Saskia had been there a year— this hot-shot law firm, that worked almost exclusively for very rich individuals. They had taken her straight from university, where she had won the year prize in her law degree, and impressed her with the incredible swankiness of their offices, the famous names on their client list, and the generous salary. She had aced their aptitude tests, they told her— scoring very highly on the personal character charts as anyone, they had said.
It was odd, perhaps, because she had always seen herself as doing serious law, becoming a defence lawyer, serving justice— but in fact she had taken their offer almost without thinking. It was true, the work was very involved and high pressure, but it could not be said to be particularly serious. Nevertheless, she had found herself loving it, been so happy just to work in the incredible old building that they had (positively dripping with establishment privilege— all carved wood panelling, high ceilings, huge ornate doors, deep carpeting, heavy antiques everywhere), to be working with such brilliant people, all of whom dressed so beautifully, were so thoroughly professional, and had such perfect manners.
It was only after a couple of months that she really realised (or was it that she had not until then allowed herself to realise?) something that had been there, in retrospect perfectly clear, from day one— it was just that it was so strange, so nearly unbelievable, so that she had assumed it wasn’t so.
But it was.
The gorgeous young female ‘Executive Assistants’— all of them dressed much more excitingly than the lawyers (flirting with the bounds of ‘respectability’, without quite going beyond); shorter skirts, filmier blouses with low necklines giving glimpses of lacy brassieres, higher heels, stockings with seams— lovely to look at and subtly sexy; these girls, astonishingly, shockingly, but when she accepted the evidence of her own eyes, undoubtedly, were making themselves sexually available to the partners and the clients. They fucked anyone at the firm over a certain pay grade, and were also sexually available to rich clients. Part of the reason it had taken so long to realise was that they all seemed so natural, so cool— if the bosses were taking such terrible advantage, she would have expected them to complain, but they must all be part of it, somehow— accepting— happy…
It wasn’t that it was particularly overt— she saw nothing really significant — but PA’s would guard access pretty carefully at times, and sometimes girls were in with partners and clients for very long meetings, after which, though still immaculate (all the partners had en-suite washrooms), they would have a strange air about them, and sometimes they would walk a little carefully. And she would, occasionally, see one of the partners very casually cop a feel, and the way the girls acted was the real clue— there was no protest, not even mock coquettishness— just pretty compliance— actually moving, subtly— making it easier for the hand to find its way to a breast, a buttock. Every time she saw this, once she had let herself understand what it meant, she found the the girl’s unquestioning acceptance made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. To be so completely open to such casual invasion of personal space, and with such obvious sexual implications— the idea possessed her. When, as it often was, this was followed up by a discreet lean forward, an opening of the legs, a turn toward the man who was taking such liberties— with the obvious intention of inviting, offering more, she felt her heart begin pounding, her temples throbbing. She had to tear her gaze away, desperate not to be caught staring.
She became fascinated. She couldn’t help it. It started to distract her. In the end, one Friday in the bar, she asked her superior and mentor, Fawzia Shalmooz (the woman who had recruited her), a gorgeous woman in her 30’s, of Lebanese descent, with an enigmatic, half mocking smile that fascinated Saskia— asked her, very tentatively at first, very innocent questions. But as the smile grew in Fawzia’s eyes, and she led Saskia on with ‘Well, what do you think…?”, Saskia finally got the nerve to ask her directly;
“And do … do they, um … I mean; actually have sex with … with the partners— and the c … clients?”
Fawzia laughed at her, her smile amused, challenging;
“Well I don’t think you need an answer, Saskia— I think you know, and you just can’t admit to yourself what is perfectly obvious. But OK, let me humour you; yes, Saskia, you lovely innocent, the ‘Executive Assistants’ are corporate dolly-birds. They have sex with whom they are told to. Of course everyone is very discreet— we wouldn’t want to shock people like you, Saskia; but certainly, yes they do. We have very wealthy partners and wealthy clients who take it for granted that they should have access to pretty and willing young girls.”
“And we have plenty of girls who are open to the idea of sexual service as an unofficial but important part of their job description in return for very handsome rewards and easy working conditions. Plus the chance to fuck celebrities and the super rich. Every now and then, of course, one of our girls gets to marry a super rich person— or at least become a mistress.”
