You will want to have read previous episodes in this series to make the most of this.
He watches her as she trembles, kneeling, her arms trapped behind her still, chest rising and falling — clearly in the grip of conflicting emotions, her lips not sure whether to smile or tighten with nerves. It isn’t that she is especially pretty, but that she has opened herself to these emotions, put herself in his hands, that she is so transparent, that makes her electric, incandescent, hotly desirable, infinitely lovely.
He wants to hit her — savagely hard, knock her to the ground, hear her cry out in shock and terror; at the same time he wants to ravage her with a greedy, devouring kiss, let her understand how much he desires her; equally, he wants to grab her by the hair, throw her over, rip her jeans apart and thrust into her, hard and fast.
Also, he wants to fall to his knees beside her, pull her sweater back over her head, hold her in his arms and tell her that nothing, no-one should ever be allowed to harm her again — that she is precious, and deserves every chance to become everything she can possibly be. That this is why she must leave him.
These urges have been chasing each other through his mind for weeks.
He’s never done anything even approaching this before. She’s like a gift from beyond. He wants to possess her, he wants to preserve her, he wants to let his demons eat her alive. He wants her to smooth away the injuries of his damaged and limited life, he wants her to bring out the worst in him, to incite him to exorcise himself on her tender, trembling body, he wants to be left in peace.
He wants everything. But he fears the result of doing something stupid, something misjudged.
She says she wants him to do all he wishes with her, that it will be worth it to her to be allowed to stay; but she is an innocent — impossible for her to imagine the dark visions that come into his mind, the particularities of his psyche, the depth and cruel intensity of his fantasies.
It is all but certain that she will find herself powerfully disgusted with him, with what he asks of her, that she will reject him, run from him in fear and revulsion — perhaps even make complaints against him, expose him to public censure.
For he knows that, despite stories of imprisonment in dungeons, that this is not something he could manage — his is not the mind of a criminal genius, able to foresee every flaw in a plan. If she cannot willingly comply, she will leave him. And besides, he doesn’t want her to hate him — not ever.
He does have a plan, though — one arrived at after much consideration, over the time since she first begged to be allowed to stay, slowly crystallised.
A plan that means he must do none of these things — not now, at least. A plan that calls for deliberate and careful management — of himself, as much as of her, of this delicious creature who seems at the same time tough enough at the core to perhaps live with what he really wants to demand of her.
She is still trembling, looking at the floor, mostly, darting only nervous glances up at him, flushed, eyes moist.
Very well;
“Lucy, we’re going to start with something we’ll do often. Thinking time.”
“Thinking time for a girl who has become a little emotionally confused. A girl who needs a time-out. A girl who needs to sort herself out. I don’t mean in general, but in particular. A girl who needs to sort out in her head whether she really does want to go further down my road — a road she does not know, cannot know; of course, the overall direction may be clear enough — but not the destination, not the twists and turns, not the highs or the lows, not the traps or the dangers. A girl who is going to be asked if she really wants to say yes to something she will not ever understand, but which she knows will make great demands of her — demands she may have to be forced to fulfil, since she may lack the strength herself to deliver on her commitment.”
“I’ll make sure you always have something to concentrate your mind at these times, so listen well, please — I dislike repeating myself. I want you to stand up, now, and slowly, carefully, take off your sweater, then your shoes, then your jeans. Don’t stress — take your time; try for simplicity and elegance if you can. Don’t try to be sexy, or seductive, just stay with your body, stay in control, as calm as you can be. There will be intensity enough, at other times — and more than you could wish for, so take your time while you can.”
“Good. Good — that’s not bad. You’ll get better, with practice, but I will tell you that your pretty nervousness is delicious, that whatever happens today, there should be no doubt in your mind about my eagerness to fuck you; fuck you hard, fuck you soft, fuck you cold and fast, fuck you passionate and slow. You are very lovely.”
He sees her whole body respond to this — first arrested, shocked into stillness at these first ever sex words between them, at the harshness of the words, and then relaxing — a wave of almost invisible wriggling and sinuous pleasure passing through her.
He’s impressed — and relieved. As carefully as he intends to handle this, he has decided that he will not for one instant relent in his pressure, his intent, his demand that she understand the direction in which she is being led. He must never, not once, go softly with her. She must never, not while she is with him, at least, ever not know that he is pushing at her, pushing for more; she is not to be permitted relaxation.
But he knows that this means that he, too, will always be pushing her ability to accept, to be pushed. If he once goes too far — so that she seriously resists, then that will be it. Because there is no room in his strategy for even one apology, for even the smallest retreat.
He stands, walks to the small collection of bottles, selects the champagne. It’s been there for years, given to him when he’d decided, a few years after his wife’s death, to retire early, take his life back from the meaninglessness of truck driving. He doesn’t drink champagne.
Then to the corner to the left of the fireplace — the only corner of the room without furniture.
“Come.”
She walks to him, hesitant at first, then making herself; clearly shy — her arms seemingly determined to huddle in on her body, to cover her underwear-clad sex parts — and then another impulse would come and she’d lift her shoulders, pull her arms back to her sides, try and be open for him. Very entertaining. He’d have to train her, of course, but this innocent, nervous telegraphing of her awareness of her sexual vulnerability was definitely to be enjoyed while it lasted.
She’s clearly ultra-conscious, too, of his proximity, then even more so of his touch — however soft, however neutral, as he gently lifts her chin;
“There, now; head back a little — that’s it. Now, open your mouth — quite wide; I’m going to put the neck of this bottle into it. That’s right — the neck of the bottle, right in — into your mouth. Gentle — gentle now — don’t worry — it’s all very simple; that’s it, I’ve got the weight of it. Keep your hands down — right down please. That’s it Lucy — that’s right; you’ve got the neck of a bottle of champagne in your mouth, pressing down — like some hard glass cock, pushing itself into you. And now — now, you’re going to turn — slowly — to face into the corner, and step forward a little, until the bottle can lean on the wall — step toward the corner.”
“There, like that. Only, only your knees are touching. With me — to keep me happy, at least — you need to think about your knees. Wherever you are, you need to be aware if you are comfortable with how your knees are. If you’re comfortable, then you need to change — you need to move your knees further apart. Always, further apart. Until you feel a little uncomfortable. You’ll understand, I’m sure, after just a little while. There, that’s better.”
“I’m letting go now; you’re on your own, the bottle is leaning on the wall at a decent angle — the wall taking some of the weight — keep it like that — don’t let it fall. Your knees are apart — and your hands, your hands are down — dangling is good — or if you prefer, clasp opposite elbows behind your back. Otherwise, dangling free — hands not resting on your body, not touching each other, not touching anything — not raised above your waist either. Simple as that — and now, you stay.”
“Now, I can imagine that already, the bottle is feeling too much in your mouth — too big, too heavy, too foreign; I’m sure you urgently want it gone — that feeling will get worse. But you’ll keep it there, for thinking time. Stay as you are, remember how I want you — just as you are. Until I come back. And think. Think hard about whether you really want to say yes, to me.”
