This is an old story — first appeared in a tumblr blog. It is a previous attempt at what I’m doing with the Odile series, and I wasn’t going to put it here, but now I see that Odile is going to go in a slightly different direction, there is no fear of using the material twice, and no reason not to put this up. More episodes will follow shortly, as they are already written…
“nOelle, I have something to say to you.”
They are in the outdoor glazed terrace of an upmarket cafe, on the boulevard that runs along the west side of the Parc __
“Yes?”
“Listen now. We’ve been together for over 6 months now. We’ve been lovers, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ve shown you things, haven’t I? A different life. Shown you that you can be beautiful, that you can wear pretty things, that you can be sexy, that you can enjoy life — eat well, sleep late, dance, laugh, sing — all these things are beyond what you knew before. That’s so, isn’t it?”
“Yes,… yes — it is. And … and I’m … I’m stupidly grateful — really, I am…”
She was smiling at him, happy — happy to acknowledge what he had done for her, sincere in her thanks. Humble, too — for it is true that before him, she had been a timid mouse of a girl, with such small ambitions, such unambitious hopes, such thin dreams.
At the same time, she was uncertain, because there was something cold about him, that day, which frightened her, just a little.
He had always been kind, but with some little reserve, always a coolness — but today it was — she didn’t know — maybe nothing — but it seemed different.
She had always known that she wasn’t his only girl, that she had to accept that he wasn’t ‘hers’ — even though she knew that she was his; that this was openly an ‘unequal’ relationship. That she had to accept this unfairness, if she wanted to be his. It caused her sadness, of course, but she had long ago settled it that the sadness was outweighed by everything else. Because all those things he had said were true — he really had helped her to transform herself — to trust herself, trust her body, trust her joy, trust her desires, trust her instincts. She wasn’t a remade person — her old shyness, her reserve, her uncertainties weren’t gone forever — she was still essentially passive, quiet, but they weren’t crippling anymore — and, with him at least, she felt free, and open, and brave. Happy.
Nevertheless, his coolness that day had a different quality, and her belly tightened, just a little. Was he going to break up with her? Had she done something wrong? nOelle felt her heart speed up, and took herself in hand, hearing his voice — be strong, be yourself, keep hold of yourself, think how you would like to be in the situation, and be it — that’s what he had told her, helped her to be able to do.
What did she want? Easy — she wanted him to find her so beautiful, so attractive, so sexy that he couldn’t break it off — and she wanted him to understand how deeply her gratitude ran.
She turned to him, took his hands and gently lifted them, upwards, to shoulder height, spreading them a little, feeling her chest swell with the movement, marvelling at the fact that she could know that she was purposefully making her cleavage in the summer dress look good for him (the old her could never have dared such a move) — and she smiled; genuine, open, wanting to acknowledge just how fully she recognised what he had done for her, how deeply in his debt she was;
“I … I’m more grateful than you could know, Thierry, and … and whatever it is that you have to say to me, nothing will change that. I … I love you.”
Before, when nOelle had said that, he had simply smiled at her, in one way or another, depending on his mood. He had never responded, just let the declaration hang, until he or she moved the conversation on. She had never pressed him, tried always not to expect anything of him.
This time, though, he answered her;
“But I, nOelle — I don’t love you — I have been clear, honest about this — you know it. I enjoy you, I appreciate you. I find you beautiful, sexy, pleasant to be with, lovely to watch as you have flowered. I enjoy sex with you a great deal. Your eagerness to please me satisfies and entertains me. But I don’t love you, and I never will. What I have to say to you is nothing to do with love. Nor to do with gratitude, either. I am flattered by your love, and appreciate your gratitude, but I don’t want either of those to determine how you respond. I am going to ask you to decide how your life will go — you must answer correctly, for yourself. Do you understand?”
nOelle’s belly felt hollow, and she was trembling a little, but again, she held herself as well as she could, kept her face smooth, lips still curved in the faintest little smile. Why was he making such a thing of this? He wasn’t normally this formal, and never cruel, so this must be serious.