“Come now, take that shocked look off your face. They are all volunteers— they have to convince us that they really want the role— we don’t actively recruit, you know!”
And that had been that; Saskia had simply had to get used to the idea, or quit— it was the way it was. And they did all seem so very sweet. And so, without really ever making a firm decision as to whether she officially disapproved, whether it was a resigning matter, whether she should go further and— do something about it … in the end, Saskia just let it slide, and told herself it was just the way of things.
The problem was that Saskia couldn’t just ‘let it slide’; her fascination, her distraction didn’t fade, now that she knew what was going on— it increased— redoubled— feeding off the new information— new questions in her mind now, new imaginings … she didn’t seem to be able to control it, much as she wanted to, hard as she tried.
And now here she was, in her second 6 month review, her probationary period over. She knew she had started well— the first review had been all but glowing, but it was also clear that things had not progressed over the last couple of months, and she knew why. She didn’t know if they did, though, and she was terrified.
The panel comprised Fawzia, a senior partner and a guy from HR.
They had a nice enough talk, everyone was very friendly and positive, but the issue of the fall-off in her performance had now come up. She was feeling terrible; hot and flustered— she had never had to deal with a situation like this before in her young life; until now she had always been top flight in everything she had done, with a combination of innate aptitude and determined hard work. It wasn’t that they were angry, or even upset— in fact they were being incredibly nice, tactful— but also persistent, trying to understand what it was that had held her back. After a few minutes though, she caught a look on Fawzia’s face, and suddenly, Saskia knew that the woman knew— that Fawzia understood the cause of Saskia’s distraction. Saskia felt she wanted to die, it was so awful. But at the same time, the worm that had been growing inside her was pleased— pleased that it had been noticed. Pleased that Fawzia knew. A queasy feeling, but somehow a sorely welcomed relief.
But still, it could not be acknowledged out loud— not ever!
So she squirmed for a few more minutes, until she saw Fawzia pass a note to the other two, wait until they had read it, and then suggest they adjourn for a week. As she was Saskia’s official office mentor, Fawzia would talk with her and another session would be arranged for a week’s time. Saskia was quivering, desperately trying to look as if there was nothing strange at all about this— feeling as if she was being stretched paper-thin— that all her weak, shameful thoughts were on show.
Fawzia, though, handled it perfectly; took Saskia out for lunch the next day. They discussed her obvious talent, her proven ability to work hard. Fawzia asked if she was committed to the firm, and Saskia almost knocked the water jug over, so vehement was she, surprising herself; ‘Yes! Yes, I promise that I am! I am totally committed to this firm. It’s … it’s an amazing place to work, and I … I never want to be anywhere else.’
Fawzia smiled at her, subtly patronising, but clearly pleased;
“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Saskia. It’s always ecouraging to know that the way the firm works can get under the skin of a young recruit like yourself. We’re very proud of our ability to make that happen— the firm’s culture and long history depend upon wonderful people like yourself making such commitments.”
“What that means, though, is that there must be some other issue -” said Fawzia, smiling; “- something that is standing between your commitment to the firm, and the quality of the work that you are doing; something that could explain your— well— we’d have to call it ‘lack of progress’, wouldn’t we?— in the last few months.”
This hits Saskia like a hammer blow— however velvet the tone, how measured the words, and she freezes, horrified— How can I have let it get this bad? It takes her a little while before she can react at all, and then it’s a far from lawyerly reaction; first a helpless, blushing nodding, then a weak slumping of her neck as she looks at her lap, unable to face reality; her heart is thumping with rising panic. This was impossible! She couldn’t be here! This couldn’t be going to be talked about! She would die of shame!
“I know what it is Saskia,” said Fawzia, in a soft but firm voice; “— and it’s fine, believe me. It will be OK.”
After a long moment, Saskia looked up, her fear of what she might see in Fawzia’s eyes trumped by a desperate need to know, certain as she was that Fawzia did know, but at the same time desperate to discover that the woman has another idea— to have the chance to cover it up— cover this sick fascination, give herself another chance to bury it.
