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 awoke gradually, heavy limbed, floating in the sort of whole body experience of deep relaxation that only ever, in my experience, comes the morning after a bout of no-holds-barred sexual intensity; my thoughts were like melted chocolate, smooth and sweet and slow, my whole being languidly relaxed, luxuriating in a feeling of warmth and looseness that was like a welcome gift.
But a gift for what? I lazily considered the question, while the answer formed, gradually impressing itself upon my drowsiness, the answer which, when it finally came, would astonish me, brazen in its clarity: last night, I had taken a big step towards becoming a company whore.
I had fucked my boss— or, more exactly, had permitted him to fuck me, just exactly as he pleased; had served him sweetly, eagerly, helplessly; had accepted the violence and the greediness of his use of me as if I was an habitual and degraded nymphomaniac.
And I had (mostly) loved it; was still loving it. However horrifying it might be to contemplate the implications, however shocking it most definitely was to have participated in the debauchery he had demanded from me, however shaming the idea that Ms F and Mr Nathan would likely know the details of my wanton behaviour; despite all this, my body knew its truth; that I was glowing with a fierce satisfaction— glee, even— at the memory of Sir James’ use and abuse of me.
God, but I had been fucked well.
I was smiling, hard, stroking myself slowly, fiercely, writhing slowly in the bed, savouring the slow, dull heat of the strains and insults he had forced onto my willing flesh, feeling them as pleasure almost— certainly as welcome for the way they triggered intense, hot memories, the heat rising again in my belly as the mental pictures flashed into my mind, demanding to be relived … and again, I was working myself towards a lazy, self indulgent orgasm …
I never got there; the mood was already losing coherence as I came more fully to awakeness, the claims of reality clamouring to be heard, the self-preservation auntie and the righteous nanny wanting their say, and there; it was gone— the bubble burst. My hand was still at my sex, but the moment had passed, and I tensed, suddenly chill, folding my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me, the backlash in full swing like some sort of a vicious moral hangover.
Then all the bad craziness of the previous 48 hours exploded in my head, like items on a charge sheet, accusations in court;
my boss had asked me, the new intern, for a blow-job; straight-out, no warning, no attempt at sweet talk.
my mentor had calmly informed me that it was all part of an agreed plan, sort of standard practice in the company, to use certain young female interns in this way— that the partners proposed to share me between the three of them— each using me as they preferred.
I had been told that I would be required out-of-hours— used at evenings and weekends, too…
… and that if I complied, I would be well rewarded, and even have my career ‘launched’ (and, whatever they said, I was sure that the opposite applied— that if I said no, I would have obstacles put in my way).
the senior partner had seduced me on work premises and subjected me to the roughest, most degrading sex of my life, used me as a sex-toy, rather than a partner (and yes, I had responded, and yes, it had been an incredible experience, but he’d also made it very clear that if I said yes, it was only going to get more demanding).
I was in tears by this point, slow tears at first, then gradually, as all the wider implications began to sink in, really weeping, until at last I was full-on sobbing, on my knees on the floor, pushing my face into the side of the mattress, shaking my head back and forth, in torment, wanting it all to go away, not to have to face this; my hands, each gripping the opposite forearm, savagely kneading my flesh— as if I could offset the anguish with physical pain.
At last I forced myself to stop.
This was outrageous! In this day and age, to treat a young female like this was unacceptable— and what’s more, would be considered so heinous that the firm’s reputation would be called into question at the merest public hint of such goings on.
Whatever the cost to me, it was important that I speak out— and in any case, the publicity around it might ‘launch’ me anyway— there would be interviews, perhaps a court case, I would be a hero to some— maybe I could write a book…
I went round and around this track of thought, winding myself up into a fine state of self-righteousness, until I stood up, defiantly clenching my fists, wiping my damp cheeks on my sleeves, channeling my emotion now; telling myself it all had to be dealt with— that I had to do something decisive; change the dynamic, become the author of my own life (yes, all the vapid cliches from the articles in women’s magazines and personal development articles— all of that).
I showered fast, freezing, super hot, then freezing cold again, planning my campaign in my head, rigidly controlling myself; hurriedly pulled on sweats, made strong coffee, wolfed two bananas and handfuls of dry granola, then sat down at my laptop. First, a time line— clear descriptions of everything that had happened— which would be followed by a search for lawyers, which would be followed by a decision about the right investigative journalist to contact. I had a plan.
Except that, within ten minutes, I was weeping again; weeping very softly this time, not anguished, but defeated.
It was all horseshit, and I knew it. I’d got half way through setting out what Ms F had told me— got to the part about what Sir James would expect from me, and then it had come over me like a flash flood; need.
