“…did you hate it so much?”
He was laughing at me, and in the end I had to laugh too, even though I had, truly, hated it; I was blushing hard at the same time; caught by the usual trap Jason had me in — simultaneously ashamed of how I was with him, and excited by it.
“Yes — yes, I did hate it! You were so busy talking to all sorts of people I don’t know, and … and your uncle — or whoever he is — kept talking to me, and smiling at me, only he wasn’t really talking to me — he was just … just … looking at me!”
I giggled again, hating myself for being so pathetically weak, girly; feeling stupid, foolish, the blush rising to my cheeks as so often when I was around Jason, wondering for the millionth time why I couldn’t keep away from him.
“Looking at you? Oh! You mean looking at your tits, looking at your legs — as if he was thinking about fucking you?”
I blushed again — but that was exactly how it had been — the lecherous old goat, he had been blatantly undressing me with his eyes, and utterly unabashed, too, when I caught his eye — he had smiled a little, hard and cool, eyes mocking me, shameless — insulting, even.
Of course, I was wearing the tiny minidress that Jason had insisted on, with the low-cut front, so that I could hardly be surprised I was being ogled — since getting together with Jason, since he had begun to be so clear about what clothes he liked me to wear when I was with him, I had developed a complicated relationship with dressing to look sexy — which I had realised was just what Jason wanted — he wanted me to feel sexy, but not in a ‘girl-power’ kind of way — quite the opposite.
On the one hand, I was amazed and excited; happy in a way I had never expected to be, to feel sexually attractive in such a straightforward way. Matters of appearance and sexuality had always seemed frightening and complex to me, and my confidence was low, so that I had tended to dress conservatively — pretty, yes; stylish even, perhaps, when I put myself to it, but sexy — never.
Jason had changed all that. On the one hand by telling me I was lovely, and sexy, that he liked my tits, that I had great legs, a sexy mouth, he had shocked me, but also made a small warm glow inside me — an alpha male type like him, with a string of other girls — he thought I was sexy, sexually attractive! And on the other hand, by being pretty damning of clothes he didn’t think contributed to that sexiness. Once he realised the extent of my lack of confidence in what would work, he took over completely, taking me shopping, choosing things for me, having me do little parades in his flat, ruthlessly making me return or throw away things that he didn’t like, getting me to buy smaller sizes for a tighter fit. Anything I decided that he would like, he would reject — even if what he selected in the end was almost the same.
My choice in clothing was increasingly governed by what he liked, and I needed his approval, while my own confidence shrank — I liked the warm glow, knew that when he dressed me I got looks and attention (even if his praise was always in such crudely sexual terminology; ‘great tits to get your hands on’, ‘those thighs make me think about spreading them’, ‘your lips are a public incitement to thinking about blowjobs’ — how could he be so rude and get away with it?), and felt more and more dependent on his help in choosing. He actually had great taste and although I was more and more dressed to excite sexual interest, it was never boringly tarty — there was always style and subtlety — so my dependence on him grew again.
The downside, of course, was that I had never had the practice other girls had of coping with being looked at as a sex object. Don’t get me wrong — I liked it; in complicated ways, I liked it a great deal — but I couldn’t take it for granted.
It always, always had a great effect on me — I would feel that warm glow, I would feel my heart rate increase, I would become very self-conscious, I would feel as if I was almost naked — that the man could see my breasts, see between my legs, see my buttocks. I was never sure whether to flaunt myself more, or shrink away from the attention. I felt I should do the latter, yet I often did the former; pretending not to notice the man, I would nevertheless move so that my cleavage, or thighs, or arse would be presented more obviously, my heart pattering, skin tingling, until my nerve failed (usually pretty rapidly) and I made a swift exit.
All these things made me squirm with embarrassment. Was I a tart, or just enjoying feeling beautiful? How could feeling so much better about myself be bad? But how could objectifying myself, encouraging men in their tendency to look only at the outsides of women in terms of sexual attractiveness, how could this be good?
It was a good job I had Jason, really — when I was with him, he would tell me what he wanted, more often than not. And when I wasn’t with him — which was most of the time, I could revert to the staid, sensible college-girl grown-up style that went with my old self, even if I was less and less happy with that self.
But this old guy at the party! He was so cool, so brazen, so … impersonal. He didn’t grin like a younger man, or smile like a practised flirt, or look embarrassed like a male version of my old self would. He just looked me over, calm, happy, enjoying himself, a faint smile his only expression. I had become twitchy at first, then as I tried and failed to get any righteous anger going (a common occurrence when in humiliating situations initiated by Jason), I began to feel somehow frightened — even though he never moved toward me, and it was such a genteel evening affair…
“Yes — he … he was!”
“And don’t you like him?”
“Well — I suppose … no — no, I didn’t! And anyway he’s …”
“Old enough to be your father?”
He laughed again, and I blushed again. That was another thing — for someone as articulate as I was supposed to be, I became ridiculously tongue-tied around Jason, talking in cliches, stumbling over my words. Too busy thinking about whether he liked the way my breasts look in this top, whether I walked better in the high heels today, after all that practice in my room last weekend. Too busy wondering if he would fuck me in the mouth again this afternoon (would we ever have normal sex again?), or whether he would just stand up when he had finished his coffee, and say goodbye, without so much as a peck on the cheek.
Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn’t I tell him I was finished with his games? He had told me often enough that he was easy to get rid of — ‘Easy! Say no to me when I ask you to do something; you won’t get any argument — I’ll just go — there are plenty of others begging for it — you know that’. Just getting close to the point where he might say that to me, though, had me apologising to him abjectly looking for something I could do to show him how eager I was — opening my blouse, lifting my skirt, going to my knees…
“He’s not really my uncle, by the way — more an old family friend. He does like pretty young girls with long legs and good tits. He likes you — your body, at least. He likes to hear about what I do to you — how easy you are.”
I looked up, shocked; horrified, really;
“Jason! What? No! No!! You don’t!? You haven’t…?”
He smiled at me, flicked my cheek, teasing me;
“Yes, of course I have, silly. You’re a conquest, not a lover — I’ve told you before. Not just him, either — several other friends and family members, too; one or two of whom might even be old enough to be your grandfather. Told them exactly what I do to you — in specific and graphic detail. Shown them the pictures, told them how much you like it, how helpless and obvious your responses are, how easy it is to get you to go beyond your limits — what a wanton you are. They’re interested in you — well, interested in fucking you, at least. Ramming their viagra stiffened, wrinkly old cocks into all your wet little holes. Do you have a problem with that?”
He grinned, enjoying himself.