Oh, but she knew that would never happen— the hours since the review had proved that. Desperate to rescue her life, she had immediately determined, as she left the session, that she was going to stuff these stupid thoughts back into a box, and bury that box deep. Except that within minutes, she had noticed the redhead girl coming out of an office, smiling a little, re-buttoning her blouse, and she was off on the rollercoaster again— and last night had been— terrible. No, she was not going to be able to get past these thoughts that easily.
Fawzia, though, leaves no room for doubt— there is something in her smile that is too complicit— she knows; she really knows. It’s like a long cool drink of water being offered— so desperately attractive, the idea of talking it through with someone who might understand after all these hours, days, weeks of turmoil— it really is; the idea that she might be able to unpack some of these crazy thoughts that come, unwanted, into her mind— that crowd out everything else, that leave her inner sight full of imagined scenes, pictures, sounds, feelings….
But no— impossible to talk about this stuff! How could she possibly admit it?
Fawzia did it for her;
“I know, it seems strange, especially from an outsider’s perspective, but we won’t judge you, Saskia. We will support you. I’m going to say it for you. OK?”
Saskia nodded, unable to meet Fawzia’s gaze;
“You can’t get the idea of becoming an Executive Assistant out of your mind, can you? You keep wondering what it might be like. To be— like that; like one of them. Be— available— in that way. You can’t stop yourself thinking about it, can you?”
Saskia was trembling, but conscious of a great wave of relief. Fawzia had said it, out loud. It was out.
The relief is real, but at what cost? For Saskia knows that she has been diminished. Fawzia will never again see her in the same light; she might tell others; the scope of future prospects Saskia has carried with her is cast into doubt, too; her life has become smaller, the range of imaginable futures shrinking, the chances of failure looming large, in a way that they never have for Saskia, but which she has watched happen to contemporaries.
In the highly competitive life at a top law school, Saskia has been in Fawzia’s position— helping friends understand the real hurdles in their own lives that will limit them. Saskia knows, all too well, how her treatment of these friends has changed— even as she tries to help; how she has found herself disengaging from them, as, derailed by life, their chances at the sunny uplands vanish, as they are dragged down into the pit of scrabbling losers, into a life of constant effort, without prospect of success.
And this knowledge eats into her like permafrost settling in her belly. Like a little dying. Tears come into her eyes, but the question is hanging; a true lawyer, Fawzia’s attention, her requirement to be answered, is a tangible force. It cannot be denied.
Helplessly, Saskia has to nod; hears her voice— surprisingly normal, if a little shaky;
“Yes.”
And that’s it. The future has a different shape, now.
That’s the thing— again, as she has seen it in others. A whole slice of future is removed, with a few words. But there is no time for reflection, no time-out allowed for mourning— because everyone else in the world is going to carry on— carry on at their relentless pace, seeing their opportunity to advance into the space that had been yours, until only a moment before. As with injured sharks, it is simply impermissible to stop trying to swim, no matter what has just been taken from you— for fear of losing still more. There is, simply, no choice but to accept, and to live in the new shape; to accept that you have been diminished; that the person with you is now immeasurably more powerful than they were, while you are immeasurably weaker; still, it is better to be near a powerful person than to irritate them, so that they cast you out, for your loss to be doubled.
And so Saskia forces herself to look up, to meet Fawzia’s eyes, to let the woman see— as she must— the glint of tears, the trembling lower lip; the weakness (the weakness that delivers power to the other). It hurts, but hurt must be accepted, now.
“It’s OK, Saskia— it happens; sometimes. It’s such a … different … thing to what people expect— and— particularly for young women— accepting sets up challenges, new perspectives. I’m not saying that your reaction is common— but it isn’t at all unprecedented. Try not to worry about it. We don’t need to try the review again straightaway— we’ll re-schedule for 6 weeks time, and in the meantime, we’ll have a couple of sessions, just you and I. So that you can talk through your thoughts, your feelings.”
Then, in response to an uncontrollable expression of despair that transforms Saskia’s face for a moment, before the girl manages to control herself;
“Saskia! Don’t worry so— we don’t want to lose you either! One way or another, you have a future here.”