I needed him; right there, right then, I needed him to hold me, to open me, to want me, kiss me, fuck me, use me if he wanted to, any way he wanted to. I wanted him. My body wanted him. Wanted to give itself to him, be his plaything again, be taken there. Heart hammering; lightly, but so, so fast inside me, hands jittery, belly fluttering at random, groin tingling, nipples stiff, memories of his hands, his mouth, his cock; on me, inside me, hurting me, caressing me, owning me.
Again, my hands were in fists, as I tried, tried so hard to tell myself that this was just a flashback, a wave of emotion, that this was just weakness— to be expected; after all I had been abused and psychologically manipulated…
… but it was no use, no good, not enough, not deeply felt enough, and my head went down; slowly, so slowly, until I laid it, face sideways, on the keyboard, trembling, feeling all the determination, the anger, blowing away like smoke does as the flames break out of a fire— all that revealed as fakery; the false front that had been erected by my fears— fears of transgression, fears of losing myself, fear of the unknown, fear of— fear of my own desire— all in the attempt to reel me back in, to safety, normality, to acceptability. To averageness.
And I saw my whole life as having been lived through this framework of fear— lived through expectation, norms, what others hoped for from me— good, dependable, enthusiastic, determined, hardworking, pretty little Sally. Ha!— even my supposedly exceptional academic ability had never been heartfelt; never. How had I never realised this before? Did I want to write? Did I want to be a publisher? Who knew? Maybe. Maybe I wanted to run away to South America and live in the jungle with hunter gatherers.
Maybe I wanted to be a sex slave to three powerful literary agents.
Maybe I didn’t. Probably I didn’t. No, I really didn’t. Not that. But if that was the only avenue of escape? The only way to break out? I had never even had the strength to think these thoughts until now. What if this was my chance?
And also, right now, I did, urgently, deeply, savagely, want to be Sir James’ lover. Whatever that might look like. OK, not even lover. The girl he fucked on evenings and weekends. Whatever that might feel like. However wild the landscape might be. I did want that. This was what my heart felt, what my body knew.
The tears dried up and slowly, ever so slowly, I lifted my head again. Still trembling, massively unsettled, my mind filled with wonder, with questions, with uncertainty, still totally off-balance, but with this difference; at the core of me now, for the first time ever, there was something that was really alive, something that was certain, something that knew what it wanted, and what it didn’t want, something that didn’t really care about what anyone else thought, or what was ‘the right thing’ or ‘the safe thing’.
This wasn’t a welcome feeling— it wasn’t reassuring to know this at all; I had not the faintest idea how to handle it. In many ways it didn’t feel like me— but one thing about it was undeniably exciting and new. As far as anything went that it— this certainty inside me— cared about, there would be no need for second guessing, for compromise, no point in worrying about what anyone else wanted, or what they might think, how they might judge me— because none of that would change what I knew, inside me, about what I wanted.
I met my demons.
Sitting there, feeling out this strange new knowledge, this urgently demanding new part of me, this new shape of the world, of myself, I began to laugh a little, softly, lightness inside me, layers of my past life lifting off me, to leave— what? It was as frightening as it was liberating, but freedom is exhilarating, and that’s why I laughed, why my back straightened, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing deepened and slowed.
If I didn’t let the fear get me, didn’t backslide, this was going to lead me somewhere utterly off the map. The old map at least.
And Sir James would fuck me.
He would use me, actually. A lot. And hard. And in the ass. And hurt me, too, physically; inflict pain on me, if last night was anything to go by…
“OK, then.”
I had said it out loud.
And that, somehow, was it. Decision made. Die, cast.
And then I was full of impatience, energy— something had to happen; now. I was suddenly upright, jittery; indecisive but full of the need to do something— because there was enormous tension. I’d decided to give myself over to him— to go where that led…
But… but— it was Saturday morning— nothing would happen until Monday, now. I couldn’t bear it! Crazy! Impossible! I would go mad with this backwards and forwards between sensible, frightened, boring me and ‘let Sir James take over’ me if I had to think about this stuff all weekend.
Self-preservation auntie and righteous moralising nanny hadn’t disappeared with that dispersing smoke of course— they were still there, inside me, stamping their feet and yelling about the danger I was getting myself into for all they were worth. I had them under battened-down hatches, so to speak, but if nothing came along to stop me thinking, they’d find a way out, a new angle of attack, and it would be turmoil all over again— and I couldn’t bear it, I knew.
The chances of me caving, of giving in (not going to the newspapers or anything, just slinking back to Mummy and Daddy and pretending nothing had ever happened, that I had never been shown what freedom and danger and wildness looked like)— the chances of this were diminished, but I certainly wasn’t certain I could hold the line, on my own, for a whole weekend.