She couldn’t control the deep breaths which lifted her chest, but could move so that they made her cleavage swell, an effect she judged he had liked in the past. Once, she had got on her knees and play begged him for something — she doesn’t remember what, but he had liked it, and told her so, had her beg again. She had played along and it had led to great sex. It had frightened her a little though, so she’d never done it again, and he had never suggested anything similar. She wondered whether she should beg now, though. She would — happily — except that she doesn’t know what to beg for.
But he was moving on, watching her with that new coolness; interested, paying attention, more as a naturalist watches an animal than a man watches his lover. It was somehow intrusive and cold, not as he had looked at her before. But it made her feel special somehow, as if everything about her mattered.
Everything to do with how she looked and acted, at least — he was noticeably less interested these days than he had been in what she was thinking or feeling.
nOelle felt herself becoming incredibly self-conscious: it made her blush, but that wasn’t really it. What it really was, was that she was experiencing again that incredible sensation that he was going to pay attention to her, about to help her feel more alive, more immediate, more … intense. It frightened her, yes — but at the same time it made her feel on the edge of something — something profound. Something that really meant something.
She realised that she hadn’t responded to his question, felt stupid, but he simply smiled at her; amused, as so often, but not annoyed. He was never annoyed with her. Firm, yes, uncompromising, yes, uninterested, sometimes, demanding, often — all these things, but never angry — even when she had done something spiteful or stupid.
He would calm her, then tell her what he was going to do about it. She would beg forgiveness, and accept his decision. A couple of times he spanked her. She was shocked by this, the first time, but made no trouble. After she had transgressed, she was always desperate to make amends, always grateful to him for not being angry, always meekly complied.
And afterwards, he had fucked her wildly, even hurting her, and nOelle … nOelle had gloried in it, in knowing that she had aroused him to such a pitch.
To tell the truth, she liked it above all things when he got wild — even when it hurt. Liked the wildness of it, the feeling of being helplessly carried away by his strength and will. Most of all liked the knowledge that she — little nOelle — had cracked his immaculate coolness; made him pant, made him grunt, really given him something. In comparison to the pleasure it gave her to feel this, what did it matter if she was a little sore afterward? And that was even before remembering how she had endured bleakness and grey despondency for months at a time before Thierry had taken her up.
Now, she found herself smiling at these memories, as he smiled back;
“It doesn’t matter — you can’t know really what I mean, and I can’t tell you, so you don’t need to answer — just listen. In fact, only one answer is needed from you today, and it will be a simple yes or no, so there’s no need to talk at all. Let’s walk.”
He left a large bill on the table — she still hadn’t got used to how rich he was, to how never having to worry about money changed things. She was looking at the money as she stepped away, when the waiter, arriving, caught her glance, looked meaningfully at the money, then back at her, letting his eyes slowly work their way down her body and up again, taking in the pretty short dress with the floaty skirt and low cut cleavage, her long tanned legs and high-heeled sandals, grinning at her insolently, letting her know that he assumed she must be a tart, that she had given the game away with her interest in the money.
nOelle flushed, looked down — hurt and angry, but unable to confront the man. There was a doubt in her own mind, too, about the way he paid for everything, never even talked to her about money, bought her pretty things (this dress!), gave her money and asked her to buy pretty things for herself (these shoes!).
And so she kept her head down and hurried to catch up with Thierry, skipping a little, telling herself that she didn’t care what the waiter thought — could even think it funny — even if it was true, perhaps.
Was it true, nOelle wondered?
Was she just a smoothly managed whore? She had considered it off and on for weeks. Mostly she thought (wanted to believe?) it wasn’t that, but sometimes she did.
Of course, she was (still, at that point), a fairly normal young woman — she strongly wanted to believe that she wasn’t just a whore, but at the same time, she had had to accept, that if that was how he thought of her, she would accept it.
Just in case she was — was indeed, a whore for him, nothing more — she had worked hard to be the best whore she could be for Thierry, paying careful attention to what he liked and didn’t like, making sure that the ways she took her own pleasure where only those ways which pleased him, putting his pleasure before her own, until, recently, when she had begun to realise that he liked to be aware of her pleasure.
