I been really excited to get the summer job— a prestigious literary agency— a bit fuddy duddy, perhaps, but with some really famous old-school writers on their books, and a few big prizewinners and best-sellers, too.
Mr Nathan had interviewed me— the youngest of three partners— handsome, virile, in his early 40s, tweed jacket, smoked a pipe, just as if he was from central casting. The interview had gone very well— he’d been interested in my own writing to just the right degree, talked about my college, where his cousin had studied— all just as I’d hoped it would be; taken seriously, and selected for a serious job.
The pay was terrible, of course— but at least it wasn’t an unpaid internship like so many of my fellow students were taking. I’d just be able to afford a tiny flat if I didn’t mind an hour commute— it just had to be put up with— I needed somewhere alone, couldn’t bear sharing.
The work was actually quite demanding, and the partners weren’t as easy-going as they seemed— very exacting, in fact— but this was good— I felt I might actually learn something, and once I’d got used to the demands, I found I could just about keep on top of what they wanted.
Mostly I worked for Mr Nathan, but in a small office, even with a few assistants, I ended up doing jobs for all three of them at various times.
There was Ms Frankl, a handsome German lady, in her late 40s— a strange mixture of friendly and interested, with a strong overtone of command about her, and a mind like a steel trap. She was officially my mentor.
And the there was Sir James— knighted two years ago for ‘services to literature’— a very fit and sprightly man in his late 50’s, tall, big boned but rangy, with huge hands, a jutting jaw, wide but gaunt shoulders, he reminded me somehow of the comic book character Skeletor. For no real reason, I was terrified of him. He didn’t smile much, was careful, measured and serious, with an intimidating vocabulary and precision in his language. You never missed any deadline he set you— not that there was any threat— you just wouldn’t dare.
His hands— I was fascinated and appalled by his hands— so large, the fingers long and bony— but in proportion, so rather large, the knuckles like walnuts. In his hands even a large hardback looked like a paperback.
And then, just as I had begun to feel I was settling in, it started; out of nowhere, a perfectly typical exchange with Mr Nathan about the next batch of manuscripts to be sent back to their hapless authors with rejection letters, he said it;
“If you were to come over here and use your pretty mouth on my cock, we could discuss some quite attractive side benefits.”
I just stared at him— too surprised to think of anything snappy to say (actually, I have never been any good at quick come-backs, but this was, well, dumbfounding is the word).
Into the silence— he was looking totally relaxed, just grinning faintly at me, leaning back in his chair, pipe in hand he said— just as casually as if he were adding a wax polish to his instructions at the car wash;
“I’d want to see your tits, too— I’ve been wondering if they can really be as good as they promise to be.”
More silence, near panic now, on my part. He raised his eyebrows a little, his smile grew, a question in his eyes. He didn’t even seem to care what the outcome was! I was breathing at random, my heart fluttering, strange sensations between my legs, in my belly, at my nipples and in my throat.
Of course, I had a crush on him, but this … this!
It became unbearable, the silence, my inability to speak, his calmness, Almost incoherent, I gabbled something, something no more meaningful than;
“No … no I … I … I don’t, I I … I can’t …”,
… and scampered from the room, holding the manuscripts tightly to my bosom, flushing wildly, whimpering under my breath.
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before— never. Of course, I’ve had come-ons, wolf whistles in the street, too, but this— this blatant, casual and cool offer of— of money, for sex, from someone with power over me.
Didn’t he realise I could go to the police, make trouble?
As soon as I had the thought I realised he was perfectly safe. There was no way I would do anything of the sort. I … I just couldn’t.
I dropped the papers on my desk and almost ran for the loos, and hid there until I could decently leave for lunch. Usually I ate at my desk, but in theory an hour was allowed, and today I would take it. I didn’t eat— no appetite— but I walked to Regents Park and round the lake at a furious pace.