Because, you see, it wasn’t that I’d become strong enough to simply make the choice for life, and excitement, and wickedness over safe, dull, conformity. It wasn’t any strength of mine, oh no. The need— desire, fierce desire— inside me was real, and certain, and alive, but it wasn’t enough to make me strong— after all, I had been suppressing it for years; years and years. Its only power was in certainty as to what it wanted. Me, I was still conformist little Sally, the sweet, pretty girl who did what she was supposed to do.
Just with a welding torch flame alight inside her, a demon.
The strength in this situation was Sir James. It was his greedy and assured certainty that had made it possible for me to go with his desire last night, none of my doing.
It wasn’t even that the voice inside me wanted to be taken in the way that Sir James had promised— it was more subtle, and more simple than that. The needy one inside me wanted Sir James because only he was strong enough, greedy enough, uncaring enough to demand that I let him take me— only him that could save me from the clutches of conformity and blandness.
It certainly was not that I was a masochist, or even, perhaps a true submissive (I’m still not, not really— despite everything)— but that my only route to life, to intensity, to feeling real was to give myself into the hands of someone like him.
Because I was weak, but wanted an authentic life, I had to give my life into the hands of someone who simply would not permit the banal, the average— someone who was driven by his own inner demons to seek excess, transgression, the beyond. Someone who could, to use the clichéd term, take me out of myself.
I didn’t really understand any of this at the time, of course. All I knew was that I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting until Monday— but no-one would be in the office, and I had no direct contact details for Sir James at all— and only an approximate idea of where he lived…
And then it came to me that I had a mobile number for Ms F— she’d given it me when she’d told me that she would be my mentor; ‘Call me anytime, Sally, and we’ll see if I can’t help you.’
She could help me alright, but … I was brought up short— a lurching feeling in my belly.
I hadn’t thought much at all about Ms F, and still less Mr Nathan, since last night. Sir James had filled me in more ways than one— become the single most important figure in my world. The other two, although theoretically part of the same world as Sir James, had faded away, become cardboard cutouts.
It was Sir James who wanted me, who would take me somewhere unimaginable, who would be the whirlwind, the unstoppable force that took me away from nothingness. The other two seemed irrelevant beside him.
Except, of course, that this was wrong. Mr Nathan was a lightweight, perhaps, but that morning, in Ms F’s office, she too had been a force of nature— utterly uncompromising, certain, sure, demanding, seeming to experience no concerns at all as she came out with her outrageous statements.
Sir James, frightening and magnificent as he was, was my fixation now. At no point during the morning had I really considered what it might mean to be Ms F’s plaything as well. I could feel the doubts clawing their way back into my consciousness again, and I couldn’t let it happen— it would be all too much— my mind would surely give way…
‘But it’s easy’, came a realisation from within me, from the place of certainty; ‘Call her. Go and see her. Tell her that you’ll say yes— but only to Sir James, not to all three of them. Sir James wants you. He’s had you, the other two haven’t. He’s the boss, the senior partner, the Founder. They’ll agree. Do it. Do it now.’
And for lack of anything else to do that didn’t lead into some yawning abyss of anguish, I did. And it was easy— seemed easy, anyway; just pick up the phone and do it. A revelation! Something like that would have been impossible for me, just days before, would at the least have required hours of agonising, argument and counter argument.
Now, I found the number in my ‘phone, pressed ‘Dial’ and, when she answered, simply said;
“Hello, Good morning. It’s … it’s Sally. I … I do hope I’m not disturbing you, but … well … I’d like to talk some things over … I mean, that … that thing. Please? Can … Can I come today?”
OK, my voice wasn’t as calm or firm as I’d have liked (in fact I was trembling and my cheeks were hot as the reality of Ms F actually hearing these words began to build), but to call at all was significant.
There was a pause. A long silence, during which my nerves only intensified their jangling. I wanted to put the ‘phone down, run and hide my head under the duvet, but the new certainty inside demanded that I persist, gripping the ‘phone oh-so-tightly, waiting.
Waiting.
The obvious picture of a sex-slave is of her in use— being used for sex (or, if your mind runs that way, being spanked or whipped). Those are certainly the parts that stand out in the memory, that you put in a story.
But the waiting is equally hard— if not harder.
People who keep slave girls, you see, tend to be rather rich; and wealthy people, counter to another popular image, are generally not entirely idle and fancy free. This isn’t to say that they are all hard at work maintaining their wealth, not at all— mostly they’re rich enough to have other people do that for them. No, they’re mostly super-busy reassuring themselves that they are wealthy— going out and flaunting it, sitting with their advisers feeling important, dealing with some problem about that third house in the South of France, shopping hard, being expensively pampered, doctored, exercised.