She had had to overcome her shyness sufficiently to let herself come, unrestrained in her emotion, under his cool gaze, to hold her body open for him, to make it what pleased him most, until knowing that he was watching became what made it best for her, even if she never got over her embarrassment, never lost the intense and overwhelming feelings of vulnerability she experienced.
Indeed, she had worked to let herself feel it — not to try to suppress this weakness, this frailty — tried to enhance her experience of it even, knowing — for he had told her so in the clearest terms — that he liked to see it; in her mouth, in the fluttering of her eyelids, her fingers, to hear it in her soft cries — liked to know how vulnerable she was at those moments.
Further, he had told her — the more she let him see how completely undone she was at the moment of her ecstasy, the more both her pleasure and his would be enhanced. And this was so — her orgasms had become stronger, more affecting, on occasions utterly, helplessly ecstatic, so that she ceased to be nOelle, became just a twitching mass of electric sensation, her mouth slack, mind clouded, centred exclusively on the explosion of sensation he had created.
For she was completely clear that it was he that had brought her to this point. Before him, sex for her had been hurried, shameful, awkward, mostly sore and embarrassing. The first time he had taken her he had spent an afternoon and an evening over it, utterly unhurried, utterly calm, tender but at the same time relentless, wonderfully assured — and wonderfully skilful. When he had finally fucked her masterfully to orgasm, it was as if she had never had one before — the pleasure had both shocked and devastated her — she had cried soft tears; both of pleasure and in regret for her past, for what she had missed.
That night, awake beside him in the small hours, reliving the quiverings and thrustings again in her mind (for although he had taken infinite patience with her, in their final coupling he had been unrestrained, rutting violently into her, her body jolting with the impact, her tits shuddering, forcing small, weak cries of helpless abandon from her), she had made up her mind to tell him, at some moment of quiet, just how grateful she was to him for having showed her what sex could be.
And indeed she had, during a lazy row on a sunlit boating lake the next day, halting, blushing, but quietly determined not to stop until she had made him understand the depths of her gratitude.
He had smiled a little at her, thanked her in his deep, steady voice for her honesty, and asked, might he be honest in return? Emotionally tender, earnest, glad of the opportunity to make it even clearer how besotted she was, she had begged him always to be so with her;
“Even if — even if it is something that … that might hurt — I … Yes, please, be … be brutally honest with me. I … I couldn’t bear it if you were to … to get tired of me — because of some silly habit, or failing that you were too gentlemanly to mention. I … I want to … to please you. Always. Sorry. Sorry! That was a long answer. I know you don’t like long answers!”
They are both laughing;
’“Do you — really — want me to be honest with you, pretty nOelle?”
“Yes, yes I do! Please!”
“Even if that might hurt, too?”
She had flinched a little, at that, but made herself smile and nod, very sincere, eyes wide, even if her voice was now much quieter, lower pitched;
“Yes, yes, please. Even … even then.”
That was when he had made it clear to her that she was not a girlfriend to him — but a sweet and lovely entertainment — that he had no use for traditional relationships — that he lived in a compartmentalised way — business relations, intellectual relations, sexual relations; that she was a rare person for whom he had both intellectual respect and sexual attraction — that his principal interest in her, though, was sexual; he found her utterly delightful, that her innocence, her inexperience, her lush body, combined with what he claimed was her ‘incipient vulnerability to nymphomania’ was both charming and exciting, and would she please remove her panties, throw them into the lake, open her legs and lift her skirt?
She had gone a little pale during this speech, and tears had gathered in her eyes, her lips had quivered, but she found the command to display herself strangely calming, hard as it was for her to accept.
She had to work to control her embarrassment, not giggle foolishly, but there was never any question in her mind about complying. And she found his grin as he contemplated her spread, naked sex reward enough and more.
He had rammed the boat into a narrow inlet shaded by willow, and fucked her slowly but with great intensity from behind, on her knees on the thin padding of the seat, grasping the back rest, biting her lip in a vain attempt to suppress her squeals and moans, worrying she might be heard; his cool, strong hands possessing her breasts, and again, her climax was beyond anything previous, destroyed her, overwhelmed her.
