This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of The Story of Odile.
The Opening
The car drew up, as Odile realised, once again, that she had been too absorbed in her own thoughts about what this strange relationship was, to pay any attention to where they were.
Some old industrial building, it seemed — except that there were slick, cool modern interventions, giant stainless steel sliding doors, a matt white, brightly lit interior — and there came Andrew, walking toward her, opening the door, handing her out of the car, and the fizzing inside her almost overwhelmed her as he held her hand — helped her out and up, looked her over with a cool smile that twisted just a little. His eyes smiled too, as he spoke;
“An invitation to ravishment, my dear — you continue to surpass every expectation.”
Odile, even as she blushed with pleasure, was overcome with shyness — it had been one thing being with Andrew’s staff, the girls in the clinic, but this was public — some sort of art gallery it seemed, knots of people arriving, and Andrew had just confirmed that she was presented as a walking invitation to consider what it might be like to fuck her — the sort of girl she would have decided must be a whore, just a week before.
Odile was simply unprepared by anything in her life, or her imagination, even, for this — for seeing herself, a sex object, mirrored in the huge plate-glass doors, the way the satin sheen of the fabric of her dress caught the glare from the lamps, so lightweight and delicate, both revealing and emphasising the shape of her hips, her buttocks, her breasts, the intensified colouration of her nipples obvious, eye-catching.
She had always been unsure about her breasts; flat chested until 17, she had despaired of ever having a cleavage, until, strangely quickly, they had grown — and grown, so that she was still surprised when she noticed them like this; heavy, but jutting, the nipples high, proud, insistent — clearly visible — felt as if she were observing some other girl.
She couldn’t meet his eyes for long, not at all sure she could carry any of this off without making a fool of herself, letting him down. She wanted to get back in the car, with him, be taken somewhere — yes, to be ravished, if that were what he wished; but to simply walk into this space full of well-dressed, confident people, feeling as if she were little better than naked — the cape? — Andrew had said Claude would have a cape for her — but Claude was gone, the car having purred away.
And here was Andrew, holding her elbow, guiding her forward, gentle, smooth, but irresistible nevertheless, and there was nothing to do but go with him. Nothing she wanted more than to go with him, suddenly, however unprepared she felt.
People — elegantly dressed, people both impressively serious and intimidatingly cheerful — nodded and smiled at him, signalled or called out greetings, and Odile was gripped with an apprehension that he would leave her, go off to talk to his friends, leaving her unsure of herself, lost, half naked (feeling that way at least, although she has tried to tell herself that she is perfectly ‘decent’ in the technical sense of the term).
But he stayed with her, to her intense gratitude; more, he invited her to look around with him, to take stock of the gallery, of the presentation.
It was a photography show — large prints, mostly black and white, mostly nude males, many with noticeable erections. The work was not overtly pornographic, though — the pictures were also artfully posed, geometrically composed. Odile had been to many art shows, was not shocked, but she was at the same time intensely aware of being with Andrew, wondering what he might see of her reaction, how he might judge it, and she froze, until he spoke, softly; amused, privately, clearly as to an equal whose judgement he was confident in;
“Well, these are rather tawdry, are they not? Really, excellent production values, but as far as I can see, almost completely devoid of either con-tent or in-tent — that’s my take, in any case.”
And she was released, by the warmth of his tone, by the excellence of his taste, and by the firmness of his hand on her hip, and she turned to him, smiling, suddenly hopeful, joyful;
“You are so mean! But I have to say, based on what I can see, that you are also accurate. I do hope we don’t meet the artist! Or their dealer!”
“I’m afraid we must do both — or at least I must — before we can leave. Let me collect some of that champagne for us, and then we must see if we can find one or two of these which, by some happy accident, have attained, unbeknownst to the artist — or, I fear, even her dealer — something even a little transcendent.”
When he came back with the glasses, he asked her to follow her instinct, seek out something that was worth looking at, that he would follow where she led. He was interested to watch her at work, he said.
It was hard, at first; hard to engage her critical faculties, which could not operate if she was trying to second-guess someone else — let alone him. Her confidence, never great in public, was weaker than ever, since she had spent the best part of the day in and out of reveries of ravishment and subjugation, and experiences of voluntary disempowerment, and was unable to put aside the consciousness of her nakedness under the silk of the slip. She faltered; tentative, unsure, until he touched her shoulder, leaned in and told her;
“I trust your instinct, you know. This is not a test. Trust yourself; you know what you want. I am sure of it.”
And this was so exactly what she needed, that she felt a warm glow of gratitude, followed swiftly by a determination not to betray his trust; that had her, chin up, scanning the room, not thinking, but simply watching, until, without knowing quite why, she set off toward the far corner, toward one of the few colour prints.
Only the next day, in her shower, recovering from the intensity of the night, replaying his words in her mind, did she realise that they were probably — almost certainly — not about the art; ‘You know what you want.’ If it had been about the art, it would have been something like; ‘You’ll know when you see it.’ But no; he had been talking about her wanting him — wanting him to have her, to monster her, she was sure of it.
Even in the hot spray of the shower, this thought gave her goosebumps, made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up, made her belly turn over inside, her knees go weak, her nipples tighten; made her whimper, out loud, alone in the bathroom, transfixed by the depth of his understanding of her, by his casual, arrogant confidence that he knew how it was with her; by the delicious and vertiginous feelings of vulnerability and helpless, weak abandon that flooded her at this knowledge.
And then, no matter how extraordinary, how shocking the rest of the night had been, she hugged herself at the thought that he was so sure of her, hoping that his certainty would give her strength she needed, so that she could stay the course, not let him down.
In the end, she stopped before four of the prints — first one, then, in a different corner, another, then two more that were placed as if they were afterthoughts, almost hidden. There was nothing specific to unite them, or connect them, and, haltingly at first, she tried to answer his questions as to what she saw in them. He said nothing, only looked at the pieces with that apparently blank stillness she had noticed when they had first met.
