On the Chair with the Fur. Black Nylons. A Finger Points Down.

I sit on the chair, a fur over the backrest, the blouse open at the collar, the patent corset tight at the waist. The nylons gleam, the heels with the red soles barely touch the floor. One hand rests on the table, the other points down, with one finger, in no hurry.

You understand. You do not know whether to laugh or to kneel. Both are right. Embarrassment is the beginning, obedience the end, and between them lies an hour you did not choose.

Here you see the finger. Pointing down. You know what that means. So what are you waiting for?