I couldn’t speak; hot and cold at the same time, my skin prickling tinily. ‘A problem’ would be a wild understatement. A cataclysm was more like it — a nightmare. ‘What I do to you’ covered some deeply intimate and — to me — intensely degrading things; things which I had been letting Jason do to me as the price of being with him — and to which I had also, just as he says, shamefully responded, to my shock and — frighteningly — with increasing fascination.
The realisation that that dirty old man knew exactly what I was willing to do for Jason all the while he had been appraising me…
I stared at Jason, my cheeks hot, heart pounding, stomach churning — I knew I was being ridiculous — he would do as he wanted, of course — he always did, and I knew it — he had been brutally honest from the start — what I wanted didn’t really matter to him, except as a bargaining chip — if I wanted to be with him, it would always be on his terms. But this was beyond shocking. I was shaking with distress, but him — he was entertained, enjoying this: of course. I dropped my gaze, blinking back tears of helpless anger;
“Yes. Yes I do. Have a problem”;
but my voice was quiet, had no force in it.
He grinned without the slightest sympathy, then lifted my chin with a finger, spoke clearly and slowly, enjoying himself, watching my eyes;
“Then you’ll probably have a problem with this, too: I’ve said he can have you next weekend — to do just as he likes with. He has a lush little redhead bitch that I want to fuck and he wants you in exchange — which seems only fair, don’t you think?”
I stared at him, icy pressure around my my heart — the trembling got worse. My whole body felt strange — transported; otherworldly. But I said nothing — no angry words — not even a look. I forgot to breathe for what seemed like forever. This is impossible — I thought — a joke, but Jason’s face told me he was completely serious (although he was smiling lightly, as if he had just said something amusing).
My breath came back with a gasp, and I heard myself utter a little moan, that in its throatiness, its despairing weakness, made everything clear, as clear as if he had his hands between my thighs to feel the instant pulse of heat that had flooded me. The thought went through my head; Oh God — I am lost! Why, why can I not resist this?
Jason chuckled, knowingly.
After a long pause, I found I could sustain the stare no longer, and slowly closed my eyes, lowered my chin, lip quivering, tears pricking at my eyes. Why wasn’t I screaming at him? Slapping his face? Coldly walking out? Why were my knees so weak and trembling? Jason laughed a little, sneering, smug. We both knew that, once again, I had been sucked a little deeper.
He leant over, murmured in my ear;
“You’ve got that look again, girl. You’re wet, aren’t you? Just thinking about that old guy getting to use you like a fuck-puppet. I do love it when you’re feeling like this; you are never more do-able.”
He was right — my sex was pulsing with heat, my breath short, my nipples tightening. How does he do this to me? Why do I let him? Why don’t I simply leave — it doesn’t have to be dramatic, just so that I never speak to him, never see him again. There is no reason to put up with this. Why am I so ridiculously happy (and not just happy — turned-on, too) to hear that, in this state, he finds me ‘do-able’?
No reason — there can be no reason for such crazy behaviour — it’s just that somehow, sooner or later -usually sooner — I always gave in. Gave in to this … obsession.
God, I wish he would — do me. Right here, I found myself thinking…
No, not obsession — I don’t actually care that much about Jason, personally. No … it’s a weakness; a need; a vulnerability… to this terrible, glorious feeling of being dominated, of having my sexual life controlled in this manipulative way. Of being exposed as a slave to my own lust, my weakness in the face of coerced depravity, made to acknowledge it, made to show it — made to understand just how much I like it — have come to need it.
Sex. Sex with a man strong enough to overcome all my many inhibitions. With a man who pays no attention at all to what I say I want (which is so often what I think I ought to say, rather than what I actually desire), and just gets on with taking from me what he wants — which it turns out is mostly what I really want, or at least something that gets me off, gets me excited to a level I had never even dreamed of before being ravished by Jason.
And it keeps getting better — being ravished — the sexual experience of that. And not just the orgasms — the crashing, devastating, mind-melting, multiple orgasms — but all the anticipation as well; the dressing, the conversation, the little games he plays, and if I’m brutally honest, the humiliation, the way he brings me face-to-face with my own wanton-ness; all are as delicious as they are terrifying — as addictive as they are objectifying.
I have accepted it to myself. I’m addicted — and I’m always weak to being pushed a little further along the road, just as Jason says. Each invitation to meet him is an invitation to days and days of mingled anticipation and dread, of suffocating lust and trembling shame, all of which have been so mixed for so many months now that they are becoming linked in my mind, a dangerous tangle, so that increasingly, I doubt I can do without any of it.
If only it wasn’t so — wonderful.
Because when it reached its pitch, that’s what it was. Not every time, of course, but just often enough, so that as well as the feverish excitement at the prospect of thrilling sex, there was also the uncertainty — would I fail this time (he, of course, never failed — whatever happened, he was cool, slightly amused, in control; it was always me who ended in tears, or begging forgiveness, or consumed by guilt — always me)? Could I meet his demands, his standards? If I couldn’t, would he drop me?
I feel faint, breathless, weak … but at the same time there is a growing core of excitement inside me that will not be denied, will not permit itself to be denied, will not let me put up any more than token resistance.
“This coming weekend — a long weekend; at his club. You’ll go to him on the Friday afternoon, and he’ll send you home when he’s had enough of you — Monday night at the latest. You’ll need to arrange leave. While you’re there, you will satisfy him, obey him — just as you would me — actually, probably more so — he’s more demanding than I am: hard to please — done it all before, you see, with hundreds of gorgeous young sluts. He likes to choke girls — he has a really big cock, you know.”
Jason is casually conversational — as if these are banal details of a meeting with a friend.
I make no response at all — hardly move — I simply cannot. He is watching me — he enjoys these moments — he’s told me so — the moments when I am confronted directly with the depth of his cruel pleasure, and with my own inability to resist, to deny him.
He knows how powerfully affected I have been, after the times when he has choked me with his own (not small) cock, so that his come and my spittle bubble out of my nose, and I cough, weakly, degraded, but at the same time weirdly at peace, loving him more at those times than at any other, humbly opening myself to him in the most complete way, happy to thank him for such treatment, for having taken me to that place, smiling, ridiculously, genuinely grateful — despite my tear streaked face and croaking voice.
Now, he leans forward, stroking my cheek, while his right hand slides confidently and casually up the inside of my thigh, steadily approaching my crotch — he has trained me to keep my legs parted for him, and often feels me up in public. Usually I end up giggling, blushing, flushed, excited. Today, I’m too wound-up to giggle, gasping slightly, but I know that I am highly aroused, however shaming that is, by the thought of being traded — use of my body for the use of another girl’s, and I know from Jason’s grin widening that his fingers, close up to the gusset of my panties, feel this too, and I blush deeply, breathing heavily, biting my lip to keep hot tears of shame at bay.
