The Story of Odile Pt2.

This will make more sense if you have read the first part of The Story of Odile.

“How? How is this … ? How can it be?”

Odile is bemused, in the most delightful way. It is as if he is capable of performing magic.

In the limousine, she had, after some pretty but non-serious resistance (giggles and wriggles, slightly breathless, having never been like this with a lover before, shocking herself but almost fizzing with nervous anticipation that was heavily tinged with — frankly — lust) she had allowed herself to be blindfolded.

He had gone on, calm, casually swift, without having negotiated it, to tie her elbows behind her back — bringing into her mind, with a visceral jolt, just how it had felt to be so tied, to be bent double, on her back, his cock deep — deep into her throat, unable to breathe, the pulses of his ejaculation experienced as a direct and forceful stretching of her larynx, shockingly intimate — the memory momentarily stunning her, so that the tying is done, and she is propped into the corner of the high-backed leather seat before it even occurs to her to complain — too late.

Any possibility of seeming whiny to him was simply not to be risked, and so Odile had concentrated on sitting elegantly, trying to hold herself well, making herself smile (however shakily), resolutely avoiding thinking about what might be about to happen (she had no idea, no clue, no past experience to go on), or about the alarming realisation that the chauffeur could likely see what has been done to her, sure that her already short skirts had ridden up quite a way during the wriggling, hoping that she was not too exposed … in short, in a state of some turmoil. Delicious turmoil perhaps, but turmoil nonetheless.

For Odile, time spent with Andrew seems always delicious, always heightened over all other realities, whatever else is going on — and that never changes; throughout everything; when she hates him, when she desires him, when she wants him to kill her, when she’s losing herself in serving him, when she fears him; when he’s showing her off to others, when, in private, he’s watching her displaying herself to him, when he causes her the deepest, most crushing despair, when he’s fucking her so selfishly, so aggressively that it is as if she’s nothing but a sex-doll, when he exposes her — and she so hopelessly, pathetically, willingly vulnerable — to unbearable suffering, when he’s ignoring her, when she’s serving others in front of him, shamefully aroused, when he’s laughing with her, when he’s whipping her breasts, when they are cooking together — in all these conditions, in any situation at all with him, there is a fundamental awareness that she is feeling this in the context of Andrew, that special, unique flavour to which she remains addicted, needful of, hungry for, entranced by, She doesn’t know it yet, but this flavour will become the defining thread of her existence.

She has been in various varieties of turmoil, delirium, agonised indecision, paranoia, intense doubt, impossible euphoria, lovelorn swooning, floods of tears, visceral erotic recall, determined cynicism, ridiculous and insupportable fantasy, gorgeous daydreams, foolish, unstoppable grinning, staring at herself in the mirror, wondering, wondering what he saw in her, what she could do to emphasise that, and minimise other things — all these moods have cycled, randomly, rapidly at times, unbearably fixed at others, like a kaleidoscope of technicolour brilliance, all of them, in the days since that morning in the hotel.

But although turmoil has been ever present, she has not become used to it, not at all. Her reaction to just less than 18 hours in his company (she worked it out), over the last ten days, has overwhelmed her, has made her realise that her picture of herself as relatively sophisticated for her 23 years has been nothing more than an embarrassing delusion. That in fact, her ideas about what life meant, what matters to her, how things work, where she wants her life to go — all these things have been at best foolishly narrow, and at worst, shamefully constrained, through a mixture of fear, naiveté, wilful blindness and lack of imagination.

This understanding, constantly renewing itself, opening up new facets on the sad limitations of her existence, had made her almost too embarrassed to see him again, sure that he could only be being polite, wanting to tell her to her face that he had reconsidered, that he would not now be considering her — even as one of ‘many girls’.

What had carried the day was not, in fact, any strength of character or shred of confidence of her own, but simply the way that the assignation was made — the fact that there was, she had realised once the call had ended — no question asked of her; no opportunity given for her to decline.