“It might not be the best moment, but perhaps I should tell you now, without it meaning anything other than what it is, just to address one possible source of worry, that you are certainly qualified for an Executive Assistant role in terms of appearance.”
Of course, Fawzia has in fact judged the moment very carefully— so as to plant into the girl’s mind, at a point of deep weakness, the reality that, if there is definitely a place for her at the firm, it might well not be as a lawyer.
Saskia blushed, and looked down, in turmoil. But she couldn’t bear not seeing what was in Fawzia’s eyes for long, and looked back up, only then realising what a submissive move this was— far from a lawyer’s probing, negotiating instinct, and blushed again, relapsing into uncharacteristically weak giggles before doing her best (yet again) to pull herself together. Fawzia’s gaze was absolutely clear and direct, without the slightest hint of anything untoward. She was just giving Saskia information. Or was she? Saskia’s heart fluttered. She hadn’t giggled like that since she was 13. She feels weak, flustered. And she feels the fatal attraction of being weak, of relaxing into the strength of another, in a new and dangerously seductive way— a feeling she does everything she can to suppress, to deny.
There was moisture in the corners of her eyes— she could easily have cried. There was also moisture in between her legs— she could just as easily have opened her legs for anyone suitable, right then. She knew she was lying to herself, doubted she was fooling Fawzia, too, but nevertheless did everything she could to pass off the weaknesses of the last minute or two as a lapse; shook herself a little, made a ‘flicking away’ gesture with eloquent hands, reset her posture— upright; I’m in control again, was the message; a bright, brittle smile plastered onto her lips, her eyebrows up and straight, eyes clear.
Fawzia watched the girl; cool, impassive, but nevertheless paying careful attention. Saskia had an idea that Fawzia could see right through her even then, but it was too unsettling a thought to go with, so she suppressed that, too.
Anyway, that’s what happened— they met each week in the evening after work, in an exclusive bar at Fawzia’s club. Saskia worked hard on herself to suppress her lapse into weakness, and did her very best to convince herself that she was getting special treatment from a mentor who saw promise in her.
It was easy, with Fawzia, to feel very special; to enjoy speaking so directly about serious matters (secret matters!) to someone so senior. Fawzia was very straight with her; answered all Saskia’s hesitant questions about the girls. She learned what their routine was— they only worked either four or three days each week, and often did flexi-hours, as they were sometimes called on to work in the evenings— or even at night. Saskia blushed a lot, but Fawzia never did. Yes, the girls would go on business trips with partners, during which time they would be available 24 hours a day. Yes, Fawzia supposed that no-one would volunteer who didn’t enjoy sex.
On the third week, Fawzia brought one of the girls along— the ravishing redhead, whose name was Giselle. She was perhaps a couple of years older than Saskia; open and sweet and giggly. She blushed, and stammered and was shy— was not at all whorish, or cynical— but she obviously did like her job— said that of course she did— she would leave if she didn’t. Yes, she had limits— all the girls did— and they were respected. But, she admitted shyly— she had pretty much dropped all her limits over recent months. She had suddenly seen that the limits applied to her, too— that sticking to them was just missing out, limiting the experience.
What were her limits? Well, she blushed; as she had said, not … not much, really, any more; she wouldn’t be beaten with any object longer than 8” (basically, a hairbrush— but no canes or anything). She had allowed them to have her nipples and sex lips pierced (which explained the fascinating profile of her nipples appreciable through the thin blouse). Only … only two men at a time…
Saskia’s eyes widened— she took 2 cocks at a time— that was a limit? And then she suddenly realised that a girl could take 3 at a time, potentially— an idea that had never before occurred to her, and it was her turn to blush (within a year, a group of drunken young men, at a party given by one of their fathers— a client of the firm— would prove to Saskia that it is technically possible for a girl to have six cocks inside her at the same time— however impractically, and possibly at greater cost to the self-image of some of the boys than to Saskia, although it is Saskia who suffers the physical injuries, which take some while to repair. The client is generous with bonus money, and specifically requests her on his next visit, and she smiles and invites further excesses from him, smiling through the tears, asking him out loud, sweetly and softly, for more, please— again, and again).