My lips tremble — but I won’t sob in front of him, won’t risk letting my face crumple, risk looking ugly. At the same time, I am gazing at him, intensely, needing to see the casual certainty in his gaze — his confidence the confirmation of my own weakness. My chest heaves — my breasts move in the low cut bodice. I hate myself for hoping he notices, that he likes it. My hips surge — he feels it, and a wave of humiliation breaks over me.
I hear myself begging; “Jason … please … … please, no … not … not this”, and I raise my eyes to his, beseeching, utterly humiliated, feeling the eyes of others on me — we are in an expensive cafe in a small square in Mayfair, where rich middle aged women gather to discuss shopping and infidelity. But of course my voice lacks all conviction. As soon as I have said it we both know that this is only ritual resistance.
He smiles lazily at me;
“I do so love to see you bravely holding back tears, pussy. I’m quite sure he’s right, you know — I am far too soft with you — I should have passed you on to him before. When I get back I promise I’ll push you harder — indeed, I will — and what’s more, you’ll find you can’t resist it — you’re the sort who always comes back for more. In fact, I think you’ll like it with him, in spite of yourself. What’s that?”
– he had seen my eyes widen at the implication that he would be away;
“Oh, yes, I haven’t told you — I’m going away for a few weeks — taking the redhead somewhere a bit warmer. Assuming I get a good report from Sir Oliver, I might look you up in three weeks or so.”
He stands; “Of course, there is nothing in the world that says you have to do this. But I wish it.”
By which he means, of course, that if I don’t satisfy this ‘Sir Oliver’, then that will be the last I see of Jason. I bite my lip to stop a fresh wave of tears.
“Come on, let’s go and buy you some pretty things. You’re due at the beauty institute at 5, so we’ll go straight to Madame Encine’s — she always has something good.”
He casually tossed a £50 note onto the table, and I, lacking the slightest ability to even think of anything else to do but follow, helplessly, pulled myself together, realising with a sick but intensely exciting feeling that he hasn’t even bothered to address my plea for mercy — simply assumes that I will comply. My chest heaves as I wonder whether this is it — whether I can really not manage to refuse to go along with this appalling, casual assignment of me as a sexual trade with that horrid old man.
Meanwhile, he has simply walked off, and I tell myself I will stay here, not move, let him go. But even as I am forming the thought my body is hurriedly standing up, grabbing at my phone, and seconds later I scurry after him, stupidly relieved to lose myself in concentrating on walking elegantly in the extravagant heels he liked me in, feeling so vulnerable in the clinging, skimpy little dress, having almost to trot to keep up with him, knowing that my hips, my tits, my arse, all would be moving, eye-catching, inviting all who watched to assess me as a sex object, the assessment only confirmed when, as I caught up with him, his hand falls possessively, suggestively on my bum, reinforced by a playful, but still sharp, spank a second or two later. Of course, I giggled softly, like a bimbo, although the bitten back tears were also to be heard in the sound as I wiggled my bum for him shamelessly.
Then he takes out his ‘phone, dials;
“Hello, Oliver — Sir; it’s Jason.”
My heart freezes; my God, he’s going to talk to the old man about me, right now! I almost trip over, feel my face losing all colour.
“Yes, I’ve just told her. She’s with me now — we’re walking. You should see how her pretty tits are jiggling.”
The whole world seems to go grey as I trot prettily along in my sexy little dress and strappy high heels, listening to my ‘boyfriend’ talk about me as if I were a cheap whore.
“She came over all distressed, of course, begged me not to — but I put my hand up her skirt and she’s red hot, pussy twitching like a bitch on heat — she wants it bad, right now — I can tell.”
… laughter; Jason looks over at me, grinning — not at me, let alone with me, but in response to something said down the line to him — something obviously crude and direct.
“Exactly — you can do what you’d like with her Sir; she’ll comply — and if she doesn’t, well, she likes to be forced, in any case — gets her very hot indeed.”
This last, however awful it is of Jason to say out loud, is shamefully true.
He listened some more, still grinning, then held out the ‘phone;
“He wants to talk to you. You listen, and then you say ‘Yes, Sir’ very pretty and girly-like — nothing else. Then you give me the ‘phone back. Understand?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer — just thrusts the ‘phone into my hand.
After a brief hesitation, I jerk into action like an obedient automaton — or a stupid weak-willed slut. The need in me to know what this man wants to say to me is irresistible. I take the ‘phone and put it to my ear. There’s a long silence, then;
“Imagine yourself, pretty; on your knees, thighs spread wide, in a corset, stockings, high heels and a collar — nothing else, hands locked behind your back, my cock deep in your throat, my hands in your hair — fucking your mouth aggressively, with a few friends of mine looking on, looking at your arse, your jiggling tits. I want you to think about that in every free moment you have. I want you to think about them seeing how far into your throat I’m ramming my cock, how docile you are for it, think about knowing that they will all be taking a turn with you, using any hole they like, any way they like, as soon as I’m done. Understand me?”
I was hyperventilating, almost. How could he be saying this to me — How could this be happening in a public street, with Jason holding my hand? How could I not throw the ‘phone to the gutter and walk away?
Why, instead, with Jason looking directly at me, do I hear myself uttering a breathy, husky; ‘Yes, Sir’? How can I be so pathetic? Why is this so fascinating?
Why am I so stupidly pleased with myself as I hand the ‘phone back to Jason, blushing as he grins at me, feeling the heat at my groin? Oh my god I’m going to get gang-banged by a bunch of rich old strangers! My breath is coming in tiny, sharp sips now, as I struggle to control myself, knees weak, gripping onto Jason’s hand to save myself from tottering over.
And that was somehow it. We both knew that I was going to do everything he wanted. There were butterflies in my stomach. This was a step-change, a huge one; he was giving me to a friend as a sex-toy, just as simply as he might offer to lend them his car.
My emotions swung wildly as I trotted along. I tried to stop thinking about what he had said. What I was going to be unable to resist. What was going to happen to me? As so often before, as a way to cope, I simply stopped thinking about it. Live for the moment, I told myself. It was in all the self-help books, wasn’t it?
But I know that the image won’t leave me, will come back to me again and again — on my knees, naked, choking, humiliated, in the full knowledge that the watchers will be using me next…
Concentrate — concentrate on the swing of my hips, the sway of my breasts, lick my lips as he turns to look at me, let him see them softly open, inviting; see his gaze drop to my cleavage, blush, smile a little, walk even more carefully, let the shame at this sluttishness wash through me, affect me only to the extent that it doesn’t overcome me… Try and lose myself.
