The Cabal

The Cabal

She knew she wanted to do this. Well, almost … probably …

She just didn’t know why.

She knew why not, of course. She’d done that exercise the self-help books tell you to do; make two headings — WHY TO DO IT and WHY NOT TO DO IT.

The second list went on forever, and made all the sense. The first list just said; ‘I think I want to’. Then she had crossed out ‘think’ and replaced it with ‘almost certainly’.

And then she had cried a little. And now, here she was, with this intimidatingly beautiful and elegant, near naked girl, who never speaks, who is gently, softly, but determinedly putting a collar around her neck.

A collar which she is sure must symbolise something … momentous; something terribly serious, that she is certain will be in almost every way disastrous for her; for her hopes, for her family’s hopes, for the future life she has been imagining, working towards, for years.

It’s just that, over the last ten days, since the girl at the beauty parlour had handed her the card with just an address, a time, and a date, all of those things, without ceasing to matter to her, have seemed to wear terribly thin, become ghostly, insubstantial. While the eager, simmering yearning in her to … to become something she was not, something she could never have imagined becoming …

Oh, but all this is ridiculous! Stupid girl! The fact is she doesn’t know what putting on the collar means — not really, not at all, really … Stop this!

And she raises a hand, jerkily.

At once, the girl stops; gentle, caring, with no trace of distress, disappointment or anger in her body language.

Hayley trembles, knowing that she must take this energy and use it to leave. Get out …

Not think about Ms F.

Except that thinking about Ms F was all she had been doing for days …

Ms F — her almost magical full name was Incantata Fiammina —taught the course on the Philosophy of Desire; the least stereotypical philosopher you could imagine. Gorgeous, friendly, laughing, seemingly gossipy, her accent sexily inflected with her native Italian. Her lectures were actually fun; wonderfully full of anecdote, but at the same time as rigorous as a steel trap. She had taken Hayley’s breath away on first meeting, and had rapidly become an obsession.

By being obstinate and persistent, and smiling a lot, she had managed to get into Ms F’s seminar group, reserved normally for higher level students, where she had hidden at the back, and stuttered when asked to contribute.

This only fed her fascination, and at first she hardly paid attention to the subject matter as anything other than subject matter, just working her way, dogged, through the reading list — Genet, Nin, Miller, DeSade, Burroughs, Lacan, Zizek, Reage.

Ms F in the seminar room was almost a different person — more focused, sharper, mysterious, with a superior, satirical smile, mocking without ever fully explaining — simply expecting that good students would keep up, while poor students would melt away.

Hayley had engineered ‘chance’ meetings with her around campus a few times, and been lucky enough at last to have coffee with her, a personal conversation. Incantata Fiammina — Please, outside the classroom, call me Incantata — had been flatteringly friendly, interested in Hayley’s history, her family, even her (very) short list of life experiences. In retrospect, Hayley had realised, her crush on the woman must have been advertised as if she were carrying an illuminated sign, but she hadn’t realised at the time, thankfully — she’d been too exhilarated by the opportunity to talk like this with her idol.

Before they parted, though, Incantata had warned her off — told Hayley rather clearly that it was dangerous to know her, both academically and personally — that she thought Hayley should stop coming to the seminar — that the material was too advanced. Incantata let Hayley know that this wasn’t personal — it was just that she wasn’t someone who would be a force for good in Hayley’s life.

But she had done it in such a teasing, patronising way — almost insulting, but so softened with her tilting eyebrow and crooked smile, that Hayley was only hooked more deeply. She had told Incantata that she didn’t mind — that she was in charge of her own life, that she was a grown up, at which the older woman had only smiled more sweetly.

“My friends are more dangerous than I am,” she had said, almost ruefully, and her smile became softer, more genuine;

“I’m serious, pretty Hayley; you should find some friends your own age, and be happy.”

At this — being called ‘pretty’ was like a small firework going off in her chest — an utterly novel thought occurred to Hayley — was this sexual — had she become lesbian — discovered some latent tendency previously unimagined / unimaginable?

But there was no time to process the thought, even as it threatened to dissolve her self-image, to set her whole life at sea in a raging storm, because Ms F — Incantata — (it was impossible to believe that she was on first name terms with this incredible person) was getting up to leave, and there was something she had to say, needed to get out of her mouth; it poured out of her without forethought, in a tremulous tone of deep urgency that she didn’t know she was capable of;

“If … if they’re your friends … and … and I’m with you, then … then it’s OK with me. Whatever they’re like …”

As these words hung in the air, they crystallised for Hayley in the context of all the transgressive and deviant imagery and philosophising she had been immersing herself in, and her heart began to hammer. She could not have said that! She just couldn’t…

But of course she had, and … and she discovered that she was pleased to have said it, pleased (and terrified) by the little tilt at the corner of Ms F’s lips, by the small fire that now seemed to have been lit in her dark eyes.

Hayley realised that she was flushed, breathing heavily, that her hands were visibly shaking, but could not look away from Ms F’s face — all the humour gone now; her voice gentle but intently serious;

“No, pretty, it won’t be alright. Take it from me, you don’t want what they — we — have to offer.”