Despite a racing mind this whole time, I had no idea of anything to do, and so for want of anything else, I ended up back at my desk, staring at the wall, jumpy as hell. In the end, I forced myself to do some work, and within a couple of hours I was at least looking as if things were normal. No-one seemed to have guessed that anything was off, at least, and I was terribly grateful— I couldn’t have borne any questions.
Mr Nathan came and went, just as normal, looked at me, just as normal, smiled and nodded— while I gaped like an idiot. How? How could he act so … so casually— after that?
And then it was time to go home— I often worked late, but today I was out of the door on the minute, scurrying home, mind still racing, but still with no meaning coming from it. I drank three stiff vodkas as soon as I got back to the flat, then two more over the course of an evening spent curled up in pjs, watching whatever the telly showed me, without noticing.
Then, as if from nowhere, I knew what I would do— I’d go to Ms F in the morning. I’d tell her. See what she said. She was my mentor, after all; perhaps … perhaps they knew Mr Nathan was like this.
Somehow this made everything different. Ms F was no nonsense— and she was senior to Mr Nathan, too. It was like handing the problem over to a higher power. Suddenly, I felt how drunk I was, how exhausted from a day’s going round and round in my head, and within minutes I was asleep— to wake when I slipped off the sofa in the small hours, then drink about three pints of water in the hope of staving off a hangover, clean my teeth and fall into bed.
In the morning, everything seemed grim and difficult again— even making myself turn up on time was hard. Could I actually bring myself to say it out loud to Ms F?.
But there was nothing else for it. I’d made such a big thing of my grand job to my parents and my friends, boasted about it, however subtly, to the others; I couldn’t just walk away— although I knew that was probably what I should do.
There was something else as well, something I’d been refusing to admit, but which was true. I really did have a crush on Mr Nathan. However weird, however pervy he had been, it … it was, well, wonderful, really, to know that he found me attractive, that he liked my breasts— even that he wanted to have a blow job from me, that was good too. I’d been thinking about the same thing the other way round only a few nights ago… Just … just why, why couldn’t he have told me in … well, a more romantic way?
I mean, I … I thought I probably would like to show him my breasts. Like to have him touch them, tell me they were indeed as lovely as he’d imagined them. I definitely would like that, in fact.
But surely not as … as a commercial transaction— ‘suck my cock and get a raise’…
It was too humiliating.
While these thoughts were racketing in my head, I had been getting ready on auto-pilot, and found myself walking as normal to the tube. It seemed I was going in to work, without having even decided to.
Just opening the door to the office took such determination, and then that seemed ridiculous, as of course it was just as it always was, nothing had changed. The fabric of reality was not ripped. Only my peace of mind.
I pretended to work while I tried to get up the courage to go to Ms F. Half the morning passed, and nothing had happened. I began to feel like crying. Was I unable to do anything decisive at all?
And then Maggie came over, having just come from the Partners’ corridor, as we called it;
“Sally— Ms F would like a word, can you go in?”
And so it was taken out of my hands (I wonder now, had it ever been in them?).
I began to tremble before I even opened the door, and went in as if going to see the head of school over some misbehaviour— reduced to a little girl. But she, too was just as normal, asking me in a friendly way how the work was going, talking about how well the job I had done for her last week had turned out;
“We’re very pleased with how you’re settling in Sally, very pleased. Which is why I would be sorry if anything changed that. So I wanted to see you about Mr Nathan’s offer yesterday.”
“Mr Nathan’s offer?!?” What? Did she …? Did she mean, that? She must do! But … but what could she mean, putting it like that— in such an everyday manner?
She was watching me carefully, her face calm— interested, but with perfect equanimity. How could this all be so normal to these people?
She was waiting to see if I had anything to say, but once again— highly successful Oxford English student as I was— I had no words.
Eventually, she spoke, her voice soft, calm, understanding;
“You see, we discussed it at the partner’s meeting last week, and agreed that it would work for all of us if you were prepared to accept a more— demanding— role. And as it’s been rather obvious that you’ve been crushing on Mr Nathan, we decided that he should broach the subject.”
