The Story of S Pt1.

Two previous posts, a while ago, sketched approaches to this story (sketch 1, sketch 2). This time, I hope I can do justice to it.

She met him on the Tube. She was minding her own business, as is de rigeur on the London Underground, thinking about her work, as usual these days, about how to rebuild a part of the set for the show she was working on which kept getting damaged, her mind otherwise untroubled, calm, unemphatically happy. A normal day for Hope— known by everyone as Essy.

She had felt some need to look up, to find him looking at her— not old, but much older than her— mid forties, perhaps— dressed well, but with a slightly antique air; solid leather shoes, a robust tweed jacket. He had been looking at her, clearly, staring almost.

She looked back, as direct as was her wont, neither challenging nor weak, prepared to meet another being, expecting him to look away, faintly surprised when, instead, he simply carried on looking, a slight smile on his lips, eyes directly on hers, a slight question in them, his smile widening as she held his gaze, a challenge rising in hers.

It was remarkable. She was aware of a tingling. People didn’t stare so, not on the tube. And they didn’t resist her gaze, either; he should have looked away, or made some move to speak to her, to explain himself.

But he just kept looking, kept smiling, meeting her challenge, not with an answering challenge, but with apparent complaisance.

Without deciding to, without thinking, she had smiled at him, then. She was a smiler, a positive, outgoing girl, in those days. If he was friendly— and certainly his expression was pleasant, his demeanour nothing but relaxed— then she was prepared to be friendly, even if his approach was unusual.

His eyes moved down, then— he was looking at her body! Even though he must know that she would see that was what he was doing! The tingling grew stronger. This shouldn’t be happening. She should be cross. But she wasn’t. He was so frank, as his eyes lifted to meet hers again, and his eyebrows went up— just a little — as if asking her, what she thought of him looking at her, looking her over, like that? And then he gave her the smallest of friendly nods; acknowledging her, approving of her, smiling still more. An affirmative, encouraging, positive smile.

It really was a very pleasant smile, but it was suddenly too much, and she looked down, blushing, confused— an unusal sensation for her, who was normally so determinedly straightforward about everything. He had looked at her as if assessing her— not salaciously, but calmly appraising. The tingles were still there, but now should could not look at him. She was thinking about sex. How had he done this to her? Why was she not angry with him? It wasn’t that she was any sort of strident feminist, but at the same time, she was a no nonsense girl who knew what was right.

She hardly noticed the train had stopped, until she heard the doors clunk open, saw his feet move, and found herself bereft. It was so unexpected, the hole in her middle that opened up, at the thought he was gone, that she would not see him again.

And then she was on her feet, flinging herself through the doors, which closed on her, trapping her leg, so that she early fell, before they jerked open again, and she staggered, stumbling, saved herself. Breathless, smiling emphatically at the others who were looking at her, wondering if she were hurt, or about to barge into them, showing them that she wasn’t a risk, that she could manage herself, she was actually looking for him, his dark, close cropped hair.

There it was! He was tall, it seemed, and she followed him, not knowing why, not attempting to catch him, but just keeping him in sight, terrified lest he turned and saw her, urgent to be certain she knew where he was when she rounded a corner, seconds after he had disappeared there.

In the concourse, he stopped, and turned, not apparently surprised to see her, but calmly questioning.

She halted, feeling his eyes on her again, feeling his interest, wanting it, unsure of herself. But there was nothing else for it though, and she was not a coward, and so she approached him, even though she could feel an unaccustomed flush warming her cheeks.

He didn’t speak, although he smiled a little, eyes on her face attentive, but mild, his body language relaxed,

He was not making any move to speak; the silence had to be filled, it was too awkward, but what to say?

“I … you … um …”

She ground to a halt. She was never like this!

He rescued her;

“Mark Haversham. Pleased to meet you, Miss?”

His voice was a light baritone, confident, but not forceful. It calmed her, and she shook herself briefly, and managed to become, almost, her usual, forthright self.

“Um, Essy. That’s me; Essy.”

She dried up again.

“I see I may have unsettled you. I would apologise, but I do have to say that you are very lovely indeed, when unsettled. May I make amends? Buy you coffee? There’s a decent cafe in the park, just here?”

And she did, she did want to have coffee with him, and, when he offered, a pretty cake, too.

He was entirely normal, no more unsettling behaviour, kind, casually gentlemanly in a slightly antique way that matched his dress, but without it being weird, and then they were settled, in the warm spring sunshine, at a table a little way from the cafe. She felt light, pleased, had calmed down, and found herself again, so that she was able to be direct, look him in the eye and say;

“What’s going on, then, Mr Haversham? Why were you looking at me, on the train?”

