Fatal Attraction Pt.3

This episode still has no sex in it. It will make more sense if you have read the previous parts.

Opening my eyes from sleep the next morning, I am hazy from the intensity and disturbing perversity of the dreams I’ve been having, from nights of broken sleep — but most of all by the bizarreness of waking up to process a reality stranger than dreams.

I have somehow accepted — in my head at least (physically, nothing at all has changed; I’ve met him twice, he’s hardly touched me) — that I have given myself over to the perverse desires of a virtual stranger. That I am in some sense his.

The fact that I have experienced almost no inner resistance to this is bizarre in the extreme. Despite him having given me every reason to understand that I am welcome to reject this insanity (not to mention the freedom that £10K buys), the truth is that I haven’t really given that option any serious consideration.

By some strange means, he has woven a spell on me that is so intense in its feeling, so raw in its fascination that my heart rate increases whenever I replay his words in my head (which is a fair proportion of my waking hours); my breathing gets deeper and slower, and I am filled with something that I can only call need, or desire, or yearning, or infatuation — it is as if I am fifteen again, crushing on the geography teacher.

Ridiculous; that sort of thing was harmless — nothing would ever really happen — that was the point of it, surely — rehearsing adult emotions without having to commit to anything?

But this, this is hyper-real — already I’ve jeopardised my job, which means earning a living (£10,000 of extra cash feels like wealth — but will only keep me going for four months at most if I stop earning).

And then, as I have done for days, I simply put a stop to it — stop thinking, stop questioning; just, stop. I’m going to the beautician’s today, aren’t I? He’s got it all planned. I’m his.

I drift into drowsy meanderings of thought — intertwining erotic imaginings and prospects of relaxing into a featherbed of wealth, luxury and idleness — following the same path as I have been for days now.

But something is different. Something real. I have an appointment to be made-over — somewhere they ‘know what he likes’. I am either going to be changed to suit his preferences, or this will be over. Today.

And I’m up, showering, preparing myself meticulously, as if for a first date — except that it’s not like that — it’s not like that at all; I’m preparing myself, not to attract a man, I realise, wonderingly — but to present a man’s property in public in a way he would approve of.

And it changes everything. When I might have kept the blouse buttoned almost to the neck before, now I’m certain that he will want my cleavage to attract attention. Where I might have gone for the pretty bra, now I go for the extreme uplift one. Instead of the ‘high enough to do something’ heels, I’m wearing the punishing ones that are a half inch taller. The (much) shorter skirt — even though (because?) it makes me feel vulnerable. Extra red lipstick. Stockings and suspenders, not tights, despite the faff.

Don’t imagine that, seeing me dressed as I describe, you would be shocked — I had a perfectly ordinary wardrobe in those days, and was not a flirty dresser — so that what seemed racy to me wasn’t at all out-of-the-ordinary. I was just at the start of my journey, and even these small steps felt like voyages into new territory.

And all these decisions are so much easier than anytime before. It’s not up to me — his choice rules. And somehow I know easily what that would be; at least I think I do — and that gives me confidence, clarity that I have never had. Life is simpler, I think to myself … remarkable!

Looking at myself in the mirror — again with a different eye — I am highly critical, as if I were judging another girl who will be offered to him, wanting her to be worthy of his attention (as I so nearly had not been, that first time, on the Heath — such a strange memory, now). Again, it’s easy; untuck the blouse, the bottom two buttons unfastened; the sleeves neatly rolled up to above the elbow — really, I should have a sleeveless one that’s a little more sheer, I decide, but this is the best I can do right now.

No, no jacket — I’ll use a clutch-purse, the smallest one.

And I’m in the street, hailing a cab, aware, now that I’m in public, that I’m giving off signals — I see it in the driver’s eyes. It’s a shock. Everything has been in my head for days — but now, here, looking at me, there’s a real man, overweight, old, unshaven, grinning, liking what he sees and letting me know it. And we both know that he’s right. I’m very obviously dressed to invite sexual appraisal. I have done this to myself; specifically, carefully, willingly.

I want to retreat, withdraw, cringe, fold my arms, protect myself — I’m not used to this. It’s frightening; every girl has to have developed some internal sense of where the boundary is between ‘attractive’ and ‘looking to get herself into trouble’, ‘asking for it’. It doesn’t matter where your boundary is; go beyond it and you’ll feel it when a strange man grins at you like that.

But just as my hands start to come in, my shoulders hunch, my thighs tighten, something stops me. What if it was Him looking at me now — looking at me like that? Should I cower, cringe, hide? I need to practice this, I think; let him look, let them all look. There was nothing to be frightened of — I was his — protected. They should look — envy him, that he has me.

And I make myself straighten, loosen, shoulders back, stand still and let the man look, look me over, for a good three beats, giving him time, waiting…

Waiting for Him (I still don’t know his name, do I? — the wonder pops into my head) — only he’s not here, so I’ll wait for the driver, his surrogate (a man, interested in that about me which is sexually overt, in my willingness to advertise myself sexually — and thus, perhaps, make myself available — and not much else). And of course, the protection holds, and he drops his eyes, abashed — my standing straight has told him, somehow, that I am out of his league, a sexually available woman whom he may not have — another interesting new experience for me.