Another silence. I most definitely have nothing to say now— I feel as if I’m in some sort of alternate universe— what does she mean ‘more demanding role’? Partners’ whore? Haven’t these people heard of #MeToo? This can’t be happening!
But it seems it is, as she decides I need to hear more.
“Obviously such a change, the suggestion of it, can come as a bit of a shock— it usually does. But we’ve found that that most girls come around rather quickly, and that it can work very well for all concerned.”
They’ve done this before! More than once?
“What I want to tell you this morning is that we perfectly understand if this isn’t for you— that we’re very pleased with your work, as I said, and very much hope that you’re happy here too. So, whatever your decision, there’s a place here for you.”
And that seems to be it. More silence. It seems to last forever, and that I have no power to do anything but wait, in inner turmoil, until from nowhere, words come from me— without me being aware of having decided to say them;
“So … so if … if I said yes, I … I’d be … having, having sex, with … with …”
“With all three of us, yes. It might seem overwhelming as an idea, but we’re very used to managing this sort of thing. Arrangements are very simple, and it can work very well— we’re not over-demanding.”
“Sir James tends to take very little interest during office hours, but has visits at his home one or two evenings a week, and sometimes at weekends. Mr Nathan likes short interludes in the office, which need inconvenience you very little, and as for myself, an evening or two a fortnight, plus short breaks to visit conferences, I find more than sufficient. Have you had any lesbian experience?”
I think I might faint at this, and look round me, woozily, before taking two wobbly steps and collapsing into the little club chair she keeps for visitors.
At last, I take a deep breath, and the same voice— me and not-me— says, almost ordinarily, as if it the question was about playing hockey;
“No … no I haven’t. Not … not really, at least…”
For there had been that evening at school. But why I am I thinking about that? This is insane! Mr James, two nights a week? Those hands— on my body— between my legs! Madness!
More silence. She seems totally relaxed, although she must see that my whole world has been turned upside-down. I thought I was complaining about being propositioned by my boss, but here she is, offering me a position as the company sex pet, to be booked like the office apartment, which they used after late-night events and such.
Oh— and for fucking the company whore, I suddenly realised…
Which would mean fucking me.
“Quite so. That won’t be a problem at all. You’ll find it all comes rather naturally— and I enjoy breaking new girls in— slowly and gently, of course. If, of course, you should decide to accept our offer. We quite understand that it may take a few days to process these new possibilities. Do, take your time. Come and talk to me at any point if you have questions— I’ll be happy to clarify. Of course, there are various details, but I won’t bother you with those at the present. Come in and see me on Monday, and we’ll see what you’re thinking.”
And she looks down, back to her tablet screen.
I’ve been dismissed. Just like that. As if this were some routine chat, rather than one in which I’ve just been informed I will be having lesbian sex with my office mentor during short breaks at conferences, and in the company flat— that she will ‘enjoy breaking me in’.
But somehow the dismissal has force— I’m standing up, legs shaky but able to carry me, and walking to the door, opening it, when she speaks again;
“Do give it some serious thought, Sally— none of our girls have ever regretted it— and as you know, people go on from here to do very well indeed. We can launch you, you see— if we choose to.”
Here face is composed, her gaze full and frank— she is totally confident in herself— even though what has passed between us in the past few minutes would be dynamite if it went public— could destroy her, destroy the firm.
I couldn’t understand how she carried it off. But it did impress me— deeply. I felt like a silly schoolgirl ten times more now than when I arrived. As if I had never understood the world.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. I worked like an automaton, without consciousness (later, I was amazed to see what I had accomplished, and with so little awareness).
It got late without me noticing, and there was hardly anyone left in the office when Mr Nathan appeared beside my desk. I jumped, staring at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He was smiling at me in the most friendly and un-rapacious manner, though, and I relaxed as he stepped back, lifting his palms in a gesture of apology;
“Ooops, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you— just— I wondered if you realised how late it was. You’re a great worker— no need to impress us any more, you know. Time to go home— it is Friday, after all!”