Soon after, though, when a short, bustling, dapper man in a bow tie and a lilac shirt with ruffles beetled toward them, she heard him say;
“My young friend is not terribly impressed, Jean-Louis, but sees that a few of them almost achieve something. I suggest you work with the woman to understand what it is that makes these ones: 63, 22, 12, 17, just a little interesting. I’ll take all four of them, but I’ll not buy anything more of hers, or commend her, unless you tell me that she has understood something — or at least that you have discovered how to direct her, and that she has achieved something. Arrange things with Nadia, will you?”
After the man had darted away, obsequious, grinning, Andrew had told her there were a couple of people he wished to talk to, that she should entertain herself for — just a little while, and then we’ll walk a little, perhaps, before dinner.
She had stood for a while, then began to be acutely self-conscious, feeling eyes on her, remembering again just how she was dressed, the self-confidence of everyone around her — tight insecurity brewing in her chest. And so, just to be moving, to at least look as if she has some intent, some purpose, she walked back toward the last of the pictures he had just bought — on the basis of her judgement, it seemed — wanting to feel again the glow she had felt as he was speaking to the gallery owner.
But quickly, alone as she was, without Andrew’s protection, without his expectation to keep her focused, she noticed just how the slip rode up on her backside a little at every step — and, once having noticed, became unable to think of anything else, urgently needing to twitch it back down, knowing that this would just draw attention to her, and she froze, far too close to the most ludicrously crass of the pictures, a giant close up of an erection, wishing desperately that she could become invisible, until Andrew should reappear.
Instead of Andrew, though, a younger man appeared, in black leather trousers, a loose white shirt, chest hair on show, radiating maleness; almost grinning at her, letting her see just how his eyes moved as he appraised her, insultingly frankly, grinning ever more obviously;
“You’re the tastiest thing here.”
He said it, looking her in the eye, then said nothing more, watching her, awaiting her response, but she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make her mouth work. Ordinarily, she would have dealt with a man like this — not confidently, not with ease, but she would have sent him on his way. Not … not, though, dressed like this — not dressed as an invitation, as she has never been before. She had no ready line, nothing that seemed likely to work, and so she said nothing; could probably not have spoken even if she had thought of anything, social panic boiling up in her, feeling desperate, pathetic.
“I think we should go for a drink”, he said; “And then I think I’ll take you home and make love to you. I think that’s what you need.”
And still she was tongue tied, unable to cope, unsure, frightened. Could she — dressed like this — could she turn him down? Why couldn’t she? She didn’t want him, did she? No! No!
And then she felt Andrew’s presence behind her; she was sure it was him, even though there was nothing more than a slight sense of warmth, an aura. His voice was calm, though; even, and definitely Andrew;
“She is remarkable, isn’t she? Impossible to look at her without thinking of what it might be like to have her, to wonder what licence she might grant you, how wild she might be. Truly fascinating. I applaud you for your directness, my friend.”
There is no animosity, no challenge, nothing but approval in his voice, as if he had been discussing the pictures, rather than her, Odile — a woman who was, at the very least, some sort of a mistress to him. It was unsettling to be talked about in the third person, like that, described in such terms, but Andrew’s presence alone made her feel safer, at least, until he carried on, addressing her directly;
“Do you want to go with him, girl?”
As if it were of no matter to him if she were to say Yes. As if, should she have actually assented, he would have made certain that she did go, ensured that she permit the arrogant young man to make love to her.
The unexpectedness of this confused her, badly; her proper and unambiguous feeling of outrage and rejection at the way the man had spoken to her, of the crude implications of his words, became lost to her, uncertain, leaving her unable to speak, yet again; it took all the concentration she could muster to shake her head, as determinedly as possible, although she failed to convince even herself. What if Andrew had wanted her to say Yes? What if he wanted her to go with the man, to permit herself to be fucked by him? Would she? Did he? Could she? Why was she even thinking like this? Nothing seemed obvious any more. Everything was questionable, somehow. Was she Andrew’s in that sense; to offer around, give to a stranger? How was it possible that she could even give such an idea space in her mind?
But it seemed she had convinced Andrew, since now he granted her release from her confusion, by saying, perfectly amiably;
“Tell him to go away, then.”
Which she did, albeit without being able to muster any force, and with a placatory ‘please’ on the end. It was apparently enough, though, and with a slightly perplexed shrug — as if, despite his arrogance, he, too, had been unsettled by Andrew — the young man walked off.
Only then did Andrew touch her — his hands coming from behind her, to rest on the fronts of her hips — the slip so thin that it felt as if he touched her naked flesh, his fingertips on either side so near to her sex, and she startled, delighting in the frisson that ran through her, at the same time as having to fight the urge to twist from his hold, squirming at the idea of being touched so intimately, in so public a place.
His voice was low in her ear;
“Interesting; your belly is trembling; your hips are loose. Were you imagining what it might be like to simply go with a stranger, knowing that to do so would be understood by him as consent to him fucking you?”
She could not answer. Nor could she suppress a sudden shiver that passed over her, feeling her nipples tightening.
But the awkwardness of the situation, of being unable to speak, of not knowing what it was that had just happened, was all worth it, just for the feel of his hands on her, and she fought her consciousness that they might be observed, so that she could let herself move for him — the smallest, infinitesimal motions, which she nevertheless hoped would let him know just how eager she was to be touched so, to offer herself into the touch, to encourage him to go further…
“Just so,” his voice in her ear again; “Never fear — you will be fucked soon enough, and vigorously enough, to compensate for missing out on that adventure, little slut.”
He was laughing at her, she knew, his voice full of amusement; she knew — he had told her — that he did not consider her capable of being a slut.
But still; for it to be so welcome to have him say such things to her …
One of his hands moved, then, to her neck, a finger hooking under the choker, playful, but disturbing, too;
“Parc de Choisy is not far — would you like to walk among the trees — refresh our senses with some nature after this superficial stuff?”
He didn’t wait for consent, of course, but simply smiled and began to move toward the doors. Odile followed, letting herself be pulled by the collar, a soft bomb of happiness in her chest at the idea that he wanted to walk in the park with her — something so soft, so gentle — while at the same time having to process the experience of being led around like a pet, dressed as she was, in front of strangers, feeling the slip ride up on her buttocks again, somehow knowing that he would not want her to tug it down, making herself concentrate on walking as well as she could in the unaccustomed heels, revelling in, embarrassed by, the tautness of her nipples poking through the satin of the slip, so obvious, the wetness coming between her legs, having to work at breathing, even, as he led her from the place.
