The Story of Odile Pt1.

Prologue

He’s been speaking at the opening of an art exhibition for which he has been the major patron — it’s an exhibition of some of Gustav Klimt’s lesser known works — drawings, mostly. She is there because her tutor had suggested it would be an interesting and relevant show for her research, and because she has promised herself to attend at least one event per fortnight, in a determined effort to move her life on from the rut its been in for the last 8 months. The months since her split with Neil.

She is slightly embarrassed by the works — she hasn’t seen them before, only knowing the more mainstream paintings. They are disturbingly direct in their eroticism, and she is a little shocked by the immediacy of her own (disturbingly sexual) response to them — especially as they are almost all of women.

But she is now much more interested in him than in the paintings, although she doesn’t know why, exactly. She has heard his name before — he’s some property billionaire, but also an amateur art historian, and funds a highbrow art criticism magazine that she has read — but that’s not it. It was just something about the way he spoke, how he carries himself. He is much older than her — old enough to be her father, she realises, shocked at herself, but she nevertheless has a strong sexual attraction to him.

Not that he’s looking at her. He’s accompanied by a young woman assistant — very beautiful, very demurely dressed — obviously an employee — he speaks to her quite directly but not often. He has a remarkable air of focus about him — at every moment, it is clear that he is entirely aware of what it is that he is concerned with, and fully engaged with it — whether it is inspecting the pictures, talking to various important looking people, or staring abstractedly into the middle distance — obviously thinking deeply, after which he often turns to his assistant and delivers some terse statement, which she diligently notes into a large phone.

At last, after finding herself staring at him often enough to become embarrassed about it, she is convinced that he hasn’t looked at her once with the slightest interest. She forces herself back to the art, swallowing her renewed shock at how directly erotic in intent they are, and engages her professional judgement, forcing herself to apply the analytical techniques she is developing for her PhD thesis, making scribbles in her little notebook.

So that she is completely surprised to find herself face to face with him — almost bumping into him as she turns away from a particularly erotic drawing.

“Oh!” She is immediately in turmoil, flushing red, feeling a little panicky. She’s been an emotional disaster area since Neil left, paralysingly unsure of herself, and while she was happy to watch this most intriguing man from across the room, while he was unaware, it is entirely another thing to experience the the dry warmth coming from his body, to see him look from the — frankly pornographic — picture and back to her with a softly ironic twitch of his brow; she is suddenly frightened, eager to escape, mouth dry.

“May I ask what you wrote about this one? I’ve been impressed with your apparent — objectivity, shall we call it? — in the face of all this — determined — lewdness.”

She is even more flustered by this, uncomfortably aware of the calm attentiveness of the assistant off to one side. She’s briefly not sure that she can manage to speak, horrified at how shaming this would be, and desperately invents the need to cough, in the hope of kick-starting her vocal chords.

And it works — except that she is fairly sure from his tolerant expression that he knows exactly what is going on with her (his gaze is unsettlingly direct, but not in the slightest aggressive; his smile hard, but not cruel) — which is mortifying, but simultaneously somehow incredibly welcome;

“Ah-hem! Excuse Me! You … you mean my … my notes?”

He doesn’t dignify that attempt at deflection with anything other than a slight intensification of his tolerance, and she immediately crumbles, feeling ridiculous;

“Of … of course you do … um …”

She is blushing uncontrollably, she knows;

“Actually, I was trying to set down just … just how the line quality is … is put to the service of the erm … ah erotic intent of the … the drawing…”

She is gabbling, but he doesn’t laugh. Indeed, the amusement fades a little — he’s actually listening — taking her seriously! She feels her heart swell and curses herself for being a fool. He is looking at the picture now, and she experiences mixed relief that the force of his calm but relentless gaze is no longer directed at her, coupled with a strong sense of the loss of his attention.

“It’s an interesting point. It’s certainly true that in his treatment of the face, for instance, the line is enormously stylised, while the treatment of the hand, the conveyance of the bulk of the thighs, is far more carefully naturalistic. Tell me, how do you come to make such subtle analysis?”