“Oh, yes— gosh, is that the time? I will … yes, I should …”
And then I suddenly realised I really, really didn’t want to leave the building with Mr N— he might just assume that I was happy to go to the company apartment with him, and although my chest surged a little at the thought of being with him, I had enough control to know that that would be bad— not while this crazy situation was going on.
But he had turned to leave already. Strangely, I felt my heart sink at that, even as a wave of relief passed over me (how complex emotions are). Looking briefly back as he opened the door, he said, perfectly friendly, and with a light and easy tone;
“Do think the offer over, pretty; I’m sure it will suit, you know— you’re made for it.”
And he was gone.
Made for what? For being a fucking company sex toy?
I was trying to be outraged. But it seemed that I was all out of outrage. Instead, I found myself wondering if it could be true. Could I, in fact, be ‘made for’ such a role? Half naked, on my knees behind Mr N’s desk, his cock in my mouth; at Sir James’ big house in Chelsea two nights a week, under that big, hard, bony old body, being fucked; in the company flat with Ms F, learning the art of lesbian love?
I shook my head— this was insane— I was losing the plot— they were messing with my head, trying to get me to agree, just to make it all stop.
I slumped in my chair, overcome, not thinking— trying not to think. Thinking did no good anyway…
I don’t know how long I’d been there like that when there was noise in the hallway, making me sit up with a jolt— it was really late, now— who could this be— thieves?
It was almost worse than thieves— for who should appear at the door but Sir James, effortlessly, unintentionally imposing, despite his stooped head— and someone else, someone I recognised as one of our more serious and academic authors. They were deep in conversation, and Sir James seemed mildly surprised to see me, but immediately grinned in an entirely natural, pleasant way, and said;
“Ah, what luck— our new summer girl— Sally, isn’t it? Yes— Isn’t she delightful? Well, she can sort us out with a couple of hot toddies, I’m sure, while we put this argument to bed. Come through, man— you too, girl— I’ll show you the whisky. You know how to make a toddy, don’t you? Surprisingly cold wind this evening— North-Easter.”
And I was swept up in his cool assumption of command, and fussed about, nervously doing my best at some approximation of a hot toddy— he gave me the whisky from a cupboard in his room, briskly ran through a simple procedure, which I immediately forgot, told me I should find lemons in the fridge, and to be sure to make one for myself.
When I delivered them, he seemed genuinely delighted, in his grave way; thanked me and insisted I should take a seat;
“— over there— see if you can see any sense at all in what we’re locking horns about.”
I did try to follow the discussion, but they were already deep in the weeds, and my brain was mush, so I was quickly reduced to watching. Watching Sir James. And not just watching him, but somehow feeling him, feeling his hands on me, his arms around me, his body on top of me. Here, now, real, in front of me, in his element, he wasn’t frightening any more, but impressive, magnetic, majestic. He was so powerful— a legend— and so assured, so relaxed; controlled. And he wanted to fuck me— apparently. His voice, slow, serious, deep, but not rough or imposing, somehow the most definite thing in the world— certain, sure, incontrovertible.
Could I? I couldn’t! Could I?
I don’t know how much later it was when he lifted his empty glass and tilted it;
“One for the road, I think. Must set Julian here on his way with some warmth in him— off you go, and don’t forget yourself mind!”
Minutes later, the author was gone and I was alone with Sir James, and there was silence. The warm glow of the whisky, my emotional exhaustion, his hypnotic voice had calmed me, stilled my mind, left me at peace. But the quiet was slowly eating away at that peace— I felt tension demanding to have its say again, knew I would have to let it, any minute, would have to let go of this moment, when;
“Come, child, sit here— on my lap. We’ll resolve this little dilemma of yours. No sense worrying yourself over these things; in two minutes you’ll know your answer— either way— and it won’t cost you anything more than a few kisses. How’s that for a promise of service?”
Kiss him? Sit on his lap?
Somehow, it was too late to ask myself these questions— I was standing up, walking toward him, smiling nervously, feeling yet again like a schoolgirl, heart thumping, warmth between my legs now.