And all of this effort— the effort of simply being a wealthy person— leaves them no more time than the average person for having sex. OK, perhaps two or even four times as much as the average person. But let’s be ridiculously generous and say they get ten times as much sex as the average person (there are certain obvious time advantages to having a sex-slave on call— no minutes spent getting the desired partner into the mood, or hours taking her out on a date. Opportunity advantages too; you get to use her when the mood takes you— no wondering where your desire has gone by the time she’s put out the cat, got her jeans off, visited the bathroom and taken her earrings out).
But even then: the average person has sex around twice a week— so let’s say our wealthy slave-girl-owning type has twenty trysts each week. And let’s say that she’s the only girl around (wealthy people tend to have a lot less trouble than regular people in managing to get people to have sex with them, so this isn’t usually the case, but let’s persist).
That works out as three trysts per day (-ish). If these add up to an hour each (which they mostly don’t— one point of using a sex slave is that you don’t have to spend much time making sure she gets hers), then allowing 11 hours a day for sleeping and necessaries, our lovely harem girl still has 10 hours a day for thumb twiddling. Except, of course, that she is not usually allowed to thumb twiddle— but is instead expected to wait, posing attractively, enticingly dressed, ready to serve. Waiting.
Waiting is a very cheap and easy way of impressing upon a girl her lowly status. It takes no effort at all to forget about a girl, kneeling, all but naked, on a cold stone floor, outside your door, or face down, ass up in the corner, while you read a book, watch a movie, have a conversation with your friends, a dynamic business meeting, a round of golf— fall asleep, even.
But the cost to the girl of this happening again and again, knowing that she has simply ceased to exist in the mind of the master or mistress, but that for herself, she may never forget what she is, what she is kept for, she may never really relax, must be ready at all times to respond with pretty and sweet compliance— for any lapses will be punished, usually with disproportionate zeal and vigour— this has a powerful effect over time.
Waiting, bored, cold, stiff, humiliated, sexually frustrated, sore from a punishment; other staff, strangers, dogs, all walking past, about their business, not quite ignoring her, but certainly without any sign of friendly interest, constantly on tenterhooks in case someone might report her for not looking inviting— this reality, day after day, hour after hour, eats into a girl’s self image.
All part of the programme, of course. I’ve become good at it, though; I’ve had to.
Back then, though, just being kept hanging on the ‘phone for 30 seconds was a trial, an ordeal. Just try it now: stop, pick up your phone, put it to your ear and count to 30, slowly, silently in your head.
It felt like an hour.
What was she thinking? What had come over me, to be so demanding? What was she going to say? Did she know what had happened last night between me and Sir James? At this I began really to get the jitters, realising that she might well know in great and mortifying detail just what I had allowed him to do with me, and I began to feel very strange indeed— a novel (then) mixture of shame, desire, fear and yearning, all mashed up together, feeling again my body readying itself for sex, my breathing slowing and getting louder (had she heard that sharp in-breath as a flutter gripped my belly?).
At last;
“That will work. A car will be with you in one hour. Wear almost nothing, with your highest heels. Carry nothing but your house keys. If you have anything arranged with anyone over the weekend, cancel it.”
Silence again. I can’t think of anything to say. But it appears that an answer is not required;
“I assume that your silence means that you understand. Be ready for the car.”
And the line goes dead, leaving me a little stunned, and completely awed. How can she make this all seem so simple?
The transition from my expectations of working in a top literary agency, just three days ago, to this, is so staggeringly abrupt, so thoroughgoing, so complete, so relentless, that I need to sit down.
Every time I think I have got used to this, have some sort of an idea, the smallest handle on it, it is swept out from under me, making it devastatingly clear that not only am I not in control of this process, but that I have no clue what it really is, even.
Numb at first, the impact of those few clear orders begins to take hold. At first, I’m just short of breath, feel a little panicky, but quite quickly my heart is thumping erratically, my mind is racing, chasing its own tail to no purpose at all, just burning up brain cells, breathing somehow a lost art, requiring conscious effort, as if I am re-learning it after a stroke or something, then a rapid transition to hyperventilating; giddy, dizzy, feeling I must faint, until some shred of sanity calls me to order and I begin to regain control, do the head-between the knees thing, constrain my breathing; longer, deeper breaths, just think about the breath … in … out … in … out. No thinking … in … out … no thinking.
That’s it. I’m going to leave here as close to naked as I dare, with no money, no phone, no-one to expect me anywhere. And, just like that, I will be little more than a body. In her hands.
