The Story of Odile Pt3.

This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of The Story of Odile.

The dream

I’m half naked, dressed in finery that exposes more than it covers, and I’m frightened. Not panic frightened, not terrified, not yet, at least; more a sick, cloying apprehension.

I’m in some grand, mysterious building, high ceilings, lots of red and black drapery, white walls, dim but intense lighting and I’m walking, walking faster, faster, but not fast enough, I know; the high heels of the heavy wooden-soled clogs I’m wearing make it impossible, but somehow I can’t shake them off to go barefoot, and I dare not stop to fiddle with them, so I’m trotting. My sex is powerfully hot as my thighs work against each other; I feel my breasts, too, swaying free, jouncing wildly as I trot; I’d like to cover them, keep them from moving so obviously, but my wrists are linked, behind my back. My whole body is heavy with sexuality, with the thought of fucking, of being fucked, rutted like an animal (why is that metaphor so powerfully exciting?), with the nearness of it — am I running from sex, or toward it? I’m getting short of breath, trotting as fast as I can down the ramp of the wide, marble floor of the wide corridor — it’s really sloping down now — sloping and gradually curving, too, so that where it leads is unknowable — always hidden beyond the curve of the wall on my right.

… and there’s something; something behind me, I don’t know what.

Do I want to know? Is it the source of the fear — or is it what I need to keep me safe? I can hear its feet, clacking, but the gait is odd — too many noises in an odd, syncopated rhythm; not human? I catch my breath, feeling the stirrings of panic, now, desperately trying to go faster, stumbling, catching myself, hearing my breath beginning to come in little sobs, the follower surely closer, sounds of its feet louder — at the same time as desperation is causing my heart to pound harder, faster; sexual heat building in me too, in lockstep with the fear. There is a part of me that clamours, yearns to be saved — not by finding some doorway into cool clean air, not by escape, but by being smothered, ravaged, absolved, relieved of the fearful and crushing responsibility of saving myself. Overwhelmed by being fucked.

And then there’s a large, dark shadow, and I turn my head in terror and the need to see what it is, but can’t make anything out clearly, so dark is it, and then, in a rush that knocks the breath out of me, it’s on me; rough, a harsh coat of thick, beast-like hair, and big mouth, teeth — like a dog’s, wet, slick. A bear? Some mythical beast? Is it fear or relief that I feel? Terror or desire?

Hot, humid breath, noisy panting, deep and slow, and I’m lifted, held, helpless, writhing madly; trying to free myself I think — or am I just wild with arousal?

I can’t be sure — and then I’m on my back on some cold stone slab and my legs are split and it’s a beast of some kind — man or a wolf or both and its cock is huge and red and shiny slick, oddly shaped and jerking aggressively and I can feel the heat boiling off it and those teeth are at my tits, at my throat and I’m spread as wide as I have ever been and I’m going to be speared — raped — and it’s too big and too long and it’s going to devour me and split me open and burn me inside and I yell … and …

Awakening

… she had fallen out of bed, panting, sweaty; so hot that she felt she must faint, shaking and faintly moaning, incoherent.

She felt both frantic and weak, wild, jittery, not in control of the cauldron of mixed up emotions roiling in her; head twisting, still looking for the beast, her crotch on fire, so that she looked there, expecting to see something, some evidence of violation — then tearing, futile, at the bedclothes, which were tangled around her legs, her waist, desperate to free herself, succeeding only in tightening them, struggling desperately, foolishly, unable to suppress her mounting panic, until at last a turn of her head showed nothing but the familiar view from her bedroom window, the sun low in the sky, everything just as it usually was, and she was released, as if by magic, from the the phantasmagoria of the most vivid dream she had experienced since her early teens, when she had become used to waking up, screaming, two or three nights each week, the aftermath of an unhealthy binge on horror novels and films — a fascinated adolescent obsession with werewolves and vampires.

Slowly, Odile calmed herself, letting her heart rate slow, breathing carefully and making each out-breath longer than the in-breath, until she found herself laughing, softly.

