He wasn’t even a proper boyfriend. I mean, I saw him fairly often, had sex with him, occasionally went to places with him – but there was no real relationship, no depth to it, no thought in my mind that it could ever go anywhere.
Which just makes what happened even stranger. Not that it matters now, of course. Nothing matters any more. But it intrigues me, going over it, how one step led to another, how improbable and – well wrong, it all was. Is. And yet when I think about each decision point, each place where I could have changed the way things went – changed them for the better, for the saner, for the healthier – I cannot imagine myself, at that moment, making any other choice than the one that I did make.
However crazy it was, whatever was suggested to me, I always made the choice desired of me – often with a great deal of discomfort – fear, often – but always committing myself in a way which now seems inevitable, unavoidable. It always felt like the choice I knew I wanted to take. Even though, at the same time, it was always the choice which would lead me further down a one-way street - his one-way street. I was never deceived, never tricked, always chose what I chose freely.
And if I had known in advance, known how one choice, one decision, would lead inexorably to the next, and the next – deeper, deeper, and deeper still? How getting out, although always explicitly on offer as a choice, simply never got any serious consideration …
Would I still have made the same choices, had I known these things? I’d have run a mile, screaming, surely? Perhaps not. I’ll never know. It’s too late now. There are no longer any real choices.
Anyway, that morning, he had asked me to go for a walk with him. That was it – a walk on the Heath. That was a little unusual – he wasn’t much of an outdoors type, and neither was I. But it was a lovely day, and he said we’d end up at a pub and have something to eat, and so I said yes.
I put on a summer dress – pretty, but nothing particular, with some flat sandals. After some deliberation, I decided that I wouldn’t wear a bra – I didn’t have one that wouldn’t be annoyingly visible at the back. My breasts would sway a little – I wasn’t comfortable with that, really – they had blossomed in my late teens, after I had come to terms with being flat-chested, going from nothing to a firm, proud CC in under a year. But I knew he liked them, and it was high summer, and I hate to look ill-considered.
Maybe a different dress, with a firm bra, would have changed everything? Strange to think of that. It could have been so different. Somehow, though, I don’t think so. Everything was sealed, I think, even before I knew anything about it …
He was subdued, but at the same time jumpy. It was weird, no fun really, and I got pretty irritated and was considering walking off, except that by then I was a little lost, and he seemed to know where he was going. So I followed on, thinking that this was it for him. If he didn’t come good by the end of the day, I’d cool him off. It was over, probably. I wasn’t even sad.
So I followed behind, not speaking, as he took a narrow path into a stand of trees. Quite soon, it opened out into a pretty, sunlit glade, with a picnic table. It seemed very quiet and private – we hadn’t seen anyone else for at least a quarter of an hour. But there, at the table, sat a man.
An older man – late forties perhaps, and really quite ugly, without there being anything particular you could put your finger on that made it so. He was somehow impressive, though, sitting at that table, with a financial newspaper – the pink one.
In an expensive and very masculine business suit that he was completely master of, he lowered the paper a little, looking at us, calm, at ease, but at the same time a powerful, intense presence. It made me feel odd, to be outside, in such a deserted spot, to find this very powerful projected masculinity, this stranger. Suddenly the clearing felt like a private room – his room – and I was a trespasser.
This was silly! I walked a little faster, caught up to W. We’d be past him and on the way out of the glade in ten seconds or so. Just one of those little incidents – I’m not even sure I was thinking any of this at the time – it’s just that I have replayed the scene in my mind so many times since that I feel every fleeting nuance now – the remembered event is more real than what actually happened – I don’t really know any more. But my heart is beating faster just writing this.
And I’m moist between the legs, my nipples tingling deliciously, throat tightening. I was such a tender and innocent victim, and my degradation has been so ruthless, so thorough, so gloriously devastating, that I feel dizzy just thinking about that moment…
And I felt some heightened emotion then, too – nervous. Breathing stops, then re-starts with a jerk and a rapid intake of breath, startling me.
How can this scene, so small in itself, have such a powerful impact, still? Because it led to here, to now, to what …
What I am, what I have been turned into. What I glory and despair at. What tears me apart, what makes life worth living, by inducing this state where every nerve ending is fully alert, tingling with anticipation – of pleasure or pain, where my mind and body are brought into a sort of frozen frenzy, which only the decisive and powerful demands of another can bring to resolution, and which resolution is so often denied, that I am become a helpless addict, utterly without the means to resist the most outrageous injustice, the cruellest humiliation, pathetically eager, grateful for the slightest teasing hope of attention.