He didn’t seem in the least defensive as he smiled at her;

“How could I not? You must know that you are remarkable, Essy— don’t you? Radiant, with so much personality it almost shimmers. I couldn’t not look at you. You are something, and I enjoyed you. I am enjoying you now.”

She knew that this little speech was, in many ways, beyond the pale, unacceptable to a modern woman, but couldn’t make the knowledge matter. She managed herself well, but inside she was warm with the feeling of it. Nevertheless, her manner was acceptably cool as she asked;

“And who are you, Mr Haversham?”

“I’m a writer. A historian. Also an appreciator of character— which is what you have in spades, Essy.”

It was impossible not to take this as a compliment— more, he seemed serious and the way he had said it was unemphatic; it was not flattery.

But she pressed him nevertheless;

“Have you written anything I’d have heard of?”

“No, no, I’m fairly sure I haven’t. It’s all very academic and obscure, I’m afraid. And the subject matter is mostly unpleasant, too.”

He smiled, rather beautifully, then; a self-deprecating, wry smile, very open, and she knew she liked him— appreciated his character.

He asked her questions; careful, gentle, but thoughtful, insightful, so that she found herself telling him a great deal— more, finding herself saying things that she hadn’t realised for herself before— like why she had really given up on her late-teenage career as a model;

“I got very … very wound up by the idea of myself as … just a piece of meat, really. It was so weird; like …”

She had taken a big breath as the new realisation hit her, unsure if she dared admit it to herself— let alone to him, a stranger, an older man, who had looked at her … that way … in the Tube, who had made her tingle, made her belly flip-flop inside…

But she had said it anyway; let him hear this sick thing about her …

“It … it freaked me out, and … and I quit, and went to art college, theatre design. Making sets for actors to parade themselves in— it’s the same game, really— flaunting your body, your emotions, in public, for money. Just more respectable, that’s all— because it’s not about sex … And I’m not on show, not putting myself on show, any more; I’m in the background.”

A long silence then, Essy staring at the table, the emotion of having put those half considered feelings into words for the first time coursing through her, a mini-tsunami of mixed embarrassment at having gone so deep and fascination that he had brought that out of her; a feeling of relief, really, to have spoken it out loud to another person; but still, leaving her a little shaky.

He had not intruded, had let her be, for which she found herself intensely grateful as, at last, with a rueful half laugh, she pulled herself back together, straightened up, looked at him again, blushing a little, feeling vulnerable, nervous, foolish.

And he had been wonderful, as she had blurted out a stumbling explanation;

“I … ha! I … never … never understood that— not to put into words … until now. Huh.”

“I … um, that must have all come across a little weird. Sorry.”

He had smiled at her then, a gentle, open smile, his eyes watching her— seeing her, she felt, properly seeing her. It had been a while; just the right while, until he spoke;

“Not weird at all, Essy, believe me. I am privileged to have been present. And I am an excellent keeper of confidences.”

Another pause, during which, afterward, she decided that she had fallen in love with him. Because when he next spoke, it mattered to her in a way it had not before— what he said, how he meant it, what it meant for her. He had become important— a big upgrade from appreciated.

“Perhaps a walk in the park might be a good idea— walk off the emotion— unless you have somewhere to be, that is?”

And she had gone with him, then, almost without a word, and indeed they hardly spoke in the park— just walked; him choosing where, she, just walking, happy to be walking, happy to have him at her side, to let him be her silent support as— just as he had suggested— the emotion worked its way through her.

As they walked, he would, occasionally, turn and look at her; at her face, and then, deliberately, letting her see, just as he had on the train, looking at her body, at her breasts, at her legs, at her belly, his eyes travelling slowly, calmly, over her. And then he would smile at her again, letting her know that he liked what he saw.

And she liked it. Being looked over, explicitly enjoyed for her sexual attractiveness, by an older man— a much older man. It made her feel hot, and weak. She wasn’t used to feeling sexy in this way.

It occurred to her, then, that if one of her girlfriends were to tell her of an encounter like this, how judgemental she would be; dirty old man, she would say, they’re all the same; after fresh meat, a young trophy to show off to prop up their mid-life crisis.

But she didn’t feel like that at all about Mark. She felt flattered, privileged— hopeful that he did want her. Happy to be chosen by him. He was utterly different from any of the men she’d been with. Directly sexual, but without bravado. He would fuck her hard, she found herself thinking; wanting to be fucked hard; shocking herself, but not fighting herself. She’d be happy to be his trophy— flattered. It was obvious to her, even though, an hour earlier, she would have laughed out loud at the idea she could think these thoughts, feel this way.

