This part has even less sexual content than the first one. You should read that one first.
His voice was as fascinating as I remembered it. Utterly confident, relaxed, certain. I felt my anger melting. An explanation! Yes! Something to settle these endless circles my mind has been looping in.
I look up, meet his eyes, and he has me. Direct, deep, understanding, while at the same time utterly without compromise. I take the bait, needy, weak;
“An .. an explanation?”
My voice was so tentative, so high pitched, warbling upward in tone like some silly teenager’s, a fool. I’m embarrassed, annoyed at myself – but more, desperate for him not to think me an idiot. He let a silence grow, sinking me in humiliation, then;
“Just so. Shall we?”
He indicates the swanky, elegant car; cool, unemphatic, leaving it up to me.
The wind knocked from my sails, all hope of raking up some righteous indignation lost, I meekly get into the car, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, while the chauffeur holds the door for me.
He gets in on the other side as normal as you like. All my alarms are jangling, but at the same time it is somehow a requirement for me not to let my confusion show, to pretend to be cool. I can’t understand why I’m here – in his car – this man who subjected me to the worst experience of my life!
Even as I form this thought in my head, I know it’s a lie. It wasn’t the worst experience in my life. Just the most shocking, the most intense, the most disturbing, the most remarkable, the most unforgettable, the most irresistible…
And now I’m in his car.
I’m desperate to sit well, desperately conscious that my work outfit is nowhere near as pretty, as sexy, as flattering to my body as the little dress I had worn for that walk in the woods with W, that the nickers I had on were workaday panties, that my bra was comfortable and actually a bit old, and decidedly unsexy.
But why? Why should I be thinking these things? He wasn’t going to see me undressed – ridiculous!
Except, of course, that he already had…
It was impossible to look at him – just impossible – and at the same time I was in an agony to know whether he was looking at me or not; how he was looking at me, what parts of me he was looking at, whether he was satisfied or disappointed now that he had me up close. Was he smiling? Was he leering, was he smug, or bored? I had to know, and yet I could not turn my neck to save my life.
Trembling. I was actually trembling. My god, what was I doing in this car? He could be kidnapping me – aiming to rape me, murder me!
I was on the road to hysterics, to losing control, when he spoke, in that gorgeously calm and softly powerful voice, with its intriguing accent;
“It’s such a lovely evening, I thought a stroll along the canal would be pleasant.”
And the car draws smoothly to a halt; we’re at a pretty bit of canal, with the odd cafe, children laughing, a delightful summer evening – a less threatening environment hard to imagine. The chauffeur holds the door for me and I’m gulping in air, clenching my fists, forcing myself to calm down, to try to act as if nothing is going on, and then, without really being sure how, I’m standing, blinking, suddenly feeling dreadfully dowdy in my casual work wear.
“Shall we?” He gestures; slow, calm, assured, and I hear myself say;
“Yes, yes, that would be .. nice.”
Pathetic, vapid. Surely he will abandon me now – the girl who can emit only cliches.
But, don’t I want to be abandoned – wouldn’t it save me if he just made an excuse, said he had to go?
Except that, fickle as I seemed to have become – a girl I no longer understood - I now gritted my teeth in despair and determination at the very thought of him losing interest.
So when he takes my hand, tucks it into the crook of his arm, and we’re walking, I find myself almost joyful to be holding onto him, having to control myself not to grip his arm hard, to at least appear calm – but all the same, I am holding onto him, onto this man who has knocked me for six, holding onto him for dear life.
“You are very beautiful, you know – very lovely, very desirable.”
I’m speechless, trembling again, staring carefully at the ground in front of me. How can this be happening to me?
“You have enormous capacity for intensity, desire, extremity – but this is either deeply suppressed, or perhaps, you are simply unaware of it – it having never been awakened.”
Of course, this is romance novel codswallop – utter tripe. The sort of nonsense men get taught to say by pick-up-artist conman youTubers. And I know it.
So why, then am I suddenly weak at the knees? Truly needing to hold onto him, now, afraid I might fall, so wobbly am I.
He’s a rock, discreetly taking my weight, obviously strong enough not to really notice it, casually, considerately, slowing, turning so that I can lean on a handy railing, clearly helping me to hold on to some dignity.
