop and felt a deep burning across her buttocks. This was quickly followed by at least four more blows, each parallel to the previous. It caught Verona by such surprise that she barely had time to scream and say, “Don’t! No! Please! Please don’t! I beg you! Stop! Please!”

With her buttocks burning from the blows, the man took Verona by the hips and said, “Turn around please.” As he turned her hips so that she was facing him and her back to the stone wall of the room, she felt the crop he was holding in his hand brush against her. Then he raised the crop and brought it down hard on the front of her thighs. She screamed as the first blow struck, but again it was in vain. The valet laid four more blows on her thighs. Then he replaced the crop in his belt and loosened the chain a little so that Verona could slump down a bit. Now she was able to assume a kneeling position, but with her hands still secured above her head.

The valet stepped back and considered his work. He could see, and Verona could feel, welts already beginning to rise where she had been whipped. The valet smiled. At Verona or at his work? Then without a word, he turned and left leaving Verona softly sobbing.

1. The month started off with O being done away with. If O is dies, would this still be ‘Stories of O’?

2. Idetta has come back to the little cottage on the outskirts of Stuttgart where she had planned to retire with Hans, but Hans was killed in a car crash. What will Idetta do now?

3. Verona is now fully engaged in her attempt to do a video biography of life as a sex slave. How will this work out for her?

4. Alessa and Sutton saw a ‘friend’ of Alessa’s – golfer Chloe- on the television, and Nanny Marisol also saw another ‘acquaintance’ of Alessa’s at the zoo. Will anything come of either?

For possible answers to the above and life’s other questions, please come back in May. Until then, au revoir.

Verona’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Pierre’s voice saying, ‘Just what do we have here?” Verona looked up and saw her camera man Jacques and Frida, the junior producer who was taking Verona’s regular producer (and lover) Mathilde’s place due to Mathilde’s recovery from Covid, standing in front of a locked door. Frida, her platinum blonde hair done up in a bun, was holding both a tape recorder and notebook in her hands. Verona noticed the look of – what? Suprise? Shock? Bewilderment? - on the face of the young woman. She thought, “They have never seen me when I was unclothed. Usually dressed for my show, ’Discovery with Verona,’ or perhaps casually for rehearsals, but certainly never naked.”

Pierre said, “Who are you? And why are you here?”

Frida quickly said, “I’m the producer for Verona’s television show, and this is Jacques her camera man. Anne Marie said it would be okay for us to get Verona’s thoughts about her first night here.”

Pierre scowled. “I’m to see her to bed. I’m supposed to chain her to her bed just as if she were any other slave here at Roissy.”

Now another voice spoke. It was Anne Marie who appeared from around a corner. “It’s okay, Pierre. I told Frida that she might have a little time to capture Verona’s thoughts. Now, unlock the door and let them have five minutes to interview and film her. Then you may proceed as usual.”

Pierre replied, “Yes, ma'am,” and unlocked the door to the small, cell like room where Verona would sleep during her stay at Roissy.

Verona lay there on the marble floor, softly sobbing and whimpering, hoping the cool of the marble might soothe her tortured flesh. She was sure the whip had left welts and marks which would soon turn to purple bruises. Then Verona felt her head being lifted from the floor by someone. She turned and saw that it was one of the men who had whipped her and had taken her before that. He was till masked and had squatted down with his legs spread. Verona’s eyes were drawn to his crotch where his sex, now partially flaccid, hung down. She stared at his sex momentarily, thinking to herself, “That was inside me not long ago, thrusting and tearing at me.”

The man spoke, “We are done with you for tonight, but do not think your ordeal is over. In fact, it is just beginning. We have been told that you are some sort of video journalist who wants to explore what it is to be a sex slave. Well, your wish is to be granted. You will learn that your only purpose is to serve us. During the day you will be dressed as a Roissy slave and be given menial tasks such as cleaning and serving in the bar or restaurant. But if asked- no, if told- you will immediately cease what you are doing and give yourself to any Master who desires you. In any way, he desires. You will not be whipped except to instil discipline.” He paused, then continued, “Nights will give you no respite. In fact, you will be treated more harshly at night. Each night you will be kept naked in chains. You will serve us still, but as your hands will be chained together as they are now, you will serve us only with your mouth and your widespread thighs. And you will be whipped each night, before you are chained in your bed. Do you understand?”