And it does affect me — I am feeling ridiculously turned-on, in a terrified way. It sounds contradictory, but after going with Jason for nearly nine months, I had gotten to the point where this feeling was almost like a drug to me. A terrible drug, I hated and feared it sometimes, yearned for it at others, knew, deep down, that I needed it, even though it took more and more extreme situations to satisfy the itch these days.
The sway of my breasts. In the months I had known Jason, my attitude to my breasts had changed completely. Almost flat chested until I was 16, I had thought I had become used to my adult body, until my breasts had suddenly and embarrassingly blossomed on my trim frame, to a shapely D cup. At university, I had even considered breast reduction treatment, so impossible to ignore were my breasts, and so unsure was I what to do with them. But now I became more and more glad of them each time I met Jason, glad of their size, their obviousness, the way they catch his eyes (and other men’s) when they move in the revealing clothes he likes me to wear; glad of their springy, tip-tilted softness when those clothes are removed, glad of the quick and obvious way in which arousal affects my nipples, the way they stand out, demanding attention. Even of the way they retain the marks of his teeth, slowly fading, reminding me of his harsh attentions at times I know I can’t be with him.
It isn’t that I have got used to them — in a way, Jason’s attentions have made them seem more other, less possible to be at ease with — the outward expression of the dark side of my sexuality that he exploits — I am more conscious of them than ever — it is almost as if they are his, and that I am just their custodian, charged with presenting them for his pleasure, simultaneously proud of and shamed by my ability to display them.
I angle my shoulders now, as I see him looking at my cleavage, happy to display myself to him, despite the underlying shame at my tartiness.
Madame Encine always had the latest lingerie in from Paris. It was such an exclusive establishment that it had nothing so vulgar as a shop window — you rang a bell in a smart Georgian townhouse and requested entry. If it was granted (and you had to be known or introduced), then a butler would admit you, accompanied by one of Mme Encine’s two senior lady assistants, very superior types in early middle age, handsome and elegantly dressed.
Of course, they knew Jason’s likes — he had told me he had been taking girls there for a couple of years — so they would have simply taken me off to change into suggestions they thought he might like, but this time he stopped them;
“She’s to be presented to Sir Oliver next weekend. I’d like to deliver her in something particularly to his taste. Oh, and I’m a little short of time — she can change in the show-room — if you don’t mind?”
He could be perfectly mannered and respectful, when he wanted, of course — just not with me…
“Certainly sir — would you like to step this way?”
I was quivering again, blushing, unable to meet the eyes of the suave, middle-aged, immaculately respectable looking lady. It had been hard enough (although glorious at the same time) to parade for Jason in the skimpy lingerie he chose for me, with the cool eyes of the assistants looking on. Now I was to have no hiding place at all — I was to change in the showroom, making it all the more explicit what I was, what I was being prepared for. No-one spoke to me, no-one asked my opinion. The assistants selected the outfits, discussed them with Jason, and I was to strip and try his choices on in full view.
Jason asked whether it was possible to video the session, and was assured that the equipment was always in position, that the lighting had only recently been upgraded, and that the results had been excellent. So I was to be the subject of a multiple striptease film, and Jason asked them to deliver a copy direct to Sir Oliver.
I seriously wondered whether I would collapse — faint — from nerves, but, as so often when I was with Jason it seemed that my need to please him, combined with my own inner sexual nature, which had been hidden, unknown, suppressed, for so long, drove me to perform in a way which, six months earlier, I would have called impossible.
As if in a dream, I became utterly focused on being what Jason wanted me to be — finding myself wanting desperately not to let him down, for him to be confident that when Sir Oliver watched the video, there would be no question about letting Jason have his redhead, about the old man wanting me. Or was that really it? Was I doing it for Jason, sacrificing myself? Or was I determined that the old man should want me — that there would be no escape for me from this terrible plan of Jason’s?
But it really wasn’t something I could afford to worry about — what I had to do was make sure that my breasts sat just so in this delicious but frankly slutty half cup brassiere, to blushingly nod when the assistant asks me if my nipples should show, knowing they are tell-tale stiff, that the smell of my sex is in the air, unmistakeable, moving slowly and as elegantly as I can, lifting my hands behind my neck, one foot up on the toe, leg bending, opening my thighs a little, a little more — trembling, but, unable to avoid the knowledge that I was, more and more, deeply, pathetically, humbly grateful to Jason for putting me in such delicious, degrading, gloriously sexual situations…
Sir O obviously had more traditional notions than Jason, favouring elegant little waist cincher corsets and stockings with lacey details and choker accessories. I had never worn such full-on lingerie before — Jason’s taste was for simpler, more modern styles — but it was instantly clear to me that these were exactly what I should be wearing all the time.
I loved the feeling of them, the luxuriousness, the way they held me, the way they made me look — but also the clarity, the directness — they spoke clearly of sexual display — for what woman would wear such underwear without intending it to be seen, without intending to offer herself to the man who paid for them?
I found it easier than ever before to display myself, open my legs, exaggerate my breasts, my hips, my buttocks, move slowly, sensuously — the combination of stripping naked, of wearing the lovely skimpy things, of knowing that the video would be delivered to that sardonic old lecher (and to various others, judging from what Jason had said) serving to bring me to a heightened pitch of self-consciousness that was intoxicating. Catching myself in the mirrors that were all around, I was delirious; that strutting, preening tart, displaying herself so shamelessly, was that — really, could it be — me? I was as fascinated and seduced as I was appalled.
I posed, and pouted, and tried to manage myself in the paradoxical way that Jason and the situation demanded — carefully avoiding any temptation to prance and wiggle in an overly brassy way, keeping my face passive, demure and soft, but nevertheless flaunting myself carefully and sexily, both for Jason and, shamefully, for the camera, liking it, losing myself in it, far too much. Dangerous, seductive, delicious…
Of course, changing in the showroom meant that at various times I was more or less completely naked, revealing the artful trim to my pubic hair that Jason had negotiated with the owner of a waxing salon a fortnight ago — ignoring me completely as I lay, legs spread, on the couch, making sure that the woman understood his requirements. She didn’t even speak to me, just got on with it, ignoring my yelps and squeals as the wax pulled at me.
With the addition of a flirty minidress with short, pleated skirts that flipped up at the smallest sudden movement, and some extravagantly heeled, pink, ankle-strapped maryjane platform sandals that gave off a weird mixture of innocent girl and whore, Jason spent over three thousand pounds. My knees were weak, my cheeks flushed with mingled shame and pleasure (those two so often inseparable when I was with Jason). To have such gorgeous, expensive luxuries given me was no excuse for letting him do what he did to me — but it didn’t hurt (it has to be said that he is always showering me with presents — OK, apart from the posh dinners and tickets to great events, they are almost all of them are designed to enhance my sexual desirability according to his very particular tastes — beautiful stilt-heeled shoes, clingy dresses, tiny skirts, large earrings, strong perfume — but it would be a lie to say I didn’t like these things myself: nevertheless they weren’t the reason I couldn’t tell him I was through with his degrading games; the truth is I would probably have stuck with him if he had made me pay for it all myself ).
