This will make much less sense if you haven’t read the previous sections. They’re more scenes than chapters, so parts are less stand-alone than you might expect.
I didn’t expect that I would end up writing about how it is that I’m writing this, it just happened— and so the narrative thread will need to be picked up again, but it has been useful, I think.
I feel freer now, and somehow more vulnerable too— in a good way. Vulnerable to you, my reader.
I didn’t imagine a reader, at the outset— I began writing in an attempt to make sense of myself, to myself, I think. But in explaining my writing at all, it becomes clear that, as someone wise once said, no-one ever really writes without imagining a reader, without wanting to be read.
It comes into my head that perhaps this is why my demons permit this writing life, this withdrawal from the world of fuckers. Maybe they understand that opening myself to anyone who happens to read this is another way of of me getting fucked. Maybe telling you all of this, making clear every detail of my innermost feelings, my shameful vulnerabilities, is a way of letting all of you fuck me, of opening myself to every fucker that can read. Maybe you’re my fucker.
Maybe. Perhaps. I suppose that that is really up to you, not me. But that’s how it is, how it has always been; it’s never been up to me; If you want to, go ahead; you already know that I’m easy, that I’m weak, that I’m open.
As for my first fucker, Sir James, he had not finished with me that night; smiling, standing over me, kneeling naked at his feet, still breathing hard and brokenly from the twin effects of breath deprivation and having my mouth filled with his thick come, he shifted, deliberately made his cock slap into my cheek, insolent, demanding;
“Entertaining as that was, girly, you haven’t accomplished your task in the slightest— if anything, it’s stickier now than it was before; I think you need to try again— only this time maybe just use your tongue.”
He’s smiling, sharing the little joke, acknowledging that the responsibility is really his, but nevertheless making clear what he wants— for me to clean him up, with my mouth, naked, on my knees, while he grins at me.
And, without any idea of what else to do, I comply, smiling helplessly at him, softly and carefully using my tongue as instructed, burningly aware of how clearly subservient this is, but also aware of a deep satisfaction in me at being able to please him— even if it is as a naked whore, on her knees, cleaning her boss’s cock with her tongue, pink with embarrassment, giggling to conceal her humiliation as he swings his dick aboout, teasing her, laughing at her, pointing out that his balls are sticky too, calling her a good girl when she stoops to take them sweetly, gently into her mouth, grinning as he watches her breasts sway, as she flexes her ass in the hope that he’ll like it.
For this girl, this Sally that I used to be, the experience is nearly as intense as the ruthless face fucking he has just inflicted on her; different in character, but in its way equally significant. She knows that this is servility, submission, subjugation, knows that he is enjoying it, that she has let him see her acceptance of it, that he will use this, take it for granted as his due in future. And she knows, too, with a secret guilty delight (not as secret as she thinks, to a man of his experience), that she likes it, feels somehow privileged to humble herself (as ridiculous as she knows this is), knows that to let all this be so obvious between them is trouble, but gives in to it anyway, willingly, sweetly, even as she loses a little of herself in the process.
The sexual intensity of the throat-fuck can perhaps excuse her to some degree— passion is passion, after all, but this— this is just her, confirming and accepting her situation as his whore, doing things that an hour previously she would never have believed of herself, never wanted for herself, doing it attentively, conscientious, knowing that he is watching her, liking this knowledge even as it burns her with shame, finding ways to hold herself that she hope will be sexy, will be enticing. Whoring herself and knowing it, feeling this knowledge entering deep, deep into her being, the knowledge that she can be brought to this, and so easily, without even a hint of resistance, loving it, fearing it, trembling.
But while the experience is so intense for her, for him it’s no more than an entertaining little coda to a pleasurable fucking of the new intern, so that when he’s had enough, he simply turns away, with a curt; “That’ll do”.
And then, moments after giving me the fucking that changed my life, just by buttoning his trousers, he became once again the well-dressed public man of letters, the champion of all that mattered about literature, the darling of the broadsheet supplements, while I was left naked, kneeling on the floor, sore, adrift in sexual and moral shock, slick with a mix of our bodily fluids, trembling, thighs splayed, my poor sex puffy and pink from its multiple and varied batterings, nipples stiff and smarting from the rough attentions of his hand which had continued throughout the relentless fucking of my throat, mascara tracks down my face, lipstick smeared; left me, as a gothic novel would have more succinctly put it, ruined.
Fucked.
He had fucked me.
And I? I worshipped him for it. Still do, if truth be told. Would crawl to him and beg for him to do it again— and more…
The gratitude I now feel to him and to Ms F in particular for using their power, using my weakness, without casually destroying me, as they so easily could have, as others, less civilised, so nearly have, is perhaps the source of my habit of responding to those who control me the most fully as if they are to be worshipped. It is my knowledge of my own weakness, my vulnerability. These people are indeed as gods to me; they have held my life in their hands.