He was so old, and yet so strong— he took my weight without seeming to notice it, his long gaunt arms roped me, and my heart was immediately trip hammering, my groin pulsing, my nipples hard.
Only a couple of minutes— but that lasted an eternity— and he did nothing, nothing but hold me against him. Without meaning to, without thinking, I laid my head against his shoulder, closed my eyes, shaped myself to him. I was his right then, and I am sure he knew it— but he didn’t press his advantage. There was a soft smile in his voice when he spoke, quiet, in my ear;
“A most desirable package. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Sally— that you appreciate the lovely form you’ve been given. You dress it rather nicely, so I conclude that you probably do. You’re so clearly made for fucking. If we’re lucky, you’ll do some of it with us.”
If I hadn’t been putty in his hands already, this speech would have done it— I was melting, and when he tilted my chin up I lifted my head to his almost needily, opened my lips to his, and kissed him as if he were a long awaited lover.
And indeed, I hadn’t kissed anyone like that for almost nine months— not since Gary. Scumbag Gary. And it turned out I was hungry; needy, eager— and that rush of feeling, I realised, weird as it might seem, was gratitude.
He was a good kisser, too— in a way that matched his personality perfectly; steady, strong, gentle but utterly insistent, softly irresistible, and I moulded myself to him, my chest heaving more and more as waves of emotion coursed through me, feeling myself pushing my breasts onto him, working my hips, shameless.
Then a voice in my head started up; Was this it? Was I to become a whore? Was this kiss me saying yes to blowing Mr N under his desk, to licking Ms F’s pussy out all night in some conference hotel?
Hot tears came to my eyes, and I broke away, pulling back.
He loosened his hold without letting go— giving me space without removing his embrace.
Somehow he knew what was in my mind. Calm, unhurried, he looked at me, paying real attention— such attention as I was unused to receiving, and soon overwhelming, so that I began to tremble, blush;
“Nothing that happens tonight will be anything more than it is, pretty— no decisions, no assumptions will be made. You should feel entirely free, without concern for anything but the moment. When I said you would know your answer, I was serious, but that knowledge is for you, not me— for you to do with as exactly as you will.”
He waited, and I did too— was I going to find the strength, the will, the capacity to lift myself off his lap; deny my sex the craving it was expressing?
It seemed not, and when he pulled me in a little, I went to him, back into the kiss, more openly than before, grinding my hips now.
He broke away again, softly, but decisively.
“Well now, let’s see about these panties, shall we?”
And he lifts me— seemingly without effort, with one arm at my back; smoothly slips the other hand up inside my skirt, and without any fuss at all, my panties are below my knees, slipping down toward my ankles, and then my skirt is rucked up around my hips and my legs are parted, his huge hand cupping my sex, the skin rough and hard, with callouses (I know he sails, carves stone and wood), and the bony knuckles are very, very real.
I’m gasping, but I’m spreading my thighs for him as he kisses me again, chest rising and falling with mingled emotion and rising sexual excitement.
And then he hits me— right on my sex— slaps me. Not hard, not hard at all, but very definitely a hit— and I jerk in shock, break the kiss. He’s looking at me, calm, interested, and after a beat or two, speaks;
“You haven’t closed your legs. Good, don’t. Kiss me again now; straight away.”
And I do, wanting to, leaning in to him eagerly.
He hits me again.
It doesn’t hurt. Well it does, but not really. But it means something. It very definitely means something— only I’m not quite sure what. And this time I can’t act surprised, or resentful. Because I had known that he would, had kept my legs open for him to do it. Wanted it. Wanted to feel it again, that shock— that a man has hit me, intimately, hurt me— there, meant to hurt me, meant me to know that he intended it, that he is interested in my reaction.
Has left me no place to hide.
I break the kiss again, and again he looks at me. This time he doesn’t speak, or smile, just waits, watching.
I don’t close my legs. What I do is lean in to kiss him again— and be hit again. This time I don’t break the kiss, and after a while, there’s another hard-skin hand slap on my sex; and soon another, and another.