Because W didn’t keep walking, but stopped close to the table, nodded to the man, then half turned toward me – mutely, but as if presenting me to this stranger. I stopped, unsure, uncomfortable, feeling the man’s powerful being; intense, perfectly focused, but completely calm, completely confident, in control. He was looking me over quite thoroughly, without the slightest embarrassment, and without looking once at my face – appraising me as a man might a horse. I want to shout at him, turn and flounce off, leave W to his – friend? But somehow I can’t move, can only stand there, blushing as he scrutinises me, feeling a strong urge from somewhere to adjust my position, to try to look more attractive – to gain his approval. Why? In any case, I am all but frozen until I hear him say;
“She’s pretty enough, but I want to see her on her knees, thighs spread.”
His voice is deep, smooth, but with a sort of unconscious certainty of his power that gives it unnatural force. His English is perfect, but there is a hint of an exotic accent. For a moment I am too fascinated by this character to register the words, and by the time I have, W has turned to me, and his face has a look I’ve never seen before – quite desperate, really; intense. He’s pleading with his eyes, really looking at me, more interested than I can remember him ever being before and I’m impressed despite myself.
But it isn’t this that gets me. I’m impressed that W should be so intense, that he’s looking at me with such urgency, but I’m in no mood to do anything at all on his behalf.
I turn back to the man, still seated, still as relaxed as before, despite the obvious turmoil he has induced in W, despite my confusion – he’s just looking. Then I realise, he’s beginning to look away – he’s bored, losing interest.
And I don’t want him to, I suddenly realise. I want him to think me pretty. I want him to be interested in me.
He looks at my face then, steady, cool, neutral.
And I hear myself speak; hear my voice, urgent, with a hint of panic in it.
“What? How? You ..you can’t just demand that! I mean, who .. who are you?”
Of course, replaying it in my head I can hear my own weakness, my inability to just walk off, leaving them for the presumptuous jerks they were.
He just looks at me, as calm as ever – a little interested, but not caring much. Patient.
I’m aware of everything as if it is in slow motion, in 3D crystal vision, realer than real. Part of the knowledge is that there is something intensely sexual in the air. My heart thumps, hard, in infra-sound, the way it comes across in a modern cinema – all engulfing, impossible to ignore.
The moment is frozen – I don’t know for how long, but he doesn’t make any sign that he has even heard me.
And then he looks at W, slight shake of the head; he’s folding up his paper, making to rise, a small smile.
Somehow, despite the annoyance in me at being inspected, patronised, spoken about in the third person, and expected to kneel, I find that I’m suddenly deeply convinced that something important is going on, something that I want to get right – or more, that I really don’t want to get wrong. Some kind of test. A test I know that I desperately want to pass.
A test of my worthiness. Where the hell has that come from? Why should I be bothered what this stranger thinks?
I know that I have failed – not passed the test. That it isn’t a test I knew about, understand, or have any reason to care about seems to make no difference. I don’t want to fail – somehow it is all-important that I don’t.
I look at W – his teeth are clenched, he’s trying to take it well, my failure, but I can see it is hitting him hard.
This is crazy. I must .. Why?
I just have to;
“No .. please .. wait”,
I hold out one hand, imploring..
He pauses, momentarily, face impassive, hard. He’s not interested. I’ve blown it. I don’t know what, but it clenches in my belly. I don’t want to be rejected. I don’t.
It doesn’t matter – there’s no time for questions. I have to act, now.
“Ok! OK! Please. Please .. I .. I ..”
I’m babbling, trying to pretend, I suppose, that I’m negotiating, but his friendly, politely dismissive little smile is there again and he’s clearly about to walk away.
And them somehow I’m kneeling, knees feeling little stones and twigs on the path, self-consciously remembering that he wants my thighs spread, and knowing I have to move my knees further apart. Hating this, hating doing it so obediently, for a stranger. Kneeling!
Pathetically keen for him to find me acceptable.
