0,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
At Velvet Mexico, a publishing house specializing in lesbian erotica, writers must prove that they live what they write about, under the watchful eye of the sophisticated editor, Claudia, and her two partners, Gabrielle and Sybil, who impose unique and relentless rules.
When Elena—a passionate fan, bank employee, and lover of her boss Luca—agrees to cross the threshold of their exclusive club, she immediately understands that there, "personal attention" comes before Ronsard, Villon, or Sartre. From that moment on, the boundary between literature and desire dissolves, revealing a new and disturbing reality to her.
By declaring herself a lesbian to join the club, Elena loses all peace: she finds herself trapped in a relationship of total submission, which envelops her twenty-four hours a day. If Luca's sudden absence—he has gone on vacation with his wife—gives her a moment's respite, Lorenzo, a colleague who, having discovered the truth, demands that she always be at his disposal, suffocates her.
And when Lorenzo forces Elena to involve Elisa—Roberto's girlfriend, but secretly in love with her—in their perverse game, roles explode, identities blur, and masks fall. Between forbidden workshops, symbolic trials, and marks engraved on the skin, Elena enters a world where lesbian, straight, submissive, or dominant are just disguises to be worn and destroyed.
A profound and disturbing novel, suspended between Nietzsche and Sartre, in which the characters lay bare their humanity.
“Beneath the erotic surface, it is a reflection on existence and identity. The characters, initially caricatures, gradually become complex human figures, marked by the anxiety of living and the desire for definition.”
— Jo Motta, Independent Criticism
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
Ähnliche
Branded
Indice dei contenuti
Branded
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
punti di riferimento
Pagina del titolo
Indice dei contenuti
Inizio libro
Branded
Velvet Mexico
@2025 Sandra Voss
All Rights Reserved
1
Elena
My director, Luca, called me into his office at the bank. We talked for ten minutes. He tells me that I need to be taught, that if he were not there, or if any of my other superiors were, I would lose my organizational ability. All my security comes from the fact that he is there. I am forced to admit that what he says is right. I need guidance from someone whose mind is more mature than mine, because I feel lost in life. I hide this feeling behind my job, my authority here at the bank. But my impetus to grow and live intensely is through the roof. I cannot resist; I want to realize myself, be a good employee, and feel love and affection. We were talking when he stood up, looked around, then came up behind me and pushed me toward the desk. He rests his hands on my hips. I feel his breath on my neck. He tells me that the two of us live an ideal love, because I had hurt him in the beginning when he thought I wanted a committed relationship and not casual sex. On the other hand, I had frightened him because I was always asking him about Giovanna, his beautiful blond wife, and his three children. This caused him to regurgitate a sense of guilt that blocked him in bed. He tells me that he had even secretly gone to a psychologist because he believed he had suddenly become unfit to procreate. He had blamed his wife for this, considering her, in turn, infertile. Secondly, he had accused me that he was, and out of some revenge, I had made him impotent. "If with three children you doubt your generative power, then why do you make me take all those precautions and control me and your wife with a rod?" I tell Luca, then say, "I have never failed you, and I don't think your wife has failed you. Instead of blaming us, wait, you'll recover, yours is a momentary drop in desire." Perhaps this is the obstacle that stands in the way: he wants the obedient little wife who procreated his offspring when he is with me; however, he wants the prostitute he sees in me, and who I will always be to him. A rebellious angel plunged into the underworld like a Titan sunk by Zeus into the depths of Tartarus.
I can't help but think of Joan. I've seen her a couple of times in the photos on Luca's smartphone. Slender, her gaze direct and determined, her voice clear when she calls him. I wished she would come into my room when I was with Luca, surprise us, give me a nod, and I would run to her, mortified to ask her forgiveness, her hair unkempt, ready to be spanked by her like an unruly schoolgirl. "You know I would love to be spanked by your wife. Maybe she should be the one to direct me, to set me straight a little," I told Luca.
Throughout the week, I did not see Luca, but I continued to show cheerfulness, and my serenity remained intact. I promised myself that. Then, on Friday night, he came by my house and said, "Do you realize that my wife has kept me caged up all week? Why don't you complain that you feel neglected, like they all would?" We smiled; my indifference to him had annoyed him. Our quarrels pounce on us at the least expected times; they are harsh and emotionally strong. "Your wife keeps you on a leash because you let her hold you, don't you think of me waiting for you?" I tell him furiously. We seem to release the winds from their wineskin, and they blow brutal and furious between us, making us wild. "You don't understand me! You're the bitch, you demand too much of me!" he retorts. Our emotions fly, we undress, but are we calmer when this happens? Reconciled, we become lambs again, but there is a sense of desperation in this tranquility. Anger is in violence as in love, he says. The obstacle before us is a mountain I cannot climb to reach the fertile valley of freedom. I tell him that he has Joan, and I have no one. I don't tell him that I'd like to attend some Eyes Wide Shut-style private couples' party I've come across on the internet. He could take me there; I know him so well that I could easily pass for Giovanna, which he would not even notice. I even imagined he would take us both together. I call Luca "the boss," since in his office, even with me, he acts like one. The bank branch is inside an old, refurbished building. I enter through the side porch and have the impression of being absorbed in a space-time bubble. The street runs alongside, the bank mirrors itself with the glass windows from the steel shutters always down, as it might mirror itself in a pitch swamp. The cars follow one another, and the noises sound like sudden blasts of a roaring, gale-force wind. The whole environment seems to have a life of its own, separate from that of the village. The building was constructed in the Umbertine era. It has that classic essentiality that sets it apart, making it spartan and ghostly. The hamlet is just four steps away, but even after arriving there, the immersion continues. It becomes even more panicky: narrow alleys, walls flush with the street. The atmosphere is gloomy thanks to the stone-columned medieval arcade and dark caverns outlining the entrances to the houses. The ghost of the municipal building suddenly appears on the small square, taking your breath away. It was an old nunnery. I don't criticize Luca on the job; I know he gets irritated if I do. He tells me to shut up, that he is the boss, my little Caesar. I would stab him if I rebelled. I'm sure he would die of sorrow if I questioned what he does. We both accepted the iron hierarchy of the subsidiary, the fiery mistress, as a possible alternative. The lack of purpose and the fact that we don't love each other have become the bridge that unites our lives.