And that was it. She was gone.

Hayley had stubbornly persisted in attending Ms F’s lectures (she had not been able to get used to using that wonderful first name, even in her inner dialogue — and in any case, there had been no further opportunities for personal exchange), and the seminar, too.

Ms F remained inspirational, while relentlessly forcing the pace, leaving Hayley struggling to keep up. The following week happened to be Hayley’s turn to deliver an opinion essay — reading it out loud to the group — and Ms F had been forensic, skewering weaknesses and missed points relentlessly. Hayley was devastated, but did her best not to be pathetic, although she had cried bitter tears that night.

In the following weeks, there were no chinks in Ms F’s stone-walling, and Hayley became increasingly desperate, not knowing what to do with the intense emotion that would sweep through her, the inchoate desire that made her weak and desperate (she still had no idea as to whether she had lesbian feelings for Ms F, or what else might be the source of these emotions, despite agonised hours of attempted introspection).

Then, one evening, as Hayley was heading home after a late lecture, she was stopped by a deep, musical voice;

“Miss Little?”

It was Professor M, a Dean in the School of Humanities — a man she would have recognised anyway, but whom she knew to be an associate of Ms F’s — often to be seen with her in deep conversation in the department corridors. Her heart fluttered a little, surprised, and she had let out a silly, weak giggle, shaming herself;

“Me?” — such a stupid thing to say! She giggled again in embarrassment, seemingly unable to get herself out of this downward spiral of idiocy.

But he had simply smiled, held out his hand, took hers in a firm grasp, and didn’t let go;

“Yes, Miss Little — I do mean you. Please — since the evening is young — may I buy you a drink?” — he indicated his car.

Fluttering, wittering, shaming herself seemingly helplessly, she was effectively managed — almost manhandled, but in the most gentle and firmly reassuring way — into the car, and thence into a swanky, intimate wine-bar, one she had never been to — way out of a student’s league.

He set them up in a quiet booth, with a large glass of white wine and the minimum of small talk, then simply watched her, until the silence got to her.

She had looked up, nervous, then down again, seeing him watching her with very little expression. Although his mien was basically relaxed and unchallenging, the silence gradually became unbearable to her; she was beginning to feel panicky, and at last began to gabble some stupid nonsense about the weather or something, until he lifted his hand a little;

“Hayley, please — I haven’t come to hear you speak. Although there will be a need for a little of that from time to time, generally you won’t be expected to speak. I’ve come to assess you for myself, and, depending on my assessment, to make some things clear to you. I’d like you to sit, quietly, until I’m ready. Can you do that for me?”

His voice, throughout this odd and disturbing speech, was calm, deep and clear, utterly confident, yet friendly and reassuring. Never having been spoken to like this in her life, she had simply stared, at a loss, until, forcing herself to act as if this was normal, she had somehow managed a little nod, then blushed deeply, her eyes captured by his, then abruptly looked down, unable to cope with the calm intensity of his gaze.

Feeling his eyes on her — convinced now that he was looking at her breasts, her lips, wondering if, perhaps, this was what Ms F had meant by her friends being dangerous — her heart began to pound.

God, this was it — he was one of them — F’s ‘friends’. He had come to look her over! She began to feel decidedly hot and bothered, and filled with a new determination. She was going to try — try her hardest — to be … to be judged acceptable — to have things ‘made clear’.

She was suddenly horribly conscious that she was slouching, in typical student fashion — and that this was very definitely not going to be good enough; she must move to present herself more carefully; shyly, blushing, but driven by some inner force, she sat up straighter, drew her shoulders back a little, unfolded her arms and put her hands loosely at her sides, then slightly spread her legs, bringing her feet back at the same time. She tried a little smile, that she hoped was attractive, encouraging — and, yes, acquiescent. Her pulse hammered; this was too obvious.

She met his gaze for a second then — needing to know if her pose had registered — and immediately flushed, deeply. He was looking right into her — it wasn’t so much that she was obvious, it was that he already knew …

“Very pretty. I appreciate your efforts. You are every bit as luscious as Incantata suggested. Will you show me how you walk? You could do something else for me, too — visit the ladies, remove your panties, and bring them back here to me.”

She had started, stared at him, eyes and mouth momentarily wide open, feeling her heart thudding, her nipples stiffen — at the same moment terrified and exalted.

God! They wanted her! This was it — what Ms F had warned her about! It … was going to be like this … she’d be treated like a — the word came up from the depths of her mind — like a tart.

No! No! Impossible! She could not possibly accept such a request from a stranger she had met only twenty minutes before! She must stand up and walk out — now!

But she hadn’t. She had just stared at him, stupidly, the lengthening pause making her inability to act more painfully clear with each passing second.

Various possibilities had come into her mind — she could just say ‘no’ — would that be so hard? But then, she knew, he would simply have smiled, possibly even apologised, and left; cold desperation had gripped her heart — he must not leave! She could not let this chance go. Chance for what? She hadn’t known. But what she did know, without any sliver of doubt, was that she wanted it — whatever it was.