On the other hand, to be so obviously a slut (however politely the fact was glossed over), and in such a superior establishment! They were all very professional, but occasionally, when Jason was otherwise occupied, I would catch them looking at me with small disdainful smiles, and would have to look down, knowing I had no argument to put against their judgement. What other sort of a girl than a slut, a whore, would allow herself to be put through her paces in so demeaning a fashion?
I felt it in their hands, too, as they manipulated me to show the clothes to best advantage — treating me like a paid-for model, rather than a valued client. One of the senior assistants was a predatory lesbian, I was sure, and at least one of the juniors served her. The senior seemed very often to put me in brassieres a little too small, and would direct her underling to manhandle me until she was satisfied with the way my breasts spilled out from their satin embrace. Of course, I was too intimidated to do anything but endure these indignities (and I had to agree that, comfort aside, they did make Jason grin at my breasts), while they swapped little smiles, not bothering to hide them from me.
I am quite pink and quivery by the time we leave Encine’s, and easy meat for Jason’s teasing and little humiliations, feeling at once very vulnerable and highly aroused when we arrive at the beauty parlour — a little early for the appointment, though it appears this is by design, as Jason takes me through to a small private lounge, where they bring us coffee and biscuits.
As soon as the girl has gone, he grins at me;
“You need to understand something before I leave you here. Sir Oliver has an account here. They prepare girls for him often. So they know what he likes — and that’s how they’ll prepare you — to his taste. They won’t ask you; or if they do, you will just ask them to do whatever Sir Oliver would prefer. Generally, though, it will be best if you don’t speak. I will know — and so will he — if you make even the slightest difficulty. You are being prepared for him, for his pleasure — your own preferences are irrelevant. You’ll come back here on Friday — they’ll make an appointment for you. I’ll give them the clothes we’ve bought; they’ll do it all.”
It occurred to me that, for the first time, I was seeing Jason nervous — only a little, perhaps, but it was clear it was important to him to impress Sir Oliver — that my performance mattered. I suppose that realising this could have given me some sense of a little power over Jason — some leverage. In fact, it had the opposite effect; I became ever more eager, needy you could say, to please Sir Oliver — not so much for Jason’s sake (although it seemed clear that if I failed to please Sir O it wasn’t likely I’d see much more of him).
But suddenly, and powerfully, I knew that I needed to please Sir O for my own sake; that this whole experience of being groomed and prepared for this powerful, rich old lecher, with his decades of experience of hundreds of girls, was, terrifyingly, exactly what I wanted, what I needed. The knowledge that Sir O was in a position to make someone as confident as Jason feel nervous, the idea that he would be more exacting, more demanding, the completely straightforward nature of the proposition — that I was being provided as a willing submissive sex doll to that old man who had ogled me so blatantly, who had been shown pictures of my lewdness by Jason — no veneer of respectability, no possible pretence that it was a ‘date’, that he was a ‘boyfriend’, nothing — all of this was suddenly incredibly powerful, incredibly exciting, and at the same time overwhelming.
I felt weak, trembled, but managed to nod my acceptance.
Silence, then J took my chin and lifted my face so that he looked into my eyes; he was grinning;
“But I don’t need to worry, do I? You’re going to serve him like the helpless slut you are, aren’t you?”
Halfway through this, the door opened, and an immaculately beautiful girl in a smart white smock came in. Jason held my chin, though, he wanted an answer. Had she heard? I coloured, but made myself speak slowly and clearly;
“I … um Yes, J … Yes, Sir.”
– putting as much sincerity into my voice as I had ever done, somehow deciding that I should call him ‘Sir’ this time (he sometimes insisted on it, sometimes playfully, sometimes seriously. I don’t think he had ever realised how powerful my response was when he was demanding about it). I realised that I almost hoped that she had heard, and this told me something. I wasn’t just a slut for Jason. I was a slut; a wanton; it … I … I wanted others to know. My heart lurched — if that were really true!
I looked down again, as he rose and left, murmuring something to the girl on his way out, to which she replied with a quiet;
“Yes Sir, of course Sir.”
A moment later, she said;
“If you would just follow me.”
No Madam, for me, I noticed, vaguely, my mind a maelstrom. But I followed her meekly enough, down the corridor and into an elegant, austere treatment room.
“Please, remove all your clothes.”
I stripped myself easily enough in these professional surroundings, laid my skimpy dress on a chair, scraps of lingerie laid across it, high heels under it. I felt terribly vulnerable, powerless; completely naked while she wore her demure, opaque white smock, but at the same time it felt somehow right. I was pleased that nothing was up to me. Except that she did, immediately, make demands of me.
“I need to go through a few things, ask you some basic questions. Simply say ‘Yes’, or I consent’ as appropriate. This session is being recorded on video” ( I shifted my position at this, surprised, unnerved; suddenly conscious of the minutest detail of my stance, wanting to look my best, a blush coming to my cheeks at the realisation that she would know exactly what I was up to — whoring myself to the camera…).
“Now; it has been explained to you that the treatment programme to be used will be devised by us, based on your sponsor’s preferences?”
“Um …Yes … I guess so.”
“Do you consent to this, accepting all treatment conditions?”
“Yes … yes, I do.”
“Some of the treatments used will involve manipulation and/or penetration at your mouth, your vagina, your anus. Do you consent to these?”
” Wha? … uuh … what?”
“There are some therapeutic cleansings — douche, enema, and so on -” she spoke as if to an idiot.
“Oh … yes, yes, I see… Yes” — a ragged breath or two, here. I knew my sex was warming up. I wanted at the same time to shrivel up and die, and for this to go on, get more intimate, more forensic.
“You consent, then?” she was impatient.
“Umm yes. yes I … I do.”
It was getting weird, being naked, talking about being penetrated. I was really feeling my nakedness, now, feeling the instinctive urges to cover up, to conceal, to cringe, and the counteracting need to look good, to be sexually attractive — the latter winning, the former contributing to the hot blush on my cheeks and on the upper slopes of my gently heaving breasts.
“Good. There will be no further need for you to speak during the treatment, unless in response to a direct question.”