“Where to, luv?”

He watches me in the mirror, when he can, but he’s furtive now, looking away if he thinks I’ve noticed. I force myself, though, to sit with my legs parted, rather than keeping my knees primly together — my hands palms up on the seat, away from my thighs, not folded in my lap, my gaze unfocussed.

Strange how we all know these poses — from fashion shoots, glamour shots. Before, I would have carefully avoided doing these things with my body; no-one talks about what they signify, but nevertheless, everyone understands the visual currency very well, so that these simple choices about how I sit, how I hold my body, are heavy with meaning.

Women call other women who act like this in normal life ‘whores’, but they buy the magazines which are filled with ‘polite’ versions of these poses (Vogue, Elle and the like), while decrying men who buy the ‘rude’ equivalents, and despising or envying women who act this way in public (which attitude depending mostly upon how expensive the woman’s clothes and setting are). I would not have sat like this before (I see now), because what it means is — ‘I want you to think about fucking me’.

I know I’m not getting it just right, but I know what to try — and also that I’ll be looking at myself in the mirror again later, looking at fashion magazines, looking at porn too — seeing just how to get better at it.

But for now it is enough to get used to the feeling of sitting, alone in a moving car, with a strange man looking at me, and knowing that I want him to be thinking about fucking me.

These days, of course, it is my duty to do everything I can to make sure such a man actually does something about that thought — ‘When not otherwise instructed, your duty is to act in a way which you believe brings the strongest chance of inciting rape, of getting you fucked, and fucked hard; to present yourself as both vulnerable and sensuous, but with no overt evidence of desire on your part: remember; you are a servant of the desires of others — your own wants and needs must be actively and continuously suppressed.’ — this is the standing order, repeated so often I know it by heart.

And it works. My metrics for penetrations not pre-planned by Him are notably high (penetrations are counted, recorded, discussed, statistics analysed — not that the numbers really matter, but the practice does what it is intended to do — eats into a girl’s self-image, day after day, week after week, month after month — ‘I am valued for nothing but the number of fuckings my holes receive’).

He boasts about these numbers to visitors. Even now, after so many fuckings, such frequent fuckings, this kind of explicit reference to my status can inspire real desolation, emotional distress, tears — so that it is hard to smile at the visitors who, on hearing these boasts, turn to stare at me. I am, of course, smiling, smiling because I am required to; smile shyly, sweetly, put out the tip of my tongue, bite my bottom lip — deploy all those tricks that make people think about the sexual availability of young women, that advertise vulnerability, helplessness in the face of desire, of strength, of will, of force, of violence…

So smile I do, whatever I am feeling inside (to be honest, these days, the presence of a strange man is all it takes for at least some of what I am feeling inside to be anticipation of being fucked, of being taken to that other place, where all doubt is removed in reality of being used so intimately, without the slightest intimacy being involved); I make myself use all that experience to imagine just what it would take from a girl to incite this particular one to grab her by the hair, right there; throw her down onto the floor, force a cock into her mouth, her sex, her ass; would he be most immediately provoked by a desperate nymphomaniac? a shy and vulnerable innocent? a seductive siren? a terrified slavegirl? a helpless submissive? Whatever seems appropriate, I try to project just that invitation.

Again, I am apparently notably successful at this task. Am I proud of this? Not in the slightest; instead, I am deeply, deeply grateful for the approval that comes with being told this; the validation that this cunt is still useful. Soul-destroying, but also the best feeling ever.

It is a very particular experience, being excitedly ass-fucked by a stranger, to whom I have just been presented by Him; face down, ass up, on the cold stone flags of the main hall, stockings shredded, knees bruised from the force with which I’ve been dragged to the ground, dress ripped, the servants all in attendance, my tits swinging wildly (nipples grazing the ground, as I’ve been taught is proper), the stranger’s own wife looking on, while I’m begging him softly to ‘hurt me, hurt me — please’ (only partly because it has occurred to me that he is the type who will find this strongly arousing, mainly because I need this to be as much like a real violation as possible — still unable quite to handle my own complicity in these outrages). It’s the worst, when, in spite of myself, I am unable to suppress an orgasm. So disturbed am I by such experiences, that I often need to be restrained for days after. Wives, too, tend to be rather cruel, after incidents like these …

But in the taxi that day, an innocent; just the experience of sitting there, presenting myself as ready for sex, being looked over as a sexual prospect and nothing else, of accepting — encouraging — this; all this is intensely new and affecting. My throat catches. My nipples stiffen. I transfix myself by wondering, in some detail, what would happen if he suddenly turned up a side alley and dragged me out of the car…

Of course, nothing of the sort happens — this is London, the social boundaries are strong, and I’m soon safely deposited at the elegant entrance to the beauticians without suffering anything more than surreptitious glances. I find myself flooded with gratitude to the driver for giving me such a lesson — this new insight — at such low cost, and, on a whim, I bend at the hips to lean into his open window to pay him, not rushing, offering him a wide view of my cleavage and a sincere; ‘Thank you!’, before turning and walking, carefully in the high heels, into the foyer, blushing hotly, belly fluttering. Wanting him to watch my ass, feeling his eyes on me. Feeling so strange, but not fighting it. Just like a whore, I think…

How have I been changed so much, over such a short time, with so little actually having happened? Perhaps it is true, the software prediction, His analysis — perhaps it is true that this is what I am like, that deep down, I want this, need this.