I take a deep, deep breath, hold it a little, let it go, slowly, as I’ve learned from the self help book, try to avert this intensity, pluck up some courage, try to pretend that this is all banter;
“Are .. are you sure? Because .. because I .. I don’t ..” I trail off, chest heaving. For I have looked into his ugly face and he’s smiling at me, softly, knowing, serious, utterly unafraid.
“I’m more certain every minute. And I am a connoisseur who has all he needs of beauty.”
And I can’t speak any more. There seems no need, even. It’s as if something has been decided – though I have no idea what. After a minute, he makes to resume our walk, and I go with him, unquestioning, hanging frankly on his arm now, up against him. Needing his strength. Wanting his strength.
Not much more is said, until we arrive at a small restaurant, and he pauses;
“The food is good here. Shall we? Or, would you rather I had Jenkins deliver you home?” he gestures, and there, above us, on a bridge, is his chauffeur, the top of the limousine just visible.
I gather my wits a little, then, try for boldness, amaze myself a little;
“But if I go home, then you won’t give me my explanation, will you? And I do think you owe it me, don’t you?”
He smiles again, and I melt;
“Very true, pretty, very true. In that case, let’s see what their best is like, shall we?”
If any other man in the world had called me ‘pretty’ in that way , as I was then, I’d have put him quickly in his place, but somehow, there, from him, it made me blush with pleasure (these days, of course, if I am called anything at all, I like it - really, like it).
There is no small talk. The practicalities of the restaurant, all very smooth – they seem to know him - he orders for both of us without any consultation, and I watch him, able to look now, accepting, feeling safe, I suppose, in the small, intimate room, so close to other, normal couples (is anyone normal?).
And he is ugly, a sort of permanent sneer implied by the way his top lip bunches, how thin those lips are, a nose that has obviously been broken and awkwardly set, small scar over one eye, those narrow eyes. Sometimes, in the night, I think that if he had been handsome, I would have escaped, that he couldn’t have gained my confidence, that I would never have believed in his sincerity.
I’m probably wrong, just trying to pretend that my life’s story could have gone some other way, once I got into that car.
Because he is, clearly, sincere. He has always been so. Never told me a lie, never hidden any painful truth from me.
There is a silence after the waiter is gone, while we both look at each other. My eyes drop quickly. My confidence ebbs, I cannot meet the frank, unconcerned confidence in those eyes. I am simply something interesting, and his interest is like a steel probe, not to be averted.
It is is if I am stripped naked. Not physically, but mentally; my thoughts open to him.
I’m blushing. I’m not even sure what my thoughts are, but I’m somehow certain he does, and that they are shaming, weak, pathetic.
I try to be brave, look up, take some responsibility for myself, speak. But all I can manage is;
“I .. I’m not dressed for .. for this place, sorry”
“Why should you be sorry? You had no idea you were coming here.”
And of course he’s right, and I’m blushing again, confused.
“You have nothing at all to be ashamed of. You are a radiant young woman, and I want you. Any man in this place would want you, if they understood you the way that I do. If they knew what you could become.”
This is not said intensely, as by some ardent young Count in a Russian novel, but calmly, slowly, the words measured, steady, almost unemotional.
It makes me tremble, though.
More silence. He seems happy to wait, while for me the tension has my jaw quivering.
At last, in a low voice, I manage;
“How .. how can you say that, when .. when ..”
He laughs a short, almost harsh laugh. There is no sparing me;
“You mean when I’ve only seen you for a minute or two in a skimpy dress, displaying yourself in public like a slut for a demanding and impertinent stranger who is old enough to be your father?”
I look around, jerkily, sure that this must have been heard by someone, but all seem engrossed in their own worlds.
“Please .. please, don’t..”
“Don’t what? Don’t make sure that there is truth between us? But then what would your explanation be worth?”
There’s nothing to say, nothing in my head at least, and after staring at him blankly for a moment, I’m looking at the table again.
The wine arrives; water, olives, bread, tiny little cheeses, artichoke hearts. It looks and smells gorgeous. I have no appetite.
I have no anything, it seems, except that I can sit there, trying to sit well, not slump, not look too awful, and wait. Everything I have said has been a disaster, but I don’t want to leave, I want ..