The treatment began with the douche, followed by an enema, which I had read about but never dreamed of personally experiencing. It was humiliating and shocking; on my knees, head down, so that I could never anticipate what would be done to me next. My heart hammered. The treatment was not in itself too bad — first a warm shower to my sex, which was mainly embarrassing, but also embarrassingly pleasurable, and then the enema — I have been subjected to intentionally cruel enemas since, but this was nothing of the sort — warm black coffee, I believe (I later read that Lady Di had apparently at one point been addicted to this treatment).
Nevertheless, I squirmed with shame and was devastated when I could not restrain audible and physical responses to the strange new sensations. The girl several times brushed my sex with gloved fingers and again I couldn’t restrain my reaction completely to that, either. Although she never made any sign that she noticed, I wasn’t quite sure that she didn’t manipulate my sensitive parts more purposefully than accidentally.
After that, the majority of the treatment was something of a let-down. It was also mostly very pleasant — a sauna, a massage, a cool shower, hair washing and styling, some pain during the depilation session, which left me with even less pubes — only a tightly trimmed tapering bar pointing graphically to my sex, carefully shaped eyebrows, eyelashes and my hair, which I gathered had been waved.
Then came a surprise; without any consultation (of course), they began to apply a cream — first to my lips, then to my nipples, my aureolae, and then, descending, to apply the same treatment to my clit hood, clitoris and labia. The stimulation was direct and unavoidably sexual, although the attitude of the girl doing the work seemed detached and professional. My legs were lifted higher, then, and the same cream applied to my anus, tender after the enema.
Observing my nipples, I realised that this was some sort of darkening dye — my usually pale nipples were taking on a deep, dusky pink colouring, as were my labia, it seemed. My heart began to thump. The idea of being so specifically and carefully brought to the specifications of a stranger who was going to assume he could use me as he wished was frankly, exhilarating. I squeezed my eyes closed and bit my lips, trying not to let my helpless arousal at the ministrations of my sex lips, my clitoris, be too obvious; attempting to regain some calm, some control, but with only limited success. I blushed and trembled, helplessly.
They left me for a little while, as the colour deepened, but eventually a new woman arrived — not white coated, older, still very formal — a manager of some sort, I assumed, followed by a different white-smocked girl who cleaned me up while the older woman stood just out of sight off to one side, presumably watching. No-one spoke. I found myself unable to contain some whimpers and surging of the hips while the girl wiped my nipples, my sex with firm, smooth movements. This was intensely embarrassing, and I blushed deeply, but nothing was said, no obvious notice was taken.
The older woman rolled a mirror in front of me. For the first time during the whole procedure I could see myself, and it was shocking. I was transformed, displayed. I forgot to breathe for a long moment, before letting out a ridiculously weak sounding whimper.
They had bleached my hair, as well as waving it, and had dressed it up, excepting artful tendrils framing my face. At the same time my eyebrows and lashes had been darkened — as had my lips, nipples, sex and pubes. Dark eye-shadow and deep red lipstick completed the look. My breath went into spasm, and the jerking of my chest made my breasts sway again.
I didn’t know whether to scream or cry, but in the end did nothing but tremble for a while. I was simultaneously in love with the image of myself as a sex-object, and appalled by the fact that it was possible that I could look like the creature in the mirror. I was delighted and scared at the same time; pleased and terrified.
She smiled a little;
“Sir Oliver’s preferences suit you very well; he will be pleased, I’m sure.”
Reminding me that my status here was impossible to hide. Perhaps not a whore, but not much more… I blushed, but still couldn’t take my eyes off the image in the mirror.
“Are you satisfied?”
A long silence; my voice is breathy, tremulous;
“Ummm , ye-es. Yes … than … thank you.”
There is a tiny beat of time during which I expect her to … what? Sneer at me? Something. But she simply smiles a little, hard smile, holding it for a while, then says;
“Very well. In that case your session is complete. We are pleased with the results. We’re confident that Sir O will enjoy them, too. You will come back for a final session — douche, enema, hair, makeup, nails, then dressing — on Friday afternoon. Good evening!”
And she leaves without a backward glance. The assistant doesn’t speak either, just shows me to a locker with my clothes, where I also find an envelope from Jason, with taxi fare and my keys.
I am home within half an hour, strangely deflated.
Of course, whenever I want my heart to start bumping, I can just look in the mirror (what am I going to say at work about bleaching my hair, darkening my eyebrows?). But apart from that, there is a feeling of emptiness. No sex with Jason, despite all that arousal earlier. No chance of seeing him for weeks. The prospect of being used by that old man in what will obviously be a harsh and impersonal way, over the course of several days… and always, in the back of my mind, the feeling that I have failed, have transgressed.
I collapse in tears; not harsh, just soft, despairing keening, feeling the pain of my own willing participation in his shaming of me — as happens often after a day with Jason. This time, though, the sadness is mixed with real, cold fear. The fear, not of the cruel treatment I might receive at Sir O’s hands, strangely — but fear of my own willingness (I already know I won’t be able to resist going on Friday — there will be little surges of rebellion during the next few days, but in my heart I know that I am going to submit). My own willingness to submit. My own desire to submit, to be violated, to be pushed beyond the boundary.
And again the image — which has become an almost physical sensation now — on my knees, choked with his cock, hands helpless, forced, displayed for strangers who know that they can use me…
What will become of me?
And then I am masturbating, pulling my robe open to look at myself, the girl they have transformed me into, the lush blond with the dark eyebrows, dusky nipples, dusky sex lips, that girl in the mirror with three fingers inside herself, the girl wondering what it would be like to have to perform for a stranger, serve him with her mouth, let him choke her with his big cock… … humping herself, moaning breathily, urgently…
When I’ve calmed down I have to take myself rather firmly in hand; I have a PhD! I have a very serious job, with some real responsibility — I have prospects! This is just a … just a … just a phase! I can control it — it’s just in my spare time. In fact, during the months I’ve been seeing Jason, I’ve been aware of an increased focus at work — it’s as if the intensity of the completely different experiences I have with J defuses some inner tensions that had been a distraction.
Deep down, though, I know that this isn’t ‘just a phase’ — otherwise why have I never even been able to get started with my various decisions to break it off with J — or even to ‘talk straight’ to him? I am focused at work, yes — but I am aware that this focus weakens when I get insecure about when I’m going to see Jason again. I am becoming concerned that Jason is more important to me than work.
But I push all these thoughts away — just as I have been doing for ages — pretend it’s all fine, that J is my boyfriend — just a little unconventional — that I have a good work-life balance…
Except that, today, my ‘boyfriend’ told me he wants me to fuck a stranger to me, a man old enough to be my father — let him do whatever he wants to me, over a long weekend, so that my boyfriend can have use of another girl who is somehow under this stranger’s control. What the fuck?