It certainly seems as if something powerful is going on with me, and I can hardly blame Him, when he’s done nothing at all but talk to me.

I’m five minutes early, but the receptionist, professional in a white housecoat and somehow super-chic at the same time, is ready for me;

“Ms Dainty? Chloe? Welcome. I’m Louly. You don’t mind if we call you Chloe, do you? Mr Karsh likes everything to be on first name terms.”

She stops, realising the contradiction in what she’s said;

“Well, … apart from him, of course … you’d never …”, and she trails off, flushing slightly, her eyes losing focus.

I’m intrigued — she obviously has had some dealings with Him — and now, for the first time, I know something specific about Him. He has a name — Karsh. It suits him, suits his ugly face, his uncompromising manner, his strength …

She shakes her head a little; a quick smile, and she’s all professionalism again.

“Mr Karsh’s assistant has suggested a full introductory set of treatments — but of course, you’re our client, so, does that suit you?”

I have no idea;

“I … I’m sorry, but I don’t really know what to …”

“Oh, of course you don’t! silly me — do you want me to give you a full run down?” — and she turns to pull up a brochure.

But I’ve already made a decision;

“Thank you — but, no; I don’t need it … Please, please just go ahead. I … I want you to … to do exactly as Mr … Mr Karsh suggests. Everything…”

She looks up at me then, and for a second, there is something direct in her eyes — I don’t know exactly what, what it means, but it unsettles me. There’s something going on here, something more than just a visit to a beauty parlour…

Then I catch myself; of course there is! I am offering myself to him, in a verifiable, almost public way, and they know him here.

How much? I ask myself. What does my total acceptance suggest to them? Do they know what it means? Perhaps better than I do myself? Is this lovely girl judging me, knowing something about my future that I don’t? I so want to ask her, but something in her face makes it clear that such questions would be unwelcome — that she is, in fact, relieved that I have made her life simple;

“Perfect. In that case you’ll just need to sign here — just a formality…”

Several pages, stapled together; something in me lurches a little at this; ‘just a formality’ — I am consenting to … what?

I sign anyway, resisting the urge to flip the pages and read it through. I’ve already said yes — I’m doing this, I’m doing it.

“Thank you, Chloe. If you’d go through the big door now, please? Take the first on the right — you’ll find a changing area, and this key will access a booth — see the number? There’s a robe there, and some clogs — please wear those and nothing else — nothing else at all. When you’re ready, just go through the doors at the other end, and someone will be there for you.”

And that’s it — there is nothing else for me to say but;

“Thank you.”

This exchange has provided the most normal few minutes of the last days — a customer of an expensive beauty parlour (by implication a privileged person) being welcomed and served by a helpful receptionist; a luxurious but commonplace situation, reassuring and affirming; but as I turn, with the overtones of the last instructions echoing in my head to go through the rather imposing stone arch, the heavy and beautifully carved oak door propped open, I am aware, powerfully aware, that this is me stepping over a threshold — in reality, not the dissociated dreamworld I’ve been floating in since I had dinner with him.

I’m about to strip naked, put myself into the hands of strangers, submit to an unknown agenda, set by him — by Karsh (I’m still getting used to associating the name with him). I will walk out of here physically changed — and I don’t even know how — more, the people here will know that I have submitted to such an arrangement — and they know more about what I am letting myself in for than I do…

Although my mind has started, even at this late stage, to take the possible impact of this sudden intrusion into my life seriously — to consider what the reality of what I have been dreaming about might turn out to be — the message hasn’t yet got through to my hindbrain, to my body, and I walk towards and through the portal with as much attempt at refined sexiness as before — without any apparent hesitation.

I know this for certain, because it turned out that Karsh was well aware that this was a key moment, and had high-definition video footage from three angles of the whole scene — and edited highlights of the rest of the session, too — sent through to him that day (knowing him as I now do, this is completely unsurprising); he showed it to me, many months later, when I was at a low point, vulnerable, close to rejecting him, going back on my commitments.

He showed me how, at a moment of great doubt, my body had known what it wanted, had understood my needs, had carried me forward. And I watched it, on repeat, time and again over the days of my doubting, before — inevitably — seeking him out; to urgently, sincerely, tearfully, sweetly, hopefully, abjectly beg him to allow me to reaffirm and deepen my offer to him, to ask him to embed still more deeply the ties which bound me to him, to take me further.

He made me wait, that time; wait for days. Days of mental turmoil, indecision, fear, savage anger, sudden resolution to break free, to escape; resolution that would last, sometimes, an hour or two, only to dissolve in great floods of desperate sobbing, or futile, self-destructive fits of smashing things — days of all-consuming intensity of internal feeling, argument, of frenzied, half-hysterical speculation that exhausted me.