A short walk
They walked in silence for a few minutes — Odile still incapable of speech, though her mind presented her with some urgent new consideration every few seconds, questions urgently in need of answers, things she felt he ought to know about her — gratitude, most of all … but also, so many, many things that … that would never be said, she saw, because she was too nervous to speak. She had already learned that it was better to say nothing at all, with him, than to come out with something inane, or vapid, and she was very much afraid that nothing in her head was not one, or both of those.
Just after the next intersection, with a soft growl, the limousine slowed to a halt alongside them, and Claude got out, carrying a folded bundle, which he offered to Odile;
“Your cape, M’lle, if you’ll be walking in the park. It may get cold when the sun goes down.”
While Odile opened the bundle out, it became a fur; a cape, indeed; she saw how the clasp at the neck worked — the whole thing was suspended by short chains from a fox fur choker, through which, it seemed, ran a heavy silver chain, which cinched it closed at the front. She discovered just how short the cape was — ending well above her hips — it was not made to close at the front — more of a sleeveless bolero than a cape.
Claude, meanwhile, had taken some quietly voiced instructions from Andrew, and was already back in the car.
Andrew appraised her then, adjusting the soft but heavy cape to his liking, tucked it back so that her breasts were not covered, before he leaned in and kissed her, open mouthed, full on the lips, with calm intent rather than passion, working her slowly, deliberately, so that she had to work with him, her hands rising automatically to his shoulders, to mirror the way his hands were on her, high up her sides, the warmth of his palms against her breasts, her body eagerly responding, before some intuition suggested to her that he would not want her to embrace him, that he would prefer her passive, accepting.
So she had simply let him kiss her; gave up all control, offered her mouth to him as her body moved for his hands, let him take charge, almost crying at how good it was, how shamefully pleasurable, to have nothing more to do than try as best she could to be what he wanted her to be, felt her hips loose again, astonished at herself, that she was allowing herself to be used this way in a public street.
At the same time, though, she knew she was being exalted. Quite simply, she was being changed, shown new things about herself, hitherto unsuspected; things she had not dared or known how, even, to imagine as possibilities for the type of person she had understood herself to be.
At length, he seemed satisfied, and stood back, watching her, smiling a little, lopsided, as she blushed and tried to calm her gusty breathing, her palpitating heart, helplessly smiling herself, almost laughing in wonderment at the excess of soft, sweet emotion that had blossomed in her.
It had been shocking, but also glorious, to have felt the surge of heat in her belly as he had kissed her, to have allowed herself to open her mouth to him without reserve, to have let her hips move, have lifted her breasts to him, to have found herself attempting to signal to him — with her whole being — her openness to anything — anything at all — that he might have asked of her at that moment.
She could not understand how it was possible that a kiss — for in the end, it was, just a kiss — could have left her so feverish, so unsettled, so vulnerable, so lost, so hot and needy.
And then to be observed, coolly, as if she were some sort of science project, an interesting specimen, when she was trembling so badly, so in need of his strength. She couldn’t decide how to stand; kept shifting her feet — wanting to look at him, see what was in his eyes, but too shy to do more than glance at him, conscious of just how much she had just told him with her body, with her mouth, of the danger of having been so open, so passive, so malleable for him.
He simply watched her, skewering her with his attention. She was certain, too, that his understanding, his insight into her mind, her feelings, was profound — as if he saw her thoughts. She could hardly bear not to run away, not to hide.
But he offered nothing — no kindness, no approval, no empathy — no opening at all — nothing beyond the lightest of challenges in his eyes; Can you stay with me, girl?
That, too, was both terrible and glorious. To understand, deeply, in that moment, just how indifferent he was to her wellbeing, while at the same time so intimately aware of what was happening with her, so casually capable of manipulating her; to know that she had no defences, no ability to muster the self-protective outrage proper at such rudeness, such a display of indifference to her dignity.
To be treated like that, to accept the overt manipulation of that kiss, then to stand, meekly accepting his cool, analytical observation, to do nothing other than stand, waiting until he should decide to move her on, while her awareness of his attention made it impossible for her not to work at offering herself — offering her body — finding herself thinking about how she could best present her breasts, her legs, her belly, her face; offering herself to him as well as she could, in the hope that — yes — in the hope that he would want to fuck her.
That was all she could do, until at last, something came to her, and she heard herself say;
“Thank you.”
His smile opened, just a little, as if something had been confirmed, which only worsened her trembling, for she had no idea why she had said it, beyond the obvious — that she was feeling deep gratitude for the experience of that kiss.
That he apparently knew, better than she, what her Thank you signified, served only to unsettle her further, and she felt tears prickling in her eyes. How could this be happening to her, in the street, apropos of nothing at all? How could it be that he was able to do this to her — and apparently without effort?
“You will have to explain to me, pretty, what you mean by that.”
And then it turned out that her voice knew something that her mind didn’t, for it spoke, as if the question was expected; welcome, even — her voice soft, throaty, throbbing with the intensity of everything;
“I … I am … fairly sure that … that I am not the sort of girl that you kiss. That … that I am not at all important to you, in that way. You … you haven’t kissed me, properly, before, and … and maybe you won’t again. But … it … it was … wonderful, for me, even … even if you didn’t really mean it, even if it was just … just an experiment, to … find out something about me. I don’t care. I’m grateful. I … I have never been kissed like that before. That’s why I’m saying Thank you.”
Her chest was heaving, tears were threatening, and her throat was constricting by the end of this impassioned little speech, which had burst from her unplanned. Her cheeks were bright pink, her trembling was visible, and she knew that, once again, she had offered this man, this self-declared monster, full licence to treat her as of no account, to ride rough-shod over her, as the weak and needy fool she was. It made no difference. If that was what he wanted her for, she was happy to be that.
His smile softened, became almost tender for a moment as he reached out and pushed up her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes, rather than look down, as she urgently wished to do, so that she had to let him see what was going on with her as he spoke;
“Very good. You continue to interest me, Odile. You awaken the monster in me. I am going to push you — push you hard, to see if something is true about you. It doesn’t matter, in the end; it makes no difference at all. But it is an intriguing prospect, to be sure.”