He is looking at her again, and she has forgotten to breathe — he’s really, truly taking notice of her — interested in what she has to say! She smiles desperately, helplessly, feeling unutterably foolish, but the calm seriousness of his expression — all amusement, all irony gone now, calms her enough that she can speak;

“I … it’s a … a part of the, um, analytical technique that … that I’m applying to … to a wide range of artists of the period — for my PhD. I … I’m looking for ways to relate … er … aspects of technique to the … um … freeing of art from, from the need for realism. By … by the advent of photography.”

She’s babbling again, she knows. And blushing. Her throat is terribly dry. Looking at her with what she is stunned to realise is an expression of interested approval, he turns a little toward the assistant;

“Some drinks, Noelle. Champagne, I think. Get a good bottle.”

Can this really be happening? She is flooded with pleasure and gratitude at this impressive, fascinating man being so nice to her.

The Seduction

Two days later, looking back, it seems as if some soft but immensely powerful whirlwind had enveloped her from the moment he spoke — the sequence of events was both unbelievable while at the same time proceeded with an unarguable inevitability.

Art talk, champagne, an invitation to pursue the conversation over dinner (Noelle dismissed), then a short walk through the warm summer streets, during which she had become foolishly tongue-tied, while he had been casually, wonderfully tolerant and reassuring.

An excellent, unfussy dinner, more talk about art, and then a pause; him watching, smiling, relaxed; she, horribly unsure of herself, uncertain about him; filled with a notion that the next few minutes had some enormous significance, but with no idea what this might be.

And then he had broken the pattern;

“You haven’t been with a man for some time, have you?”

And she had forgotten how to breathe.

He … he couldn’t have … that wasn’t what came next!

And yet, and yet — her heart is tripping over itself, her belly tingling, her skin suddenly feeling every tiny movement of the air against them; it is as if she has been given some drug — everything is heightened; at the same time, she can’t speak, can’t think, even; can only stare at him, transfixed.

If he had been anything other than calm, his obvious interest in her response untinged by any need, or greed — his grey eyes fully on her, seeing her, seeing through her, into her, it feels — if there had been the slightest suspicion that he was looking for a reaction that he could turn to his advantage, perhaps the spell would have been broken. But he was perfect — his gaze, his cool friendliness, his relaxed patience — simply content to allow her to take her time, to see just how she is with this new turn, and this held her, calmed her, until she heard herself, her voice low, with — amazingly — an almost happy laugh in it, heard herself say;

”“You … you are — exactly — right. Although … although that … that is something I … I hope will … change, very … very soon.”

Becoming aware of what she was saying only after the words have left her mouth, her astonishment at her own boldness gradually gets in the way, and her voice gets quieter and more hesitant, but she finishes her sentence, and manages to look him in the eyes, chest swelling now with a needed intake of breath.

And that was — effectively — It. Decided. He would have her. She would give herself to him. Gratefully. She would beg him, if he wanted her to. Beg him to fuck her.

Over a long moment, his smile had gone, his expression become opaque, unreadable, and then it had ceased to matter, she had ceased to be able to be critical, to judge, as he had lifted her hand to his lips, entirely without any nonsense, very straight — and kissed it.

His voice, too, was unemotional, but soft;

“The lady has spoken.”

And she almost cried with relief; immediately lost her cool, went bright pink, couldn’t hold his eyes any more, could hardly look at him, just sat there, staring at her hands on the table, trembling, her mind temporarily relocated to her groin, to the quivering need in her chest while he moved things along — summoned the waiter, paid the bill, spoke on the ‘phone, softly, so that in few minutes only they were in the elegant foyer of a small hotel, and minutes after that in a large and comfortable suite with an enormous bed.

He was at the same time extremely gentle with her, and entirely masterful, asking her body’s consent with each move, kissing her skin as he gradually exposed more of it, kissing her breasts, her belly, but also her back, her forearms, her thighs — relaxed, without the slightest urgency, but at the same time unstoppable — everything proceeding as if ordained, certain, absolute — and she wanted nothing more than to be borne along by him like this forever.

The sex was rather straight — almost conventional.

She did nothing; he kissed her everywhere (everywhere but on her lips, that is) until she was yearning for him, and then, when he was ready, he lifted her onto him, effortlessly, so that she could take him inside herself — so smoothly, shocking herself by how slippery she was, by how ready she was for him, how urgently grateful.