Wonderingly, wondrously, she had found herself laughing at this; he managed everything — even the chance that she, pathetic, insecure, foolish as she was, might have sabotaged her chance at more time with him; he had simply made it impossible for her to do that to herself.

It was at the same time glorious (she would, she would see him again!) and unnerving; to have been so adroitly, completely managed — given no chance to disrupt his plans. For Odile, who had always striven to maintain her independence, who had worked her way through a tangled life, arrived at where she was only because of continuous careful, cautious planning and control, there was nothing new in meeting a man who attempted to manage her — not at all — but to meet a man from whom such control was not hateful was new.

New and strange.

For the experience to make her feel weak, to want to relax, rather than to become stubborn and hard, was a revelation — and one that could only add to the turmoil. For even though she could almost taste, almost experience the feeling that might — might just — be possible if she could, if she could only relax into him, into his control, give herself over, let herself be weak for once — could almost cry at the imagined peace, the relief that this might bring, there is too much restraint in her to take this as anything other than a foolish fantasy.

It was dangerous — she knew it. And then, then she would replay in her mind all the things he had said about her vulnerability, about her needing to be alert, being ready to act to preserve herself — and she would get out the envelope, look at the heavy, snow-white lacquered card with its elegant, minimal, assured typography (DuClos et L’Ouverture, Avocats) and exclusive address. Why had he given her this? It was all so overblown, so melodramatic!

It had been a very intense tryst, to be sure — she had never been part of anything so spontaneously wild as those 18 hours — but that just made it all the stranger; did he often make such speeches to women he had just met — had just bedded? And why? Masterful and sexually voracious he clearly was, but — far from being any sort of ‘monster’, as he had proclaimed himself, she had felt at all times carefully held. However intense the sex had been (and she had to be careful, if she wanted to think at all sensibly, as she was trying to do, not to let herself remember that intensity, or she would be lost, lost again in sensation, in steamy recall …), even when he had been pushing her so hard, there had never been any real sense that here was someone dangerous to her.

And yet he had told her that he was dangerous — without sounding anything other than practical. That was the thing — if he had been at all emotional about any of that stuff, she’d have been sure there was something wrong with him — believed that he could be a monster (or an insecure egotist), and got herself away from him. It was the fact that he was so clearly calm and thoughtful that had kept her feeling safe, had enabled her to stay with him as he pushed her beyond (so very far beyond) her boundaries.

But the paradox remained; if he was calm and thoughtful — not crazy — then why would he say such things? Why would he carry such a business card with him, why would he prime an obviously expensive lawyer to receive calls from young women seeking to escape from him? It made no sense.

Unless, of course, he was indeed a monster. A delicious thrill ran through her. She was going to meet him again. A monster. And … and she was going to hope that he would take her again. And she was going to do what she could to encourage him to take her again; going to go wherever he took her.

Careful, sensible Odile, watching all of this from the sidelines of her mind, made sure that the firm of DuClos et L’Ouverture existed, checked its reputation. Looked up the all information she could find on Andrew Strauch, property magnate — and came away impressed and awed by both. If … if this newly awakened wanton, risky aspect of herself was going to take chances, then these seemed like the safest sort of people to take chances with — their lives seemed unshakeably secure, what they stood to lose from any scandal so large.

All of this turmoil had not been helped by the simple fact — which had occurred to her within an hour of his leaving her in the hotel — that he had left no contact information at all — nothing, in fact, apart from the smell of his body on her, that short note (which was already in her ‘treasures’ box) and that disturbing envelope. Neither had he asked anything about her — she couldn’t recall for sure, but it was possible that she had not even told him her surname.

Of course, he was famous — she would surely be able to find some work contact number — but what would she say to some company receptionist? ‘Hi I’m Odile, a girl who met your boss last week and slept with him in a hotel, and I want to talk to him please?’ It was less a matter of how awkward this might be than it was that she knew that she would never be brave enough to do it. And sure too, somehow, that he would not approve.