Laughing, because the dream was so obvious; laughing, because the dream was so welcome; laughing, because the monster she had dreamt of as a 13 year old was real, at last — and he was going to fuck her, and he was going to have her, and ravage her and possess her — do as he wished with her, use her for his pleasure, and she was powerless, and she wanted to be overpowered, and she had only been running to encourage him to chase her, to trigger his hunting instincts, and she was going to get him so hot that he would overwhelm her, invade her, fuck her, do everything to her, so that even if some part of her did want him to stop, it would be too late, so that it would impossible for her ever to be saved.

The fear came, then, and the laughter stopped. This was crazy, and she knew it. She had a life — a life she had worked for. Not an exhilarating life, perhaps; not a shiny life, not glamorous; not even an enjoyable life, much of the time — but it had been her life, the one she had made for herself, at the cost of much effort; the one she had lived, until a few days ago, when he — the self identifying monster — had taken her.

No he hadn’t chased her, and he certainly hadn’t raped her, and he wasn’t even obviously a monster, despite his own insistence — but he had certainly taken her over, without even needing to try, even. What he had said that morning — casually informing her that she would be bought dresses by his staff, given money — the simple way he’d announced it, her silence taken for expected acquiescence — what was that, if not him taking possession, taking control?

She didn’t know him well — not at all, really — it was always her that was the subject — or the object — of their conversation, not him; And if he was neither subject nor object, then what was he — god? or the devil?

And why was she so bound up with him? Was she so easy? Was she so simple? Was she so weak? This was no adolescent dream, but hard-edged, visceral reality. Was her life just so much nothing, that she would let him …

Oh but the feeling in the dream, when the beast lifted me, then split me, and held me, powerless, trembling; when he opened me, controlled me, invaded me; so hot, searing, burning me inside …

The knowledge, the memory instantly brought to life in her, in her body as well as her mind, the experience of being speared by that cock — invaded, roughly used; pleasure taken, not built together, pleasure through usage, not through communion — what it had felt like, to be used so, by such a man-beast, to be so thoroughly, so completely, so comprehensively used, so that there was no part of her which had not felt as if it was in his service, more his than hers, active and engaged, not in the least passive, but active in service, not of herself, but of him; her whole body — her mind also, what little of it was capable of functioning in those moments — all utterly focused on what he wanted, what he intended, what he was trying for. The glory of that experience — the freedom it gave, to be in the service of his pleasure, of his greedy desires — how deliciously, deliriously welcome it was to be wanted in that way, to have been of use in that way, to have been so ruthlessly used, to have experienced such pleasure from that usage, to have lost herself in it, to have been nothing but a floating sensation in the ocean of his desires …

Could she even imagine denying herself the chance of more of that?

And then, the meaning of the position of the sun clicked in her head somehow, and it wasn’t even a question.

There was no thinking any more, only action.

Claude would arrive, and soon, if it was to be the afternoon, and she was a sweaty, sticky mess …

Her body didn’t pay much attention to the thrashings of her mind, then; it knew what it was going to choose — had chosen for her, and the part of her mind that agreed was fiercely, roughly insistent that, although doubts and fears had perhaps to be tolerated, it would be on one condition — that they were never, for a second, to get in the way of her body’s determination to make itself interesting and desirable for him — to offer itself for the maximum intensity of what giving herself to him might provide.

He wanted to fuck her again, and perhaps hurt her, and she was therefore to make herself desirable for fucking — and for hurting, too; dressed only in the slip and high heels he had ordained, and be ready when Claude knocked at the door.

She recognised the feeling from the dream — the roiling fear that was inextricably mixed into a heavy, uneasy, but fierce drive of desire, of need, of having given herself into the power of another — even if he was a monster. Perhaps because she knew he was a monster.

She was going to encourage him to chase her, encourage him to ravage her, encourage him to invade her and hope, hope that he would want to possess her.