Once again, without meaning to, her body spoke — asking what it needed to know; asking directly — humbly, not ashamed of its neediness;
“Are … are you going to … to hurt me, now?”
She could not live with having said those words, out loud, in public; and yet, she was not dying, was not going to be let off that easily, and had nowhere; nowhere at all to go, so that she could only stand, stand before him, and let him look at her, let him smile at her, let him make her wait, for so, so very long; loving and hating him for having transfixed her so, for having, somehow, made it so that she would wait an hour, if he made her to, for his answer; wait without being able to move, almost unable to breathe, so incapable was she of even imagining where her life was about to go; blank, without the slightest idea how she would react to an answer she was also unable to predict, not knowing how to even think about that new phenomenon, whereby her voice just said things, without her mind having been consulted — except that, each time, it seemed, the thing her mouth said was the single thing that mattered most to her in the world at that moment, expressed in the most direct way imaginable, the words just issuing from her, unchecked, no matter how they might reveal her deepest vulnerabilities, her neediness, how deeply, how quickly, she had become dependent upon him.
And, as with the kiss, there was no denying that being pinned thus, trapped, held so, exposed, was truly, wonderful, unmissable — as sweet as it was frightening, as glorious as it was shaming; she knew herself to be transfixed.
For how, how could a girl, after the way last night had gone, what she had accepted that afternoon, how could a girl ask such a question without telegraphing, without having publicly committed herself to accepting; offering herself almost, to be hurt, for no other end than his pleasure, his entertainment?
And how could a modern girl allow such an implication even to exist? Let alone the raw certainty that was growing in her belly, as the time stretched out, so that it seemed an hour since she had uttered the question, the growing knowledge in her that, alongside the hoped-for relief, she would also be distraught, if he should answer with a ‘No’.
Which he did, his smile almost gone, his eyes serious, his hand, very soft, at her face, as his knuckle traced the line of her jaw, almost too softly;
“No. no I’m not going to hurt you now.”
“While it would certainly feel very good to backhand you across the face, now, hard, knock you to the ground, then drag you, by your feet, jerking you about, deliberately, so that your upper body and face would be bruised and scraped by the pavement, so that your little slip rides up and exposes your nakedness, your pretty cunt, your stiff nipples, drag you into the little courtyard here, behind that van, tear the dress off you and rape you in the ass, rip you open back there so that you won’t shit for a month without remembering how I hurt you — much as that would give me great pleasure, I don’t think that it would be the best way to achieve my longer term ambitions with you, pretty Odile, so, no. I’m not going to hurt you. Not now, at least.”
He gave her only a few seconds to be certain she had heard this outrage aright, before continuing, in the same light, but sincere and serious tone, as if his next words were somehow part of the same universe as the previous ones;
“What I do want to do with you now, Odile, as we walk to the park … shall we? Walk, I mean? Yes, let us walk … and let us talk.”
“What I want to talk to you about, Odile, is whether you might come and work for me — part-time, hours to suit you — to document and catalogue my art collection? It’s grown, rather, in the last few years, and, I’m afraid to say, in a rather chaotic way. Some financial moves I had made — long shots — came good a few years ago, and made me almost embarrassingly rich. I’ve since become rather a spendthrift on art — as you saw tonight, I buy even rather poor stuff, on occasion — always remembering that no-one could even see what Van Gogh was about for years and years, not wanting to miss something through some purblind prejudice.”
“But I fear that if nothing is done, things will become chaotic, and rather soon. Until I met you, I could never see a way through; of course, I have had many offers of help, from art insiders, none of whom I have found myself willing to trust. On the other hand, those I have approached in the more rigorous world of academia have been rather, shall I say, ‘sniffy’ about my ramshackle assemblage — it really is too much to call it a collection.”
“You, my dear, I dare hope, might be at once prepared to exert your considerable intellectual rigour, your excellent intuition, your good taste, and at the same time be tolerant of my excesses and indiscretions, in working through the backlog — some of which I probably don’t even remember buying — although Nadia has all the paperwork, dates, details, of course, in her estimable, bureaucratic way.”
Walking as if on autopilot, Odile could hardly process any of this. What was ringing in her head, of course, was the shocking, appalling crudity of his description of just how he wanted to hurt her, what she could expect from him in future (or could she? Might that whole speech not have been a test, a trial?). Thinking, though, was all but impossible because, in parallel, she was desperate to follow the other track — this apparent job offer, of work that she instantly knew she wanted to do — quite apart from the thought of being paid — for here, there was someone whom she knew had exquisite taste, subtle sensibilities, who was at the same time an impulsive gourmand about the work of artists — who knew what obscure, undiscovered treasures he might have in his stores? And, too, there was the urgent, eager thought of being close to him, as of right, not merely a girl, but a sort of colleague, even, no matter how lowly — a colleague whom he had chosen — to have been actively chosen, by him (she had no doubts at all about the desirability of such a job in the art world, but that aspect, huge though it was, paled into insignificance in the face of the compliments he had offered, which in turn meant nothing alongside the simple fact of him having chosen her; chosen boring, careful, serious Odile, to take an interest in).
But then the other matter raised its head, for there, too, he had chosen her. Chosen her as the girl whom he would take on exclusive, private tours of magical, other-worldly art, the girl he chose to fuck, to awaken from her puritan rut, the girl he had said it would please him to hurt, degrade and rape…
She couldn’t cope, then, as the gates of the park came into view; stopped dead, abruptly, her legs simply ceased to work; tears bit at her eyelids, while her heart felt as if it must pull itself in two, breath came randomly, first gusty, then impossible, blocked; then, after an age, in rapid sips, almost stupidly fast, so that no air actually made it to her lungs before she was pushing out again, hyperventilating without actually breathing, quivering violently, staring at her feet, all her willpower expended on the mundane task of not actually falling in a heap onto the pavement.
I can’t … I can’t … I can’t , was all that that her mind could manage.