Which made her realise that he was a man whose approval she craved. As soon as the thought struck her she realised just how deeply she was in trouble. Because it hit her like a punch in the belly, that need, all of a sudden. A physical weakness in her. She wanted to please him. His approval — of her ideas for her PhD, of her body (she is blushing — she can feel it — all over her body at this thought), his interest in her, the attention he had paid her …

There — that was it — it was that attention, that feeling of being seen, heard, considered, worth something. It was that which had undone her, that which she would undo herself for, if only she could have more of it from him.

And now she was frightened. Such a need — such a need in her — for a man who had told her — as plainly and simply as it could be, that she was no-one special — just one of many girls — girls before her, girls after her. There it was — the danger of him. The danger to her — monster or not — was clear. Because one day he would cease to be interested in her — would grow bored with her, would have no more desire for her.

And so there — there was the vulnerability he saw in her — how did he know her better than she did herself? How far ahead of her was he? Maybe — maybe he was a monster, then — just … just such a — wonderful — monster that his victims gave themselves to him.

Could she? Could she …

At this point she shook herself — ridiculous? Could she what? He had asked nothing of her — hadn’t even taken her number or given her his — probably he’d never call again …

… and so the turmoil went …

So that when at last, the call came, she was unprepared. After staring at the phone, the ‘Numero Privée’, heart thumping, for too long, she had snatched at it, suddenly terrified it would stop ringing;

“Hello? Hello?”

She sounded desperate, even to herself. Must try to calm down.

“Hello, is that Mlle. Delibes?”

A woman’s voice — who? Odile is embarrassed, feels foolish and ridiculous, flushing. Really, this has got out of hand — she breathes, trying for calm, then realises the woman is waiting for her — what if she is something to do with him? She blurts out;

“Yes. Yes, that’s me …”

“Very good. This is Nadia — we met at the gallery, last week, with M. Strauch. You are free next Tuesday, in the evening?”

“Ah … um … yes — Yes I am.”

“And the next day?”

“I … um. yes — yes I am.”

“Very good. You will be collected on Tuesday afternoon; you will be required for the night. Make no arrangements for Wednesday or Thursday morning. Please dress with elegance.”

And the line had gone dead.

Turmoil had not been abated — only changed — new questions, concerns, strangenesses, laid over all the others.

How would she ‘be collected’? When? For what? Why couldn’t she get angry about being treated with such disrespect — called by an assistant, given no information? What would he expect from her if she did ‘dress with elegance’? What did ‘required for the night’ mean? Did he simply assume — must she assume — that he would have sex with her again? And such casual commands about Wednesday and Thursday!

In the end, none of this made any real difference. Because on the Tuesday morning, she awoke at 6.30, strangely calm, and unquestionable certainties somehow imposed themselves. She would tell Lauren, her housemate, that she would be out that night. She would go shopping. She would spend whatever it took to get the smallest, most elegant dress she could see, and the sexiest, most ridiculously impractical lingerie to go with it, and the shoes, too, and then she would go to Bertrand’s and have him do her hair, be home by 11, spend an hour bathing and doing her makeup, and then she would … well, after that, she would ‘be collected’. It was as simple as that.

Despite the certainties, there were occasional moments when the calmness wore thin; when insistent questions — sensible, valid, important questions — began to clamour for consideration, for answers. These moments were hard — very hard — but each time she was able to vanquish the sanity, and proceed with the insanity, promising herself that, after this one further adventure, she would have a serious think about what letting him do this to her really meant, what her response ought to be — her sensible response — only; only not until after she has had one more chance to be with him, with no constraints — this time, she must let herself really be with him.

This worked until approximately 12.05pm, five minutes into the afternoon, when it became urgently apparent that sitting, waiting, in her apartment — waiting for she knew not what — for who knew how long, was not going to be possible — that she would explode, implode, melt, shatter, have a heart attack or become hysterical — some combination of all of these, even, if she could not at least move — at which point she had jumped up, taken her tiny clutch purse, containing nothing but a key and her ‘phone, walked out of the front door and into the street.

Once there, it became a decision of numbing importance which way she should turn — until she decided simply to walk backwards and forwards, 50 paces left, 100 paces right, back again.

