Lovers and mystics are familiar with this sense of grandeur, this taste of joy - in abandoning oneself to the will of others.

I wasn't young, I wasn't pretty, it was necessary to find other weapons.

The voluntary captive The speechless the prisoner Which I hide in my very depths.

Finally a woman confesses! Confess what? What women never allowed themselves to confess. What men always criticized on them: they only obey the blood and everything is sex on them, even the spirit.

Story of O is a fairy tale for another world, a world where some part of me lived for a long time, a world that no longer exists except between the covers of a book.

The fact that he gave her was to him a proof, and ought to be one for her as well that she belonged to him: one can only give what belongs to you.

O felt that her mouth was beautiful, since her lover condescended to thrust himself into it . . .