This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story
It was hard, waiting for him, sitting alone in the restaurant, not knowing how long I would have to wait, desperately aware of the looks that the marks from the outrage, clearly visible on my flesh, my face, were attracting, the sotto-voce comments that were being made.
Nevertheless, I waited, and made sure to present myself so that his first view of me would be as good as possible, would make it clear to him that I had accepted what had happened, that there would be no recriminations.
Picture: Perdita, sitting in the restaurant, marks from the outrage clearly visible Click here to reveal.
Still, it was an enormous change to see him arrive (in my peripheral vision, I had long ago learned to let him look at me, not to look at him).
Watching him from under my eyelashes, beautifully dressed, handsome, kind smile for the staff, a friendly nod— perfectly judged— for anyone who caught his eye, his face untroubled, brought up a Vesuvius of emotions in me; shockingly, the chief among them was a powerful rush of relief and gratitude.
He, at least, was unchanged by this horror. He was smiling at me as he approached, smiling as he always did, signalling his pleasure, as always, signalling his sexual interest, his unquestioning confidence that I was there to please him.
It was not at all expected of me— by anyone, least of all myself, that I might become a mistress— a sex-mistress at that— to a sugar daddy.
I was, in my late teens and early twenties, a very serious person— or I told myself that, at least. I studied hard, worked hard, and did not party much.
Studying art history, my family with some connections, I began working part-time at a high class auctioneers, helping identify, value and prepare all sorts of pieces.
It had come as a slight surprise to me that there were expectations on the younger members of staff— particularly the females, but the males, too— to dress well, to present themselves well, and to be very pleasant indeed to the wealthy, generally much older patrons of the auction house.
I was rather awkward and uncomfortable about it, but it was subtly— though very definitely— conveyed to me that I must conform, or leave. And I did not want to leave.
Nevertheless, I was always at my worst in that part of auction day, or when I was almost randomly tagged into a tour of the pieces for a pre-auction visit by some rich wrinkly, included very obviously as the eye-candy. I endured the lingering looks at my cleavage (didn’t I deserve them, having buttoned one less button there than usual?), the wandering hands, the occasional direct fondling, the patronising comments from my boss, almost inviting them to consider me as a perk (Here’s the lovely Perdita— always so alluringly turned-out! Perdita, shake hands with Sir Desmond, will you? I’m afraid, Sir Desmond, that as I’m booked out later, I’m going to have to ask Perdita to look after you at lunch.)
It made me feel uneasy, desperate inside, but I just had to bottle it away— it was only a couple or three times a month, the rest of the the work was fascinating, and there were good prospects too, I believed. My colleagues— the other younger staff— would talk openly about that seedy aspect of the work as if it was all fun, joking and laughing, being rude about the people they were expected to play up to. Some of them even accepted dates— one young man boasted that he had become the lover (ToyBoy; he said it himself, grinning) of a sixty-odd year-old divorcée after she had put her hand between his legs while he was showing her some Cézanne prints. I could not talk to them about how disturbing these little things were to me.
For in the end, they were little things; nothing worse than the occasional inappropriate touch, the risque joke to be blushed at over lunch.
Until he chose me. Until he took me. Until he remade me.
He was given a tour, and again I was the young pretty thing. He didn’t treat me that way, though; did not respond to the innuendo of my boss— an older woman who was clearly terribly keen to please him. It turned out that she knew rather less than he about the work of Brancusi, and was quickly unable to do more than nod and smile as he asked about some pieces we had which were clearly not by the great sculptor, but were either made in his atelier by an assistant (several of them had had careers and built reputations, so this was not uninteresting)— or, alternatively, were unfinished pieces— or, also to be considered, attempts at forgeries. In the end, he turned to me, perfectly serious, and asked if I had any thoughts. As it happened, I had become interested by the pieces when they had first come in, months before, and had quite a bit to say.
He invited me to lunch, and it was entirely different to any other lunch of that kind. We talked about the art, of course, but he also asked about me— polite, convincingly genuine in his interest— about my studies, my family, my views on certain issues; all in the most calm, normal way possible.
It occurred to me, some way in, that I was enjoying myself, not just working. Then, quite quickly after that, I became aware of a need to know if he was sexually interested in me. He hadn’t leered, but his eyes were also frank— he had seen me, I knew he must have. Might he like me? I hated myself for these urges, but they were not to be denied.
There were no clues in his face or behaviour, though, and I was losing his thread; I must not let him find me a fool— and so I buried my questions, and tried to keep up with his intelligence— and his wit; he would make subtle jokes which it took far too long for me to get.
The lunch went on— he was the client, he was still talking, it was my job to stay with him. We were the only ones left, the staff were beginning to remove the covers. He fell silent, and I did too.
He was looking at me. He had looked at me all through, but now, suddenly, I had my answer. He was looking at me— looking at me as a creature, now— and I almost could not bear it. Not that he was leching; no, he was looking at me just as he had at the sculptures; really looking, and I felt exposed, naked, trapped, even though we were sitting at a table in a public restaurant.
I could not speak, felt myself helplessly blushing, could not look at him, my heart thumping, felt a great fear rising in me. Fear that I was going to be unequal to whatever this was; for it felt as if it was about to become something, and I felt very certain that I would do almost anything to have that something— even though I had no idea what it might be.
When he spoke, I became certain that I would fail.
“Lovely girl, I’d like to start fucking you. And I’d like to give you a job, cataloguing my collection. It won’t jeopardise your place at the house— I’ll get them to give you a six month sabbatical. And I’ll pay a lot more, of course. A great deal more. And a pretty flat, too, near the collection space— where I will fuck you whenever I want. It’s a nice area, quite old-fashioned; you’ll like it.”