With a silly smile at Fawzia, Giselle said she had only just relaxed her limit on going with other women, and that she wished she had done it before (a bout of giggling). And the other thing she had done recently was to move into a company apartment;
“It has a computer controlled access lock, you see— I … I can’t control who comes in. And obviously whoever comes in is … authorised … so they can … well— get me to do whatever. Which is … just so … exciting… And— and it means I need to be— looking sexy— all the time, which is … well … it … knowing that just … does things to me. I mean … they have cameras, and you can see yourself, so you can sort of play act…”, she tails off, going red.
Fawzia prompted Giselle to talk about money, and she said she was very well paid— named an amount that made Saskia look up— more than twice what she earned herself, and for a shorter working week, with flexi hours to boot. Giselle said she was managing to take a couple of acting classes at the same time. She said she sometimes earned bonuses for taking on ‘extra’ duties— she blushed again, deeply, at the same time as looking a little smug. She flashed a look under her lashes at Fawzia, and smiled a special little smile for her benefit.
Saskia found herself wondering, a little too eagerly, what ‘extra duties’ entailed.
Fawzia asked Giselle a question Saskia had wanted to ask, but had been too embarrassed; how was it when she was expected to go with a guy who was ugly, or fat, or old, or unpleasant?
This time Giselle really blushed, and bit her lip, and looked down for a little. Then she pulled herself together, and looked quite directly at Saskia. She was so pretty when she was feeling embarrassed!
“At … at first … I did find that, hard … ” She paused, then gathered herself again;
“I … I was spanked a few times and then … then I agreed to a … a training session … a … a mock rape … with about 5 pretty horrible looking guys. And … … “
She clearly made an effort to take hold of herself, and her voice became very sincere;
“And I came like an express-train, again and again, and begged them to do me more, and more roughly, and … and now I think I like the ugly guys more than the handsome ones. I mean … it’s not like I’m looking for a boyfriend …”
A little wave of sadness passed over her face at this point, and Saskia suddenly shared it. If Saskia went down this road, she, too would have no boyfriend— just fucks (who did she think she was fooling with that ‘if’? the thought comes into her head. I won’t have any limits. I want them to take me … take me all the way.)
” … I am here to … to fuck and to be fucked. I … I’m a whore— doesn’t matter what my job title is— I know what I am. And … and I like being a whore … like knowing that I’m not in charge of who … who fucks me … who puts their cock into me, or where , or when, or how hard. I … I like serving them. I … like having no choice.”
Giselle swallowed a little, clearly surprised by the depth or her own emotion, but she hadn’t finished, and carried on in the same tone, looking directly at Saskia;
“I realised, that day, that being fucked by ugly guys makes it even more clear that … that I’m a whore— because I would never choose them for myself. Knowing that— that if they’re not satisfied with me, they have the … the right to … to … hurt me. And being a whore— being used like … like that, without tenderness, without love, without consideration— under threat of pain, of … of punishment … real cruelty…”
her voice was very small at this point, but very clear; it wasn’t self-pity or protest, or anything of that sort— it was intensity of feeling, of sense memory of being so utterly at the mercy of a strange man who decides to hurt and humiliate you— Saskia knows it now; then, she merely guessed.
” … it turns me on… so … so fucking much, it’s almost frightening… I … I’m just so lucky that I’m with ADD, knowing that they will look after me very carefully. I … I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to … to be … on the street … owned by a … pimp … worthless…”
And she lost her focus, gave a little bob as if she was desperate to pee, and looked at Fawzia, shyly.
Saskia suddenly realised that Giselle was incredibly turned-on. Within a second she had to accept that she was, too. She did her best to look and act calmly, but her mind was a boiling cauldron, groin and nipples on fire, shivers running up and down her spine. She struggled to keep her breathing under control as best she could, while being sure they could both see right through this, but she HAD to try…
Fawzia, smiled at Giselle, letting her amusement show— the smile of a natural superior at an amusing inferior— but without the slightest hint of cruelty, because there was no need for it— the relative roles were so secure. But nevertheless it had Giselle looking down at the floor, her chest rising and falling, her nipples moving enticingly above whatever cantilever support made them jut so obviously.