It was her that kept pushing the pace, then, looking for frenzy, and him that kept cooling things off, building slowly, until at last she gave in and let him control her, control the build-up, holding her hips even though she was on top, until she began to feel orgasm building in her in a way that she didn’t recognise; always, before, she had been worrying about her partner — would they finish, would she get off — would she need to lie about it; so much worry — but here, now, there were no doubts in her; none — for he was in charge; effortlessly, kindly, gently, but fully in charge of her, and so she could watch; watch herself, watch him, feel herself under his command, relax into it, wait, let it build, go with the magisterial rate of acceleration that he enforced, feel him going deep, deep into her, pushing herself against him, wanting him all, always impatient, always having to accept his pace, until some sort of wild feedback of desire started between her groin and her brain and she found herself making noises (a first for her) — a long, rough, half-moan, half-wail as it built in her belly, quiet at first, but growing, the sound breaking into choppy, urgent calls that got faster, shorter, louder until it was a wail again, only much, much louder, and she was battering herself onto him with desperate urgency now, unable to take the growing pressure of need for another second, driving herself to the climax, seeking it, needing it, feeling him following her, feeling his intensity, his hands suddenly gripping her hips as if he will snap her pelvis, their bodies seemingly trying to fuse through the application of pressure for a second or two — and then it had crested, becoming long, juddering rushes of keening ecstasy, one after another, in which she loses herself, gratefully, helplessly, ceasing to think, to know, to understand.

She is brought back into focus by the aftershocks; every few seconds, for what seems like an age, her body jerks, flooded with soft, lapping heat and delicious, intense satisfaction — her body simultaneously terribly, terribly tender, over-sensitised, almost in pain, and urgently needing to be held, to feel the pressure of his hands, his body.

She hears herself breathing the words — thank-you, thank-you, thank-you — over and over, feels tears in her eyes — tears of sadness, strangely, for what she has realised she has been missing — tears of joy, that he has given her this, that she has, once at least, experienced this.

And then, rather quickly, she feels herself falling into sleep — and despite all sorts of urgent things she needs to say to him, kisses she wants to cover him with, she falls gratefully into the soft, warm darkness.

Introduction to a new reality

Waking — with no idea at all whether it is early or late, at first unaware of even who she is, so soundly has she slept, then, with a rush, experiencing again, in double-fast time, the events of the previous evening, she is overcome with an awful and building fear; fear of everything — fear that he must have been disappointed with her inexperience, fear that he has left already (where is he? Is that his voice, that low rumble?), fear that he must think her a slut for having slept with him so easily, fear that he will think her frigid for her non-existent participation, fear that … everything. Fear that the fairytale can’t be true. Fear that it is true, but certain that it cannot last, fear that debilitates her, freezes her in the bed, covers pulled tight to her.

Fear that he instantly dissolves, simply by appearing, and by again, performing that trick he has of making it clear that he is — really — paying attention to her — of softly putting his whole being to the work of seeing her, while at the same time being totally open to whatever that might be — simply interested to see what he can see, with a relaxed certainty that, whatever it might be, he will know how to respond.

Neither of them spoke, for what seemed like a long time, until he said — again with that rather dry, hard tone that made the words he said seem absolutely carved in stone, definitive, unarguable;

“Your vulnerability, your tenderness, your beauty, your need — all together, are … delightful, pretty Odile.”

And she felt as if she might be allowed to be happy again; then, when he suddenly grinned, and looked down at his robe, which was showing signs of stirring below the waist, and said;

“They also make my cock so stiff it’s getting painful”, the surge of desire in her was like a physical wrenching in her belly, and she came up out of the bed, naked, and went to him.

He went down on one knee and caught her in his arms, lifting her effortlessly, as if she were a baby, on her back, cradled, legs akimbo, feet swinging, head thrown back while his mouth went straight to her sex; licking and kissing her there, very direct, letting her feel his teeth, not at all gentle, but shockingly welcome, so that her cry of surprise turns straightway into a low, harsh moan of deep response, a different sort of shock, at the intensity of her own feelings as much as the raw sensation of it.

And this time it’s not at all vanilla, as she is held up in the air throughout, utterly controlled, thighs split, back against the wall as he drives into her, hard, insistent, faster than before — while she responds with urgent need, a rag doll in his arms, head lolling back, moaning at random, panting, gasping, running her hands over him, crying out at the violence of it, encouraging him, until she begins to wail as her orgasm undoes her. He doesn’t stop, or even seem to notice, and when, the crest of her climax having passed, she begins urgently to want him to stop pounding — when begins to push, to struggle, and at last to jerk hard against him, her sex desperately sensitive now, he simply ignores her, and continues his relentless thrusting.