He tells me that I reserve pleasure for my mental games, for when I watch tantalizing videos alone and work out daring fantasies in my mind. While he notices how much displeasure the incidents between us cause him, when he scolds me in the office for a job I wanted to do on my own, without following his orders perfectly. Then I play the schoolgirl in front of the strict teacher, a part I always do very well, according to him. But my sexual thoughts, I direct them in every way to him. I want a man to dominate me completely, in my fantasy as in my life, to feel the crushing weight of his orders, the discomfort of dominance teasing my skin. Luca can't; all he does is think out loud the same things I dream of. A desperate need to fulfill myself in other directions. He was surprised when he told me he would like to handcuff me. He had even searched the sites for a pair of handcuffs. In shiny, clean nickel metal, with a chain, water-resistant, just the way he liked them. His altered tone of voice struck me; his lip twitched in satisfaction I had never seen on his face. "I can even take you to one of those parties you were talking about, I'll pass you off as my wife," he said. "Handcuffed?!" I asked him. "No, you keep them in your purse. I put them on you at the climax. Everyone can have you," he replied. "Front or back?" He broke down; he didn't know either. His thoughts about it were superficial, his fantasies weak. We mutually agreed that he would handcuff me behind my back. "I would be more surprised and feel more at the mercy of others, like knowing I'm your wife," I tell him. But it's no use; his astonishment at admitting that he had such thoughts toward me, toward women in general, had stunned him. I expected it, but I feel pity for his inner conflict. It occurs to me that he must have thought the same thing about Joan; this must have left him dumbfounded. How can I protect our non-love but, at the same time, not traumatize him when his inner nature is revealed? I asked him to excuse my desire for transgression; I should feel fulfilled because I have him. The fact that I am not enough demoralizes him; the male in him rebels like a chained giant. He would be willing to do anything to free himself and have me just for him. My thoughts sail far away; he cannot reach them. I am sorry, he becomes tender as a lover, though he knows better than that. He makes stratospheric promises of fun, but I don't accept. Our discussion ends on the slimy, vomitous asphalt tongue of the street. In the face of Martyrs' Square, with the shadowy avenue where the ghosts of the inhabitants of a time stroll. Centuries-old trees with tormented trunks, huge, planted on either side of the square, once intended for military exercises, testify to our nothingness—the pulverization of us in the passage of centuries. We are ghosts in our own right; the chasm of time will swallow us up, and we will fade away.
I proposed that we take a break; it could do us both good. I would focus on my fantasies on the Internet, chatting with strangers, since it is easier for me to reveal my intimate things to them than to him. They couldn't see us, and at the same time, in our clandestine encounters, we showed the experiences that were consummated practically under each other's eyes. Or let him be good to his wife for a while. He would return the model husband, while I would stay on break and be an exemplary employee. The idea that I would turn into a nun from the sexual side didn't convince me, and he didn't believe it either. I was only asking for time to deal with the relationship into which we had launched ourselves and which now seemed to be imprisoning us. He refused and told me that he couldn't bear not to see me anymore, just now that he was on a course with Joan. "Our mistake was to run too far, orgies, handcuffs, you were subdued by the group at a party. They raise issues that we are not able to deal with," he told me. I understood him; he was weak because Joan was sulking at him. He suspected the existence of another woman in his life, and he had put all his energy into showing her that he loved only her. Which, in fact, might well have been true, since she did not love me, nor I her. For my part, I felt in the same condition as he did. We decided to get close again and take pleasure in this, living not from fantasies to want to fulfill, but from the moment. The fleeting moment we can never catch, while unrealized thoughts murmur maliciously. We decide to give each other time, want to become reasonable, accept ourselves, and admit that the conditions of our relationship have changed.
I asked Elisa, "Do desires for transgression have to be lived to the fullest? Then, after living them, can one return to normal life without them resurfacing?" She replied, "If you dive into a river twice, will you find the same water? The first transgression leads to the second, then the third, and you go on without stopping until these abnormal pleasures become your normalcy. Are you able to cope with this?" Elisa is our cashier; she doesn't understand how I can maintain a relationship with Luca if I am like a castaway in the ocean of my unleashed instincts. According to her, when there is a lack of love, you look for transgression to get pleasure. At this point, either you know how to control yourself, or the universal flood of abnormal pleasures buries you under its mire, and you can no longer rediscover the taste of normal pleasures.
All that talk of hers, Elisa could have spared; it is pure cliché, Luca and I know it well. Two nights ago, we slept together, and Luca swore he loved me. It was an unfair move because our non-love relationship never contemplated falling in love with each other. We left the problem in the background, a dormant volcano that would, however, explode sooner or later on a scorching summer night. Thus, rebellious instincts always lie at the center of our relationship.