And then she decided to stop thinking. To just feel, and it became lovely; time slowed. He looked at her, and smiled at her, and said nothing, and she let him look, and felt warm and weak and flattered and happy, and didn’t think at all. It was the thing about being with him, she learned— there was really no need to think. She could simply trust him, go where he led.

All that lay in the future, though, and indeed was at the time a most unlikely future, for, having brought them to one of the principal gateways, he slowed, and turned to her;

“My dear girl, It is time, I am afraid to say, for me to leave you. My thanks for letting me enjoy you, for your company, and, as I said, for the privilege of your unburdening.”

The words tore into her peace; she was conscious that she needed to do something, something that would mean something, something that would be more, more than this. For it was not enough. She wanted more time like this. More time with him. But she had no reason, there was nothing, nothing, really, between them.

He was already turning to go, then, smiling as always, and her body reacted; there was no thinking, no plan, just feeling; urgency, need; her hand went to his arm, but at the last minute— something in his body language, she dared not actually touch him, and instead waved her hand in the air— not exactly blocking his turn, but discouraging it— and then; then, the words fell out of her mouth;

“Would … would you like to f… “

She had faltered as it became clear to her what she was about to say; her higher functions shocked, so that she ceased to function for a second, just hung there, outside space and time, numb with the enormity of it, until her body simply took control again, and made her say it again, slowly, clearly, her voice several tones deeper than usual, her throat dry, husky;

“Would you like to fuck me?”

And then, perhaps because he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t really reacting, because the silence was too empty;

“Please?”

As soon as the word left her mouth, she had been overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotion; embarrassment, principally, shock, too— how could it be that she had said that, out loud, to a man, so much older than her, whom she knew almost nothing about, whom she had known for about an hour? How could she have said it in such a pleading, needy tone, almost begging him? She couldn’t meet his eyes, then, feeling her blush mount, the heat at her cheeks, felt her belly flip-flop at the thought of having offered herself to him so blatantly, appalled at herself, horrified at the thought that having been so obvious would have given him a disgust of her, sounding like some sort of a nymphomaniac.

But this near despair at having said something so crass and shaming was not the only emotion; as she stood there, not breathing really, staring at his feet, she felt her body, too; trembling, minutely, all over, with an almost delightful feeling of lightness, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, her tongue moving, the heat at her cheeks, felt her insides churning, feel her groin ready, knowing herself to be lubricating, feeling it as she had never done before, her nipples tightening.

It was as if she had put them both in a time bubble; everything else seemed to have stopped— as if what she had said had made a rift in the normal flow of things, and they were stuck now, in the bubble, until something was done to make sene of her outburst. Except that he had not spoken; and she for her part could not look at him, so that she had no idea as to his reaction; she was frozen, trembling, caught, at his mercy, since only he could resolve this.

But still, the silence, the intensity of the moment suspended, inescapable; he was watching her again! Suddenly she had known it, and her flush burned, all the sensations of her body intensified, and she felt joy rising in her; he must … he must be … enjoying this … finding it interesting, or entertaining, or … funny, even; she didn’t care— he was still with her, paying attention to her, and she was filled with gratitude; warm, tingling, and frighteningly intense. He was looking at her again, as he had on the tube, she felt it, and she was able, at last, to lift her chin, slowly, to peep up at him through fluttering eyelashes— for her eyes were trembling too, it seemed, her fingers flexing tinily— her body still, yet filled with energy, had to dissipate that which it could through tiny movements, so that she was both frozen and jittering. How could she have got like that, with this unknown man, in such a short time?

She looked up at him, then; shy, wanting him to see in her eyes that she was her question, was her offer, that she was, indeed, begging him to fuck her, although still not sure of him, still full of fear and, yes, shame, but letting it all be there, in her face, opening herself for him, as she would open her mouth, her legs, her sex to him, offering herself, wanting him to want her like a physical sucking in her chest … why didn’t he speak?

And then he had, his voice the same— just the same— as before, as if it had been a topic of conversation, like any other; pleasant, deep toned, quiet but very clear, his expression just as before, too— no spark of lust in his eyes, no recoil of surprise— just his patient, steadfast attention, that feeling of being seen as one really was, without it being intrusive, or demanding— just … seen;

“My dear, I very much hoped that, since you first noticed me, looking at you so obviously, on the train, that I had managed, without it being any creepier than necessary, to make it very clear to you that I would very much like to fuck that lovely body of yours.”