As well to argue with an earth mover — she is overborne without effort; the tempo and the vigour of his strokes continue to build, inexorable, powerful, slamming, so that she squeals, yells, thinking she must actually be being damaged, so intense is the feeling — only to suddenly discover herself spasming, and as the spasm washes through her, find herself once again needy, find herself moving with him, the revelation of the promise of another climax driving her to meet his strokes until they both come, she squeaking like some demented bird, he grunting deep and harsh.

He carries her to the bed, and they collapse there, he breathing harshly, she still wailing a little, the experience of two such powerful orgasms in rapid succession new to her and well nigh impossible to realise the truth of — she’s half hysterical with the wonder of it.

At last, she pulls herself together and looks up — he’s lying back, relaxed, watching her with a light, appreciative smile. His body is half ugly in a different way than his face — he has several large scars, some lumps missing — although at the same time he is clearly in excellent shape; muscles well defined, firm.

His cock, now she looks (half wondering at her own unaccustomed boldness) — is not as large as she had imagined from her experience of it moving inside her — and suddenly she knows she needs to kiss it, thank it for the unprecedented pleasure — for her it is as if she has discovered sex for the first time, so far removed from her previous experiences is the way it has been with him.

She surprises herself — formerly hopelessly, embarrassingly under-confident with naked men, especially so after sex — by leaning forward and, quite simply, taking the end of his cock into her mouth The cock that has just been inside her, that tastes of them both.

She is nervous, gentle, tentative. He offers no advice, no guidance, but moves to make things easier for her.

She’s painfully certain that her inexperience, her lack of confidence must be obvious, but nevertheless, she is driven by a desire to give him something, to get beyond her previous self, to try, if she can, to meet this liberating new experience of sex full on.

His fingers are at her pussy, then — inside her, exploring; casual, confident, and it’s like being invaded — shocking; she convulses, catches herself, stopping an instinctive clamping of her thighs, and turning it into a spreading instead, deliberately opening herself to him, to this big, hard hand, in her most intimate place; almost, she thinks, taking possession. His cock, in her mouth, and his casually manipulative fingers, in her sex — between them, they make everything else unimportant for some undefined period of time, and when he makes a move, softly disengages, his voice seems to come from far away;

“Enough, little wanton; you may be a carefree student, but I have other concerns. We need to eat — and there are things you must hear.”

It takes a significant effort to ‘come back’, for her; there is a definite feeling of loss, of something having been denied her, something to mourn, but when she does fully open her eyes, to see his back as he leaves the room, her feelings are rapidly transformed by a blossom of fear — how can she feel like this? So … so wanton, so … so needy, so … so exposed? How can it be that after less than 24 hours, this man can have done this to her, taken her to such surprising places?

She almost runs into the bathroom, to hunker on the toilet seat for some time, calming herself, telling herself, over and over, that this is wonderful — just a surprise, that’s all, but wonderful — she’s met a man, a real man, and she likes it — really likes him; that’s all, really; that’s what has happened.

Gradually, she takes control of herself, and begins to look around for her clothes, her bag. She showers, dresses, puts on a little make-up — feeling unreal the whole time, but forcing herself not to give in, not to cower on the floor, not to cop out.

Nevertheless, when she emerges, fully dressed, she is very shy — almost unable to face him, so shocked is she by the reality, the intensity of her memories, what she has done with him, permitted him (invited him!), to do to her.

Once again, as she timidly steps into the main room, this fear dissolves rapidly in the face of his matter-of-fact calm, his attention, his reassuring smile, and she feels herself relaxing. There is food — simple but luxurious — and it is a marvel; it is if she has been starved — for how otherwise could coffee, toast, fruit taste so incredible, how can she want it so much?

He laughs at her, then, as she stuffs a too large piece of toast into her mouth, jam dripping onto her chin, and, amazingly, she likes being laughed at, melts into it, hams it up for him, smearing the jam over her lips like lipstick, then putting her tongue out to lick it away, deliberately sultry, shocking herself.