This strategy again lasted for only a few minutes, and suddenly she was off, walking — walking — not fast, the heels were too high for that — but at a steady pace, not thinking, just walking, in her tiny, elegant, too expensive dress, towards the centre of Paris, towards the intensity, towards the power, towards the anonymity, towards freedom, towards the uncaring machine of the world, towards what would eat her, towards what he stood for.

And when the limousine drew up ahead of her, she knew. And when the chauffeur stepped out, and opened the door, she simply got in, without a look, without any exchange between them. The door was shut behind her with a snicktt that was simultaneously quiet and expressive of enormous weight and solidity.

The rear compartment was empty, the window to the driver’s area misty, obscured. It took strength to even sit on the seat — something in her wanted simply to kneel on the thick pile of the carpet. Music played — slow, soft, growing in intensity, a cello piece, emotional, lyrical, and it helped, calming her, reminding her of his commitment to beauty, to quality, to art, to artistry. Even absent, the knowledge of his influence over her reality was somehow calming — he had thought about this, had planned it, intended it — things were proceeding according to his plan, his will; she was held.

When the car rolled smoothly to a halt outside the Palais Royale, and there he was — just standing there, like any normal man, it was almost a shock that he was not three metres tall, or glowing — so unused was she to actually seeing him — he was still almost a stranger to her, despite the intensity of those 18 hours — so very little of which had been spent looking at him in normal clothes, in the street — and so used she was to imagining him as some larger-than-life figure.

Nevertheless, her belly tightened at the sight of him, and her throat felt dry as, taking his offered hand, while the chauffeur held the door open, she stepped out of the car, very conscious, suddenly, of the skimpiness of her floaty little dress, the plunge of its neckline, the height of her heels.

“The lovely Odile! Good enough to eat, I must say! Ravissant!”

He grins — obviously genuine, but just as clearly wanting her to find him droll, to have fun with her, and she wants to relax — almost does, almost finds she can, until, shockingly, she is reliving, as if she were there again, the way she had allowed this man to force his cock deep, deep into her throat, to hold it there, to thrust himself deeper still, how she had facilitated him, opened herself for him, writhed against him, and she is rendered helpless; a trembling, nerve-ridden fool — a girl who cannot speak, can only smile, foolishly, numbly accept her purse (left in the car, stupid!) from the chauffeur, endure Andrew’s tolerant smile (not knowing, really, why he doesn’t abandon her, if she can’t even join in a little light flirting).

Because she cannot. Not with his hand at the small of her back, not with the warmth of him, the dense strength of him so close (he may not be three metres tall, but he is a powerfully large presence at her side). All her body will permit her to think about is sex, no matter how she wills herself to normalcy. She is terribly grateful to be guided to a bench in the sunshine, looking across the famous columns, and that he does not speak to her until, at last, she manages to contain her thudding pulse, the intense shyness which has overcome her at the remembrance of the reality of the sexual intensity she experienced at his hands.

Even then, all she can think of to say is one thing — and it blurts out of her;

“You … you must think that I’m … I’m some terrible slut.”

She hears the words as if from a movie, one of those scenes where you find yourself unable to believe that the character has said something out loud that should never have escaped from their internal stream of consciousness, when you cringe for them, or laugh out loud. She wanted to disappear, to faint, feels herself going red. Surely, he must abandon her now, tell her it’s all been a mistake; that she’s clearly not the person he had thought she was.

She feels his hand at her neck, then, at the back, and without understanding quite how he can control her so easily, she has turned her head, is looking at him; he’s smiling — amused, but not cruelly so, looking at her in that way again;

“Pretty Odile, it is precisely because you are so very far from being a slut, from even knowing how you might become a slut, that I am interested in you. You have a body a slut could use, you have the knowledge of how to use it, too, and the sensuality a slut needs, to be sure — I have seen it, though you are frightened of letting it show. What will be entertaining is to see how you react as I make it harder and harder for you to deny yourself that release, that freedom, that intensity, to awaken your sensuality — to demand that you let your body express it, that you show it to me, that you give way to it when you are with me.”