I had no understanding of any part of this, of course, at that moment— I was like a child, caught up in forces that were new to me, all feeling, without comprehension. But I did know, without question, that I worshipped him at that moment, in the most abject and helpless way, my heart banging so loudly and sweetly in my chest that I thought it might burst, my sex wanting him again already; harder, more, needy…
Of course, it may just have been two minutes without oxygen, but whatever it was, that moment has stayed with me, intense and singular, in all its darkness and its glory, since that day.
He still hadn’t quite done with me, though, for as this moment passed, my shame at my wanton-ness, my mounting embarrassment at being so exposed, so besmirched, at whoring myself so obviously, rushed in on me, I began to collapse in on myself, hugging my arms across my body as I feebly grasped at the bits of clothing I could see, desperate to scuttle off to some dark corner, out of sight, where I could cover myself, hide, lick my wounds; but as I tried to disappear, he murmured;
“No. No you don’t, pretty— you stay here. Show me; let me watch you dress— right here, no hiding of charms allowed! And don’t worry about wiping yourself too much either; I want to know that you’ll be sticky— reeking of sex all the way home.”
Powerless to resist the slightest expressed wish of my god, I obeyed, dressed in front of him, feeling girlish and vulnerable, ridiculously ashamed (considering what we have just done together) now that he is coolly watching the way my breasts move as I put on my bra.
I am pink and hot with it— liking this attention, but feeling freaked out by it too.
My unexamined, trite expectation— that sex brings intimacy— is not at all being fulfilled; rather, he’s making it very obvious that he is enjoying me as an experience, without being much interested in me as a person— not even bothering to pretend, and this is new and confusing for me, hurtful. I’d never been a casual sex type of girl.
The feeling of wild abandon and freedom that had overtaken me when on my knees, taking his cock so deeply into my throat, was ebbing fast, while the enormity of the implications of what had just happened, of what I had just given in to, was forcing itself into my mind, refusing to be ignored, telling me to hide myself away, fighting against my urgent need that he should continue to find me attractive.
In the end, I find myself giggling in embarrassment, looking at him only with brief flashes of my eyes, knowing I am fast losing any chance I ever had of appearing sophisticated (of course, there had been no chance of this in the first place— I had been selected for my very lack of sophistication, as well as what Sir James told me much later was ‘the aroma of incipient nymphomania’ which he claimed to be able to detect in young women with reasonable accuracy— that and my ‘long thighs and good tits’).
So in reality my somewhat clumsy, blushing performance for him that night was exactly what would have pleased him most (but perhaps not what would have served me best, depending of course on whether you think things have gone well for me or not since then…).
In any case, once as I was dressed, he became entirely matter of fact; got up, sorted out his trademark and faintly ridiculous string bag of books, lit a cigarette (he ignored and flouted all possible rules and regulations as a matter of principle) and made to leave, looking back from the doorway;
“You’ve a silky puss on you, young Sally, and we’ll have you turned into a decent cocksucker soon enough, so I’ve no complaints about your performance; but you should know that I am rather ruthless in pursuit of my pleasures. I’ll want to force that tight little arse soon, open you up for general use there too, so you should have a careful think about things this weekend, my dear. Serious stuff you’ll realise, this workplace sex; not to be entered into lightly.”
After this rather shocking speech, normality is rather jarringly resumed with a small, automatic smile;
“I shall see you on Monday perhaps. Get yourself a taxi home now— and on the firm, of course. “
And then he was gone, leaving me to deal with everything— not just the aftermath of our messy sex in his room, but the aftermath in my head, too; infinitely messier.
In hopes of warding off the despair that hovered, I tried for normality— covering up, pretending it was all ordinary— just a typical evening, a simple sexual encounter between consenting adults. I’d do what he said; order a ride…
I’d been offered a taxi before, but never felt justified; tonight, I knew I deserved it, so I called and gave the account number from the post-it on the wall.
The first fruits of my whoredom— a free ride home.
Stop thinking like that! Stop it!
I made myself put his room back together (to the extent I could; his office was legendarily chaotic— like an cartoon of an academic’s study, piles of books, manuscripts, bags, boxes and papers everywhere)— set the alarm, turned off the lights, locked up, just as if it had been a routine late night at the office.
I managed to do all this on automatic; a good little girl, conscientious with the busywork.
But then, in the dark cab, nothing to distract myself, I couldn’t keep it together.