She was going to do everything she could to make him carry on chasing her down that corridor, that curving slope, whose destination was impossible to see, even if the overall direction was obvious, until whatever the event that was signified by the beastly ravaging of her dream self took her, destroyed what was left of the old Odile, and transformed her.

It frightened her, and exhilarated her, and it was delicious, and tinglingly frightening, and she heard herself, alone in the flat, giggle like a stupid schoolgirl, found herself shimmying and cringing, just at the sheer intensity of the contradictory emotions; feeling ridiculous, while at the same time bubbling with needy anticipation.

She would give herself into his power, and be devoured. She was going to have one intense experience, at least, from her small life.

She might not know how to be a slut, as he had told her, but she would try, try as best she could, to allow herself to be wanton, just this once, to experience, as many times as possible, just to be overtaken again by that out-of-body intensity that sex under his control delivered; that unimaginable wildness of sensation, almost impossible to believe, even though she knew that it had indeed been her who had become something else, naked, arms tied, helpless, forced …

And then?

Well, then she would have to discover what she had become, after being ravaged, when he had finished with her — somehow she took it for granted, already, that he would lose interest in her after he had taken from her what he wanted — so that she would just have to be ready to see what she could make of whatever was left in the aftermath.

And if he had destroyed her? If she was left too broken to recover? Well, that would just be the price she would have paid for actually living.

For it was clear, as clear as if it had been burned into her flesh, that there was no going back. Not now. Not if she could keep her nerve. Not now that she had seen what living could be, it was simply inconceivable that she could pass up the chance to experience whatever it was that he might offer her.

Prepared and Delivered

Opening the door, half an hour or so later, was hard. Her body knew what it wanted, but it had learned, too, from childhood, all the social requirements of girlhood — of decency, of respectability, of dignity, of modesty — and to open the door to a man she had spoken only a few words to, a servant, wearing all but nothing, knowing that he knew that she was presenting herself so at his master’s orders, that she must therefore be some sort of slut, some kind of a whore — those feelings could not be avoided.

Layered onto all that was an additional certainty that the only possible slip in her small wardrobe was not really good enough, that her highest heels were not really high enough, and looked stupid with the lightweight and rather shapeless white slip — heavy-soled and lumpish as they were — the effect being more grunge that seductive, gauche rather than sophisticated, more neurotic than sexy.

Claude, though, had made it easy for her — his demeanour, his manner entirely respectful, pleasant — he gave no clue that he even had an opinion of her, but simply, once she had confirmed herself ready to leave, smiled deferentially and asked her, softly, if she would, please, leave behind the little clutch purse she had automatically grabbed, telling her that he would take charge of her keys, that M. Strauch would prefer her not to be encumbered by anything at all to carry, and would she also please leave her ‘phone behind?

Only when Odile, blushing a little at the oddness, the vulnerability this request exposed in her, had nevertheless unquestioningly complied, had he opened her door for her and respectfully ushered her out, and towards the waiting car (realising that she did not want Lauren to know that she had gone out without her ‘phone with a man she hardly knew, she had turned the thing off, set it into a drawer in her room, and scribbled a note to say she had gone out and might not be back that night).

As earlier that day — perhaps even more so — Odile felt overwhelmed by the car; by the luxury, the size, the weight of it. It made her feel small, and silly, and unworthy. The very idea that a chauffeur would be driving her seemed ridiculous. Once again, beautiful, emotional music was playing, and once again it soothed her, calmed her, so that she realised, when the car pulled smoothly to a halt, that she had not been paying attention to the journey, and was surprised, also, to see, opening the door for her, smiling, Andrew’s intimidatingly immaculate assistant.

“Hello, Mlle. Delibes — I do hope you remember me — I’m M. Strauch’s assistant, Nadia.”

“M. Strauch thought it might please you to have a little — pampering — shall we say? Since there is a little time before he can meet you. Would you come with me?”

And, as it had been before with Nadia, there seemed no space for any thinking about whether or not this was pleasing — Odile’s cooperation was simply taken for granted.