I’m aware that I am stupidly desperate that he shan’t change his mind about me being ‘pretty enough’. Actually, I want him to think that I am really very pretty – and sexy too, for that matter. I’m blushing at these conflicting emotions, and my own docility, but I spread my legs really rather wide, draw my shoulders back, knowing that my breasts can have an effect.
My heart is thumping. I’m displaying myself – trying to look sexy, for this ugly old man, a stranger with a very rude way of speaking.
But he’s looking at me now, at my breasts, at my cleavage in the low-cut dress, and I’m acutely aware that I have no bra – is he pleased, or not pleased? – I couldn’t say. I daren’t look at him, or at W. I’m ashamed, blushing, heart pattering unevenly. How can I be in this position – kneeling for a strange man, in front of my boyfriend? I hate it that W is there, seeing this – so degrading. I hate W, I realise, want him gone.
Why don’t I get up and run off? What’s going to be next?
It turns out that what’s next is him smiling at me – I dare to flick my eyes upward for a second and catch the slight curve of his lips; private satisfaction, not a real smile, but still I feel a wave of pleasure and relief wash through me, shaming and glorious.
And he speaks;
“Lift your skirt front, both hands, lift it right up.”
I’m stupidly happy that this time he has spoken directly to me – that I have become someone in his eyes. But I’m not lifting my skirt! Who does he think he is?
About a second after I have this thought I feel tension rising in me. If I don’t do what he wants, then what? He’ll turn and go, leave me. And that’ll be it. I know I’ll never see him again. I won’t see W either, but that will be my choice. But this strange man, who can cause such powerful feelings! Never to see him again. Not to have the chance to try to understand him a little – to understand how he can do this to me – this would be a desperate loss, I realise. A loss I can’t bear to risk.
My hands feel as if they are moving through thick cream – everything is in slow motion. It seems to take forever, and to be incredibly beautiful and sad, as I watch my hands float towards the hem of my dress, ridden halfway up my thighs, and slowly, oh so slowly, raise it up, up, up, until I know that he can see between my spread thighs, see my sex with only the thin protection of a skimpy pair of white panties – ordinary white panties. I’m rolling the hem up. I don’t want to obscure his view of my breasts, I realise. I’m trembling. My nipples are like stones, I’ve got goosebumps despite the warmth of the sun, and my heart is seemingly set to random.
I feel the urge to spread my thighs a little, knowing that this will have the effect of thrusting my crotch forwards, tightening my panties, that this will be obvious. That this will be an explicit invitation to sex, to penetrative sex. I don’t want to do it.
I do it anyway, one knee moving, then the other, the movement obvious, settling myself into the new position in an agony of shame. My mind is a firestorm.
I’m dimly aware of W and the man exchanging some words I don’t really hear, backwards and forwards. I suppose this was fairly quick, but really, I have no idea. I was somewhere else.
I hear him say; “Get her tits out”, and I stay still, fighting against myself in order to do so, while W almost rips the bodice of the dress down. My breasts sway free. For the first time since they got so big – very late in my teens – I was pleased with them. They were big and dumb and perky, and stupid men stared at them and didn’t look at me, didn’t see me.
But this man wasn’t interested in me at all, only my body, and somehow that was good, too, rather than horrifying and outrageous, as it ought to have been.
I push my breasts up and out, like a bimbo. My chest is heaving, and they sway now.
I think he takes a picture of me with his phone, I’m not sure, I can hardly function, feel as if I might faint. Somehow, though, I hold my pose.
Then he’s moving; leaving. I’m desperate, jump up, in an agony of indecision and shame, unable to believe what has just happened – that W (that shit!) has witnessed it, that I have behaved so whorishly for – why? Why? How?
I’m in floods of tears suddenly, collapse against the table, pull my dress back towards decency, with real desperation, shame flooding me, head on hands, until W touches me – nervy, soft, and I jump up, screaming with fury – oh, I hate him now, hate him for bringing me here, for bringing me to that man – for it is clear that is what he has done – God knows why, some scheme, something dirty, underhand, nasty.
I am screeching, trying to hit him, and he is backing off, asking me to cool it, then suddenly he’s gone too – walking fast – almost running, from the sound of his footsteps, and I’m crying again.