I have no idea what I want, and truly, daren’t try to guess. But I don’t want this to end; not quite yet, at least..
It appears that he approves of my silence, for he says so;
“Very well; it appears you are ready to listen. What I imagine that you want to know is just how it came to be that I was there, in that clearing, so obviously waiting for you and your boyfriend.”
I can’t let this be said, blurt it out;
“Not my boyfriend. Not now. Not ever, really.” I sound like a sullen teenager – but there, I’ve said it.
The satisfaction lasts a second only as I sense his wry grin. I’m amusing, at least..
“Very well, let’s just call him W, then. He seems to think he’s an enterprising chap. It appears he paid some money for access to a rather sophisticated personality testing toolkit.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Personality test?
“I see you recognise the term. Do you want to tell me?”
My skin is crawling. What .. what is going on?
I look up, and yet again, his ugly, calm, open expression, not kind, but not unkind either – and crucially, not at all eager – calms me.
I breathe, breathe again;
“He .. he said it would help me get a better job; that it was what the big firms all use, that, that if I did a few of them, he could help me get better at it, improve my .. my profile..”
“But .. but I only did it once. It .. was creepy - and boring too, and it took a long time, and then .. and then he got all weird about it.”
Silence, then;
“Just so.”
He sounded almost sad, and I looked up at him, and he was smiling, really smiling at me, kindly. Really, I swear, kindly.
“You see, pretty, it’s like this. That test is indeed a very sophisticated test – the newest artificial intelligence tools are used. But he wasn’t being honest with you – he wasn’t interested in your job prospects – I don’t suppose that’s a surprise. Also, he did some other things I’m sure he wasn’t honest about – installed a tracker on your phone and web browser that connects to the same scoring service.”
I was staring at him now, fixated, trembling; half angry, half scared.
Somehow I feel sure now that a part of me knew just what was coming, even though I can’t see how. But there was a feeling, right then, a feeling which has been with me, stronger or weaker, going away only to recur more intensely, ever since. A feeling of being in the grip of a deep, slow, powerful whirlpool. Not obviously frightening, but awesome in its relentlessness, its singularity of purpose – almost glorious, in fact, in the warmth and strength and inevitability of its embrace: it puts up no resistance when I strike out for escape, but just continues steadily on its majestic path, serene, uncaring, unstopping, unstoppable, until I exhaust myself, and relax back into its powerful hold, quivering in despair, weakened still further, ever less capable of resistance, pulled ever further in toward the singularity at its heart.
“You see, although the service is of the best quality; is indeed in use by the top firms – by my firm, as well, as a recruitment aid - its ability to identify certain - particular - personality traits has surprised even its designers. And your W was aware of, on the look-out for, one rather striking type. At this point, it will come as no surprise to tell you that you fit that type rather well. So well, in fact, that W’s initial intentions were surpassed by new ambition.”
He pauses, looking at me, smiling again. I’m overcome by a deep sadness. ‘This is going to destroy me’, I think; ‘I’m done for. Lost’. All that effort, all those hopes, all those silly ideas. I don’t really understand why this seems so obvious, why I would have thought that - but I did. Something to do with thecertainty he carried with him, the air of inevitability, of a feeling of helpless vulnerability that was rising in me - with a man this competent, when I was so obvipously a naive - a silly girl who could be fooled by a slimy little nobody like W. I this man wanted me, then he would have me.
And I would want him to have me - whatever it was that he might want me for. Which, given the stripping business on the Heath, presumably involved fucking me. And not having me as a girlfriend. I would want him to have me because I copuld be certain that I would be safe with him. He radiated certainty.
I look down, compose myself, look up again, nod for him to continue. Might as well. Not hearing it won’t change anything. Not now. Somehow I know.
“What he was looking for, simply put, was a woman - a young and pretty woman, it goes without saying - with a deep sexual hunger, coupled with an inability to let it flourish – with some sort of block. I don’t pretend to know what he was intending to do with such a woman – I’m not in the slightest interested – but I do know that when he saw the results of the scoring for you, his plans changed.”
I find I am breathing deeply, slowly, but needily. I’m calm enough, but at the same time it is unbearable. To have to hear this, to know that it fits me, that this is me, that he does indeed know me.