Fawzia, put out a finger and lifted the girl’s chin, speaking softly, intimately;
“Well, well, Giselle. I had no idea you were quite so far gone. We will have to talk about your limits again… And I imagine we can arrange another gang-rape for you, with some spectators this time— some full-on sadism, perhaps. Remember, will you, to tell all the partners how eager you are for that to happen, and then, if they want me to, I’ll set it up. Will you do that for me?”
Somehow this outrageous little speech helped Giselle to calm down, and she nodded and smiled sweetly as if she’d been asked to arrange another copy of a report.
“Yes Madam, of course, I … I’ll be happy to do that.”
There was a longish pause after that, Giselle and Saskia both thinking their own thoughts, both of them trying to cope with feelings of being out of their depth, Fawzia casually watching both of them, the amused smile encompassing Saskia too, now.
At length, Fawzia asked Giselle where she saw her life going next— another question Saskia had wanted answered, but not dared ask.
She was planning to stay for another year or so, the pretty redhead said, but then she hoped she could get a transfer to the LA office. Either that or, she blushed again; ‘Put herself on the market’. She explained, with a little help from Fawzia, that this meant, effectively, auctioning herself to the highest bidder in an international forum of firms and clients where they operated the same system (Saskia’s mind reeled— there was a global syndicate of people that used young women like this?).
Fawzia said;
“You mean, Giselle, that you would sell yourself as a slave? No limits?”
She blushed, but she couldn’t hide her excitement— need almost, as she said;
“Yes … perhaps … Madam … just for a few years … I might.”
She used the term ‘Madam’ often enough to make it clear that it was an expectation that she address Fawzia in this way.
It was obvious even to Saskia, then, that there was no way Giselle was going to find any outlet at all for her acting skills except in her role as a sex-slave to some super-rich pervert.
In fact, Giselle only lasted 6 months more at ADD. They did indeed put on a few gang-rapes with her as the star, and found a street pimp they loaned her to for a week as well, all of which she responded to with pretty helplessness and powerful orgasms, and it seemed as though she might begin to look a little worn out if one more guy overdid things, so they encouraged her to put herself up for auction. She agreed to accept her first real whipping at the auction block— that it would be severe, and also agreed to be publicly branded once she was bought, if the new owner wanted. By this point they couldn’t really have her in the office, so obvious was her constant need for sex.
Saskia was in the audience for the auction, but she didn’t see too much. She wasn’t a guest, but a servant, and was mostly kneeling with her back to the stage, generally with her throat full of cock, but she heard Giselle’s cries as she was whipped, and the intensity of the orgasm she was brought to almost immediately the beating had ended, and the horribly casual bidding. The way they did it was, there was a full minute between bids, during which she would be taken to the current high bidder, who was free to manipulate her, penetrate her with fingers only. To increase her selling price (only half of which would go into the girl’s account), she needed to make it clear to the room how beautifully responsive she was. But of course, she had also to let the one she was with at the moment, the one who might well become her owner, with the right to make her life torture for an unimaginable time (she had asked for 5 years), let them know just how grateful she was that they had bid for her. The awesome seriousness of what the pretty redhead was giving herself over to seared itself deeply into Saskia’s mind.
In the wine-bar, there was another silence; then Giselle said;
“So, Saskia. Are … are you … thinking of…”
“NO!” said Saskia, too fast and too vehemently to be convincing. There was an awkward moment, both Giselle and Saskia blushing hard, then Giselle, after asking Fawzia’s permission in the most humble way, softly said she had to be going and wished Saskia well, smiling, encouraging;
“It’s OK, it really is. Just do what your heart tells you, honey. You’ll be fine.”
And Giselle is gone, leaving a cloud of feminine perfume behind her, her tall heels clicking sexily, attracting the eyes to her ankles, the shoes strapped around her ankles, padlocked, not buckled. Tiny, gold-looking locks— obviously for show, and probably easily broken. But nevertheless, discreetly, excitingly speaking of restraint, of servitude. Saskia’s throat closed up, as a wave of almost physical desire ran through her, while she tried desperately to look calm and unruffled, Fawzia didn’t say anything, but Saskia imagines now that all of this was completely, shamingly clear to her, and that Fawzia knew just how to play girls like her.