All part of his plan, of course, for when he casually dropped in and announced that he would, on reflection, give me a further chance to become more thoroughly his possession, the immediate and irresistible rush of profound and pathetic gratitude made it powerfully clear, once again, that my capacity for independence was an illusion, that none of the intensity of my mental struggles in those days meant anything at all, not in the real world; the real world, which, it was thus confirmed to me, now consisted, entirely and urgently, of my usefulness to Him. That nothing else mattered; that any time spent as if something else might matter was at best time wasted, and at worst might damage his assessment of my usefulness — possibly lead him to abandon me.

And with that feeling, that realisation, I went sweetly, happily, to my knees, calmly but determinedly pulling my clothes off with intense, surprising strength, popping buttons, tearing fine fabric, face to the floor, ass up, thighs apart, hands palm-up — useless on the floor in front of me — utterly silent (although in my mind I was begging him for absolution, for acceptance, forgiveness).

And stayed that way, for hours, awaiting instruction, after he walked out, having made no further comment; all thinking rendered pointless, feeling my heart beat, deliberately feeling, feeding the feeling of vulnerability, carefully ensuring that my nipples were in motion, just grazing the floor, flexing my hips, licking my lips. Being a sexual offer, being nothing else. Trying to be nothing else.

And then they brought the collar and the chains, for me to welcome those, too.

The months after that were a time of helpless and deepening submission — the regime shockingly ruthless and cruel as a moment by moment physical and emotional experience, but at the same time deeply affirming, as the feeling strengthened that I was in truth becoming a valued possession — not for myself, not as Chloe, but as cunt, for the uses cunt could be put to. The uses that Chloe would carefully, sweetly, determinedly put herself to, open herself to, offer herself for. That I could, somehow, at last, love myself as — through — my existence as a possession. As a possession that increasingly successfully locked away all evidence of individuality away, deep inside, in the service of the unattainable — perfection in His eyes.

I suppose that, in that moment, walking through the arch, I had some presentiment of this stark future — some wordless, imageless understanding that this simple act was a first, defining step into a future that would include such experiences; so devastating, so all-consuming, providing such unmatchable exaltation and such struggle — and that my body took the decision for me; that I would take that path — walk towards Him, towards that strange idea he had lodged in my brain, a nameless stranger over a candle-lit dinner table — the idea that he would destroy me, that I would offer myself up to him in the knowledge that this was his plan. That I would do this because, somehow, it was what I wanted.

Of course, this might all be me, reconstructing the past to make some sense of it.

Whatever, the reality is that the video shows that I walk through that imposing portal with a little smile (frightened/brave), with hips switching eye-catchingly in the short skirt, cleavage jiggling, shoulders back, chin up and eyes down. That I strip myself completely, as instructed, repressing the urge to hold myself in ways that project modesty, that I put on the skimpy robe with the inadequate little tie belt and the wooden soled clogs — surprisingly high-heeled and heavy, enforcing considered, careful walking — and obediently, without delay (despite the gradual increase in heart rate and nervousness), present myself to the attendant who has appeared, waiting for me, at the far end of the room.

Just walking toward her makes it clear how revealing the robe is — such thin satin, so that my areolae are clearly visible, despite my paleness there — just long enough to cover my buttocks, the collar very loose and wide, so that it threatens to slip off one or both shoulders at every step, cut so that there is no real overlap at the front, the soft tie-cord so short that only a simple twist knot is possible, making it feel as if my sex is either already on show as I walk, or soon will be, as the inadequate knot works itself loose.

Coupled with the exaggerated walk which is the only possible way to manage in the clogs, which sets my unsupported breasts swaying and my hips and buttocks switching, the only way I can keep control, not panic, not break the spell (I so do not want to break the spell) is to play act myself as a girl who would accept this, who wouldn’t demand a decent robe, reject the clogs, or cross her arms defensively over her breasts, clutch at the robe to hold it together. In short, to begin to become what Karsh wants me to be.

It helps a little that the young woman waiting for me is wearing quite a short and skimpy version of the medical white housecoat herself, has quite high heels on the otherwise nurse-like white pumps she wears, and also that she too seems a little nervous. She’s around my age, slightly on the curvy side, very pretty in a blonde, girly way, and smiling hopefully at me; I get no sense at all that she is judging me, or that she will be anything other than kind, and I relax a little.

“Hello Chloe,” she says;

” I’m Anya, and I’m happy to meet you; you’re … you’re very beautiful. And elegant…”

She breaks off with a little giggle, blushing herself now. It’s nice, shockingly nice, after these strange days, so saturated with my response to strong maleness, to have a friendly smile from another girl who is clearly wanting to be kind, and to be complimented so sweetly, and I relax a little more, blushing at the praise, now, rather than from feeling exposed. I have an ally, of some sort at least.

She gathers herself with a little self-deprecating smile, and — a little breathlessly, with a clear nervousness — she starts in on what are obviously her ‘lines’;

“I’m Anya — oh! I said that already! — and … and I’ll be with you throughout your time with us today. I’ll be helping you with a lot of the straightforward treatments, but there are specialists for some of the work — I’ll stay with you then, too. You’ve already consented, I see, to all the treatments on Mr Karsh’ list, so that’s lovely; you’ll feel like a new woman in just a few hours, I promise you.”