“Nasty piece of work that he certainly is, he realised that with scores like yours, he would be able to sell you to a much nastier piece of work, if he could only find a contact.”
He is looking quite keenly at me now, and I’m trembling, he must be able to see, but he’s waiting, waiting – waiting for me, I realise.
But it’s bad - worse than I could have imagined. A nail through my heart. The rug pulled from under me. The strings cut. So sad.
I takes a great deal to speak, but he is waiting, and so speak I must;
“S .. sell .. Sell – me?”
Watching for his reaction, my whole body is alive – alive as it had never been – well, never apart from that day on the Heath. It’s not that it is a good feeling, or a bad feeling - just that I am completely present, my focus at once total and completely without effort. I’m here.
And he doesn’t fail me - meets me; here.
“Sell you. On the basis of your vulnerability - and your beauty.”
I’m gripping the table edge, both my hands like clamps – I can feel the pain in my knuckles, but I am uncaring – just another data point.
Then the moment is gone, the clarity lost.
I feel sick, angry, desperate, exhilarated, tingling now, jumpy, ready to stand up, throw the table across the room, roar, scream my defiance, my outrage, ready to break down in tears of despair. Why me? Why like this? Is this really it? This is my chance at a sexual awakening? Here, with this, this,
dirty,
old,
man.
A dirty old man who has so obviously ‘bought me’ – or thinks he has - in some grubby, slimy deal.
Suddenly I’m hyperventilating, and I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to breath through my nose, fighting for control, for agency.
All through this, he’s watching, calm, unworried, giving me space, time. Until I run out of steam. I’ve done precisely nothing. I’m exhausted.
“Just so – “, he says, calm as ever, forthright and casual at the same time; ” – here you are, sitting across a table, in a bijoux little canal-side restaurant, with an infinitely nastier piece of work. A man who has paid money for you, on the basis of a computer rating which puts you in the top five percent of women vulnerable to just such a campaign as I am subjecting you to. A man who is mesmerised by the way your breathing is causing those lovely breasts to move. A man who plans to exploit that personality trait of yours to the full, without restraint, if you will only let him.”
And just like that, he takes me down, disarms me. It’s the honesty. I know it now, but this knowledge provides me with no strength, no armour, no defence, no cynicism. It just gets me.
“Ah, here’s the food.”
I’m compelled – no, I’m not; I compel myself, in fact, in my pathetic clinging to the idea that normality might suddenly prevail, that all this weirdness might go away, turn out to have been an elaborate joke – I make myself sit there, while the waiter clears the small plates, brings the meal, the sides, new wine, which is to be tasted, accepted, poured, then water glasses refilled, enquiries made as to whether everything is satisfactory - all of this, as if this is a normal night out – a first date, say, or perhaps a young woman dining with an uncle, or friend of the family - having a slightly intense conversation perhaps, but nothing, nothing at all out of the ordinary ..
.. by the end of which, of course, it would be ridiculous, embarrassing, fake, to attempt to recreate my earlier intensity, the strength, the capacity to do something about anything - anything at all ..
.. and anyway, I’m suddenly ravenous, and so I stab into the food, which is delicious, tearing through half a plateful before I stop, take a deep swig of wine. And look up.
I have no idea what comes next, until I hear my own voice – quite strong, almost playful;
“So, what are you going to do with me, then? What is to be my fate?”
And suddenly I am aware that I’m wet between the legs, that my nipples are hard. That whatever he is, however he came to be here, whatever his plans for me, I want him – that I really want him. A new feeling for me, delicious, wild, sweet, demanding – and, in my crazy mood, irresistible. I wonder if he can see it, I hope he can..
He is smiling again; the real smile. Refusing to hurry, he takes a sip of wine, enjoys it, puts the glass down;
“Well, pretty, that depends upon you. It works like this you see. I am, as I have said, an infinitely nastier piece of work than the disposable W. But at the same time, I have a – conceit – a vanity, you might call it. Pathetic, really, but there it is. It goes like this; the women I destroy – and I do wish to destroy you, lovely Chloe – must offer themselves up for destruction – must volunteer, must go into it knowingly. That they must know that they may change their mind at any time, and be released, be free.”