And, as before, once Odile had caught up with what she had agreed to, she was, in point of fact, almost overcome with pleasure, as Nadia waved her through the elegant glass doors and into what was clearly the reception area of an extremely chic beauty establishment — slick, minimalist modernism but rich with luxury and elegance.

Odile, insecure as she had been about her slip/dress and clumpy shoes, now felt like a complete impostor, but the warm smiles and effusive greeting of the two gorgeous women who were just about identifiable as staff (not that they were doing anything as plebeian as sitting at a desk), their immediate courteous efficiency, as the younger led Nadia and Odile through a door marked Privée, gave her no time to do anything to embarrass herself (she had been forming the words for an excuse for her clothes, which would have done nothing but make her feel even more ridiculous), and, very soon, she and Nadia were in what was again only just recognisable as a treatment room, so well appointed and stylish it was, with a black leather lounge suite, a table and glass-fronted fridge well stocked with fresh fruit and expensive looking health drinks, among which the gleaming chrome and white leather treatment table demanded to be understood as furniture, rather than equipment.

Nadia immediately addressed herself to a small pile of very ostentatious, stylishly branded shopping bags, neatly arranged at one end of the sofa, from which she took not one but three satin slips in different styles and subtly different boudoir colours, along with two pairs of — frankly intimidatingly sexy — strappy heels.

Odile had turned a deep red, as she fought against the understanding that her inability to present herself in the style to which Andrew was accustomed had been foreseen, that she had, once again, been handled so smoothly; but again, she had no opportunity to say anything gauche before two new young and pretty women, in white coat-dresses which, despite their elegance, pronounced them as staff, came calmly but efficiently into the room, appraised Odile with swift glances, and then immediately addressed themselves to Nadia.

Odile was grateful, again; she knew that she would have not known what to say. Once again, though, she was aware of having been managed, as though she were a child. Once again, she found herself unable to develop any indignance about this treatment, but instead meekly, weakly, accepted it, and with that acceptance, gave up any thought of seeking to take control of the situation. Nadia knew what Andrew liked, what Andrew wanted. Nadia knew what to say — clearly knew this establishment. Odile was being pampered, and babied, and managed, and she would allow it; no — she forced herself to be honest — she wanted to be handled that way, was grateful to hear Nadia giving clear, definite instructions in a low tone, not to have to decide for herself.

There was — there very definitely was — a feeling of danger, of shame, of weakness about this. But at the same time, there was a shadow of the glorious helplessness of her dream about it, too, and Odile, knowing full well that at some level she was weakening herself through letting herself be managed by Nadia, on Andrew’s behalf, withdrew her awareness inside herself, and became, for the next hour, almost a voyeur — a passive observer of the Odile who smiled, small weak smiles, the Odile who complied, prettily, helpfully, with all that was required of her — required in the gentlest, most deferential and polite way, always referred to as Mam’selle, but, with Nadia looking on, face all but blank, nevertheless clearly required.

The Odile who allowed herself to be stripped (despite the sudden rush of vulnerability at the remembrance that she was naked under the slip — surely the unmistakeable mark of a slut), the Odile who resisted — who actively suppressed, in fact — the strong urge in her to insist upon undressing herself.

The Odile who let herself be manhandled — gently, professionally, respectfully, but still, manhandled — through some sort of physical assessment — muscle-tone, they murmured, skin tone; who permitted herself to be shaved — her legs, under her arms, and then, with a cut-throat razor, her pubes — her growth there had always been light, and despite the fashion for considering pubic hair gross, she had never felt the desire to shave herself.

But clearly, in that room, it was Andrew’s preferences that mattered, not her own, and when they showed her, with a mirror, the neat, soft little lozenge they had left her with, tapering towards her sex, she felt a quickening of her pulse that was almost animal at the thought that she had allowed his assistant to direct strangers to prepare her so, for his pleasure, so that her sex would be presented just as he wished it to be.