Or at least could not bear the idea of being rejected …

He had raised his eyebrows — just a fraction, smiling, a little amused — enjoying himself, but with no cruelty, no hint of impatience or concern. This was all it took; she had been immediately energised, urgently needy — she must not make him impatient — she simply knew that she mustn’t. She had lowered her gaze, dropped her head a little and then, heart thudding, looked up again, making herself smile, awful butterflies in her belly;

“I’d … I’d like … that,” her voice breathy, small, high pitched.

She had blushed crimson, and let out another little giggle, but he had hardly reacted; just watched as she fussed for a second until, with an intense mental effort, she had made herself stand and then, somehow, had walked, as coolly and elegantly as she knew how, across the room to the bathroom, feeling unreal; feeling him watching her, imagining everyone else in the place watching her, too; heart thudding, sweat on her forehead, tummy tight but churning inside.

She hadn’t stopped to let herself think in there — just slipped her panties down her legs — good job she had worn pretty ones — bunched them in her hand and walked back out. It had been much harder then — facing him, knowing for certain that he was watching her, that he knew she was naked under her little skirt; but he had smiled, looking mildly pleased, and that had made it possible; she had experienced a strange thing — an intense, heartfelt wave of gratitude toward him. Gratitude, for having made her act the slut? Yes; yes, in part, she had had to acknowledge, that was true — but also; also for … it was pathetic, but she knew … she was grateful for his approval.

The feeling of cool air on her exposed sex was strange and insistent, reminding her of how transgressive this all as. But she had refused to think about it; if she had allowed herself to think, she would have to stop it all — because it was insane — and she did not want it to stop; did not want this unnerving man to give up on her — so she didn’t think, just did her best to walk elegantly and to smile.

All the giggles had gone now — things had gone way beyond that. Everything had become intensely serious — although she had had no idea quite why how it had come to be so. She had been so shy, then, so unnerved, so desperate not to do anything wrong, that she could hardly meet his gaze — felt her cheeks flushed as she sat.

He had looked at her for a little while, a lazy smile on his face, making her wait, pushing her, so that she had had to control herself once again; wanting, clearly, to see that she would control herself for him — put up with such strangeness, such pressure, simply because he willed it. It was wrong — she knew it was wrong, and dangerous, too, to allow a strange man, an older man, a powerful man, to play such games with her.

But at that moment she was, again, flooded with intense gratitude that, of all the girls on campus, he had chosen her, tonight, to play these games with. She would not have broken the spell for the world, and got her reward when, at last, he spoke;

“Thank you. You walk beautifully, when you try. If we wish to, we will be in touch again. Do not mention this to Incantata — not that it matters, but it wouldn’t please her, and she still has to mark your paper, eh? In the meantime, I have a little present for you —”

He had pushed a credit card across the table;

“It’s pre-loaded — a few thousand dollars. Spend it how you like. If you’d like to impress us further than you have today — and of course, if you want more, if you want to experience more, you will need to — you’ll follow some links which will arrive by anonymous email, and get an idea of the sort of clothes and other stylings you might want to adopt.”

“It will be entertaining to see how you go on. Good evening!”

And he had stood and left, paying the bill on his way.

She couldn’t have followed him had she wanted to — her legs were like jelly. She was more sexually aroused than she had ever been in her life, but in a completely different, utterly novel way - less lust or desire than intense sensitivity, an urgent need for sensation; it had taken her a while to pull herself together, and she needed another drink — which she discovered he had already paid for.

In fact, they had told her, he had paid for a meal as well — so she had stayed, compulsively replaying the whole scene in her head, again, and again, and again, alternately deeply embarrassed and belly-tinglingly turned-on.

She had only remembered that her book bag was still in his car on the way home, much later, and swore, but when she arrived at her room, there it was, on the table, all very neat. She had looked at the door — no sign that it had been forced. Her heart thumped, very physically, as if she had never had a heart before. The seriousness of everything took a huge step up, and she felt her knees go weak.

And then, suddenly, her mood had flipped. Again.

It might be sinister — but it seemed that they wanted her!

Whoever ‘they’ might be …

They liked her, they had helped her, they had given her money. And they played sexy games with her, too. She still had no panties on. She had felt terribly vulnerable, but in such a delicious way! Such clever, powerful, rich people — and — and they wanted her!

And now — here she is. Dressed as instructed, pubes trimmed as instructed, looking just the way the beauty parlour had told her was required. The beauty parlour the anonymous emails had suggested she go to, at which she had been immediately recognised, addressed by name, treated with kindness, but also with firm certainty — it being clearly expected that advice was to be taken, not questioned or even discussed. And she — she had gone along with everything, happily.

From the shadow in front of her comes Ms F, in an immaculately tailored power suit.

“Thank you, Clarice, I’ll take that.”

And, smiling into Hayley’s frozen, open-mouthed face, Incantata Fiammina took the proffered collar, and fixed it, tightly, around Hayley’s neck, meeting no resistance at all, then gave a small, playful, but also authoritative tug on the attached leash — just enough to set Hayley tottering on the unaccustomed high-heels.

Ms F smiled at the fearful little gasp, the roundness of Hayley’s eyes, leaned forward and breathed into the girl’s ear;

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you …”