Her heart is beating so hard, hearing these words, seeing that he is serious (in his casual, relaxed way). It’s too much — he’s expecting too much of her — she … she will fail, disappoint him, not live up to him…

Oh, but how much she wants to try…

“That’s better — now you’re getting out of your mind, feeling things. You’ll feel pain, as well as pleasure — fear, as well as anticipation, sadness, as well as joy; I am not kind, and I am more selfish than you can possibly imagine — but I can guarantee that you will not be bored, and that your world will have brighter colours, if you will let me take charge of you.”

She feels a flower of warmth, of excitement, grow in her chest, a surge of joy, and she is smiling — a tremulous little smile, to be sure, but a smile, and her hand comes up the arm he still holds her with, and weakly caresses it;

“You … you overwhelm me … I … I’m sorry I’m … I feel so foolish, but … but yes … yes … I … I will, if … if I can … How … how can I resist?”

He watches, interested, for a while after she falls silent, and she blushes again, finding it hard to accept his attention, so demanding is it of her in its requirement, so deeply felt, that she open herself to him, do her utmost to show him herself — and all by just looking.

“You will. You will resist, pretty. There will come a time — many times, possibly, when you will resist — and I will demand; expect — enforce, even. Those will be the moments when your responses will be of great interest to me. In the end, there will come such a moment when you feel you must resist — for whatever reason it might be. At that moment, either you will break to my will, or we will have reached the end. I can’t tell — with you — quite where or when that point will be reached. I am entertained by this uncertainty — hence my continued interest in you, pretty girl.”

She is melting; despite the fearful implications of so many of his words, if she allows herself to really think what they mean, the simple fact of being addressed in such terms is beyond anything she has ever experienced, or imagined experiencing. A declaration of love — yes of course, she has wondered, dreamed, at times wished for some version of a romantic scene with a boy — a man; but this, this almost utilitarian directness, this hard-edged honesty, this certainty of intent and of his capacity to pursue his intent, this analytical description of herself, her body, her character, her will, all couched in such intimate terms, is like nothing she has even read about. It skewers her, exalts her, terrifies her, immobilises her and agitates her beyond endurance.

What is she to do with these statements, these promises, these sharp and shocking outlines of her future with him?

She’s breathing heavily now, her whole body flushed — she realises with a shock that she is sexually alive, needy, hungry; that she is at the same time quite seriously frightened, that she is quivering, unsure whether to run or to kiss him, hold him, pull his arms around her.

But he holds her, still, as he wants her — at arms length, watching her, and she has no capacity to challenge this, and can only present herself for him — she is suddenly aware of how much her little dress shows off her her body; simultaneously glorying in the thought and developing a powerful urge to cringe, to fold in upon herself, which it takes a monumental effort to resist. Her arms want to do something, make some move, but she can’t think what, and so they hang, limp, at her sides, feeling useless, her hands waggling a little, weak.

She is aware of how urgently important it is to her that he continues to find her pretty, desirable, and holds herself as open as she can, for his appreciation, since he sees fit to look at her so thoroughly, for so long — for all that it is almost unbearable to be looked at so — to be inspected — to hold herself so that she can be appraised; at his pleasure.

The moment extends, and suddenly she knows what she wants to say, and says it;

“Yes.”

Then;

“Everything. Yes. Please. All of it, please. Just … just as you want it. And … I … I will do my best.”

She knows what to do, suddenly, lifts his free hand and kisses it — fervent, softly but intensely pressing her lips to the backs of his fingers, almost as if kissing a priest’s hand. It is an odd gesture to her, but she doesn’t question the impulse, since at the same time it feels natural.

His response is a short bark of surprised and approving laughter; he lets go of her neck, sits back a little — without the intensity of his gaze diminishing, grins widely;

“Perfect. You are a peach indeed, Odile. We’ll go to lunch.”