And that’s it. An inevitability. Give yourself up to it, girl. And the demon inside me was absolute. No backing out.
And then I’m up; bathroom first, basin full of cold, cold water, wash the tears out of my face, hope the puffiness goes too, attack my hair savagely until it has some shine and shape, burying my thinking in busyness, gripped by a powerful need not to turn up without having done my best to be attractive.
Next, my meagre wardrobe, stripping off the sweats, looking in my underwear drawer— problem is, I really don’t have many choices to make.
I’d always been a uniform sort of girl; spend ages selecting a ‘look’, then buy things that fitted that look, so that my wardrobe was mostly ‘work uniform’, ‘student uniform’ (with a fair bit of compromise overlap), plus one or two each of ‘party uniform’, ‘date uniform’, ‘chill-out’. Even then, deciding what to wear was sometimes hard; worrying about minutiae, what different people I might encounter would think.
In the end, there was no option; the summer party dress— the flirtiest thing I owned; which was not saying much, really. Although it was a light, pretty, floaty thing, it wasn’t exactly sexy— a demure neckline with a little collar, skirts down to just above the knee.
I spent a minute trying to convince myself I was brave enough not to wear a bra, or panties, without success, and then there was no choice there either— it had to be the only fancy set I had— which wasn’t that fancy but at least looked as if I had made some effort; black, they didn’t really suit the dress— but they were the only option. Ditto the heels— summer sandals that did go with the dress— not really high, but honestly the highest ones I owned.
I almost lost it at the make-up stage— I don’t usually wear much, had never tried to do anything clever, and failed miserably when I tried. In the end, I stripped it all back, did my usual with a little more lipstick and eyeshadow and hoped for the best.
It was 12.45.
So I waited.
I didn’t dare do anything else, so I just stood there, in the middle of the room, trying not to think, clutching my little set of keys in my hand (of course, I had no plans for the weekend to cancel), holding back the hysterical nervousness that was only looking for an excuse to claim me.
The ride was no better, wondering helplessly if the driver knew anything, if my shame was common knowledge, wracked with questions, suddenly rearing in my head, about the other staff in the office— did they know? Would they know? When they found out, how would they treat me?
Madness. It must claim me if I could not learn to let these unanswerable questions wash through me, unconsidered. What would be, would be— the responsibility was theirs, not mine. What I had to do was seize my chance, take this ride, let it tear me loose from my moorings.
Back then, I think I had the idea that there was to be some powerful transformation— that these feelings of great uncertainty, of trembling anticipation of soon to come unspecified outrages to be demanded of me, enacted upon me— that that this churning, belittling powerlessness and helplessness in the face of the unknown would just be a phase— that through it I would become a different person, somehow party to the debauchery, be as wild and carelessly greedy as them. Be free.
Somehow I thought that if I could just get through the next few days— weeks, at the most, then I would find some new equilibrium, some new bargain with life that included transgressive sex with my bosses; a fair bit wilder, perhaps, but was somehow manageable.
If I had known how foolish, how naive, how delusional this idea was, could I have, would I have, changed anything? Probably not— so caught up was I in the whirlwind they had snared me with. A mercy then, those delusions, for without them, perhaps I might have snapped, lost the plot completely, become a casualty (later, much later, I learned that there had indeed been girls who had fallen apart, had been unable to cope, had cost them serious money— even this had not stopped them, such was their confidence, their certainty of their own power).
The reality was that the wildness, the denial to me of any reliable understanding, the continual crossing of boundaries, imposition of unthinkable transgressions was the core definition of their modus operandi— the way they took nice normal girls like me to places where it became impossible to make judgements any more— to places where their will, their desire, their needs and greed became the only sure guide by which to navigate.
And this morning, I had taken another step into that whirlwind. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I wanted it— or at least the freedom it would force upon me— and so I sat in the cab, in a fervour of mixed excitement, fear, exhilaration and panic, my nipples stiff, thinking about sex, feeling my hips wanting, needing, to flex in a most disturbing but also delicious way.
The car stopped at a grand four-story villa in the classical style, overlooking a small park— grander than I’d expected. It seemed the house had become three apartments so I pressed the button labelled Frankl, and after a moment a voice I didn’t recognise said;
“One moment, please”, and clicked into silence.
The person who opened the door was a surprise— a girl, younger than me— maybe 20, possibly Spanish, about my height, a handsome rather than pretty face, very striking with heavy black eyebrows and long lashes, full red lips, shoulder length black hair, thick, heavy and immaculately glossy. Her slim but curvy figure was well served by a short, slinky dress, low-cut and simple— sexy and classy at the same time— a noticeably heavy choker and those weird mashups of high heeled wedges and sneakers— all in black.
