This short story, inspired by this image, has been extended - read the longer version here
“After your initiation, you will be required to become like one of these; a child-like cute little slut, continually nude or in cartoon sexy costumes, obsessed by the male form, hungry for sex. You’ll be held at a place like this, used in common by anyone who has access to you, and you will be required to give satisfaction in any way desired of you, without limit or restraint. You will learn to become (or perfectly appear to be) eager and responsive, childishly grateful for the slightest attention, ridiculously keen to offer yourself for the entertainment of anyone at all. You will be subjected to cruel and humiliating punishments on a whim, and will learn both to tolerate and accept these and to become even more desperately sensitive to opportunities for offering yourself, as a way of avoiding pain. A stupidly eager, submissive whore, nothing more; everything else will be denied you.”
She was 22, very intelligent, rather shy, reserved; an elegant dresser, if rather conservative with it, hair long, beautifully and expensively maintained, always worn with an alice band.
He was a rich benefactor of the institute which her professor ran, she’d been invited to one of the fund-raisers as a star (and gorgeous) student. They’d had some very stimulating conversation about her Phd (she was doing a simultaneous Masters in Music Theory).
He’d offered her a small research grant, and she’d worked at his summerhouse for three months. He would arrive at odd times, unannounced, sometimes with a girlfriend or a male friend or colleague. She’d had an affair with one of these, behind his back - a very simple affair, but he was displeased. He wasn’t angry, but she felt that she’d ruined something, and offered to leave. She was very sorry.
A week later, she realised how just sorry she was, realised that it was him she’d wanted, not his colleague. And she’d missed her chance.
Far too reserved and shy to ever call him, she had borne her hurt, buried herself in work.
When it was ready to publish, she had to ask how and whether he wanted his support acknowledging. She could have emailed his secretary, but a little surge of determination (and perhaps a little pride in her own achievement) gave her strength to call him directly.
Somehow, during the call, she had suddenly told him - told him that she had wished, so desperately, that she had not let him down, that she had really hoped that he ….
In response, there was a silence. She almost died of shame. He was horrified .. he found her unattractive - she had blown even her chances at friendship…
“A relationship with me, my dear, for a girl such as you, is not what you want. But I’m aware that you will need to understand. You deserve a fuller account. Would you take dinner with me? I can send a car for you.”
And so had begun a series of dinner dates in hugely expensive, oppressively posh restaurants and hotels, over the course of which, in slow, patient steps, she learned that he had three categories of relationships with women.
He had a wife, from whom he was all but separated but not divorced, as it suited both of them to remain as a power-couple.
He had girlfriends for casual sex and enjoyment.
Neither of these two categories were serious. She was hopeful - it seemed that she was in the serious category.
At last, he explained the third category, which was currently unoccupied - had been for several years.
“It requires a very special kind of woman. Relatively young, rather beautiful - sexually desirable, possessed of a certain kind of emotional intelligence, all of which you possess in abundance. But here we comes to the specifics. In this relationship, there is an absolute, fundamental requirement which would be - inappropriate, I fear, for you.”
Silence, long silence. He is looking deeply into her, calm, while she is beginning to tremble, her need for him having only intensified over these last weeks;
“Please.. Please! I .. I can’t bear not to know. Tell me. Tell me now.”
“Very well. It is this. That the girl must agree to become my possession. To be owned by me. Like .. like a thing; a shoe, a car. To become a chattel.”
It takes her long seconds to understand even the words, let alone approach their meaning, the message is so unexpected. She had been preparing herself for any number of strangenesses, but this? Never.
Then, suddenly, she smiled, laughed a little, breathily, emotion raw;
“But .. but that’s .. that’s just what I want! To .. to be yours! That .. that’s what I’ve been dreaming of .. Oh! Oh this is .. please .. please .. can we leave? I .. I want to be alone with you . I want to be yours..”
Silence, they’re holding hands now, across the table, and she can feel his pulse, to her joy and delight; it is fast and strong - despite his ever-present calm, he is excited by her! She flushes, feeling the strongest stirring of her blood, at her sex, at the points of her breasts, that she can recall ever having experienced (even that unreal encounter with Alison at school when they had been 15..).
Why can’t he see? Why can’t he just take her somewhere, now? She is ready - so ready!
But he continues staring into her eyes. until she is ready to scream.
“You don’t understand, Lia. I would require to possess you utterly. In some senses, you would simply .. cease .. to exist.”
A flash of fear now, heart scampering. Isn’t this going to happen? She can’t, she can’t lose him now!
“What? No .. No, I don’t understand, but .. please .. can’t you make me? Make me understand? I want to, can’t you see I want to. Please - don’t frighten me.”
Eventually, he had decided something. His manner changed abruptly. As solicitous of her comfort as ever, he became firmly decisive, and minutes later they were in his car, the chauffeur directed towards the Lower East Side.
An anonymous dark street, shabby warehouses, a door that was out of place in its air of quality and solidity. A couple of powerfully built doormen within, eager to please. Up the stairs, a side table on the landing, two seats.
“What you are about to experience will be a dream, a hallucination. A powerful and strange one. You will meditate on its meaning, on what I tell you tonight, and then, you will decide. And your decision will be final.”
This short, inspired by this image, has been extended - read the longer version here