He stands, smiling lightly, offers her his hand, and pulls her to her feet. She feels light as a feather, light-headed too, and simply allows herself to be led along the arcade, between the columns, to the elegant door of an almost invisible restaurant, where Andrew is met with evident recognition by the Maitre D’, and they are shown to a booth with a window onto the gardens beyond.

She hardly knows what has just happened, what it means, but she realises that she is happy, and when Andrew begins, gently, to ask her about herself, about her life, she finds herself telling him everything — things she has told no-one, things about her most intimate moments, her hopes, her fears, knowing at some level that she is giving him everything, that there is vulnerability here, but uncaring, unburdening herself of so much that, with him calmly listening, accepting, encouraging her to say more, she can lay demons to rest, move on from regrets, so that, when the long, slow meal is over, she feels lighter, simpler, more free than she has for months — years perhaps.

As he pays the bill, she looks at him, glad to have, for once, the chance to observe him without his eyes looking right back into hers.

What does it matter if he doesn’t love her, she thinks. His effect on her is unlike any other man’s — he takes her out of herself — takes her beyond her limitations, surprises her, validates her unspoken yearnings, makes her feel desired. Makes her feel frightened, yes — that too — but she is becoming addicted to this special sort of frightened — the heart-in-the-mouth feeling she gets when she thinks about the way he simply drags her from her comfort zone, the intensity that generates…

Of course, without any seeming effort or arrangement, the car is simply there, a few tens of metres away as they walk, his hand on her waist, low — on her buttock, really — guiding her. The sight of a man of his age, touching a young woman like this in public would have had her, only a few days ago, tutting, judging — but now — now, she is wriggling herself against him as they walk — inviting his hand to take advantage, to enjoy the offer she makes to him, astonished by herself, in love with the feeling of it, hot between the legs, giggling with the joy of it.

And then came the blindfold, the elbow tying, the wriggling, squirmy consciousness of vulnerability, of exposure, during the drive, and … and now this.

For they are walking through the rooms of the Musée Rodin, having been admitted by the night porter, all by themselves — the whole place empty — theirs, open to them; and he is telling her, showing her, about his own thoughts and feelings, his fascination for Rodin — in particular, the eroticism — showing her the raw desire made stone, made bronze — how it is that despite that stillness, the unchanging durability, the frozenness of the materials, the works somehow throbbed with heat, with yearning, with lust?

“I still remember the first time I came here — not much older than you are now; I came alone, without any special interest in Rodin, beyond knowing that I had considered the few works I had seen elsewhere to be really serious ; the work of a committed and talented artist, yes, but not one that I was excited by.”

“I came as much because I had a spare day in Paris, alone, and because the description of the Museum itself was intriguing, but within half an hour I was certainly excited — and not only in the sense that I realised I had underestimated Rodin’s brilliance, the energy of him — but also in a way that little serious art ever excites me — I was actually having to walk rather carefully so that it would not be obvious how sexually aroused I was by some of the work. It took me completely by surprise, and I stayed far longer than I had intended.”

“When I came to live here, I became a regular, coming every few months, for every new show, and then, three years ago, when the Museum had a major fund-raising drive on, I was able to offer them a large sum, no strings attached, in return for a special lifetime membership with some unique benefits. Such as being able to bring guests here out of hours, by arrangement, completely privately.”

She is entranced — thoughts of how she must come, study the drawings, see how this can be worked into her thesis soon forgotten as she too realises what no print, no single piece in a large museum could ever convey — the life, the energy, the urgency of Rodin’s vision, the almost unbelievable way that the dynamic quality of the little clay maquettes — rough daubs of clay, almost abstract, while never losing their focus — can be kept alive through the process of transformation into a larger-then-life marble statue — even be increased.

And Odile, too, is occasionally brought up short by one or other piece, realising just how powerful an erotic charge they convey, until, transfixed by one such, she is caught by Andrew, who comes up behind her, puts one hand between her legs, the other around her chest, encompassing her breast, and lifts her, bodily, against him, talking softly, warmly into her ear;

“The other grant I made to the museum paid for the conversion of an attic into a small apartment, used for visiting academics, artists in residence and the like. Which apartment is currently empty and at our disposal, and where I am now taking you, in order to first devour you, then fuck you until you squeal, pretty girl.”