She didn’t notice what he did, then, that he had given her his hand, until some minutes, some eternities later, when she realised that she was holding onto him — gripping his hand painfully tightly, as if it were a rope thrown from a ship she had fallen from, a ship in a raging storm, in darkness, so that the act of grasping that rope was the only thing that mattered, the thing on which everything else, even her life itself, depended.
And he? He was simply standing next to her, letting her squeeze his hand until the bones were pushed out of shape. Letting her do what she needed to. His face, when she dared take a fearful glance, his face was serious; gentle almost; compassionate, apparently understanding, paying careful attention to her.
Paying attention to her. Really, seeing her. Not when she was being Odile, playing the role of Odile, but instead goading her, pushing her, pulling her, opening up opportunities for her to experience … what? Paradox. Contradiction. Irreconcilable differences. Impossible truths. And not just to experience them, but to have those experiences overwhelm her, strip away from her everything she used to keep herself in line, on track, keep on keeping on.
He was interested in what she was, what was revealed when she could no longer achieve that pretence. His treatment of her, his monstering of her, was all about getting her to that state — that impossible, unbearable state, that … beyond.
Because right then, at that precise moment, standing there, quivering, him looking at her so, his awful words an unforgettable reality between them — her failure to challenge them no less terrible than his utterance of them; she knew that she would let him do that to her, in exchange for that moment — to stand there, quivering, goosebumps all over, her sex suddenly hot, her nipples like stones, her body preternaturally aware of everything, every breath of air, trembling, wanting him, wanting him to … she didn’t know what. It wasn’t her place to know what, wasn’t her responsibility, that was him. He would do what he did, and she? She would try to show him that he was free. Free even to do terrible things to her, as long as, sometimes, he would look at her like this, see who she was, underneath it all. If he would do what it took to get her to show him. Whatever it took.
And she began to laugh; a frightened, small, wondering, beseeching laugh — but real laughter;
“Yes — yes. Right now. Yes to everything. Thank you. Yes. Please.”
Knowing that he knew she was not just saying yes to the job offer, but equally to him saying terrible things to her, to him doing terrible things to her, to her needing him to feel free to do as he chose with her.
He didn’t smile, didn’t change at all, in fact. He spoke without emphasis;
“Very well. Everything it is. I will expect nothing less. I will take what you cannot give, enforce what you cannot perform. That card is your only release. Use it when you need to. I will not remind you again.”
She could not suppress a frightened, girlish giggle at that, feeling weak and pathetic and overcome with tender, trembly feelings, such as the soppy stories in the magazines might suggest she should feel on being proposed to, wanting his hands on her, wanting to be fucked, wanting to be ravished, knowing she was blushing, her cheeks burning, her body shimmying with desire, while he still held her hand, as if they were some chaste 19th century courting couple, unable to do anything about their urges but repress them. She moved for him, uninhibited as she had never been, needing to convey the urgency of her desire, no matter that they were in the street, until he laughed, and it was like the sun breaking through, as he said;
“Little wanton. I’ll fuck you in the park, then.”
And he led the way, still holding her hand, still like a gentle lover, and she, heart singing, belly trembling, pulse thundering in her ears like timpani, let him lead, completely forgetting to walk elegantly, to work with the high heels, instead skipping and twisting as she went, like a young girl, her mouth dry, her eyes shy, but bright. She was going to be fucked. And she wanted it.
Fucked in the Park
Park de Choisy is large.
He knew where he was going, it was clear, but he was not hurrying, and it was not, apparently, anywhere close. Her excitement could not remain at fever pitch, then, as they walked, still hand in hand, not talking — she not daring, he not caring to, not looking at her, though his hand was warm and firm in hers.
The come-down hit her, soft, but certain, then, as she began to replay the previous half hour in her head — the kiss, the outrage, the walk, the job offer, the realisation, her impassioned commitment, his acceptance, his taking of what she had said and claiming everything, without hesitation, without doubt; her joy, her lust, his crude promise; all of it. It was not that she resiled from it, from her part of it. Not at all. Just …
Just that … since that the peak moment had passed, the implications were what became insistent. Could he — might he, really, do that — to her? She knew. She already knew that he would — that or something equally awful; that it was already in her future. She didn’t know if she would be able to bear it, but that wasn’t the point — he would take what she could not give, enforce what she could not deliver. The only thing that altered was whether she could stay the course with him — not take fright and go to Mme duClos — until it happened — and whether, having been so violently degraded, whether she could stay with him still, afterward, or run away then.
She hoped, she demanded of her future self that she must accept, must endure, must allow him to do as he chose with her, whatever the cost. But she could not guarantee it.
That would be her struggle, then — to live with the foreknowledge of vile and destructive abuse, already consented to, or to give in to fear, and lose her freedom. For she was certain, however crazy it sounded, that only with him could she hope for freedom.
These thoughts were hard, and frightening, and lonely — he still did not look at her — and she saw, all too clearly that this, too, was to be her lot. He would look at her, see her, find her interesting, yes, but only when it suited him.
She was interesting, occasionally, perhaps, but not fascinating. Entertaining, possibly, at times, but not needed. Desirable, maybe, when he was in the mood, but not an obsession. She would be lonely often. She would have to live with the prospect of abuse, manage her fears around that, alone. He would not help. He didn’t really mind how the game played out with her — and she knew that it was just a game, for him, not even a game that he needed to win — merely an amusement, a game played for the pleasure of playing. Except that for her, the stakes were her freedom, her life, her self-esteem.
It was too hard!
She felt the overwhelm rising in her once more, and this time, ruthlessly suppressed it.
But for a while she felt as if she were a condemned woman, walking to the guillotine, all her effort going into not humiliating herself, in the face of absolute despair.
But then, so what if it was hard? This was it. Her chance, her choice. Her life, her freedom. Life, if it was to actually be lived, was hard — needed to be hard.
Had she deserved this chance? No. It had been pure luck that he had spoken to her at the Klimt exhibit, pure chance that she had said something then that was not so unutterably silly as to drive him away.
Would she, could she, take this chance? Would she risk everything, sacrifice herself, for small moments, brief glimpses of what it might be like to be him, to be free, to be a person in her own right, rather than some construct of what was possible among the incoherent scraps that were all she could honestly lay claim to by way of a personality, a meaning, a purpose?