The tears came when we were halfway home: no sobbing, just soft, weak, sad tears welling up in my eyes, coursing down my cheeks. My world of literature and letters was changed for me forever. If I had any place there at all, it seemed it would be as nothing more than a whore.
In spite of that, I still wanted that place. Worse, at least some of me wanted the whoredom, too, I had to acknowledge. I wanted Mr Nathan to like my breasts, I wanted more fucking from Sir James, and if nothing else I wanted to see if I could crack a chink in Ms Frankl’s cool armour with sex, the way I had Sir James’ when I was straddling him.
I cried, too, because the moment of certainty I had had earlier, when it had been so simply obvious that I would say yes to their outrageous offer— that I would become a company whore— had dissolved while Sir James watched me dress.
If I couldn’t even carry that off, how could I possibly be what they wanted? To be a failed whore— to be fired (or perhaps worse, demoted) after a few days or weeks, as seemed certain to me as I felt at that moment, would be so much worse than turning them down and walking away (despite their reassurances, I did not believe I could stay there if I didn’t say ‘yes’).
… and then into my mind came the last things he had said; ‘silky puss’, ‘decent cocksucker’, ‘ruthless’, ‘force that tight little arse’.
His brutal honesty was clear— he was letting me know that what was interesting about me was my body, my sexual performance, that if I gave in, if I said yes, then he would be pushing me hard— demanding improvement in my cock-sucking, fucking me in the ass, ‘opening me’ there. And by extension, judging from Ms F’s words earlier, she and Mr Nathan would have other demands, their own expectations, no less pressing…
It was too much, too much to have to think about this stuff— I understood the meaning of the words, of course, but I couldn’t make any proper sense of them— in my universe people just didn’t say things like that to each other, still less do them— not outside of smutty paperbacks at least.
But here, all too real, and confusingly right at the centre of the world I thought I understood, the world I wanted to be a part of, to make my life within— the world of authors and literature— were Mr N, Ms F and Sir James, all using such language with me, again and again, manipulating me, using their position, their power over me, expecting me to do what they wanted, clearly confident that I was to become their obedient whore.
It was all obvious enough as a situation— if asked, as an exercise, I could sketch out any number of plots that could develop from here— and of course I knew about workplace sex, #MeToo and everything, but still, it seemed wildly unreal. That stuff happened to other people, people on the news, people in stories, not to anyone I knew, and still less to me. Whenever I felt I must try to be sensible though, I rapidly discovered that it became impossible to think clearly, that feeling overwhelmed me.
But now, this evening— within the last hour, that unreality had been translated into direct and shocking personal experience— the memory of his cock inside me, filling my sex, forcing itself into my throat, of the way that had unhinged me, opened me, transformed and transfixed me was still raw and present in my mind, and in my body. And I knew that my body wanted more of it. That all of me wanted more of it. I remember thinking that if my ‘phone had rung right then, and he’d asked me to spend the night with him so that he could fuck my arse, I’d have told the driver to turn round, gone straight to his place without question, and bent over his kitchen table— that’s how much I wanted it.
It was all too hard, too confusing, too weird…
The obvious thing, the sensible thing, would be to walk away. Leave. Make up some story about why for my friends; go back to my stepdad’s place, volunteer for the local community blog or something. Shut all of this weirdness down. Just run away; go back to university in the autumn, chalk it up as a life experience, try and use it in the creative writing, work it through that way…
But to think about that was to start up the relentless parade of irreconcilable desires and fears, hopes and ambitions, urges and warnings that had been tormenting me in different ways ever since Mr N’s proposition.
I made a decision; stop thinking. A re-run of the other night was in order— get drunk, put the TV on until I passed out. Anything else would lead to madness, I felt. I dried my tears, and asked the driver to stop at the corner shop. I needed more vodka.
It didn’t turn out that way, though; in my bleakness, the clamped and bitter expression of the old woman who manned the till struck me like a glass of cold water in the face; that was what being safe, taking no chances got you— nothing but resentment at a life not lived.
Tonight was what it was— and it had been incredible, an experience beyond any other of my life. Sir James Ovingden, one of the foremost literary agents in the land, had fucked me, hard, and been overtaken by lust because of me. I had had the most powerful orgasm ever, had found that I could, if pressed to it, take a cock in my throat as well as any pornstar. So what if it had got a bit pervy? We were consenting adults; no commitments had been made.
I didn’t need vodka, I needed a long hot bath and some leisurely self-administered orgasms, while replaying the highlights in my mind. And then I needed to sleep…
Amazingly enough, this worked, although the way my mind went as I brought myself off got rather unsettlingly dark, as I imagined Sir James deciding to force my little asshole…
But the orgasm wiped out worry, and left me quivering with pleasure, and sleep came quickly and heavily.