He’s as good as his word, carrying her, flailing weekly, giggling nervously, up the stair — grand first stage, narrower, then narrower still, until they reach the small but immaculate apartment; minimalist and luxurious both, where he simply peels the dress off her, up over her head …

… throws her onto the bed, rips the panties from her, then, lifting her legs, bends her back over herself, shoulders on the mattress, ankles beside her ears, her crotch at the level of his chest; puts his hands under her thighs and hoists her, then begins licking and biting her sex, almost methodical, utterly without concern for time, paying no attention at all to her weak attempts to communicate her discomfort.

Alternately rough and subtle, clever licks and kisses followed by the feel of his sharp teeth at her clitoris, the threat of pain, the tease of nibbling, then soft again, then real pain — shocking, experienced as an intensification, rather than hurt; relentless, steady, she helpless, not only because of her position, his powerful grip, but mentally, too, accepting herself as his creature; in his power, lost in the sea of his will, his intent, she begins to wail, to writhe, to moan, increasingly frantic with the intensity of feeling, of need, of the impossibility of release from the ache that is building in her …

… building, and building, and … until at last he pushes her over the edge, into another world, jerking and squeaking, uncontrollable shivers shaking her legs, the tension generated by his absolute physical control over her movement adding to it all, now calling out loud, a long-drawn-out, husky wail, limbs like jelly once the shaking releases her, panting slow and heavy now, laughing softly at the astonishment of it, now crying just as softly at the beauty of it, the shame of never had anything like it, of never having even imagined such experiences, the tragedy of having been so unaware of the feelings that could be had in this world, raising herself up to kiss him, kiss his chest, his hands, his arms, his neck, telling him, urgently;

“Do it. Do it all to me; anything; everything, please, don’t, don’t ask me, don’t even tell me, just … just God I didn’t know, didn’t, couldn’t even imagine…”

Sitting up straight, looking at him, looking into his eyes, serious;

“I … I’m going to be scared … like … like you said — going to be stupid — shy, pathetic, ashamed, frightened … But … But don’t … don’t let me — don’t … don’t ever stop with me, don’t listen to me … because … because I do … I do … whatever you want … I want you to do it to me … please. Please, promise me you won’t … you won’t hold back, won’t … don’t, don’t be nice to me — kind to me. Ever. Not again. I … know you’re not — not ‘nice’ — I’ve worked … worked so hard to make things ‘nice’, ‘safe’ and … and it’s been killing me … and … and maybe this … maybe this will kill me, too, maybe , but … but at least I’ll know that I’m alive… … OH! O-OH!”

As she’s been speaking, his hand has been in her hair, and now, without warning or gentleness, he lifts her — yanks her — up by her hair, sharp pain in her scalp, hands flailing uselessly as he flings her down again face-down, jerks her buttocks high with his other hand and pushes two, then straightway three fingers, right into her; she’s sopping wet and looser than she’s ever been but still, it’s like an invasion and she shouts and her thighs clamp, and she twists, her body rejecting this.

To no avail.

His knees first split wide, then immobilise her legs, opening her sex, her face pushed down, roughly, into the mattress and his fingers penetrate her again, more insistently, more deeply, and she yells again, but this time with a helpless, needy note, and then suddenly they’re gone and his cock is inside her, rutting her; hard, fast and deep, her whole body bucking with the violence of it, and she’s wailing and crying with shock.

It is short, and harsh, and he shouts himself as he spurts inside her, laughing, then pulls out abruptly and lets himself fall back, his hand soon in her hair again, dragging at her, twisting her — uncaring it seems as to the desperate writhing and wrenching this demands of her if her neck is not to feel as if it will snap, until his cock is in her face, sticky with and smelling of their mixed fluids, the vein still throbbing, and pushing blindly at her lips, until she realises she is to take him into her mouth, which seems, in her shocked state, an obvious impossibility.