His face turns serious then; he leans forward and puts a finger under her chin, stilling her, requiring her attention;

“As I said, you had not had a man for some time. You were vulnerable — needy. I took advantage of that. You are now even more vulnerable … no, no, hussy; you need to listen — there will be time for you to speak, but for now I ask for you to hear me out.”

… for she had felt the urgent need to tell him that she did not feel taken advantage of, not at all — rather the opposite — that she was exalted, full of gratitude, it is him that she fears is mistaken, that she is not … she had begun to interrupt, but his finger on her lips seals her silence, and she takes a breath instead.

“You make my case, pretty girl — with your eagerness to tell me how happy you are that I took you, how it was just what you needed, how grateful you feel — that I mustn’t concern myself with worries about having taken advantage of you.”

“Listen. I am going to take advantage of you; ruthlessly, completely. I am going to enjoy you fully — do everything and anything I desire with you.”

“And you won’t be able to stop me — you won’t want to stop me. If you do try to resist me, for whatever reason, you will find me impossibly persuasive; you will give in to everything, permit anything, for I understand your vulnerability, your neediness, your lack of experience, far better than you do yourself — for there have been, and there will be, you must know, many other girls.”

“I will make it delicious for you, entrancing, to be the object of my attention; and you will delight in knowing that you can give me what I demand, what I desire. But I am a dangerous man for such as you, pretty girl, and you need to be prepared.”

All this, from any other man — would have made her laugh, so overblown does it seem — but again his tone is calm, serious, and he clearly intends what he says to mean something to her, rather than to bolster his own self-opinion.

“I am telling you this, Odile, so that you know that you can escape me, that you know how to escape me. This envelope — he indicates one on the table, in the heavy cream wove of the hotel’s stationery — contains the business card of a very discreet and capable lawyer. All you ever need to do is to go to her office, mention my name, and all will be handled for you.”

Odile is transfixed, speechless, trembling, her heart thumping audibly in her ears. Why? Why would he speak so to her?

What — what does all this mean, what can it portend?

Is — is she to be frightened? From his face, it does not appear as if he wishes her to be — his expression is mild, his body language relaxed — if anything a little distant. Nevertheless, she feels a definite sensation of fearfulness; her pulse is fast; a sensation at her neck makes her shiver.

Is she to be impressed? Is this boasting? Again, there is no suggestion that he thinks she ought to be; no grandeur, no self-satisfaction about him. But despite this, she feels humbled, grateful that such a man should talk to her so openly, so sincerely — expose himself, in a sense. The implied strength of character is, unavoidably, deeply impressive.

Is this foreplay — some sort of sexual game? Some invitation to a fantasy role-play? Again, he seems altogether too serious, too low key, too relaxed. The effect upon her is, though, undeniably sexy; the idea that this man wants to — intends to; ‘enjoy her fully’, ‘take what he wants’ from her, that he will not allow her to resist, that he will have her ‘give in, permit everything’, that he will make it ‘delicious, entrancing’ for her is feeding her desire powerfully.

A silence extends. He is calm, smiling, fully present as always, in no apparent hurry to speak. She by contrast, is quivering with jumbled and fluctuating emotions, urgently needing something to defuse the tension that is building in her, but at the same time utterly unable to speak, despite there being a multitude of half-formed questions, reassurances, irrelevancies jostling in her mind.

She feels her cheeks grow pink, desperately wishes she could look down, but cannot escape the trap of his pale, hypnotic eyes, knows that her breathing is audible, that she is betraying her emotions in a hundred ways, cannot believe what he has done to her, the importance he has assumed for her in such a short time, cannot control herself, doesn’t want to control herself, and is simultaneously horribly embarrassed that she cannot.

He laughs, then — not harshly, not cruelly, but still, at her; his tolerance, his appreciation of her ridiculous confusion is hard to bear. And yet there is nothing she can do but bear it, since he lapses once more into silence, while she is less capable than ever of acting, of doing anything at all decisive. She feels utterly exposed, transparent, without mystery, without secrets; known. It is at once gorgeously welcome, reassuring, secure, and also unsettling, belittling. She feels at once safe, held, reassured, and also small, weak, disempowered.

She manages to look away for a second, then down, before, as if drawn by a powerful magnet, she snaps her eyes back to his. She hasn’t felt this flustered since she was 13, sent to the headmistress after she’d been found tearing up the diaries of another girl who had a crush on the same teacher. It is unbearable — and at the same time glorious. To have a man make her feel like this! A man who is interested in her — who says he wants to ruthlessly take advantage of her.