A longer silence. At last, Saskia looked up into Fawzia’s calm face.
“This is crazy … I mean … What’s happening here? I can’t be … like her!”
Fawzia, smiles at her;
“Remember, dear, any outcome that has you happy and effective is a good outcome. If talking with Giselle has helped you decide you don’t want to be an Executive Assistant, that you want to get back to your proper work in a focused way, then that’s great; honestly, that’s the result the firm would prefer, after having recruited you for your brains and spent 12 months training you, not to mention the obvious signs of talent you show— when you’re focused, that is…”
And that was it. Saskia’s heart went cold when Fawzia talked about the law. It was harshly clear to her that, whatever happened, she had somehow lost all interest in being a hotshot lawyer. It seemed as if she had spent the last five years playing a game, sticking to the rules, trying to make a picture of a life that would make sense— but that the game was all over now— dissolved, meaningless— hard even to believe it was ever real, even.
Reality was this, THIS: this crazy feeling she had that she would like to be like Giselle— be a willing, smiling, eager sex doll for the company. She was either going to do this crazy thing— become a corporate whore (that was the harsh phrase she used to try to put herself off: problem was, often it gave her a thrill)— or she was going to leave— which was obviously the right thing to do. There were millions of opportunities for someone young, bright and pretty like Saskia.
Except that, every time she thought about leaving, her insides went cold and tense. The thought was awful. The need to belong with these amazing, clever, rich, powerful people, to be part of this world, was terribly strong, and the thought of leaving it was painful. But if she didn’t leave she was going to be used like a bimbo whore— fucked at will by strangers— more, that she’d have to encourage them!
And then desire flooded her again, only this time, warm, soft and seductive. Everything about Giselle had been glorious, enticing, delicious, enviable (how can these insane thoughts be in her head?); Saskia’s body was tingling— the confines of the wine bar had faded away, as a picture of Giselle, on her knees, nearly naked, hands demurely behind her back, surrounded by two or three of the partners, fully dressed in their sharp suits, one of them with his cock deep in her throat, her breasts swaying as she pushes herself onto him, taking him all the way…
Oh Jesus, she thought, I’m going to do this, I’m actually going to do it!
She closed her eyes, tried to calm down…
After a while she realised where she was, how long she had been silent, made herself look up, gave a silly little laugh, blushing pink;
“Oh … oh! Sorry. It …it’s just all so confusing!”
Fawzia had looked at her, steadily, as serious as ever. At length, she said, with a little smile that was almost sad;
“Shush now, pretty— the time for talking is over.”
And before Saskia could decide what this might mean (and actually, hearing Fawzia call her ‘pretty’ had just about sent her into overload), Fawzia was leaning in and— glorious!— kissing her. Kissing her like a lover, sensuous, insistent, gentle but irresistible.
And Saskia, Saskia, who had never kissed a woman, never even thought about it— found herself responding— nipples stiffening, mouth opening, moving to make it easy for Fawzia, one of her hands on Saskia’s behind, the other at her neck, Saskia’s hands passive, at her sides. Saskia kisses Fawzia back, carefully, offering herself, concerned only with what Fawzia wants, melting, tears coming softly to her eyes.
When Fawzia steps calmly back, Saskia is bereft, needy, desperate; she would give worlds if Fawzia would only carry on— until a second later when she recalls that they are in a bar, with others looking one; her chest is heaving, her breathing random and gusty. Saskia stifles a sob, fighting to keep herself from doing something really obvious, like run away, or fall to her knees. She is in turmoil, her eyes begging Fawzia to take charge, to help her, since she is utterly lost.
Fawzia resolves everything by throwing a $50 on the bar and simply saying;“Come!”
Saskia is numb, stunned, immobile, until it gets through to her that Fawzia is leaving, and that she has not the faintest idea what her life means any more— that somehow everything now depends on Fawzia, that without Fawzia she is lost, completely lost, and so the new Saskia jumps up, panicky, and trots after her boss as meekly as any toy spaniel, feeling the eyes of people on her, her heart thumping fit to burst and her throat dry, her stomach in knots.
Blindly, she follows Fawzia to the basement car park, to her large German car.