It doesn’t matter — a thumb, working its way in, at the corner of her mouth, then between her teeth, her jaw pulled open, irresistibly, and then his cock is in her, still semi-hard, feeling huge;

“You lick, you clean, you please me, pussy; slow and sweet now, until you get me hard again, and then we’ll do it again, a little slower.”

And that is exactly what happens.

She is lost in wonder at the experience of having a man’s cock in her mouth for what seems like hours, of giving herself — as she shortly finds herself wanting to do — of giving herself to serve the lump of meat, of carefully, humbly paying attention to every little move of his, every hint of growing hardness, of sensitivity, of the tone of his breathing, the tenseness of his belly, the way his thighs move. She brings up her hands at one point, to have her wrists grasped in one of his hands, gently but firmly drawn away.

“You don’t use your hands on me, pretty. Not ever. Just your mouth, your pussy, your pretty tits, your ass, your belly.”

Heaven help her, she finds this romantical, almost — near swoons at the challenge of it, the way it makes her feel tight at her sex, short of breath, all wound up and hot, and she pushes herself onto him, offering him her throat, remembering, wanting, willing herself to lose her self again…

They fuck three or four more times before the limousine arrives at seven the next morning — she can’t count because things run into each other, and because she is mostly semi-delirious, or tingling with disbelief that this can be real, half asleep, or half hysterical with the intensity of mixed emotions that wrack her.

Her arms are tied behind her again for the final bout, as she had tried, without realising it, to use her hands on him once again. The tying had been simple and practical — ‘You’ll be tied like this each time you forget, until you learn’ — and she’d accepted it as such, simply meek, grateful, eager to get back to the business of their shared lust, and had found struggling, claustrophobia rising, against the bonds — as he once again rutted her hard and fast — to be an added facet of the intensity of the orgasm that shook her, making it even more disabling, the feeling of rising panic wrenching her right out of herself, so that it took her an age to ‘return’ — the panic simply reasserting itself as she remembered who she was, so that she was babbling, begging for release even as the aftershocks of the orgasm spasmed her belly and down her thighs, at which he had simply laughed, picking her up, pushing his cock into her mouth.

“Cleaning, missy, and quickly this time. Claude will be here very soon, and you must be gone before eight. There are limits to what even I can be seen to do here.”

And so she had had, simply, to tell herself to swallow the panic, to live with the growing refusal of her body to accept the bindings, and to lose herself once again in serving him, serving his cock.

It had worked, too, wondrously, so that ten minutes later she was dressing, unbearably shy of him suddenly, the reality of their night together beyond her ability to integrate, simply obeying him, silently, when he reaches out; ‘Give me those’ — handing him the crumpled bundle of panties and brassiere;

‘You won’t wear such any more. I like the dress. Tell Nadia where it came from. She’ll send you money. Go now — Claude will take you home. Trust him completely. Get some sleep. Claude will bring you to me later in the afternoon and I’ll fuck you some more; you make me greedy. That’s good. I’ll probably hurt you then, too. You’ll have to live with it, if you can. Wear just a slip, some heels, nothing else. Claude will bring you a cape.‘

And that’s it. They are lovers. He is in complete control, and that’s the way it is. Sitting in the back of the limousine, powerfully aware of her nakedness under the skimpy dress, of her ‘just fucked’ hair, of the certainty that Claude must know something about how Andrew is with girls like her, she knows that this is her new life. That, as he had said, she will live with it — if she can. Including being hurt, if he chooses to hurt her? She has no way of knowing. But she does know that she will let him help her find out.

She finds walking actually sore as she goes up the path to her apartment — has to make a real effort not to give away just how insistent is the tenderness between her legs, that would have her walk bow-legged if it could. The thought of being fucked ‘some more’ in only a few hours is as unnerving as it is exciting. She bathes, falls asleep in the tub, wakes spluttering, drags herself out, manages to set an alarm before blanking out, sprawled diagonally on her bed.

Read the next part of The Story of Odile.