She suddenly knows she needs his touch, and half stands, thinking to place herself on his lap, then loses her nerve, so self-contained does he seem, and instead sways down onto her knees, looking up at him, almost for permission, before laying her head onto his lap, arms reaching around his waist.

It isn’t a sexual move, but when she feels his cock stir, semi-stiff, she realises how close her mouth is, how easily it could be in her mouth again, how willing she would be if he were to suggest this, right now, and a deep fluttery sigh washes through her, filling her body with a warm lassitude, her mind with soft acceptance. If it’s going to be like this, then — yes. Yes. Whatever he says. Yes.

Gently, firmly, he takes her head in his hands, lifts it, so that he is looking into her eyes again, then speaks, his voice soft — almost tender;

“Exactly so, my dear. I am … dangerous … for the likes of you. And so it is important that you will be able, one day, to make a break with me: without meeting me, without speaking to me. There will come a time when you should, for your own self-preservation, make such a break. You will know. At that point, you will use this card, you will call Mme DuClos, and she will make all safe; look after you, guarantee your future; you have my word. I am a monster, but not yet one without self-awareness.”

And now, at last, she can speak — she has something she urgently needs him to hear from her;

“I … don’t care if … if you are a monster — at least, I don’t think I do, because … because you are like … like nothing that has ever happened to me before and … and I want it. Whatever it is. I … I know — more than ever, now, after last night, that … that I don’t know much about … about life. But I do know that I … I want, well — whatever you want me to experience…”

She is trembling, without really knowing how this lovely breakfast, in such a lovely, sun-filled room, such a warm morning, after a night of such life-affirming sex, can have become so intense, and so weird, but fiercely determined not to lose, through any lack of acceptance on her part, the promise of something extraordinary which has been opened to her.

His hands move to her shoulders, still holding her firmly, his strength welcome, while his gaze bores into her. It is hard, hard to continue to let him look into her with those unreadable eyes, with that implacable intensity which she finds at once intimidating (despite the complete lack of aggression) and enthralling (despite its coldness). She feels naked, opened, skewered by this attention. And then he speaks, and takes her breath away, too;

“If you have listened, you will understand that your own experience, intense as it will surely be, is not my concern; rather, I will at all times follow my own desires, and what I require now, without delay, since I must leave rather soon, is to fuck your pretty face, rather hard, while your arms are tied behind you.”

Her shocked look is trapped by the calmness of his — as if he has just told her that he wants her to kiss him; something ordinary, rather than that deliberate and shocking crudity. Of course, it has just been in her own mind that she wants him in her mouth, but … but …

While these thoughts tumble in her brain, while she is frozen with surprise, he, without hurry, and without reaction from her, rips the blouse from her shoulders, buttons flying, and pulls it down her back, trapping her arms; bending her, unresisting, forwards, he then pulls the loose tails of the blouse up behind her and ties them, firmly, at elbow height, making the immobilisation of her arms complete.

Straightnening her up again, he sits back, watching. She can meet his eyes for moments only before, without lowering her head, she blinks, lowers her gaze. She has not cowered away, is not fighting her bindings. She holds her position, chest heaving. Deliberately, then, feeling her cheeks grow hot, she straightens her neck; unbidden, her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She’s quivering, but steady. She has consented, and they both know it, although the impact and value of this moment is so different for each; a life-changing decision for her, a coin coming up heads for him.

She doesn’t see his small, lazy smile, but she senses it, and it burns her, knowing, deep down, that she has become just another girl for him. She has made a choice, with her whole being, a choice which she knows is one which diminishes her.

It is sad, terribly sad to accept this, to accept her condition as simply one of ‘many other girls’, but at the same time she feels exalted.

Sad, because there is no happy end with this choice, at best experience and heartbreak, but exalted, because, at this moment, the idea of having him thrusting into her mouth, with her arms tied behind her, of him believing that she is the one to do this for him, this is making her breathless with anticipation; she is at some weird crossroads between hyperventilation and asphyxia, her whole physiology in turmoil, alert, alive, anticipating; unsure whether she should laugh or cry, she finds herself attempting to smile, which seems to amuse him — at least, he chuckles, softly, and leans forward to bite at her soft, parted lips — gently, but biting nevertheless — a promise of ruthlessness that has her trembling, her breathing loud, ragged, her chest heaving.