Verona, still lying on the marble floor, did not answer. However, she noticed the man’s member becoming erect as he described what her life would be like at Roissy. Then the man reached down and slapped her face, saying, “Answer me! Do you understand?”

Now Verona whimpered, “Yes, Sir.”

Jacques, Verona’s long time camera man, had filmed Verona’s presentation from a quiet corner. Although Jacques liked men rather than women, he had felt himself becoming aroused watching his boss, who often treated him badly, being basically raped, whipped and humiliated. He did not speak and remained out of her sight, but thought to himself, “You are, indeed, getting what you asked for.”

Having heard Verona say that she understood the rules of Roissy and what would be happening to her, the masked man stood up and called for Collette and Claudia. He said to Verona, “These two will escort you to your room. There a valet will put you to bed.” The two women helped Verona to her feet without saying anything. Then Collette took a leash – the same leash that had been attached to Verona’s collar to lead her into the library – and reattached it to the ring in the leather collar that Verona wore around her neck. Then Collette said, “Please come with us.”

The Masters of Roissy watched as Verona was led away while Jacques filmed it.

Dani’s reverie was interrupted by a man’s voice. It was James, the valet. He said, “It’s time. Let’s get it over with. I have only an hour or so left on my shift.” Then he undid the hanging chain from the bracelets on Dani’s wrists that held her in an uncomfortable, stooped position with her hands raised behind her back. Dani, freed from this painful position, fell to the floor of the dungeon. Then James, without speaking and with one hand holding the leash that was attached to the large ring piercing Dani’s labia, took her by the shoulders and guided her up the 39 steps to the main floor of the Chateau. There he released her shoulders and said, “Your hands will remain bound behind your back, and I will lead you by the leash attached to your sex past the refectory to the whipping room. The other slaves here have been told to watch you being taken. Your Master wants you to be seen by them in order to further humiliate you.” Then he took the leash and started down the long hallway.

Albert and Charles Martel, the other two valets on duty in the refectory that morning, had assembled the other slaves – Niobe, the blonde twins Apryl and Selena, Collette, Claudia, Marloes, Jeanne, Therese, Quy, Binh, as well as Verona- to watch Dani being taken to the whipping room. Dani could feel their eyes on her. She thought, “I wonder what they are thinking. They know that I am being taken to the little room with the raised dais. There I’ll be tied spread eagle with my legs splayed open and raised, my sex visible to all. It’s so humiliating to be watched while I am taken there, especially the way I am being led – like an animal on a leash.”

And some of the girls were, indeed, aghast at the sight of poor Dani being led that way. But some had other feelings – perhaps jealousy or envy. As Dani passed by, Collette leaned over to Jeanne and whispered in her ear, “Watch and just think, that may be you the next time.” To which Jeanne replied, “If that is what Louis wants of me.” Hearing this, Marloes just shook her head.

James led Dani into the whipping room. Unlike the music room at Anne Marie’s the walls were not lined with cork. Instead, the wall directly in front of the raised dais had a very large mirror hanging from a hook. “James said to Dani, “That’s so you can see yourself open and being whipped.” Then he had Dani sit on the dais. First, he unclipped her hands from behind her back, only to secure them to rings set at the head of the dais opposite the mirrored wall. Then, one at a time and using the bracelets on her ankles, James bound her legs to the small posts on either side of the dais. Only after doing so, did he unhook the metal dog leash from the ring piercing her labia. Then with a flourish of his hand, he waved at the mirrored wall where Dani could see herself open, the smaller chain from her pierced cervix hanging from her vagina, and said, “Behold, the lovely lady!”