I don’t get home till very late, after crying myself out, then wandering the park, alternately furious then despairing, assailed by sudden flashbacks of those glorious, terrifying moments when I felt more alive than ever before, when I had offered that stranger my body – just because of the way he looked at me and spoke. And then I would be angry and ashamed all over again. Eventually I found myself at a tube station and fell in, getting home on auto-pilot, ran a scalding bath, desperately, pathetically forcing myself to repeat the silly ‘you too can meditate’ mantra that I learned from a woman’s magazine until I manage to exhaust myself and stagger to bed.
Work the next day is hectic, and I throw myself into it, knowing that the second I stop I will have to remember, to think, to relive those few bizarre minutes that have so completely overset me.
But of course, I can’t be busy forever, and I find myself in the loos for half an hour, just staring at the cubicle wall, reliving those fleeting moments, over and over. And again in the evening. I dared not go home to be alone, so meet a friend at a cafe and talk about nothing that matters, until she goes to buy a drink, then utterly break down as soon as she comes back.
She has it out of me in the end – not the detail – I only tell her that it became clear that W was somehow offering me to the stranger, and that it had been awful – that’s enough for her, she’s never liked W, and is happy to blame him and I use some energy agreeing with her that he’s a scumbag who won’t ever get to spend any time with me again.
And I manage to concoct a story that has W as the villain, me as the victim who is now strong, and which writes the stranger almost out.
It lasts for the walk home at least, but as soon as I lie down in bed, he’s back; ugly, calm, exuding easy, confident power and control, and I’m on my knees, hopefully, shyly displaying my groin, my breasts, awaiting his pleasure on tenterhooks, heart thudding. Alternately, I feel beautiful, fascinated, sexy, desirable, excited – then frightened, ashamed, horrified, sad. I try to get angry but I know it isn’t real anger. It’s hours before I can sleep.
The next day is similar, but a little better, and the day after that I can almost laugh about it. My friend is relieved, and so am I. At home, though, I burst into tears again. Doesn’t the ugly man want me? Was I not pretty enough? Not obedient enough? Not sexy enough? He said I was pretty. Pretty enough, at least…
Pretty enough for what?
The bastard! How dare he do this! I refuse! I refuse to feel like this any more!
I know, I know that I’m better off never seeing him again, that these emotions are too intense to be safe, that what he had me do was abusive, that he must be dangerous, I know…
But despite all this, something in me doesn’t care. It is a simple need, a need for what he, and only he ever in my life had had to offer, and the knowledge that whatever it was, he had had it in spades.
W has called me a few times, but I’ve blocked him, told the switchboard at work not to put him through.
I’m going to move on, I tell myself. I start looking again at college courses. I’m 23, I have my whole life ahead of me.
He just walked off – without a backward glance! Should I have called him back? My heart pounds at the thought. Why had he bothered to have me on my knees, wanted to see my panties? What for? He’d liked my breasts – hadn’t he? Or maybe he liked small ones? Were my legs too slim? Not toned enough? What if I had worn no panties?
I’m going crazy, I realise. What happened – what I did – these thoughts whirling round in my head, they just don’t make sense!
I had to take myself in hand – force myself to close down those thoughts as soon as they started. and over the next few days, I was able to convince myself that it was working, that I was getting past the strangeness of that afternoon, the magnetic pull of my mind to relive those surreal moments.
So that by the Friday, walking up the hill from the tube towards home, I was able to tell myself that normality was back. Perhaps I’d never unlive those moments, never entirely forget those bizarre, needy feelings, but I’m over them, not going crazy.
As these thoughts were in my mind, something registered in my field of view, fifty yards or so ahead. A sleek looking car drawing up, a chauffeur opening the door and .. shock .. even at a distance, there was no mistaking him, his presence, his being…
Him – the ugly man. He was there, in front of me, facing me, less than 10 yards now. He was looking at me – I knew that he was looking at me. Directly at me!
I had no defenses, none at all. None of the faked-up anger, the energy that had possessed me earlier in the week, nothing. And so it hit me, fierce, unfiltered, piercing. He had come for me, and I was not going to be able to resist. Fear grew inside me, and I almost stopped walking, slowed down, heart thumping. For there was need, too. And desire…
A long silence. My heart thumping, loud in my ears. I try to meet his gaze, to summon up some anger, but I can’t do it, look down, shaking a little. How can he do this to me?
Then;
“I imagine you might want some explanation.”
Read the next part of Fatal Attraction