“You, pretty Odile, appear to be a very peach, ripe for the plucking. You must understand that this generates a powerful and greedy desire in me. There will be no mercy for you, no consideration, no pity; if you succumb, I will use you up.”

“At some point — you will feel it, if I judge you correctly — at some point, you will know that a turning point is near. At this point, Odile, I must tell you again, you are to use that card, go to Mme DuClos, ask her to free you. You must do this, if you can, for otherwise — if you miss the moment — you will be consumed; suborned, taken over without remorse or second chances, and there will be nothing for you from that moment onward but the greed of others. You must not hesitate — the moment for you may be ten minutes from now — if so, then waste no time, none.”

“You have been seduced into the domain of a monster, who will devour you, whole, if you let him.”

For Odile, this whole speech is just another aspect of the otherworldly character of the last minutes: she hears and understands the words well enough, but their meaning has no purchase in her mind — they are experienced as mood music that fits the scene like a glove, and simply add to the intensity of feeling as, sitting back, he pulls her brassiere upward, skilful, then smoothly reaches out to get something — apparently a knife, from the way that the straps part and the thing is gone, her breasts swaying free, to be possessed by his big hands and then by his mouth, to her shivering pleasure, the feel of his teeth as welcome, more thrilling even, than that of his lips.

His voice comes again, in the dreamworld that cannot be part of her humdrum reality, so lush, so rich in feeling, meaning, quality is every second there;

“I don’t mind at all paying for pretty lingerie, my dear, but in the end, it is access to your parts that matters to me; while you are with me, you are offering them to me, for my pleasure, for my desire, for my usage. Impediments to that usage will be destroyed without hesitation.”

And indeed, while he says these words, his hands are busy beneath her skirts and her panties are equally swiftly ruined and removed, his fingers at her sex, then inside her, without ceremony or subtlety, but with immediate and welcome effect; her hips surge, her whole body inflects for him in response, her mouth cries out, wordlessly telling of the intensity of her reaction, of her gratitude, her open-ness.

Then his hands are gone, he’s standing, and his cock-head presents itself, insolently prodding at her lips until, very simply, without thought, without hesitation, she opens herself to him, even as his hands take control of her head, and for the very first time in her life, she has a cock in her mouth and no control at all.

There is no gentleness to it — at the same time no roughness — as he thrusts himself slowly, smoothly, powerfully in, right in, directly to the opening of her throat, to the point where her whole body reacts to repel the invasion.

Smoothly, he retreats, only to present himself again. And again.

By the fourth time, she realises that her active acceptance of him is being asked for — she must find a way to let him go deeper, or fail — fail what, she has no idea, but it doesn’t matter; the very idea of failing him is impossible, and at his next thrust, she pushes herself forward to meet him, trying to take control of her throat muscles, wanting to have him understand that she is giving herself.

His response is to become more demanding, push further, push for longer, and she takes this as approval and tries harder the next time, but it seems as if a limit has been reached — she just can’t do more, until she remembers something from some trashy novel and tries to make a swallowing action — and then, just like that, he is in her throat; the hot, thick, pulsing (she can feel a vein throbbing), otherness, and her surge of prideful pleasure is replaced by panic; her body convulses, and it takes all her control not to bite him, since she cannot pull her head back, firmly held as she is by his strong hands. Her body jerks, and threshes, but he has her, holding her seemingly without effort (it is scary and glorious, how strong he is, how pointless it makes her intentions feel); holds her there for an agonising beat or two — until she knows that he can hold her indefinitely should he choose — before pulling out with just as much control as he pushed in.

This time though, he squats in front of her, takes her chin in one hand; she can’t keep her eyes from his cock; thick, red, engorged — she can see the vein throbbing; the idea that it was in her throat leaves her breathless; she is inflamed with the rawness of it all, feeling like crying, like laughing, like screaming at him to get away from her, leave her, like thrusting her hungry sex at him, hoping to be fucked, panting deeply, hoarse little noises coming from her tender throat, the soft flesh feeling as if it is swelling up already.