“You see, I am sick – a damaged character. This – twist – of mine is not, truly not, healthy. And similarly, the strange inner blockage that renders you so interesting to me is not evidence of anything but damage. And I am rich. I could attempt to find healing for myself – except that, well, I find that I don’t.”
“I can though, offer you the chance of healing, of some resolution, or at least some learning about how to mitigate that inner knot that makes you so vulnerable.”
Once again, there is no hint either of deep emotion, or neediness - nor of any strain to suppress such – he is easy, conversational, clearly sincere. A man in full knowledge and acceptance of himself, good and bad.
And now I’m putty in his hands again, desire receded, simply waiting for him; this is not the talk of a man about to ravish me, abduct me, consume me, overpower me – even seduce me – I wonder, is he going to leave me like this?
I’m cold.
The waiter appears, a mute enquiry – he – the ugly man (I haven’t asked his name, I realise, have no idea who he really is) gestures at my half empty plate, the knife and fork abandoned where I dropped them; I look down briefly, dimly unbelieving that I had been able to eat, shake my head as if in a dream, and again we are in the limbo of service, as plates are cleared, more enquiries made, shakes of the head, but yes, coffee for him, and a brandy, double, a whisky – he names a brand, double, for me, no ice – again I am not consulted. Again, I accept without concern, already a different woman, somehow, than I had been only a few hours ago.
For it seems that good whisky is what I like, now – it goes down like a warm subtle fire, burning and expanding as it does so, opening me at the same time. I look at him, newly hopeful, hopes immediately dashed.
He is looking at his watch;
“I’m sorry, I must leave in a few moments – a plane to Moscow, can’t be changed. In here – “,
he pushes an envelope across the table;
“is an anonymous debit card, with a fair amount of money. You are to spend it as you please – perhaps on some therapy – there is the name of a very good woman you might wish to call - she knows nothing of me, never fear. But really, spend it on anything at all – no strings; make yourself happy, if you can. There is more money if it is needed - but money is not the issue. No, I am not buying you - will not buy you - only making it easier for you to make the choice that is right for you.”
“If you should decide that you wish to see me again, there is a number on the card. There is a service. Just say that you would like to see me – that’s all. Of course, in case you have any doubt - this is the choice I would like you to make. I find you as entrancing to be with as you are to look at - and I know how to have you blossom.”
“If you should decide that you want to please me – entirely your choice - then you might buy some clothes; maybe some good lingerie, jewellery if you would like, visit a beautician’s – there are some details in the envelope – tell them your name; they know what I like.”
I hardly hear him;
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so. It is worse for you than for me, though. In Moscow I have a girl - very beautiful - a little than older than you, whose equivalent conversation to this took place a little over two years ago. She was hard work at first, rather mulish, but she is really very compliant, now, very prettily eager to please, well trained and very skilful.”
He waits a little, to see if I have anything to say, but I have nothing - don’t even look at him. In many ways I have already accepted him; I have no need to ask questions, maek statements - it’s not my place. He knows. He will tell me.
His voice very clear, very direct, then, with for once a faint hint of emotion – the accent a little stronger;
“I am not joking about being a nasty piece of work. At the same time, I am deeply serious about what happens being your choice – all the way.”
He reaches out, and this time I do look up, and as if in a dream I give him my hand, and then, because it is all I can manage, and I need to let him know that I am saying yes to him, I smile (such a soft, weak smile) and say, simply, but very sincerely;
“OK”.
It’s all I can manage, but it seems to please him, for he nods; a small move, but clearly affirmative. H has told me, I have accepted, he has confirmed my acceptance. There’s a contract, now. I don’t know what it means, but it feels binding.
He squeezes my hand, lightly, turns and is gone, not hurrying, not slow, but entirely purposeful, leaving me wrung out, limp.
I sit there, staring into space, I don’t know how long for.
The waiter approaches; apparently there is a taxi waiting. It will wait until I’m ready, but .. the table is booked for 9, and ..
It seems it is only 8.30 – the night has lasted for my whole life, somehow; I am no longer the girl I was before getting into that car; this is my life now. A new life. But I have no idea what to do with it.
Ridiculous! - I tell myself - Snap out of it!
Doesn’t work. At all.