The girls had giggled, then — softly, sweetly — and exclaimed — conspiratorially — at the blush that rose in her sex lips and at her nipples — evidence of her arousal; evidence that they clearly thought was to be welcomed, approved of, enjoyed — even Nadia, too, had allowed something of a smile to curl her lips — as the Odile inside let the approval wash through her, wondering at herself, knowing at the same time an intense surge of shyness and vulnerability — but not letting her body’s instinctive response — its demand to curl up, to cringe, to protect her shame — not letting this demand take its course, but instead allowing the girls, their hands calm and cool on her inner thighs, to hold her open, spread wide, as one now began to paint her sex lips with a viscous, sheeny liquid, which they quietly explained contained essences from the soft outer shells of walnuts, and from henna, which would subtly but indelibly darken her there, the effect holding for a week or two, and — giggling again as they told her — would have a powerful effect on any man, as the darkness signified arousal.

They applied a heady perfume, then — the perfume itself, not some dilution — applied it in the creases where her thighs met her sex, to the undersides of her breasts, to her wrists, armpits, the base of her neck. The scent was not Odile’s normal choice — it was heavier, muskier; subtle but intense — Andrew’s preferences, again, she understood, knowing that she would be asking Nadia for its name — if, as seemed more likely, she was not going to be provided for automatically.

They stained her nipples and areolae, too — and her lips — before, still naked, she was lifted — softly, kindly, but irresistibly — to her feet, and brought to stand in front of Nadia, who was holding out two of the slips, holding them against her, one after the other, until she had chosen which it was that Odile should try on for them first.

“A courtesan,” the thought came to Odile, then; “I am being prepared for him as if I were a courtesan.”

And, as shameful as it was, she felt her groin throb at the thought, felt the blush rise at her nipples as well as her cheeks, knew that this would be noticed, and yet continued to comply, helpless. Voluntarily helpless.

After Odile had tried all three on — each time being stripped by the two girls while Nadia looked on, her face inscrutable — Nadia confidently decided upon the pale peach one, with the pretty embroidery at the bust, but otherwise the plainest, and Odile, who had definitely preferred the cream one with the lace cleavage panel, said nothing at all, while Nadia selected for her the shoes she would wear.

“The others will be delivered to your apartment, never fear, M’lle.”

They did her make-up then — the two girls intensely serious, deliberate, discussing options with each other, taking a good fifteen minutes, so that Odile was certain that, when she finally was allowed to look at herself in the mirror, that she would look like some painted whore.

In point of fact, it was almost impossible for her to tell that she was wearing any particular make-up beyond subtle eyeliner and mascara, and the dark stain at her lips, except for the fact that she seemed almost unbearably fresh-looking.

At that moment, Odile knew that she would gladly, at any time, allow herself to be babied, pampered, managed at this magical place. Her soft astonishment and bewildered pleasure at the sight of herself again brought conspiratorial giggles from the girls, and a definite smile of satisfaction from Nadia, who, with a swift glance at her elegant little watch, urged the girls to finish up — brushing Odile’s hair and arranging it artfully.

As soon as they were done, Nadia simply nodded at the girls (there was no mention of money at all) and led the way out of the room and back to the car, Odile following in meek, unquestioning compliance, without any thought beyond that Nadia knew what was going to happen next, and that she should be ready for it.

To Odile’s mild surprise, Nadia did not get in to the car, but leaned in with a final provision — a choker and two bangles, slim and elegant, in white leather, and helped her put them on, then simply wished her a pleasant evening, as controlled and contained as ever, before the car moved off.

Apart from the skimpy satin slip and very high-heeled, strappy shoes, with ankle straps that closed with a tiny padlock She was wearing nothing more than a choker and the bangles (which, while slim and elegant, were very much in the style of a collar and cuffs, thought Odile), on her way she knew not where, to meet a man who had said he would probably hurt her, and she felt breathless with apprehension — a delightful, fizzy feeling; enhanced, she had to accept, by the sensation that she had been prepared, was being delivered, like some exotic sexual gift, rather than as a girlfriend or lover.

—-

Read the next part of The Story of Odile.