“You must tell me, though, what do you want?”
I felt my throat close, so tight that it felt as if I must choke. My head instantly filled with a boiling fizz, so that all thought was scrambled. My nipples were painfully hard and my guts had turned liquid— there was real churning in my belly. I had to hold onto the edge of the table; all the while, all my focus was on not doing anything crazy, on not freaking out; on not losing the plot, not losing my chance to say something real to this surprising man.
Even if what I was going to do was tell him to go to hell, I must do it as calmly as possible, with good words, and with conviction.
For I was going to tell him to go to hell.
Who does he think he is— to trick a girl into thinking he’s nice when in fact he’s worse than all of them!?
Only, only that’s not what he did. He … he hasn’t been ’nice’— he’s been direct and interested, but he’s not once said anything ’to be nice’. Everything he has said has been real. It’s rather that I have liked it so much that I’ve decided he’s nice. He’s probably not nice at all. That wasn’t a nice way to talk to me.
But it was honest, and clear.
And so absolutely, fucking amazingly cool.
And he said that! He wants to fuck me!
And I knew, too— deeply, and urgently— that I very definitely wanted him to do that to me. As soon as possible.
It seemed an hour since he had said that awful thing, but he was as relaxed and interested as ever, no signs of impatience, and I could not speak, so it carried on.
And with every second (every seeming hour), it became more and more clear that I did not want him to go to hell. That I wanted him to keep looking at me— looking at me this new way— even though it was the same as the way he looked at art— as a thing he was interested by, but unemotional about.
That I would do almost anything to retain his interest, because it was unique. Because it was rare.
Because he wanted to fuck me.
It took another infinity, but eventually, I heard myself say— in a voice which was weak, scratchy and dry; far from my normal carefully modulated tones;
“That.”
I had uttered the word while staring at his hands, casually resting on the table, as if nothing much was going on, and he was fine with that.
I had to look up, though; had to see what was in his eyes. It was hard; terribly hard to risk, and I learned that I had been changed; changed by him, by only a few tens of words; because I looked at him as I had never looked at anyone before; I looked at him with fear.
It shocked me how frightened I was— not frightened of him, but frightened by him; by the force of him, the solidity of his will, which was entirely and clearly at one with his being.
It was the implications of him that were frightening me. I would only ever be alongside him, never with him, never on a level, never important; and yet he would possess me completely. For I had discovered— he had laid bare— that there was a deep hunger in me, all unexpected; a deep hunger to be associated with strength, with certainty.
He had just shown me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I was a small person. Small next to him, at least. And that I needed to be with him. With someone not small.
It was terrible; I had thought— been brought up and educated, always, to assume— that I was someone; I had not prepared myself to become simply an adjunct to someone who really was ‘someone’.
But it was very clear to me in that moment, that this must be.
“That’s what I want.”
“What … what you said.”
And still, his face was bland, waiting; somehow I was not saying what he was interested in hearing. He didn’t mind, didn’t care, that was clear— he wanted to know what I would say, but the result was of no importance to him.
The only way I could be of importance to him was to let him see that I was what he wanted.
I could not fake it, I knew, not with him.
Luckily, I didn’t need to.
But he wanted to hear it, and so I had to say it all.
I could not say it, could not imagine my mouth forming the words, but I had to, and suddenly something inside me had resolved, and I said it; in another new voice to me, low, soft, urgently sincere, but unemphatic, entirely without demand or expectation; I heard myself talking as if I were an unsure young girl; all certainty, all ego gone; a voice of of willing submission. The voice I have spoken to him in ever since.
“I’d like you to … to start fucking me. I’d like you to give me a job with your collection. I’d like to be paid. I don’t care about the auction house. I’d like to be in your flat, so that you can … so that you can f… fuck me whenever you want. And … and I would like to live in an old fashioned place.”
I managed to meet his eyes while I spoke, but immediately afterward had to drop my gaze, overwhelmed.
I have never looked him full in the eyes, equal to equal, again.
Because I am not his equal. I am his thing. And he is my sugar daddy. I do what he wants, and he fucks me whenever he wants, and everything used to be lovely.
I was happy with it before the outrage, even though it was very clear that I was a toy to him. I was an indulged and pampered toy; I was a cosseted and favoured toy; he liked the clothes I bought for myself with his money, to show myself to him in, we had wonderful times, went to amazing places, had deep conversations, read books together, talked about art, went for walks. I learned how to be fucked, how to give pleasure, and I was Perdita, and I was his tame art expert, and I was a mistress and I was an eager student in the art of pleasing him, in bed and out; nothing too much for him to ask. I had had almost eighteen months of it, and I had loved it all.
Even, I had found a way to love myself as the betrayer of my own life plan, my own principles, my ambitions, my identity.
Because I had made the right choice. If ever a girl were to give over her whole life to a man, this was the man to do it for.
Even if the most she could hope for was to be an interesting toy.
And it came to me, right then, as he walked towards me, as I (for the first time ever) felt it urgently necessary to stand to greet him, as an obvious sign of respect, it came to me that the outrage was entirely appropriate; correct, necessary. That he had done it for me, just as much as for himself; had done it for us.
Because it had been true, that he had been less interested in me, recently; I had felt it, had done what little I could to be more interesting.
And he had seen it too of course, and now, I could feel it from him, see it in the way he looked at me.
He had done the necessary thing.
Now, I was interesting again.
But at what cost?
Still, the overwhelming feeling was, as I said, gratitude and relief, alongside the fear and the pain and the sadness and the desperation and the shame.
It was all his, in any case.