“Of course, as a valued client of ours, I am here to help you with anything at all — any questions, if you need anything whatever. Only … only there is this, too, which is a little note from Mr Karsh that I, that I need to read to you…”

And Anya looks at me, direct, into my eyes for a second, a very personal look, even though it was brief — the receptionist had done this, too; strange;

“My dear Chloe; the people here know what to do, and you have, gratifyingly, chosen to accept without question; this is, of course, exactly what I expect from you.”

“In that spirit, it would gratify me further to hear that you have asked no questions, have not spoken at all, in fact, during the course of the treatments, except in response to a direct question. I will also be pleased to hear of your unhesitating compliance with everything asked of you while you are here. Of course, should you change your mind at any point, do not hesitate to do so.”

“Arrangements are being made for a visit to London rather soon, and I will look forward to the results of today’s appointment in the meantime.”

Anya is bright pink by the end of this, and her breathing is a little ragged; she looks up, with an expression almost of sympathy, certainly of kindness, and, as I try to absorb the meaning of the words, I get the impression that she is strongly interested, too.

I am not to speak, not to question; I am to comply immediately, no matter what is asked of me in the course of a treatment programme I know nothing about. And the implication is there, too, that he will know how well I have done, and that no confirmation of seeing him again will be made until that report has been received.

I almost blurt out a question — a ‘but what if…?’ — and then bite my lip. I catch Anya’s eye, and she gives me a little, sympathetic smile, and a nod, as if she is saying; ‘that’s it, that’s not-speaking, keep it up’. She is complicit in this; knows she is, is embarrassed by it — but at the same time I can see that she is also enjoying it, is pleased with me — wants to encourage me to comply. Why? What is her motivation here? I wonder, but realise I know too little, really, and that my own worries are far more pressing.

Can I? Can I really accept this? Not speak? Do anything they ask of me, without question?

But what’s the alternative? To deliberately flout Karsh’ wish? Why? Just to demonstrate my independence? Then why am I here in the first place?

In the end, it’s simple. I’ll comply, but reserve the right to change my mind. Easy.

And so I smile, and nod back at Anya to convey my acceptance of the terms, blushing myself now — even if the decision is easy, it doesn’t mean I am not aware of what has been done to me here, of the way that a man, a thousand miles away or more, has explicitly and fairly arrogantly controlled me and that I have allowed him to, that Anya has seen me do this (and that she too, has been controlled, to some extent).

I will learn, over time, that Karsh works this way, with uncanny power — the power to be somehow present, and dominant, even when he is far away, busy doing something else. For the rest of the afternoon, his presence is larger, has more effect on the way everything goes, than mine, or Anya’s.

He has been highly influential already, of course — over the days since our dinner I have behaved in a way that no-one who knows me would recognise (not even myself), on account of his word. But it has been me who decided what that meant — me that has tried to imagine what he might want of me. I have not, until this moment, been in any way instructed, or controlled, and the feeling is new, and odd, and actually rather exciting, I find — like a sexy game.

For the rest of the afternoon, all communication between the two of us is conditioned by his requirements — we both act as if he is present, watching, listening, and it becomes slightly disturbing, this game between us, as she gradually realises that there is no need for the exaggerated politeness and servility that is no doubt the norm for her with the well-heeled and entitled general run of clients here — that she can simply say; ‘Off!’, with an impish look in her eye, and I will look at her, eyes wide in surprise at such bluntness, and then, immediately, drop my gaze and slip the robe off, to stand naked before her, blushing, but smiling a little, too, at this small shared joke.

This plays out in the first stage of the afternoon, which is mostly what Anya calls ‘diagnostics’ — which means, measuring me — height, weight, all sorts of measurements as if for a dress-maker, swabs from skin in ten or more places, photographic records of sections of my body, not missing anything out (for instance, she has me perch, naked, on a workbench, then lift my feet onto two chairs to right and left, so that my sex is spread, then lean back against the wall; she manipulates my labia, with clinical dispassion, so that they are ‘neat’, and then takes several close-ups of my sex — full-on, slightly to the left, to the right, from above, from below).

Then, internal swabs; from mouth, ears, nose, vagina, urethra, anus, all carried out with a careful and completely professional manner, but with few words — mostly, she pushes my limbs — gently enough, but with increasing casualness — towards the position she wants, and expects me to first understand what she wants, and then comply.

The silence, the obedience, her touch, the soft white minimalist interiors, the gentle background muzak, all begin to become soporific, and I relapse a little, into the dreamy state of the past few days, just going with the flow, accepting the sometimes embarrassing positions and manipulations as his will, as a chance to explore what it means to be under his control in a relatively controlled, safe environment.