She had no idea if she could manage to. But she wanted to try.
The peace this brought her was brief, immediately overtaken by breathless, nervous uncertainty as he took a left turn across the grass, into the shade of a group of trees, and she realised that dusk was gathering, and her heart began beating — not fast, but almost impossibly heavy, as if her chest must be visibly shaking with each thump. She was going to be fucked. They were not going to fuck. He was going to fuck her. Any way he chose to.
Among the trees, there was a glade, a stone bench, its surface pitted; the illusion, at least, of a private space, but she couldn’t forget that it was a public park as he had her sit, came behind her, his hands light on her shoulders, detaching the cape from its collar with deft fingers, laughing at her a little as she flinched and wriggled, ultra-sensitive, everything heightened, trembling, her arousal flooding back, the fear mingled with it shocking her by intensifying, rather than dampening her desire, her sensitivity, her neediness.
And now his fingers were at the straps of the slip-dress, the cool air on her now naked shoulders — was he? Yes, he was somehow tying the spaghetti straps to the chain of the fox-fur collar cum choker, laughing at her again, tolerant, but unhelpful, as she twisted her head, trying to get a look at his face, to understand what it was that he was doing;
“No, no, pretty, you don’t need to know what’s happening — you just need to let it happen to you. Up! Up with you now — yes, standing on the bench. Get your hands behind you, flapping in the air, useless; let me see. Good; turn around now, slowly, face me; careful now — if you’re to be broken it will be me doing the breaking. Good.”
That was the last word spoken for some time, as he ran his hands up her thighs, pushing the skirts of the slip up, right up, in one casual movement; above her waist, then, so that her sex was naked in a public place, her nakedness heightened by her knowledge of the crimson staining to her labia, the artful, provocative trimming of her pubes, and she was trembling, half delirious with the shame and excitement of the shame, the pleasure of being in his hands, of the certainty, of the imminence of fucking.
And then she wailed, undone by the heat and the suddenness of it as his mouth ate her sex — enveloped it, and seemed, indeed, to be going to devour her down there, his tongue invading her, his upper teeth on her almost painfully sensitive clitoris, and now, somehow, he had ducked, got his shoulders between her thighs, his hands gripping her chest, pushing her breasts up as he lifted her, bodily, helplessly, onto his shoulders, and walked her, steadily, confidently, until her back was against a tree, not stopping, seemingly walking through her, almost, as his mouth once again encompassed her whole sex, and possessed it.
His hands were at the slip, then, lifting it smoothly, yet further up, so that her breasts were exposed, and the slick, soft silk was just a band at her shoulders, and then he was lifting her higher, higher again, her back scraping on the rough bark, until her thighs were no longer on his shoulders, but dangling, and it was his mouth, her sex, that bore most of her weight, and he was at her, devouring her, and she knew that she could fall if she struggled too much, but could not bring herself, no matter how dearly she wished it, to use her hands, which were to remain useless; she had been commanded, and there was nothing, nothing, but the fear and the public nakedness, and his mouth at her sex, and her helplessness, and her breasts moving, free, in the cool breeze, the nipples hot and hard and needy, and the weak animal little cries that could only be coming from her mouth, although she was not in charge of them, and his mouth on her sex, and suddenly she was jerking and surging herself into an orgasm that was frightening, so vulnerable did she know she was, up so high, so precariously balanced, naked, her hips bucking uncontrollably into him, crying with the beautiful, rending intensity of it, and then, just as quickly, crying with the awfulness, the certainty that, despite the unbearable post-climax sensitivity of her poor, mashed clitoris, her inner labia, crying at the knowledge that he was not going to stop, that she was powerless to stop him, that he would not let her go, that she had no choice but to let him continue to work at her with his subtle tongue, his hard but cleverly used teeth, the animal intensity of it that she could feel was driving her to another climax, whether she thought she wanted it or not. Then his hands were under her thighs, behind her knees, lifting, pushing hard, up, up, until her knees were level with her breasts, two sharp jerks upward making his meaning clear — she was to keep her thighs lifted, straining, as high as she could, so that she was entirely above him, only her sex at the height of his upturned mouth, naked, spread wide, knees raised and split, hands expressively helpless, as he drove her, unstoppable, toward a second, gut shaking orgasm, that had her screeching, the noise strangled by her consciousness of being in the park, where anyone could appear at any moment; and yet she could not keep herself from making noises that sounded like a piglet being tortured, so desperate were they, so unwilling, yet so forceful.
And still, still, he would not stop; driving her through that orgasm, too; relentless, his hands under her buttocks then, taking some of her weight, lifting her even a little higher, as she strained to keep her knees high, not even thinking of letting herself relax, winding and twisting through what was hard to distinguish from terrible pain as her whole body tried to lift itself free of his all-consuming mouth, without success. And then, with her weight on his hands, he became cleverer, relying then on skill, on finesse, finding out those places where hot lips, a pressing tongue, a winding tongue-tip would inflame her the most, would push her, once again, towards the little death, which took its time, so wracked was she, but stole up on her at last, unstoppable, delirious, making her sigh, that time; long, squirming sighs of mixed wonder and fear at being so far lost from herself, and then, with a quick upwards push, he had lifted her from the tree, and she was on her back, above his head, it seemed; his hands at her waist, legs still lifted, thighs opened wide apart with their own sudden weight, terrified of falling, her orgasm convulsing her, hands dangling, pathetic, shaking in her climax, as if suspended in mid air, alone, exposed, confirmed as a wanton slut of some particularly helpless, irredeemable kind, glorying in her abandon at the same time as the shame built its case against her, to be made at leisure, once she was alone.
She knew, as her hips jerked, out of control, thrusting her spread, sopping, spasming sex to the sky, her wantonness, her deepest susceptibilities put on display to the world, just at the moment when she was most utterly overwhelmed by physical sensations that were beyond her control, knew that this experience must change her, felt it, burning itself into her psyche, saw that her life from then on would be lived in the shadow of that moment, that she would never be able to escape it, never be able to deny the knowledge that it was possible for her to experience, at his hands, such searing ecstacy, such unmanageable vulnerability, powerlessness, shame, shattering pleasure, all combined, so that it was impossible to see where one ended and the other began.