That evening, blushing, flustered, but serious, she had told him that whatever she had said in the boat, it was too weak, too limited. She wanted him to make her do whatever it took to maximise his pleasure in her body — that he was to take it for granted that what gave him pleasure was what she wanted most. She wanted him to understand that — here she almost couldn’t speak, so nervous did she get — that she … she had … liked … being ordered about, in the boat.
And so things had been settled, exactly, of course, as he had intended. And she had learned to give her sexuality to him, to enjoy his pleasure when he — increasingly often, recently — made no effort to give her pleasure — using her more selfishly than before, and, when he did wish her to climax, offering him her vulnerability, her neediness, her fragility, as a thank-you.
He had never taken real advantage of her in those situations though, always made her feel that her vulnerability was somehow protected by his strength, but there was a growing tension. Why enjoy vulnerability if the thought of using it — abusing it — has no interest? The tension heightened things for nOelle, and she supposed for him too.
Walking beside him, these thoughts calmed her, as dawning sexual excitement so often did; she felt the silkiness of movement this state always induced flowing through her body as she walked, the heightened consciousness of her whole body helping her to focus on walking just so, shyly delighting in her ability to judge just how to set her hips, her breasts moving.
He stopped, stepped back, looking at her, smiling;
“And that’s another thing I don’t want to influence your answer — your constant eagerness for sex!”
nOelle blushed and looked down. He had made it clear from the start that he distinguished between sensuousness and lewdness, and that he was not interested in unsubtle sexual display. She was still learning how to navigate this territory, and was always taken aback by how vulnerable she felt when he detected her growing desire so easily. But now he leaned in to kiss her — softly enough, not inviting passion, and she laughed, happy, her fears seeming further away, even as her nipples stiffened yet more. God, but she could melt into him!
“Sit down here. Better still, come up onto this table …”
There was a low stone picnic table. Unquestioningly, she allowed him to help her up, then knelt, at his direction;
“Knees further apart. Clasp your hands at your back, please. Yes — I like that position.”
The tension was returning, albeit softened by the warmth between her thighs. She was kneeling for him again!
“Listen carefully now; I will need you to answer in a little while.”
“You have realised, perhaps, from what I have said already, that I desire a … development in our relationship. A development that will, in my eyes at least, allow you to become even more remarkable, even more special, even more valuable. In one sense, it will be extremely easy for you — in that you need do nothing more than say ‘yes’. On the other hand, if you do say yes, and indeed, almost immediately after you do so, severe demands will be made of your willingness, your obedience, your acceptance.”
It was a little hard to listen at first, so conscious was she of the way she was opening her thighs for him, emphasising her breasts, keeping her face just-so, but the last sentence got her attention and there was again a tightening in her belly — not unpleasant, quite, but increasing tension; ‘*severe demands…*’ — what did he mean?
“As I have said, you are not expected to say yes out of love, or out of gratitude — or out of sexual desire either! Nor from a desire to please me, or from any sense of obligation or obedience. Indeed, you are not particularly ‘expected’ to say yes — you are completely free to choose between ‘yes’ and ‘no’.”
“You need to understand something, before the question comes — something rather serious. You should listen carefully.”
“Should you indeed say, ‘yes’, then from that moment you will lose your freedom. For 16 days. From that moment, others will choose for you — in almost every respect, from the trivial to the momentous. Your role will be only to obey, to accept, to consent. You will remain free in only one important respect; free in how you choose to respond to the conditions you will find yourself in — free to continue to be strongly and clearly yourself, as I hope I have shown you, free to struggle and resist if you wish — albeit knowing that you will be forced to comply, free to succumb to despair, free to lose yourself — all of those freedoms will be just as they are now — only in rather different circumstances.”
nOelle had no idea what he was talking about, but the words were increasingly un-nerving; ‘lose your freedom’, ‘struggle and resist’, ‘forced to comply’, ‘succumb to despair’? What was he talking about?