While Dani, chained in the dungeon below Chateau Roissy, had no way of knowing it was dawning, Verona watched the morning sunlight gradually brighten in the basement window set high above the little fit covered platform that served as her bed. She was still in a kneeling position with her hands bound to the chain looped around a ring set in the stone wall. Earlier was it an hour, two hours, it seemed a lifetime ago- a valet had come into her room, hauled her to her feet, and flogged her. After he left, Verona had tried to ease the burning pain in her buttocks and thighs by pressing against the cool stone of the wall. It had helped a little and she had dozed some. But now she was awake and wondered what would happen next. Suddenly, Verona heard the door to her mall, cell like room being opened. “Oh my God!” she thought. “Another flogging?” But when the door opened, she saw two small women come in. They were both dressed in dull grey sack dresses, not naked as was Verona. A veritable giant of a man, dressed in clothes similar to that worn by Pierre and the valet who had flogged her earlier came in behind them. Verona blinked and looked at the naked girls. They appeared to be Asian.

In fact, they were. It was Bihn and Quy. Both had been at Roissy for over a year. Binh’s mother was Vietnamese, her mother being the daughter of refugees who had come to France after the disaster at Din Bihn Phi. Her father was French, while little Quy was full blooded Vietnamese. The two were often taken for sisters, although upon a closer look, they were not all that similar

One of them said in her sing song voice, “I am Quy, other girl is Binh. Time to get up. You no be a lay a bed whore. Time go to work. Kitchen floor need mopping. Hammer Ong take you squat. Then we mop.”

Verona blinked, uncomprehending. She said, “I don’t understand.”

Then the other Vietnamese girl spoke in slightly better French. “Hammer Ong will take you to the toilet area, then we you will help us mop the kitchen, then later we will dress you, and you will report to your duty in the library.”

Now, Verona remembered what she had been told last night. She thought to herself, “I remember one of the men telling me that I would do domestic duties while here at Roissy, nothing too strenuous – light housekeeping, sweeping, dusting and such- but my main duty was to be available to anyone, a Master or a guest at any time.” To Binh she said, “Okay. But who is this Hammer Ong?”

Before Binh could answer, Quy giggled, jerked a thumb at the giant man standing behind her and said, “This Hammer Ong. He take you to squat.” Again, Verona cast a confused look. Binh spoke, “In our language, the word for man is ‘nguoi dan ong,’ literally ‘human man.’ The valet’s name is Charles Martel. The Masters call him Charles the Hammer after some famous French king, but we call him Hammer Ong because he has a member like a hammer. Quy giggled again, and the valet smiled broadly and grabbed at his crotch, saying, “I’ll show you later. But now, it’s time for you to go to the toilet. Come on, let’s go.”

With Binh and Quy following them, Charles the Hammer led Verona down a hallway to the same bathing and toilet area where she had been the previous night. Again, she squatted over the Turkish toilet and saw herself exposed in the mirrors that lined the area. She tried not to watch as an infinity of images of her emptied her bladder reflected in the mirrors. Quy giggled again, “You sure pee a lot.”

Afterwards, the valet escorted the three women, Verona still naked, to the kitchen. There Binh went to a closet and selected three mops. She gave one to Verona and said, “After we mop the floor, we’ll go back to your room and get you dressed for your shift in the library.”

Qué quieres, el amor pide calle, pide viento, no sabe morir en la soledad. Detrás de este triste espectáculo de palabras tiembla indeciblemente la esperanza de que me leas, de que no me haya muerto del todo en tu memoria-“Ciao, Verona”, Papeles Inesperados.

I’ve had my share of awful transit stories – missed flights in the Arabian Gulf, buses taking 36 rather than 24 hours in Africa, sitting for three hours in between two obese men on a small car seat in India, and the infamous never-ending saga of getting into and out of Angel Falls. However, I never quite broke down like I did this past weekend in Northern Italy.