I spend the whole week going round in mental circles like this, until the point in each evening when I do the only thing that works — masturbate to my fantasies of how Jason will be when we are next together. It still works, although the fantasies are getting increasingly closer to the demeaning way he actually treats me, and less about declarations and demonstrations of love. But now, my thoughts keep on drifting, so that it isn’t J who, with a hand in my hair, casually drags me to the bed, but Sir O, his face as smug and relaxed as it was at the party. My orgasms are weak, unsatisfying, distressing. It’s been going this way for a while — the real experience is the one I have with Jason. What I do alone somehow doesn’t match up…
They still send me to sleep, thankfully — although sometimes it takes two, and often I’m in tears; those same, soft, sad, tears — no anger, no resentment — just seeing the wayit must go — the way I will go I smile, too, at the craziness of it all, at the quivering in my belly. I’m going to go bad, going to get fucked. Fucked by strangers…
Arranging the additional leave is slightly awkward. There are rules, and J has often asked me to arrange time at short notice, so that I keep breaking them, earning me a bad reputation in the HR department. But I am determined, and accept no resistance; luckily my stock is high with the bosses, so it gets pushed through, despite the raised eyebrows (there have been other sideways looks at my newly bleached hair, darkened, shaped eyebrows — but most of the higher-up staff are older men, and I gather that most of them approve…). It’s hard, at work, not thinking about the reason I am arranging the leave — but it is desperately important to. If I start thinking about Sir O at work …
I work late, to make up time, and to minimise the time of turmoil that each evening has become — turning over the craziness of what it seems I’ve accepted, confronting, or hiding from, the thudding of my heart that accompanies the idea that I have simply been given to this older man, that I am going to serve him, stripping myself to look at my darkened nipples and labia, finding myself with three fingers inside my sex, imagining that I am doing it for Sir O, as J has trained me to do it for him, feeling the waves of heat and blood throbbing through my body, hammering all intelligent thought from my brain, until I am gasping and thrusting and my way to another empty orgasm.
And then it’s Friday. I manage to work well in the morning, but at 12.30, my body switches on, and there’s no point staying. My appointment at the beauty parlour isn’t until 3. They have my outfit and will prepare me, so there’s nothing to do but pick my way through a salad lunch and window shop.
Which is when I saw the choker. A pretty white lace choker, but somehow it grabbed my attention. Of course, I knew all about the idea of a collar, but this wasn’t that — more a pretty lacy victorian thing. Still, somehow, I couldn’t get it out of my mind, even after I had reminded myself it wouldn’t suit the pale girly dress at all. But after I’d walked around the corner, I suddenly knew I had to wear it, and went back to the little shop, suppressing silly fears that it would be sold before I got there.
But of course it was there, and I was a little too desperate to buy it, so that the assistant looked oddly at me, stifled a laugh, which had me blushing.
It was strange how good it felt to be wearing it — right somehow, even though it was restrictive.
It was time to head for the clinic. Suddenly, my legs were wobbly, and I decided to call a taxi.
Arriving at the clinic, I found the whole business of announcing myself and acting like a normal customer getting ready for the weekend very hard to bear; the strangeness of what I was really about to enter into was affecting me strongly. There was a weirdness at the reception desk — they couldn’t find my name at first, and I began to panic a little. Then she asked me — would it be J13 or O87?
‘Excuse me?” I said.
“I think you are registered under your sponsor, but I’m not sure whether you are J13 or O87, do you know?”
I stood there stupidly for a few seconds, not understanding, until it dawned on me; J13 — Jason’s thirteenth girl here; O87 — Sir O’s eighty-seventh girl here! I am not Chloe here — I’m a serial number.
Painfully aware of the ill-concealed attention of the well-heeled posh looking ladies in the seating area, I answered;
“Oh, yes … um … O87.”
“Very well; can you confirm your name for us?”
“I … I told you before — it … it’s Chloe Def…”
“That’s not the name we have on file for you. Please, confirm your name.”
I realised, with a cold feeling, what name I would have to give, out loud, in front of this audience of other customers, strange judgemental women, my social superiors, older than me, with their obvious wealth and status symbols. But there was no way around it — the receptionist was looking as if she would just love to ask me to leave.
“Um … sorry … it … it’s Candyfloss.”
Candyfloss — the name Jason calls me to demean me, to remind me of what he thinks of me, sees in me. The name that I love to hear on his lips, almost as much as I hate it. The name that makes me squirm when he uses it in front of others. I have never used it of myself before, except to him, and in my fantasies. Now I am telling this supercilious receptionist and the eaves-dropping ladies that my name is — Candyfloss. A stripper’s name, a whore’s name.
“Very well. That is correct. I’m afraid that this confusion means you are now late for your appointment. There will be a £50 surcharge, not payable by your sponsor. Will you pay now?”
Her face is hard, with just the suggestion of a cruel smile. She is playing with me, the cow! But I cave immediately, dropping my gaze, fumbling at my bag;
“Oh! oh … um … yes… yes, of course! Sorry!”
I am so flustered at the idea that they might cancel my appointment, tell J and/or O it is my fault, mess up the whole arrangement, that I am clumsy, and desperate, and know that it shows. I blush as I fumble the PIN number for my card several times, biting my lip to keep from exclaiming, feeling eyes watching me, judging me, sneering at me. It is hard to hold back little tears of frustration.
But there’s a part of me that is happy. I am Candyfloss — in public. I am a sexy girl, whose sexuality, whose willingness to be a sex-object, willingness to pay to be made into a sex-object — is public knowledge. At least here. But it is exciting.
“Follow me please, Candyfloss.”
All this had me in quite a state, and it wasn’t until I had stripped and once again consented to everything they asked of me that I could relax. I was no longer in control; from now on, all I had to do was do as others wanted, and everything would be fine.
There was a little difficulty at the end, when I requested the choker back. They didn’t think it went with the little dress either, but I hit upon telling them that Sir O had asked me to wear it, at which point they shrugged and fetched it for me.
Somehow the outfit that we bought at Madame Encine’s seems even more extreme than it did when we bought it — wearing it outside, on the public street felt incredible. It was a dress in which you couldn’t help but be considered as advertising sex — the skirts so short and flirty, the heels so high, the bodice cut so low, the tiny straps, just waiting to fall down.
The taxi driver does a double-take — indeed, it is hard to sit down without flashing even more thigh than the dress usually exposes, and possibly even the elegantly asymmetrical white, lacy panties that only just cover my sex. The ride is short, but I’m sure he spends more time ogling me than looking at the traffic. I spend the ride blushing and trembling, trying not to think.
Everything is paid for in advance — I am carrying nothing — my keys, phone, work clothes and everything else are at the clinic, to which I will apparently be returned when Sir O has had enough of me. It makes me feel powerless, reaffirms my status as a helpless sex-toy. I hate myself for being fascinated with this feeling.