How could she ‘lose her freedom’? What did that mean? What was 16 days about? It was strange that she had been thinking exactly about freedom in relation to him recently — realising that he controlled so much of her life. Not explicitly — he very rarely demanded anything of her — no, rather by quietly and implicitly letting her know when he approved, and when he disapproved of some action, or dress, or comment — and she, eager to be just what he wanted had, over the months, began to dress, act, speak (or, more often, not speak — he rarely appreciated uncalled for interruption), behave just as she hoped he wished — finding herself thinking, often now, very often — What would Thierry prefer me to do/wear/say — even think. So that the idea of losing her freedom somehow was not such a surprising thing as it might have been, when he said it — at least in an abstract sense.
Taken all together though, this speech was decidedly strange; frightening, portentous, and she became nervous, wondering what all this was really about, what it was leading to. At the same time, though, something in her was definitely responding to the idea of becoming ‘*more remarkable, more special, more valuable*’ — which surely would make her more important to him?
nOelle was confused, nervous, a little over-excited even, but as he had taught her, she tried to deal with all of this by concentrating on what she wanted to be — which was, as usual, being what she thought he wanted her to be, namely, sexy and seductive, and when he stepped towards her she felt her whole body respond to his nearness with a slow, powerful surge.
“I don’t imagine you understand — and frankly, you won’t really — you’ll just have to answer, when you are asked, and live with the consequences; but to help concentrate your mind, I’m going to simplify things a little.”
He took a small pocket-knife out, opened the thin blade, then unbuttoned the top of her dress.
Heart thudding, she leaned back a little, clasped her hands tightly to help her resist the urge to protect herself from the knife — what was he doing with it?
It was a relief when she realised he simply wanted to cut the straps of her brassiere, which he did, sliding the cold steel over her tingling flesh, then down one side to cut the back.
He pulled the ruined brassiere from her, leaving her breasts swaying, exposed. She bit her lip. This, this was further than he had ever gone … and yet, kneeling there, hands submissively at her back, breasts naked in a public park, she felt a wave of happiness. She was so humbly grateful that she was here with him, to be treated thus; if that’s what he wanted, she was happy he wanted it to be her.
He had taught her to accept her breasts, to understand that, like it or not, they were what defined her on first sight. A late developer, she had been all but flat chested until she was 17, when they had suddenly swelled and rounded, not over-large, but big enough to attract immediate attention to their generosity on her trim frame; well-formed, firm, tip tilted, the nipples prominent, dark. Although he had helped her accept her breasts, to learn to present them, she had never learned to take them for granted — she was always conscious of their weight, their sway, of the attention they brought — more so, now that he has her wearing such revealing and sexy clothes.
Carelessly, he tugged the dress front around, loosely returning her to modesty, but not going so far as to button her bodice. Briefly, all too briefly, he hefted her breasts in his hands, casually proprietorial, kissed her again. She almost melted; she loved him handling her like this, and now nervousness, sexual desire, gratitude, eagerness to please all combined to make her quiver helplessly.
He stood back, calm, amused almost;
“Your panties need to go, too — lift your skirts please — hold them up — I want to see.”
As if in a dream, she lifted the short, flyaway skirts of the little dress, felt the cold steel at one hip, then the other, felt the pretty lace pulled between her spread thighs, then the cool air on her overheated sex, then his hand, gentle, but strong — not to be resisted, even should she have wanted — felt his fingers penetrate her, making obvious the glorious, shaming extent of her arousal, emitted a long, soft, helpless sigh as her hips surged for him, making it easy for him to push deep into her. She worked hard to stop it continuing into a sob, but the emotion was rising in her. Soon, she knew, he would ask her to tell him yes or no, and although she didn’t know what saying yes would mean, she was sure it would be hard to accept.
And yet she knew that she would say yes — that it was utterly impossible for her to deny him what he wanted — and whatever he had said, that it would be yes for all those reasons, but also, yes for her — whatever the cost, because there was no going back.
And she was scared. Scared because he didn’t love her, scared because she was going to lose him, sooner or later, scared because she was going to lose herself. Scared because she wasn’t scared enough not to say ‘yes’.