The trip had a foundation of mistaken itineraries and so I shouldn’t have been too surprised at what would end up happening. You see, I had to be in Austria for a week of work training, but some colleagues and I decided to go to Venice and Ljubljana for a few days before it. So, I emailed my travel team and said, “Please book me Abu Dhabi to Venice and then Munich to Abu Dhabi” and I gave them specific flight times and numbers. They responded saying “attached is itinerary as requested, booked but not issued, please confirm for issuance.” I of course responded “Get it!”.

Only about a month later did I realize that they had accidentally booked Abu Dhabi to Venice and then Venice to Abu Dhabi… and I didn’t correct it.

I tell myself that I’ll get it changed later and I take off for the first flights out: Abu Dhabi to Amsterdam to Venice. I have a short layover in Amsterdam so I run through the airport and am lucky to make it to the gate 20 mins before it closes. However, my boarding pass won’t work.

Confused, I ask, “What’s wrong?” and they respond “We thought you wouldn’t make your connection so we changed your ticket.”
Flabbergasted I demand “But I did make it- let me on…”
“Oh but your baggage won’t- that’s why…”
“I’m ONLY carrying on!!!”

And so it continues as I glare unendingly at this not-too-understanding KLM representative. She explains that they’ve rebooked me on a plane nine hours later… but that I can maybe get on the back of the waitlist of one earlier. No, even though it was their fault for pre-maturely rebooking me, I can’t get priority on the earlier one. I sulk away- with my angrily demanded €10 for food and drink and €50 voucher for future flights (which are so hard to use I know I never will), and quickly spend the money on a beer and a sandwich- at 8:30am.

I do end up getting on the earlier flight via waitlist- some Nigerian guy brought his bag to the gate with his friend but then disappeared. The friend put up a fight for the plane to wait- but it didn’t- so I took his seat. I could only imagine him sitting on the toilet not knowing how late he was. One man’s mistake is another man’s opportunity I guess! (As you will see, karma later ate me for this thought)
Remember, getting to Europe was not the purpose of this story – though frustrating, it compares only mildly to what happened when I tried to leave.

At the beginning of training I email the travel team asking them how much it would cost to switch my flight out as the faculty had told me it was fine to charge the change, since it wasn’t fully my fault. However… it was impossible. Because my departure flights had been rebooked, I could not change the return ones- even though the rebooking was against my will. The travel team would have to contact the airline directly to change it, and once they did so, they informed me it would cost over a thousand dollars- much too much for the training to pay.

Realizing that my training ended in Kitzbuhel on Friday at 12:15 and my flight back to the Emirates left Venice on Saturday at 5:45, I thought to myself “What is an obsessive journeyer like me supposed to do with these 30 hours?” Answer: Go to San Marino, of course, the tiny mountain nation located within Italy (notice I didn’t write “mountainous” as San Marino is literally just one mountain).

My reasoning for this was that Austria to San Marino was 7 hours and Austria to Venice was also 7 hours. So why not go somewhere new? Of course, then getting from San Marino to Venice would be 3-4 more hours on Saturday, but hey- I had nothing better to do and I love nothing more than sitting in a train or bus and watching the scenery go by (keep in mind here that at night you can’t see this scenery so train / bus travel becomes significantly less exciting).

When training ended promptly at 12:15pm, I quickly grabbed my bags to get to the waiting car. I had to get to the train station in Innsbruck before the train left 1hr and 15 mins later. The drive takes 1hr and 5mins. I jump in the car and say “let’s go!” The seemingly kind (to everyone but me in my hectic state) said that no, someone else had joined my itinerary once they heard there was a car going to Innsbruck- we had to wait.

Seven minutes pass before we see the other passenger. Who might it be? The girl I shamelessly hit on at the drunken dance last night, of course. But not the normal, “hey, you wanna dance?” More like the kind of hit on where no less than nine of your friends act as wingmen /women, getting others away from her (not always peacefully), creating diversions of jealousy, and bringing the both of you drinks (remember we’re strategy consultants- we problem solve everything)… only to find out that she has a boyfriend hours later.