Her touch, too, is something. Although no-one watching would consider that she is in any way less than professional, there is something incredibly sensuous about that touch. Whatever she ends up doing (all quite matter of fact and physical), the first contact from her soft, silky fingertips, gentle as it is, always feels like an act of reverential love, as if she is worshipping my body, in awe of it, grateful to be permitted to touch me — and this happens again and again, of course, and I grow to welcome it and accept it — even when she needs to touch my breasts, or my sex (and she does seem to need to do this a lot). I’ve never been touched so by a woman before, and I feel strange about it. On the other hand, there is no real choice about this, and it is, increasingly, a pleasant experience — and so I relax into it.

Which makes Mrs Stratten’s touch all the more shocking.

After some while, Anya has become concerned about the time, and starts to work noticeably more quickly (has she, too, lost track, enjoying this strange sensation of being puppets of an absent Karsh, of touching me so intimately, without needing to consider whether I might be consulted, or explained to?). She doesn’t tell me why, of course, but eventually she looks at her little upside-down nurse’s watch, opens her eyes wide, and has me stand, helps me on with my robe, and walks quickly off before I have time to tie it;

“Come!”

She is clearly a little panicked, and I’m not supposed to speak, so, after standing there stupidly for a second, looking down at my naked belly, my pubes, all on display, I step into the tall clogs and clack down the corridor after her, resisting the urgent instinct to clutch the robe tightly across my body, somehow knowing that Karsh would not want me too.

It’s not far to another grand looking door, solidly closed, this time, where Anya presses a button, and we are buzzed in.

Any relief at being out of the public corridor instantly dissolves as I am faced with not one, but two elegant-looking, primly dressed office assistant types sitting at desks, giving off an air of busy efficiency.

They don’t seem surprised by or even interested in my all-but-nakedness, though — a quick once over and the older one’s attention is with Anya;

“Anya, you are not quite late, but you know I prefer five minutes in hand for Mrs Stratten, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ms Forbes, I do. Know. I’m terribly sorry.”

Anya sounds really quite worried — more than you’d think over such a small thing — starts to say something else but stops herself and then flinches a little when Ms Forbes says;

“Very good, Anya; you’ll enter a black mark against your name, please.”

“Yes, Ms Forbes, Thank you Ms Forbes.”

Seeing Anya, the closest thing I have to a friend in this place, so obviously nervous and bossed around, while I am partially naked in front of this Ms Forbes and her younger assistant (who is, I now realise, actually checking me out in a covert way), makes me nervous too, and I start to blush, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, broken right out of my dreamlike state.

This only gets worse when an inner door opens, and a woman appears.

A slim but strong presence, tall, of indeterminate middle age, cool and stylish in a dark, severe business suit that is somehow very definitely sexy, her hair grey, but not the grey of old age, it seems clear that this must be the boss — Mrs Stratten.

Her face is completely, serenely, unreadable, despite the fact that she is looking directly at me. I am immediately, unquestioningly, nervous of her. She is not bothering to hide her scan of my full-frontal nudity. It reminds me of that day on the Heath, when Karsh had looked at me so directly, and makes me shiver (how is it possible that that was less than two weeks ago?).

And then her head turns, and she smiles a little at Ms Forbes;

“So this is little Anya, I presume, with Karsh’s new girl, … ah?”

“Just so Ma’am, Anya and Chloe, Ma’am.”

“Oh yes, Chloe…”

I get no surname — I’m just a girl — his ‘new girl’; there have obviously been others. I have to control myself strongly at this point not to complain, not to assert my right to some respect, at least — aren’t I a client here? What is this, being talked about in the third person, demeaned, appraised like a piece of meat, an animal?

But she’s too intimidating, too calm, cool, confident, while I am incapable, it seems, of turning these feelings into action.

And she’s looking me over again, more slowly, more clinically now, as if I am a high-priced dog with a question mark over my pedigree — looking over my points. I’m horribly nervous, embarrassed — feeling ridiculously vulnerable in the tiny robe and insecure high heels, cool air on my skin, my breasts moving freely; remembering, with despairing intensity now, all the critical opinions I had formed of aspects of my body the day before.

My heart is thumping, and presenting a calm appearance suddenly is the best I can hope for, and takes all my time and concentration.

Of course, this was exactly what was intended. I later witnessed the welcome given to rich women — clients who chose and paid for their own treatments — and saw how different it was, as they were invited into the inner office for privacy, offered tea and nibbles along with one-to-one ‘consultations’ — all aimed at discovering what might please the valued customer.

I, by contrast, got silence and mounting insecurity, until my nerves are stretched so far that when Mrs Stratten says;

“Why don’t you slip the robe off, pretty, and let’s have a look at you?”

I am mostly relieved, the relief effortlessly trumping my disbelief at the suggestion that I should be asked to strip myself naked in an open office — asked without the slightest pretence at preliminaries — no welcome, introductions, called by a somewhat demeaning descriptor rather than by name; no anything apart from the invitation to strip myself for her appraisal.

Again though, without waiting for my mind, my body simply does what is expected of it, and I find myself tremblingly pulling back the robe and, almost without intending to — so wide-open is the neckline of the thing — shrugging it off, so that it falls to the floor behind me, leaving me naked but for the high-heeled clogs, displaying myself to these strangers on command, naked, without demur.