I don’t work, either, it seems – at least, I don’t get out of bed for five days, except to get ice-cream or microwave mac-and-cheese or hot chocolate. I ignore the ‘phone.
I’m not depressed, I’m not angry, I’m not sad, I’m not hyper, I’m not calm, I’m just .. there.
I won’t think. I don’t think about thinking. I don’t think about thinking about thinking.
After five days I open the envelope and look inside. I shower, wash and blow dry my hair, put on make-up, get dressed in my most expensive lingerie – the sexy set I bought once on a dare and never wear, and the dress he first saw me in and my highest heels and walk to the nearest cash machine, put the card in.
Ten thousand pounds.
I have been bought. Whatever he had said. I feel bought. And I like it: it makes me feel safe, cared for - protected.
It’s the first thought I’ve had, allowed myself to have, for five days. It’s enough for now. I walk home.
In front of the tall mirror, I take off the dress, the shoes, take off the bra, the panties, the garter belt, the stockings, look at myself as I have never done before - my breasts, my sex, my legs, my belly.
It’s his body now - he’s bought it. I’m dispassionate - see the good points and the bad. The former will need to be enhanced, the latter addressed. I’ll do what is needed.
I’m going to be fucked.
I’m going to be destroyed.
I’m going to be like the girl in Moscow; ‘Very compliant; prettily eager to please, well trained’. I’m determined to become skilful, too.
I’m going to do everything I can to be beautiful for him, and he’s going to fucking destroy me. And I will be safe.
Safe, because I don’t have to choose any more. Don’t have to figure life out. He knows what my life is about. He understands me - knows what I can be. And he can make it happen - will make it happen - eliminate doubt.
And he is honest. He’s kind, too. I mean - I don’t suppose he will be nice - without knowing (or wanting to know) any detail at all I sort of know that he isn’t at all nice (it hadn’t been ‘nice’, that day on the Heath - just .. astonishingly intense) - no, he won’t be nice. But it is deeply, deeply kind of him to have paid so much attention to me, to have made a plan for me, to have been so gentle with me as he explained it, to give me choices, to give me money ..
I know - I was sounding crazy to myself - I knew just how weird it all was; reminded myself that I had met him twice, once to be made to strip, in public, the next for around 2 hours, during which I had learned almost nothing about him.
But it wasn’t really ever about being sensible. It was about obeying my body - about the recognition that the deep feeling of security, of safety that I had got from him a couple of times, that my body knew, now, was a possible feeling in this world, was what I needed - with a hunger that demanded to be fed - that trumped other feelings, that trumped all rationality. That was what drew me on. To feel more of that feeling; to feel safe, that was what mattered. And I knew that there was nowhere else in the world apart from with him that I would ever feel that way.
And that was it.
I phone the beautician’s to make an appointment, tell them my full name, very careful to make sure they have the spelling right, that they know it’s me. Yes, they say, we know who you are, we recognise the name. They give me a time for the next day.
I throw the therapist’s name in the bin. Then I get it out and burn the paper at the stove, crush the pieces as I have seen them do in spy films – I have no clear idea why – it just seems right.
I call the number on the card. When it answers, I say, clear and soft. “It’s Chloe. I want to see you again. Very soon. I .. I want .. I want you to want me.” I hold on until it beeps again.
Then I pull my baggy T shirt and pyjamas on and crawl back into bed, not thinking.
Staring out of the window.
Waiting.
In the night, I cry, softly, for a while, but there’s no sobbing, defiance, no regret, no anger. Just a sadness that is almost sweet. I’m sad because my life is gone - all the things I ever thought, or did; all that worry, all that choosing, all that study, all that making friends, making plans, thinking about ambitions, about the meaning of things - all of it obviously silly, childish.
But still, I need to say goodbye to it - and so I cry, until I remember that I’m - his - now - and that everything is serious, now; that I have a responsibility not to blow this chance at a real life.
So I stop crying, and try to think, seriously - about what being destroyed will mean, what it will take to make me ‘prettily compliant’, ‘eager to please’; whether I will be easy to train. Then I stop. He will do it the way he will. And I will try to be what he asks me to be, and hope to be good enough. That’s what the safe feeling is about - about knowing that I can’t really fail, as long as he wants me.
After that, sleep comes easily.