I mutter some rude things under my breath for her tardiness and how I will now miss the train and must take a later one (arriving at 10pm rather than 7pm). I call the B&B I’ve booked in San Marino and inform them that I’ll be late and to please stay up. They say it will be fine- and we’re off. The conversation was humorous and candid- unpacking all the events of last night: why all my friends got involved, how it was completely unknown she had a boyfriend, and ending friendly.

Then, the driver (who probably thought we were insane) announced that we might just make it in time! He had been going through these curvy mountain roads at a pace that made the both of us question our choice of filling our stomachs with only liquid poison the night before. We arrive with a few minutes to spare, I run through the station and make it on the train! Success! I will be in San Marino for dinner! Or so I thought…

A few calm and beautiful hours later I arrive in Verona- my first connection. I have some time, so I go and charge my devices, buy some headphones, and grab a Panini. I look at the board which says the 11:50 departure is from Platform 12. I make my way there, wait twenty minutes and then board the train that will take me to my next stop (and my father’s birth place) Bologna.

An hour into the ride, when we should be nearing Bologna, I get up from my seat, push through the crowded aisle and stand by the door. But Bologna doesn’t come when it should. Instead, “Ala” does. I know something is wrong- I pull out my phone’s GPS and it says I’m way too North. “Hmmm, stupid Blackberry” I think to myself before seeing that the next stop is “Trento.” I am DEFINITELY not on the right train.

In a daze I jump off at Trento, run to the departures board and see that there is another train going to Bologna from there…but it is a slow regional one, and won’t even arrive until 10:25. From Bologna I still have to get to Rimini (another hour) and then take a cab to San Marino (25 mins.) If I’m lucky, I’ll be at the B&B at midnight.

I’m physically tired (no sleep the night before), mentally exhausted (intense training and lots of travel), and sad (after a week of constant team camaraderie, I’m alone) and I don’t know what to do. I weigh my options of just taking a hotel in Trento vs trying to make it to San Marino. Reasons to stay: I’m exhausted and with new tickets and hotel room- it may be more expensive. Plus I know of no hotels and can’t find any quickly online. Reasons to go: New place, I’m young and can handle tiredness, I already have the hotel booked.

I do what I’ve come to do best- sit down on the train to Bologna and passively (through indecision) decide to go to San Marino.

In addition to the map feature, the best part about having a business phone while traveling is global data access. I message my sisters with my predicament and get some good encouragement that at least puts a small smile on my shocked face and makes me feel less isolated. Then, as I sit, close to exhausted tears, an older woman places herself down next to me and asks where the train is going – I answer in my best Italian- and we’re off. I try to sleep, and though she is humming a sweet lullaby (like a little angel sent to me)- I’m too upset realizing I’ll be at least 5 hours late.

When the train gets to my original place of mistake, Verona, it stops- there is a 90 minute wait before it will depart (hence the 5 hours delay even though I only went 1 hour out of my way). I go to the train schedule to see my mistake- and there it is, the ONLY time in the entire day when two trains depart at the exact same minute from Verona (in the exact opposite direction) was the time I needed to be more attentive.

Oh well- here I am. I call the B&B again to say I’ll be in at midnight and she says it’s fine- informs me on how to get into the place, that her old father will be awake, and that the taxi will cost about €25-30. I think that €1 per minute sounds obnoxious- but whatever, I’ve missed the buses.
When the slow regional train once again moves away from Verona- I’m excited to at least be on my way. An hour later, I arrive in Bologna- having only 5 mins to find my way to Platform 3. Luckily- I arrive on Platform 2! So all I have to do is walk down the Platform to where I see the train at the end.