I am mortified to feel my nipples instantly stiffening, and cannot control my gusty breathing sufficiently to prevent my breasts from rising and falling rather obviously. My heart is banging like a drum in my chest and I can feel my cheeks getting hot — knowing that this means that I am blushing hard, which only makes me blush all the harder…

The question of how to hold my body is urgent, and at the same time insoluble — it feels as if I may be unable to rescue myself from a mounting feeling of panic — may become hysterical — I have to force my breathing to slow down, knowing that all four of them are watching this with interest — learning all sorts of things about me that I hardly know myself, that this knowing will give them power over me (I don’t have to think this — I feel it strongly in my body, feel my strength ebbing as theirs grows, precedents being set every second).

In vain do I tell myself that women are getting naked in such places all the time — for bikini waxes and the like — that this is entirely normal, for all of a sudden Mrs Stratten steps forward, her face still unreadable, and lightly touches my breasts — is it a caress, or a professional investigation?

I can’t tell; but I can tell this — that Mrs Stratten’s touch is a completely different thing than Anya’s. Anya’s fingers are respectful, communicative, want to send as well as receive, give as well as take. Mrs Stratten’s, by contrast, invade my body, dominate it, possess it, plunder it; all take, all command, all control. It’s not nice, not reassuring, to be touched like this.

But it is, it seems, very welcome to some part of me — electric. It’s as if I’m tasting something utterly new, that I immediately know I crave more of. That I like being touched like this.

And it’s intensely erotic, too; heavy with the promise of sex — almost a threat of sex… I can’t suppress a sharp intake of breath, a little, urgent moan, instantly suppressed, but too late…

“These are quite good — you don’t mind me touching you, do you? Of course you don’t.”

It’s not a real question; when I flick my eyes to meet hers, needing to know, I find her ready with a hard challenge, a slight smile on her lips — she sees me, she knows what her fingers are doing to me, how it’s making me feel, is supremely confident of my acceptance, my weakness. And I look down, trembling, all question of reproach banished.

She doesn’t wait for, or acknowledge, my weak, mumbled assent (a confused and shaming ‘yes… no … of … of course…’ immediately followed by a worried thought — was that a direct question? Should I have spoken?), continuing smoothly on with;

“I think we’ll darken the nipples, though. Anya? Find a colour that matches her pretty blush”, and then her hand moves swiftly downward, to assess my belly — I cannot suppress an involuntary quiver as she strokes me there;

“This needs tightening — an exercise regime is in order,”

Again, I feel as if I am some sort of animal — there is no consideration of me as a person at all, as a hand, light but firm on my shoulder, gives me to understand that I am to turn, which I do, in unthinking, docile obedience — and then to lean forward a little — at which point she lightly slaps my buttocks; first left, then right — has she just spanked me? Or is this, too, some investigation? Her comment is shockingly explicit, but does not answer the question;

“Gluteus nice and firm — good shape, too — toning exercises only here, plus some stretches — see what she needs to get to full splits — both front and straddle — rather soon. She must spread well.”

‘I must ‘spread well’? I don’t get it, and then suddenly I do — open myself as wide as I can for easy access, is the implication. My blush deepens, but I am too deep in now to object as she beckons to Anya;

“Open her, please — I want to think about the shape of her trim.”

Having no idea what this means, really, I just allow it to unfold. Anya turns me back to face the others (me, breathing rapidly now, rather flustered and shaky), then steps in behind me, just off to one side, very close. She puts one hand on my shoulder, steadying me, then bends to lift the leg nearest her, one hand behind my thigh, until I get it — I am to lift the leg — higher, she wants it, higher still, and then she leans backward a little, her pelvis against mine, pushing my crotch forward — just a little, but very obviously, so that my sex is split, wide, displayed, offered up.

I’ve been opened.

I’m horrified, dazed; want to protest, but somehow cannot bring myself to speak; all that comes out of my opened mouth is a small moan of dismay. Far from protest, it is no more than a clear advertisement of my weakness, my recognition of powerlessness. But even this, it appears, is too much, as Mrs Stratten puts a finger firmly to my lips, speaking to me directly for the first time, with a little smile — almost kindly;

“Shh now, pretty. You’ve agreed to be silent, and to accept, have you not?”

With her finger still pressing on my mouth, I can only nod, feeling unbelievably pathetic.

“Good girl!”

The smile brightens a little, and, foolishly, I smile back, despite having been talked to as if I am a recalcitrant three year-old.

The younger of the two admin women grins openly, looking directly into my face, making clear her amusement at my discomfiture.

Bizarrely, though, what matters to me most is Mrs Stratten’s opinion of my lewdly displayed sex.

I do so want her to like my sex. I am remembering, with intensity now, my doubts about whether my pussy was or was not attractive, feeling desperately needy, desperately vulnerable, so much so that what is said next actually feels like a compliment;

“The labia are actually rather pretty; nice, prominent clitoris, too — he’ll approve; but all this hair must go. Normally, he likes a straight landing strip, but I think this one might suit a triangle better, or at least a tapered strip.”

She vaguely indicates the younger woman.

“Anya, you have photographs? Good. Get them to Marina, here, will you, so she can prepare some visuals of options? Marina dear, I will need them rather quickly — I must leave in an hour or so and I want to get this right — growing it back for a re-shape is so tedious.”