She didn’t smile or seem at all welcoming, just looked at me quite hard, for a noticeable few seconds, as if evaluating me, before saying;
“OK, jou follow me”, turning on her heel and walking off.
Her accent was Spanish, too, quite heavy.
All in all, this welcome had done nothing for my febrile state, but there was nothing for it but to follow her. On the stairs, it was hard not to notice that the short, clingy skirts were riding up her legs, and making brief flashes of her crotch visible. Was she wearing panties? The dark shadows made it impossible to tell, but somehow I needed to know, only to feel as if I’d been caught staring when she suddenly turned her head, face impassive;
“Did jou close the door— hard? She is sticky.”
She was looking directly into my eyes, face impassive. It didn’t seem as if she was at all worried about whether the door was closed, but I was so embarrassed by the thought that she might know I had been staring up her skirt that after a few seconds, I turned tail with a mumbled;
“I … I’ll go and … and check”, and scurried back down, to push uselessly at the firmly shut door like a bad stage mime, feeling utterly foolish, cheeks burning.
She hadn’t waited for me, and hadn’t left the apartment door open either, so that I had to knock, and wait again.
“Oh” she was smiling this time, a faint amused triumph in her eyes at having established her superiority; “It is jou”— before turning away and disappearing through an inner door without a further word.
Slowly, unsure, I stepped inside.
Ms F’s apartment was humbling. Clearly architect designed, minimalist to an extreme within the classical shell of the house, of which it occupied the top two floors, double height spaces, stark lines, all offset by sculptural furniture of great warmth and character— thick rugs, an antique leather sofa like an aircraft carrier, danish dark wood and leather chairs, low solid tables of some oriental style with metal inlays, heavy brass vases, serious art on the walls (Matisse, Braque, Dora Maar photographs), sculptural plants: an in-your-face assertion of her cultural confidence, knowledge and status. It made me feel like an eight year old, awed, deeply certain that nothing would ever make it possible for me to achieve anything like this, and deeply grateful to be associated with Ms F, who could do this as well as maintain a pre-eminent position in the world of literature and run a successful business too.
I was still only a few steps into the room, staring round-eyed, mouth open, when Ms F appeared on the staircase— a dramatic spiral of dark wood. She didn’t speak, looked at me for only a second or two, without seeming interest, then walked over to the door the girl had gone through;
“Gata, dear; coffee, please.”
Then she turned and came up beside me and held her hand out. After a second I realised she wanted my keys, which I realised I had been holding onto so tightly, that they were hot and sweaty in my palm. I gave them to her, helplessly, feeling as if some lifeline was gone, and watched her drop them into a brass pot.
She looked at me again;
“Good. So you’re here, and … this is how you present yourself?”
The girl, Gata, appears and makes her way across to a semi-enclosed part of the room, the kitchen I suppose, while I stand there, trembling now, feeling incredibly dowdy and unattractive.
I daren’t speak, and Ms F appears not to be expecting me to, either, so I stand, trying to hold myself well under her mild but unignorable gaze.
“This is not what I was expecting. You were to wear almost nothing. Did you not understand?”
Her voice was not angry, not threatening— it was all perfectly conversational, but the naughty girl in front of the headmistress feeling was back again, at full strength. This was ridiculous, I knew, on some level, but right there, right then, it was deeply serious.
“I … I think I … understood, yes, but … but I … I don’t have many clothes, and … and this was …”
“I see; you poor girl. We must help you get some prettier clothes, and very soon. You may dress as you like on your own time, but this won’t do at all for our requirements. Your work clothes, too, will need to change. Perhaps I’ll send you to Claire tomorrow— she likes shopping. Yes, I think that will be for the best. Claire was ours, you see, for a couple of years— before we launched her as a fashion writer. Gata can arrange it.”
She stood, contemplating me for a while, then her expression changed, hardened a little;
“Do you have underwear on?”
Again, her tone was entirely mild, but it was clear that she was not going to be pleased by the truth. Stupid, but I was tongue tied for quite a little while, blushing; ‘how can she do this to me?’. At last, I managed to answer, my voice pathetic and weak;
“Umm yes , yes I … I do.”
“So I take it that I am to understand that, for you, ‘almost nothing’ must include underwear, even under a dress as modest as that one?”
There was clearly danger in the air. Ridiculous to be as close to tears as I was at that moment, but that was the truth of it.
“I … yes … I … I suppose it must be— oh!”