“You’re to force ourself, now, slutty girl, show me how much you wish to please me; push yourself, take it all, make me shoot inside your throat. Give your throat to me, to my cock.”

On his knees now, he leans back on one elbow, the other hand in her hair, pulling her down — she has to spread her knees to stay stable, and now his cock-head is at her lips again, and she’s crying; soft, hot tears running down her face, weak little whines, looks up at him, pleading in her eyes, frightened — not of him, not of choking on his cock, but of how she will feel if she does this, of how it will change her, where it might lead, wanting him — what does she want from him? Does she want him to force her? Does she want encouragement? Does she want to see something in his eyes, some cruelty, some greed, that will make it possible for her to get angry, scream at him? She doesn’t know.

In any case, she gets none of these; instead, the hand in her hair tightens, and his voice has a note of intensity in it that she has not heard before;

“This is a door, Odile; one of many that I will open for you, that you must choose wholeheartedly to enter, or to step back from. Each is a door to freedom — to a life less constrained, more free; at the same time, each is a one-way door — you can never afterward be the you that you were before passing through. These are the transformations I am telling you to be aware of, to be vigilant about; when you have had enough, you will use the envelope. That may be now; do you want to be the girl who co-operated as she was broken in to deep-throating a by a man she hardly knows, in the roughest and least romantic style, or do you want to be the girl who stepped back, who will always remember this as the limit of her capacity for freedom, for wildness?”

“Whatever happens, I will always remember you with a smile; you are, simply, delicious, little Odile, and I will not regret enjoying you to the fullest extent you are capable of opening yourself to.”

And he grins at her — wolfish, but genuine. Her belly lurches, and slowly, very slowly, but without hesitation, her heart pounding, her sex pulsing, eyes locked on his for as long as she can, she pushes her weight forward, opens her lips to take him in and, increasingly determinedly, pushes herself down onto him, desperately swallowing, pushing, swallowing, pushing again, letting the spasms shake her body, but not her resolve.

It takes three attempts; three gasping, choking withdrawals and three more determined, impossible impalements before she feels his wiry pubic hair in her nostrils, her whole body juddering with the intensity of the sensation, and a wave of warmth floods her, and gives her the strength to stay down for one … two … three … three unbearable convulsions until she pulls herself backward, trying to remain under control, until, gagging and choking, chest heaving, she hears herself, urgent, humble, sincere, needy;

“Please? Will … will you d-do … do me now, please … use … use your hands, do me … hard as any … any way you … like it, Make it good, good for you … please? Make me please you?”

The idea of going through this without him being pleased with her would make it meaningless, leave her with nothing but loss, and she is soft with relief as his hands once more take her head into firm control and he pulls her onto his stiff cock — all the way in, in one powerful movement — ignoring her helpless wriggling, the desperate flapping at her trapped wrists, the jerks of her hips, thrusting again and again even when fully into her, holding her, enjoying the powerful convulsions of her throat muscles as they massage his cock, releasing her for just long enough for her gasps for air to subside a fraction before repeating; again and again, it seems to her, lost in the experience, as if her whole world has been only a prelude to this forced accommodation of his cock deep into her throat, the sweet terror of keeping herself soft for him even as her body tells her that it is fighting for its life, fighting for oxygen, her hands pulling at the bonds, her throat constricting to reject the invasion, the penetration, being overpowered, plundered — it is as if there has never been anything else, until she feels the hot, thick spurting of his come into her, and is weak with relief, realising that he will not, even now, release her until he is fully satisfied, until he has thrust his last into her…

By the time she can focus again on anything outside her own internal sensations, he’s already been speaking for a while. All she understands is that she should expect a call, that he has left a note. Foggy, she hears him leave, the door snick, and then the uncanny silence of a hotel in daytime — the silence at odds with the knowledge that tens, hundreds of others are all around.

Later, she looks for the paper; his handwriting is well formed, very definite, but as far from beautiful he is; the note tells her that she is remarkable; that the room is booked for another night — she can order anything she likes, take her time.

Grateful, she falls back to the floor, hugs herself, and returns to the impossible-to-resolve issue that will occupy her mind, on and off, for months to come, in all its myriad forms.

He uses me like a whore, and it exalts me. Am I a whore, or am I exalted by his use of me? Can both be true? Can I survive this? Do I want to? Could I survive losing this?

Read the second part of The Story of Odile.