She despaired and exulted, but was permitted no respite, no time to recover, for already, as she struggled to become herself again, his arms were letting her weight take her, swinging her, round and over and down, wailing with the fear of it, only to be deposited, gently enough, on her knees, onto the bench; trembling and panting; breathy, formless little cries broadcasting how completely overcome she had been. She found it necessary to expend all her resources — all she could muster — simply to remain on her knees, not collapse and fall from the cool, pitted stone of the bench to the sharp gravel at its base.
But he wasn’t done with her. His hands scooped up the silk from where it had been banded on her shoulders, held it there while his right hand brought her arms — first one, then the other — from where they still dangled, helplessly, behind her, brought them forwards and up, until her wrists were at her forehead.
Through this, Odile found it easy, welcome, to comply, calming to be handled, to be controlled, and she held the pose, feeling her breasts sway, as he casually pulled the tube of slinky fabric up, up over her head, to envelop her arms, then did something — tying a knot at the hemline, it turned out, so that her head and arms were now inside a soft, silken bag, tied at one end into a fat knot, linked to the fox fur choker and its chain at her neck. She wailed a little, but softly, accepting his right to do as he wished with her as somehow a fact of nature, not to be wondered at or questioned.
Neither was the fact of his hard hand, now at her sex, mauling her, really, though not painfully; back and forth, gathering the thick juices there, before he smeared them, casually, into the crack between her buttocks, so that she realised, with a deep shudder that was entirely without resistance, that he was preparing to invade her there, where she had never permitted even tentative caresses from any of her lovers, so disturbing to her was the idea of such usage. But everything had changed, it seemed; she no longer considered herself as having the right, even, to express her preferences with him, so that she could do nothing more than sigh, long and high, as she told herself, reminded herself, cajoled herself into accepting that he had every right to do this to her, that she should have prepared herself for this already, that to be violated so was fitting, was necessary, even, to cement the pledge she had made short minutes before, at the gate.
None of which lessened the certainty within her that the shame, the shocking pain of it, the calm, unhurried but uncompromising relentlessness with which he overcame the unlooked for determination of her body not to be violated in that way, its obstinate rigidity, the clenching and jerking — that she was to be ruined by this act. Ruined, especially, by the knowledge that despite the trouble her body made for him, that she had not, not really, allowed herself to truly resist. She could have screamed, but she did not. She could have thrown herself sideways, toppled from the bench — never mind that her arms, trapped as they were in their silken cocoon, could not have protected her from a bruising fall — she could have attempted these, or any number of other, more decisive forms of resistance.
But she had not; had not wanted to? Had not been able to? Was too much in his spell to believe that it was possible to resist?
It was impossible to know. What was, though, certain, was that he had, by then, achieved, after much pressure and ruthlessly opportunistic timing on his part, not deterred by performative resistance and desperate, weak cries on her part, he had now installed his full length into her rear passage, and, insult upon insult, had begun to work himself inside her, gradually, pulling further out with each thrust, then abruptly, plunging himself back into her bowel, forcing wrenching grunts from her as he did so; all her resistance crushed, she could do little more than hold on to herself as he used her.
Tears coursed down her cheeks; she sobbed herself into a racking series of hiccups, which frightened her until she could suppress them; the silk around her head and face, her trapped arms, began to be unbearably constricting, her knees on the stone became a sharp agony which intensified with each thrust of his member into the depth of her, for he had stretched her to the point where he was able to withdraw almost fully before spearing her again, violently now, his breath having now become harsh, too, until he had slammed himself home one last time, and then stayed in her as he emptied his seed, rutting her hard, using her, utterly careless of the pain he was causing her.
He withdrew and stepped away with a short noise which was almost a laugh, and she heard him take a few steps, moving away from her. He neither spoke to her, nor came to her aid, nor caressed her, but simply left her there, sobbing softly, hurting, her arms trapped, her knees on fire, trembling, certain that she had been all but destroyed. Ruined. Violated.
And yet there was no anger in her, no resentment, no desperate attempt to recover either her freedom or her dignity.
Somehow, it seemed only fitting that, since he had rendered her so helpless, so devastated, and had done nothing at all to soften it for her, even after he had achieved his end, that she should wait; suffer, stay as his trophy, his vanquished prey, until such time as he should see fit to move her. For she could find no will to move herself, despite the terrible discomfort and gradually resurgent distress at the confinement of the slip — not even able to see; feeling the helplessness and the creeping remembrance of the reality that she was displayed thus in a public park, that it was not yet even properly dark. The knowledge that her backside was presented, split, streaming with his come, that her breasts swung free, that she had no idea if he was looking at her, if he was disgusted by her now that he had had what he wished of her, or even if there were some other, silent onlooker; this knowledge was desperately hard to bear.
And yet, still, she found herself all but paralysed; the risk of moving holding her transfixed, pinned, in that humiliating state.
Risk? Yes; for she had understood, after some while, just what it was that held her; the fear that this was her last moment with him; that, should she move, he would simply walk off, abandon her, having exhausted her attractions — or, perhaps, sullied them beyond repair in his own eyes.
She knew not what the cause of such abandonment might be, or even if it was likely — that was not the point. It was the fear that such a thing might occur, that she might precipitate it through a foolish choice, that had her frozen, in her shame, her misery, her chest-tightening claustrophobia, the pain between her thighs vying with the pains at her knees — and now her elbows, too, not to mention the soreness of her throat from the night before having been awoken by the hiccups and her agonised cries of pain and humiliation.
She was, too, unable to deny the neediness, the sense of disappointment, in her belly, at his spurning of her sex, which had so recently yearned for exactly such usage as her poor rear had just been subjected to.
And so, since she was unable to do otherwise, she endured. Until it occurred to her that one freedom was yet open to her, that seemed not to be so risky; indeed, which, immediately she had conceived of it, seemed required of her — that she display herself more carefully. She must keep to her position, yes, but make what effort she could to make herself more inviting.