She startled me by taking two steps forward and taking my chin in her hand— soft, but very firm, standing at arm’s length, looking into my eyes. Voice soft and gentle, looking deeply into my eyes, she clearly wanted me to pay attention;
“Sally, you must realise; the standards that apply to you now, in relation to the firm, are our standards, not yours— whatever those might be. So when we say something like ‘almost nothing’ to you, you must attempt to understand what we mean by that, and put your own views out of your mind, do you see?”
She wanted an answer, and so, humiliating as it was to agree to this (I hadn’t ever yet said that I was going to accept their demands, had I? And yet here was Ms F, acting as if I belonged to her— and me, going along with it without even a hint of resistance), I nodded;
“Yes, Yes I … I understand.”
And now she smiled at me for the first time, patted my cheek;
“Good. Good girl. So. Do you think that underwear are included in my definition of ‘almost nothing?’ “
I shook my head.
“Very good. So let’s see what we can do about this, shall we?”
I’d almost forgotten why I was there— that it was was my idea— but I was being carried along like a leaf in a torrent, all illusions of agency evaporating.
“Gata— scissors please— the big ones.”
The girl’s approach to Ms F was almost unrecognisable from the haughty, status conscious attitude she had shown me; humble, servile almost— eyes big, soft, attentive, waiting for a little nod after she handed over the scissors before going back to the kitchen.
Ms F came in close, dropped to her knees and without any warning or apparent consideration, took the scissors to my dress. I was stunned— ‘she’s cutting my clothes!’ I looked down, to see that she was making the skirts shorter. Much shorter— like just a couple of inches below my bum shorter. I was really trembling then, but at the same time, I knew I liked it. Personal attention, from the Ice Queen.
She leant back, tilting her head a little, considering. She wasn’t looking at my face at all, paying no attention to me, asking me nothing. And it was OK. Really— it was easier this way. I was a little humiliated, but much less frightened, and she could hardly complain about how I was dressed after this, could she?
And then she lifted my skirts. No preamble, no hesitation, just flipped them up. Her face was inches from my pussy, and I almost fainted. I’m not a lesbian— really, I’m not, but the imminence of her touching my sex was enough to make me weak all over. Instead, though, I feel cold metal on my thigh; snip! And again, at the other side; snip! Her hand reached up between my legs, grasped the material covering my quivering bum, a quick pull, and I was naked down there, she looking directly at my sex; then (unbelievable!, impossible!) touching it, but with such great delicacy— ever so gently exploring the folds of my labia, teasing out my clit from its hood; so, so soft… .
She was touching me, right there, with that girl in the adjoining room. Touching my sex. And I was so wet there, I suddenly realised. Crazy wet, crazy horny, and so, so grateful— all I could do was to stand there, quaking. I heard myself uttering little soft sounds, helpless; the situation was impossible, couldn’t be happening, and so it must be a dream— so much easier— no responsibility…
And then suddenly she was not; not there, it was not a dream, but all too real, and she was standing, to look me direct in the face, a twisted smile, pleased, a little wicked;
“Well, well, Miss Sally Dainty, I have to tell you that you have been hiding a rather appealing little pussy in those cute panties. That won’t do anymore, you know. Of course, we’ll have to get your little bush neatly trimmed, but that’s it for panties for you. Bought and paid for, missy, and all … ours…”
Her hand was back, and this time it wasn’t gentle; not rough either, but rather a supremely assured and skilful invasion, occupying me, owning me there, in complete and casual control, and I could not restrain a glorious, grateful gasping moan, out loud, full throated, which became a soft sobbing plea for more as she slowly, oh-soooo-slowly, began to work her hand in me, and her voice was in my ear, soft, but clear, and very definitely in command;
“Hands behind your back, missy, grasp your elbows, hold them tight. Good, Now, spread your legs just a little wider, and open yourself to me; that’s right pretty, you have no choice, let your hips move, offer yourself, let your pussy tell me how much it wants this, that’s it, not your fault— this is me, bossing you, owning you, don’t worry— just do exactly what I want, and everything will be fine, pretty, just, just, fine…”
And I was hers, lost, moving for her, whining softly, knowing I was lost, that that was it; now that she’d had me like this, and Sir James had me dreaming of his hands and his cock, my chances of real resistance were zero. I gave myself over, completely, to working towards the orgasm I could feel coming, that I wanted so much— no matter that the Spanish girl would see— worse was sure to come to me now I was a whore, and I wanted it…
And then her hand was gone, she’d stepped back, watching me, watching my face, and I’m knew that she could see just how easy I would be, just how lost I was, and I couldn’t hide it, even though I knew her power over me was growing by the second, even though I knew she would use that power, I didn’t want to hide from her, I wanted her to see just how much I wanted her, wanted this;
“Please … oh! oh! Please? Just … just a little, little… That … that was sooo, soo nice… Never … I’ve never been touched like that, never…”
And then her fingers— the ones that had been inside me— were at my lips, inside my mouth, and she was smiling at me sweetly, firmly, as I realised what was expected of me next, and froze for a second; but of course there was no choice— her iron will against any small tatters of my self image as a straight girl— no contest— and I softly, hesitantly, began to suckle her fingers, tasting myself like that for the first time, heart pattering wildly in my chest, pussy still yearning.