Suddenly its getting to me— driving me wild, and I’m opening my thighs wider, offering myself, and it gets a little harder, and I kiss a little harder. I’m holding onto him as to a lifebelt in a stormy sea, making silly noises in my throat as he hits my tender sex with his big hard hand, until my hips are bucking wildly, and I pull back and say, breathless, laughing, amazed;
“Please, please, put it in me, fuck me, please!”
He grins slowly at me;
“Little slut. Get your soft little titties out, then— I want to see them jiggle.”
And I laugh to hear this big serious man use words like ‘titties’ and ‘jiggle’, and he grins at me, enjoying this with me, and I wonder if I’m going to fall in love with him, and scrabble to pull my blouse open, free my breasts, belly tight.
“Hit me again, there. Harder,” I hear myself say, and he does.
“Ah!” There are real tears in my eyes, and I’m laughing too, and my belly is twitching and jerking;
“Fuck. Fuck.”
I’m at his trousers now, working to free him, and then I’m on my knees, kissing his cock. It’s very hard, not smooth at all but almost craggy, like him. Then he’s lifting me;
“That can wait. Do you want it in you?”
“Yes, Yes!”
And he lifts more, then lowers me slowly onto his cock, and I’m crooning at the feeling— longer than nine months since I had this, too, and he’s filling me so so nicely, and I’m working my hips, panting as it invades me.
“You do the work, pretty— please yourself— do what feels good. Don’t concern yourself with me— I can last.”
I’d never had someone talk so directly during sex, be so clear, tell me what to do, but I was more than happy to comply— to have a man let me use him for my pleasures would be a first, and my body certainly knew what it wanted, sitting on his lap, facing him, rising and rocking and thrusting, jamming my pussy into his hard pelvis— as bony as the rest of him. The slapping had left my whole mons desperately tender, and every thrust was like another slap, but I welcomed it, jerked and bucked against him just as my hips chose, driven by the taut urgency in my belly, feeling my breasts move, knowing I was exaggerating that for him, wanting him to enjoy me;
“Can … can you hold on? I … I want to make this … last.”
I was more breathless than before, but he seemed to have understood me;
“Do … what you need to do, pretty”
The catch in his voice, telling me that he, too, was in the grip of sexual intensity, was a new aphrodisiac— I had taken this strong, calm, majestic man to the brink of losing control— and this knowledge drove me over the edge and I ground myself into him as if I wanted to get inside his skin, writhing and making small needy noises as my whole body seemed to spasm, in an orgasm like no previous one, ripping through me, owning me, reducing me to jelly, bringing me to tears, spasms alternately holding me rigid, then jerking me like a rag doll. And now my poor punished sex became unbearably sensitive: I pushed myself onto him and attempted to keep perfectly still, electric sensation flooding me.
“Oh no you don’t, little one, it’s my turn now.”
And he stood, carrying me without effort, deposited my backside on the edge of his desk, and started to fuck me, hard and slow. It was almost agony, this deep, relentless pistoning into the post-orgasmic sensitivity of my whole groin, never mind my clit and sex lips, and I tried, tried hard to fight him off, push him out, close my legs, making mulish little grunts too.
As well try to hold back a juggernaut— he did exactly as he pleased with me, no matter how I pushed and wriggled, and I wailed, moaned and jerked, unable to bear it, until suddenly I was hot again, then feverish, then moving for him, with him again, feeling another orgasm building, even less in control than before, unsure if this was pain or pleasure, but utterly in its grip, gasping and bucking like some animal, and then he was jerking into me as well and I was sobbing and laughing at the same time, brokenly, overwhelmed, somewhere else.
He stood there as he softened inside me, holding me as I gradually calmed, moaning and twitching a little, legs weak and jittery, glad of his strength, laughing a little now, in disbelief, really, at how the last two days had gone, to end up like this.
And at the knowledge, certain in me now, like a fierce and joyful secret, enormous, exhilarating, frightening, glorious; I’m going to be a whore.
And like it.