Since — assuming he cared at all — he clearly wished her to be in this position; since he had neither moved her himself, nor asked her to move, he must want her like this, and thus she could see about making this pose as communicative as possible of her continued need — desperation, honestly — for him to find her attractive. Sexually attractive — she made herself use the words, forcing herself to acknowledge that she wanted to do just as those whore-like tarts she had previously despised would do in this position — to advertise the openness of her sex, the roundness of her buttocks, the swing and shape of her breasts, the submissiveness and vulnerability of her position, in the hope of him finding her desirable; again, then, she forced herself to use harsher words; that she would do all she could, without it being offputting, to encourage him to think about fucking her.
And still, nothing happened, except that she could feel the chill air of dusk gathering, found her skin beginning to raise its fine down, as if to fluff out a coat of fur. She sensed, too, the darkness deepening through the fabric of the slip, until, all at once, shocking her, brightness returned, dazzling her briefly, and confused her, until she realised that some lamppost light had been switched on to light the way, and to signal, as did those parks in Paris which used dusk to establish their closing time, that it was time to make for the exits, since the gates would soon be locked.
She had heard almost nothing of him, could hardly know if he was still near, if he had gone further away — at one point she had heard a voice, some distance off, and cringed, sure that she was about to be discovered in that exposed condition by some stranger, until she had recognised his voice, and guessed that he must be having a ‘phone conversation some distance away. After that, she had heard his footsteps again, closer (were they his footsteps?), and again, shifted her pose a little, just to attract attention, set her breasts moving, trembling in case it was not him.
And then, without warning, he spoke;
“Claude will be at the West Gate with the car. We’ve a table booked.”
As he spoke, he had approached, and released the knot in her slip, so that she could gulp at cool air, pathetically, humbly grateful, despite the knowledge that some still self-preserving part of her mind insisted she recognise, that it was him who had trapped her thus — that he was not her liberator, but her abuser. It made no difference, and when his hand lightly caressed her buttocks, her flanks, reached under her to softly posses her breast, she found herself writhing, sensuously, as does a cat in response to a stroke, her whole body expressing its welcome of the sensation, its willingness to submit to pleasure. She felt, rather than saw his smile, since she was too consumed by shame and weakness to look him on the face, as he took her hand, making it clear that he wished her to stand. He let her take her time, She had no way of knowing whether this was through care, in recognition of how stiff and sore and tender so many parts of her had become as a result of his violation and her prolonged stillness, whether he was indifferent, or if, rather, he was savouring her weakness, her suffering, and she had no choice to but accept that she would never know, since she knew she would not ask, and he was very obviously saying only those things to her which were necessary.
He was smoking a cigar, she realised — a fat one; she had not seen him do this before that moment.
She would learn, in time, to feel a sense of something she could only call achievement, bitterly ironic as the word was in such a context, if not often being at those moments in a condition to experience actual pleasure, learn that this cigar smoking was something which, for him, either completed or perhaps complemented an episode with her (with other girls, too —— she had to bear that learning also); something which had afforded him some significant sense of — what? Release? Pleasure? Gratification of some kind, she was sure. Even if those episodes were usually ones as a result of which she experienced significant diminishment, the cigar smoking, taken as sure evidence of his pleasure, was something to cling to, at least, as some sort of validation of her own suffering.
Later still, she would know dread also, as he taught her to accept, first, the ashes from his smoking, and then, later, the glowing tip of the stub of the thing into her mouth, then, later, her anus, and then, eventually, directly into her opened and offered sex, there to stay, she learned, until it was removed by someone else — it being her duty to keep that symbol of her further debasement, of his recognition of that debasement, evident, until it became an impediment to whatever was wanted of her at some later time.
Even that dread could not displace what increasingly became indistinguishable from abject, heartfelt gratitude at his continued interest in her, degraded as she had become.
He put the cape onto her, its warmth a blessing, then had her walk, several paces in front of him, toward the exit;
“I want to watch your arse move, your hips sway. Keep your hands out to your sides, will you, Odile? Just a little, just behind you — so that you can’t see them, and they don’t touch anything.”
And again, she found the paradoxical mix of shame at accepting being treated so, set against the pleasure of being permitted to flaunt herself for him, intoxicating, so that, by the time they were at the car, she was, once more, slightly breathless, pink cheeked, her hips refusing to be still, nipples stiff, poking through the slinky material of the slip, unmissable. She was beginning to feel the power of this insistence of his that she should make her hands expressively useless, keep them out of her sight, away from any touch — they felt a little unreal to her, floating as they were, disconnected. It was, very definitely, and not a little disturbingly, a sensation which added to her arousal. She told herself that he would never again have to remind her of this wish of his. She had understood it, understood, perhaps, its purpose, and had discovered that she wanted to offer it to him as a gift.
He had violated her, crudely, aggressively, painfully; shamed her, degraded her, then left her, uncomfortable, in pain and humiliatingly exposed, and here she was, planning offerings to him of further disempowerment.
Yes!
After all, hadn’t he told her, very clearly, that he would do so? And hadn’t she offered herself up to him?
Yes, she said to herself; that is what this is. And I want it. For now, at least. It is what I want. This shaming, this forcible insistence that I become as a whore for him. Insane as that seems.
And in the car, it took almost nothing for him to convey to her that she should kneel, and accept his semi-stiff cock into her mouth, and after that for her to tell herself she must do everything she could think of to communicate her gratitude at being able to give him this, tasting the musk of her own back passage as her due, making herself accept it despite the abjection she knew would come to her in recalling the moment later, on her own.
Serving him; conscientious in her maintenance of the position of her hands; behind her, but not in the small of her back, as they had been when he had had to tie her (she did, truly, feel guilt that she had not earlier understood and obliged him in this preference, that she had caused him to have to enforce a sub-standard compliance; it would not happen again), but instead raised up, stretched a little farther back, and a little wider apart, than was comfortable or easy to sustain; showing him. Knowing, too, that Claude would know, now, just what she was. Wonderingly, softly shocked, she found herself happy at that, too — happy that Andrew had openly acknowledged her to his man as his whore.
He held her head, tight, filling her throat, as he jerked again inside her, as they sped through the dark streets of the city, his other hand holding her breast, gripping it so tightly that she was bruised there, the next morning; otherwise, it was almost as if his climax had passed unnoticed.