She stands back then, staring directly at my pussy, entirely serious, for several seconds. It would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so devastating. Then, decisively, she refocuses, looking up;

“OK, good. Now; as to the hair… Obvious, I think — it has to be a long bob, just to her shoulders, very precise, no fringe — we’ll lighten and colour it a little, too, it must be just obvious that it is not natural.”

She speaks directly to me again, and pathetically, it makes me start, so nervy am I;

“He likes it to be clear that you have remodelled yourself for him — and also for that remodelling to be high maintenance. He likes to know you are working for him, and that you’re always under pressure — it’s impossible to be perfect at all times, you see — but nevertheless, it is required. You do understand?”

I don’t really take in what she’s saying — know that I’ll have to process it later, that it’s important information — but right now the only thing that is in my mind is whether this counts as a direct question — whether I am to speak, or not. And when I dare to look up, it’s clear that she knows exactly what’s going on with me, that she has crafted this dilemma on purpose, wants to see how I’ll respond.

Oh, but this is crazy, a voice inside me cries; the voice of normality, of sanity, of self-preservation — this is mind games and they’re bang out of order — who does this woman think she is?

And the voice is right, of course; all this is insane, wrong, perverse, dangerous. I’m a fool to have come here, an idiot to have stayed away from work, Karsh is some sort of sick fuck and this Stratten woman is maybe even worse. This situation is fucked up, and I need to leave. There’s nothing to stop me — this is London. Normality is just outside the door.

On the other hand, there is the reality that I am more alive, right here, right now, than I have been for years. That the future is more interesting (even if more frightening) than it ever has been; that I so, so want Mrs Stratten to like me, to approve of me, to measure up to her standards, to have Karsh want me…

Also, not instructed to do anything different, Anya still has my right thigh lifted, right out to the side, still pushing my pelvis forward so that I’m in a demeaning, off balance, pornstar pose, and my breathing is a bit panicky, so that my tits jiggle really obviously; I’m having to keep opening my mouth to get enough oxygen, the dryness of the rapid breathing making me lick my lips often, my legs trembling visibly despite my desperate attempt at control.

All of which means that the level of commitment I need to gather to put a stop to this nonsense, to make a move for self-preservation, is rather high, and …

And I don’t want to leave.

What I want is for Mrs Stratten to put her hand between my legs and feel how hot I am there. For her to cut to the chase and make everything simple. To tell Anya to start kissing me, make love to me. Something …

Something straightforward and direct, something overwhelming, so that I don’t have to think, don’t have to decide, don’t have do what she wants of me now, which is …

Simple, I realise. She wants me to make my acceptance of her control over me clear, to submit to her. It’s easy…

And I do it — open my eyes wide, and soft, raise my eyebrows, part my lips, tilt my head a fraction, use my whole body to make clear to her that I am asking, humbly, needily, for clarity about whether she wants a spoken answer to her little question, or not. That I am eager to do it the way she wants. That I am happy for everyone in the room to know this. That I accept her right to control me.

There.

There it is. Done. Easy.

And she smiles, satisfied, shakes her head a little. There’s my answer. No. Don’t speak. Accept.

It was easy. It was. I’m released from torment.

But the implications are not easy; they are huge, and hard, and suddenly there are tears gathering in my eyes as she reaches out to pat my cheek, looking deeply into me, face unreadable again.

“Interesting, … maybe … We’ll see, shan’t we, pretty?”

And with this, she’s done with me — it’s as if I have disappeared. She turns, engages Ms Forbes in some quiet exchange, the latter completely focused, intent, utterly committed. And I suddenly realise something. All of these women, Ms Forbes included, are under her spell. This is at once devastating and … and also devastating.

On the one hand, I am much, much more frightened — this isn’t just me; there’s something quite organised about all this, momentum, some social structure, not just personal relationship stuff. I’m caught up in some system that is way bigger than just me and my relationship with Karsh.

And on the other, what initially seems like some comfort — in knowing that these others understand me, that there might be some solidarity, some fellow feeling, is almost immediately turned upside-down as I realise that this is impossible — that witnessing another woman reduced to such pathetic submission might possibly bring on feelings of pity, but if you yourself are equally dominated, then the only connection you have is through whoever is dominating you — that any relation between the women in this room will be on Mrs Stratten’s terms.

Just as Anya’s and my connection this morning was entirely on the basis of the wishes of the absent Karsh.

A terrible, delicious feeling of vertigo comes over me, and I become calm, soft in Anya’s hold, humbled by the immensity of what I have opened myself to, how complete it is, how total, how insignificant my wishes are in the face of it, how magnificent it is to have been invited in, to perhaps be accepted. I feel the inevitability of it all, my powerlessness to avoid this.

The obvious and probably terrible cost of this acceptance is intellectually clear in conceptual terms, but beyond that, there is the certain knowledge that the emotional, the psychological, the spiritual cost is — will be — incalculable. And again, I’m overwhelmed, my knee gives way, and I sink to the floor in some sort of half faint as Mrs Stratten closes her office door behind her.