When I get there, I push to open the door- but nothing happens… I try again- but still nothing. I move to another carriage, and it also won’t budge. Frantically I look up, searching for any sign of hope- but only despair comes. Bologna has two Platform 3s- one East and one West. I run, but I can’t make it- I see my train leave me (not only the station)- and begin to wait the 35 minutes for the next one.

By then, I’ve accepted my fate- knowing I will now arrive at 1am- really hoping that old man isn’t staying up only for me. I get on the train to Rimini, remember nothing of it, and then get off and quickly find a cab. I tell him “San Marino” and show him a photo of a map I’ve taken on my Iphone- and one final time for the night, I’m off!

Soon however, I begin to get worried. The taxi meter is rising much faster than would make sense for a €25 euro ride that takes 25 minutes… by the time we cross the little border (just a small sign, not even a line on the road) it is already at €40. “Okay, we’ll be there soon” I tell myself- not realizing that we still have to zig-zag up the mountain, as I had booked a room in the Old City Center. When the meter hits €50 though, I start to get worried, I pull out my wallet and see €65… I really hope we’re close.

When we finally arrive- the ride cost €63 (nearly $90). I’m shocked by the event, but not it’s placement in this awful day- and am just ready to be in my bed. The cab driver kindly spends 5 minutes trying to find the way into the B&B before the old man comes out. I check in, carry my bag up two flights of stairs, and pass out in a bed that I might normally be a bit fussy about. However, I was too happy to finally have arrived and looking forward to the next morning in this quaint little nation.

Does the story end here? No- not really. When I wake up the next morning I go and have the second “B” in this B&B arrangement- as was the first, this was quite average- tea with corn bread, sweet cake, and a croissant. It’s like they weren’t sure which bread option I preferred and decided to give me them all. I then stroll to the tourist center which was only a minute away as I want both to know when the bus leaves (I was told “regularly”) and to get a visa stamp (even though it’s Schengen area, you can get your passport stamped for €5- why not?).

The lady at the center may have been surprised I didn’t react more when she told me that on weekends the buses are “less regular” perhaps “infrequent” even and that I had only 90 minutes to catch the next one, and only one that would get me to my flight in Venice on time. But rolling with the punches, I got directions to where it left, asked what I could see on the way, and headed back to the hotel to grab my bag.

Inquisitive as to why I was leaving so early, the old man kindly checked me out and pointed me on my way. I had about an hour for a 25 minute walk, so I went slowly, taking pictures, finding a postcard (only one place sold them!) to send to my niece, and making quick observations on the way this strange but nice place functions. Maybe I’ll return one day- for more than a rest and a stroll, but if not- I do feel like I got my San Marino experience, and I quite enjoyed it.

After making it to the bus, the rest of the journey all the way back to Abu Dhabi is without note. A beautiful bus ride through literally all of San Marino, a couple easy trains, some pasta in the airport, status lounge Bloody Mary in Amsterdam, watching Frozen on the plane, and some traffic on arrival in the Emirates are the few blips I can recall. And now, I’m sitting comfortably on my recliner – taking a little break from work as my boss for the week reviews the document I’ve sent him.

You see, it’s crazy to think of the dynamic nature of comfort, and even crazier to think of how it is mentally controlled and sometimes chosen as an externality of other priorities. When I first knew I missed that train and found out I had 5 (who knew 6) hours left of my journey, I might have felt like those hours would be eternity- never imaging how I would happily be writing about them now. Nor did I fully know that my sister’s kind encouragement or that stranger’s soft lullaby would make the discomfort bearable. Even more, would I have picked to go to San Marino if I knew it would take 13 hours? Of course not, but once it did – I was fine, and it still felt worth it.

You never know how hard you’ll have to work for things in life, you don’t know who will help you or what will stand in your path, and you can certainly never imagine what you’ll give up or gain on the way. What you can do, is to appreciate whoever and whatever comes along and be thankful for the planned and unplanned lessons and experience that life offers you.

San Marino’s largest tower

Oh, what magic these places hold that I’m drawn to them with the desire to idly roam and dwell amidst them.