“So you see, pretty, it’s our pussy now— ours to play with, ours to touch, ours to fuck, just exactly as we please. So no more panties from now on, ever— at least, not unless we tell you to. We’ll give you pleasure, of course we will, but when we want to— not to suit you, pretty— although it is often nice to hear a lovely girl like you beg, so don’t stop trying.”
And she put a finger to the end of my nose and squished it, just a little, as if I were a cute four year old, and I loved it, even as the hot blush rose to my cheeks.
“Now, keep your hands there for me pretty, I’m going to be cutting near your lovely tits, and I want you to keep very, very still…”
She was back again with the scissors, starting at my chest now— ‘what?’ I had to take myself in hand, stand still for her, let her do as she will with my best party frock. I found I could get a sort of reflection in the glass of a painting, and gradually it became clear— she was cutting three panels out of the front of the dress— a large central one, down from the collar to the outsides of my breasts, then a curving vee downwards to the centre of my cleavage, exposing the top of my bra. A smaller triangle over each shoulder, leaving only a diagonal strap on either side from the collar to the outer edge of my bust. Then she was behind me, doing something similar, making the dress half backless, as far as I could tell. Looking at the image in the glass, I appeared to have been transformed— from a demure summer party frock, my dress was now a sort of punk fetish version of itself, the preppy collar now more of a choker, the vee cutout directing the eye to my breasts, the shortened skirts exposing most of my thighs— my legs looking longer than I’d ever imagined them.
And then, snick, snick, snick, the bra straps were cut (the most expensive lingerie I’d ever owned, worn about four times, now trash), and my breasts were swaying free in the much loosened bodice of the remains of my dress. My stiff nipples were clearly visible, poking through the thin fabric, even in the half mirror of the glass frame, and most of my cleavage was now on show.
Her hands came onto me again, from behind now, one at my breasts, the other between my legs, and I was moaning again almost at once, hearing her laughing at me, softly, in my ear;
“Well, well, little Sally! Sir James told me that you were a wild one once he got you started, despite the ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ way you carry on, but I didn’t think you’d be quite so— ” and here she did something rather decisive with the hand in my pussy at that point, and gripped my left breast very tightly, hurting me just enough, in just the right way, to unhinge me, and I groaned loudly, starting low and ending almost on a squeal as she laughed again; “— quite so easy to conquer as this.”
And with that she was gone, not just from me, but walking into the kitchen, saying something in a low voice to the girl, whom I’d forgotten all about, leaving me stranded in every way— skirt bunched up, one breast hanging out, sex soppy and hungry for more, mind reeling, tears and laughter and sexual noises all expressed at once, without restraint, as I shook, not daring to release my arms from where they were, as if welded, behind my back, lips trembling, belly fluttering, breath heaving, knees weak; all my efforts going into just staying upright, into not freaking out completely as the reality of what had just happened to me sank in.
I was so frightened, all of a sudden— the depth of what I was being sucked into growing in my mind— this was not just office sex— this was mind games, power trips, humiliation, manipulation— and I was excited about it, fascinated by it, eager for it now, none of which stopped it from being terrifying, and for what seemed like the fourth or fifth time that day I was suppressing hysteria, holding myself together in the face of a great unknown that was clearly going to ravage me— that a large part of me wanted to be ravaged by, even as I knew it would probably destroy me.
And then I was unable to stop myself sinking to my knees, breathing hard, biting my lip to keep from moaning incessantly, needing her back, needing her strength, her certainty, unable to face it on my own, so that I was unbearably grateful to hear her returning, even as it became obvious from the sound of voices that the girl, Gata, was with her— would see me like this; even this I would bear, would accept, in return for Ms F’s presence.
“Oh wow! I see what jou mean!”
And she was pointing at me, gorgeous, elegant, sexy, immaculate, laughing at me, my tits out, my hair mussed, my dress so obviously hacked about, rucked up between my legs, make-up smeared, tears in my eyes, lips puffy from the biting.
Ms F was tutting at her, telling her off for being mean, but with a grin that showed she didn’t mean it, and I was crying then, real tears, soft, helpless, rolling down my cheeks. no sobs, no outrage, no anger, just acceptance that this would be my lot, that I was happy with it in some weird way.