The driver, under instruction, obviously, gets out of his cab and hands me over to the uniformed doorman of the club, at its discreet entrance on a rather stuffy street with a famous name. The doorman, far from leering, appears not to to notice my rather noticeable getup at all, as if whorishly clad girls in pornstar heels were a commonplace here at 6 o’clock on a Friday evening. He leads me inside, into the dark wood-panelled, masculine power of the place, in which my pale dress and exposed skin feel completely out-of-place, horribly vulnerable, and hands me over to a superior looking servant, a stocky, neat man in a severe charcoal suit who comes out from behind a low table.
I am blushing hotly; my position here is so obviously that of a tart, a whore, and it hits me, hard, as these servants of the rich and powerful men who must frequent this place look me over, judging me, their eyes calmly roving up and down my body, resting coolly at my cleavage and thighs, insolent, knowing. But only for a short while, after which they turn to each other, interest apparently exhausted, and exchange some small talk before the footman goes outside again.
The small man turns away — it is so strange, after the cab driver, to have the men at this place seem so casual about such an exotic sight as I am. To be dressed so explicitly, so obviously, is at least slightly compensated for by helpless fascination in male eyes. To have these men look at me so objectively is un-nerving. I’m shaking now, knees weak. I should leave — I know I should. This is so wrong. But of course I am utterly unable to do anything of my own volition.
After a while he looks up;
“Who are you here for?”
Not, ‘who are you meeting’, or ‘whose guest are you’, but, ‘who are you for’. Even the question is shaming; answering more so;
“I … I’m here for … for Sir Oliver.”
“Hmmm … Candyfloss, is it?”
Heart thumping, cheeks burning; “Yes.”
He stares at me, face hard;
”‘Yes, Sir’, will serve you better here, girly.”
I meet his stare for a few seconds, wanting to find inside myself some will to get angry, to defy him, wanting to object to this demeaning by a stranger, a servant; but I am weak, too weak, and my chest heaves, my head falls and I have to bite back tears as I hear myself saying, voice very small;
“Yes, Sir. Sorry … sorry, Sir.”
In only a few seconds I have been brought so low… He lets it sink in, then;
“Better; follow, please.”
He takes compliance for granted, and walks off without looking back. In a broad hall we pass other dark-suited staff, whose eyes I don’t meet — concentrating on not embarrassing myself by falling over in the heels, losing my composure, I feel their eyes on my breasts, my legs, my lips. I am feeling light-headed, weak. Obscurely, I am also proud. Among these drab flunkeys, I am a peacock, a flash of brightness and colour, exotic. I walk as enticingly as I can — no point being here, dressed like this, with such a fate in store, and not doing what I can to inspire desire.
Pulse of excitement beating at my throat, breath heavy with sexual tension. My God, Sir Oliver will find me so easy! My eyes close briefly in shame and disbelief at the realisation. The notion of escape flares wildly in my head for a second, dismissed as impossible with fleeting, abyssal despair. I am lost; I am going to be degraded; a whore, just a piece of pussy.
Terrified of the implications of losing it at this point, in this place, among strangers, I squeeze back the tears, savagely, desperately force the mounting hysteria down, biting my lip, digging nails harshly into my palms. A bleakness settles on me, melting quickly into an almost unbearable, sweet mourning for the girl I was. The girl who has been perverted, depraved. Who has allowed herself — no, be honest, has offered herself for perversion, for depravity. Who is obscenely, pathetically, humbly needy for it.
A tear runs down my cheek; my lips tremble, and I falter, losing it at last. My guide notices, stops, looks at me carefully. I am suddenly close to hysteria, fighting hard to keep my face from crumpling, my knees from folding. Abruptly, it is too much for me, and I stagger, lean against the wall, cover my face with my hands. He looks at his watch, then directly at me. His voice is calm, neutral.
“You don’t have to follow me. But if you don’t, you must leave; no second chance, no discussion. We have one minute to spare.”
And he leans back against the wall, watching me, expressionless. Another sob. I am trying to quell the tears, feeling as good as naked in the tiny, tawdry outfit. The humiliation is unbearable. I’m a slut, a tart. I should leave — as he says. I have only to stand still for a few more seconds, and the choice will be taken from me… Somehow I know he is enjoying this hugely, despite his calm appearance; enjoying watching me decide to whore myself, and this knowledge is deeply shaming.
Round and round go my thoughts, in ever tighter circles; I feel panic rising. I am suddenly panicked at the thought of being ushered out of the building, abandoned, with no money, no keys, wearing slutty clothes, shoes I can’t walk far in, having lost my chance with Sir O.
My chance? Am I really thinking of being whored to a dirty old lecher as an opportunity?
Apparently I am; somehow, the decision is made; all that matters is to gain Sir Oliver’s approval. forcing down all the shame, and fear, I stand up straight, pull my shoulders back — even though I can’t control the trembling, I’m doing this; my voice low, breathy, blinking my eyes to clear them, I beg him to believe that I am worthy of continuing;
“Please … please — carry on. I … I’m over it. Please?”
Humiliated almost to the point of collapsing all over again, blushing deeply, holding myself together desperately, knowing that this shows, plainly — that it is clear I know what I am in for if I proceed and that, somehow, I want it — that I am indeed a whore;
When he looks sceptical, makes no move, I shame myself, force myself to do a sexy little wriggle for him, a desperate little girly giggle;
“I … I’m fine … honest?” my voice is throaty with suppressed tears.
I cannot meet his gaze, have to resort to frightened darting flickerings of my eyes.
Suddenly I know that at some point in the near future, this man will be fucking me, and that I’ll try my best to make it good for him. An abyss is yawning in front of me, and I’m throwing myself in. I wriggle again, try to smile, heart doing crazy flip-flops in my chest, utterly humiliated, but with the knowledge that I am wet and hot between the legs. That if he were, now, to step forward and put his hand up my short — so terribly short — skirts, I would open myself to him, helplessly. I want him to. God help me, I want him to…
My lips are quivering, my weak, frightened, pleading little smile horribly fragile, tears hovering in my eyes.
After a heart-stopping pause, he calmly turns and walks on, not checking whether I am following. My little squeak of relief is even more pathetic, even more shaming.
A couple of turns. A door. He knocks softly, opens it without waiting for a response, ushers me into a sedate, genteel sitting room; large windows with afternoon sun on a lovely garden, elegant antique furniture, antique rugs on a dark, polished wooden floor; a solidly upper class room of immense, quietly costly taste and calm, in which I know I appear as an irredeemable vulgarity. A room in which the very wallpaper knows I am nothing.