She had known that her smile was too much, foolish, too revealing, but it had broken from her, and the trembles had changed to a slower, deeper, building pulse in her, the pulse of sex, strongest in her lower belly, between her legs, at her nipples, in her throat (she had suddenly had a flash, like a sense memory, except that it had never happened, of this man’s cock, deep, deep in her throat, gagging her, and it took her completely by surprise, her whole body jerked by the force of the feeling); she had to avert her face, so hot was the urge in her then, that it was impossible to meet his eyes; and yet, and yet, she had wanted him to see, to know, to understand how much she wanted him, then, and forced herself to look up again, heard herself let out a tiny gasp, breathy, like a laugh, or a sound of fear; certainly a sound of weakness. This wasn’t her, not who she was, and yet … and yet…

“My dear, you are delectable, delicious; the man who didn’t want you must be dead to the world, ” he had reached out, then, touched fingers lightly to the side of her face, moved her head slightly, until she was facing him directly.

It was the sort of gesture that Essy hated— being mauled, she called it— on any other day, with any other man, she would have slapped him or pulled away, but not that day, not this man; his touch had been welcome, electric on her skin; she had had to move her lips, put out her tongue— she couldn’t speak, but nerves were firing all over her and she must move; her chest had heaved, and she was conscious of how hard her nipples were, and of how she was making sure that she offered him her breasts. It was shameless, automatic, needful— it was necessary to her that he see that she was open to him, wanted him.

“But I’m not sure, yet, whether I choose you.”

It was said as calmly as everything else, in his deep toned voice, but the meaning was like a slap in the face to Essy; she had offered herself, blatantly, all but begged him to fuck her, and he was almost talking to himself (except that, with an upturned corner to his mouth, his eyes directly in hers, he knew exactly what he was doing to her).

He was playing with her. And not in a fun way; being cruel. For an instant, her normal self, which had been on hold since he had smiled at her on the train, had taken over, and her chin had come up, her eyes hardened; she must say something, she knew; must not let him get away with speaking to her like that, but she stuttered, not finding words, and then it was too late.

“You are very beautiful, Essy, but I am not sure you are strong enough to become what I desire. Plus, of course, as you should certainly be thinking right now, I am definitely not what you need in your life.”

Too late, because this little speech had exactly the opposite effect to that which the words deserved, and— Essy realised later— exactly the effect he had been looking for.

Because although she had known it was the moment to slap him, to turn right around and walk away without a backward glance, Essy had felt two things well up inside her— that she very much wanted him to change his opinion about her being strong enough to become what he wanted, and that the idea of not having him in her life, after such an extraordinary meeting, such exchanges as she had never before experienced with a man, such — intimacy— that was the only word for it— he had established a degree of intimacy with her which she had never had, and in such a short time. What if she never had such an experience again? She would have to live, knowing that she had lost her one chance at something remarkable.

She had seen in his eyes, too, that he was already expecting to be finished with her, to walk away himself, off to his appointment, forget her.

She had found that she fiercely, urgently did not want this, and the feeling inspired her;

“You’re probably right; it’s probably true that I … that I don’t need you in my life, right now, but … “

And she found herself doing a little shuffle, her body jinking, her embarrassment intense, but her need to tell him pressing her on; “… but I … I want you, please? At … At least … once.”

“And … and then you can decide, I guess, if … if I’m strong enough. Which I’m probably not.”

Essy couldn’t hear herself in the words she had just spoken. She had never sounded so weak, so girly, so needy. Never allowed herself to, came the immediate thought, followed quickly by the realisation that her throat was clamping, that there were tears in her eyes.

How had he done this to her? What was happening? Stupid cow! Now he was sure to walk away.

But instead, he had smiled— a cheerful, pleased smile, that was not at all easy to read— almost it was a smile for himself, not for her. But his words had stopped her thinking;

“Very well, but I do have a business meeting. If you’ll come with me, then we can see how things go. But there’s a condition.”

“Yes. Yes, Please… ” again, she had spoken without having formed the words in her head.

His smile had become a wolfish grin as he said;

“Be careful, Essy; saying yes to things you don’t understand can get very dangerous, very quickly.”

Any man that had tried anything remotely as patronising as that with the Essy she had been since she was fourteen would have been seared by a cutting remark, but he held her gaze, and she knew he was serious, and suddenly believed that there was real danger in this man; real danger for her. She felt actual fear, even though she knew no reason for it, save his seriousness.

It was remarkable, to be frightened by him. There was no aggression, no threat, nothing but the smile in his eyes, but the danger was real. She felt it. Was this why he was concerned about her strength? She felt weak, and silly; very young, and very foolish. She had never let herself, never wanted to feel this way around a man before. But with him, it was wonderful. He was strong enough, certain enough, powerful enough for them both.

“Okay.” Even to herself, she sounded like a little girl. Being with him was like being a different person; a needy, weak, uncertain person, full of emotion. It was safe to be weak, though, with him. More: it was delightful to be weak for him.

She grinned at him— a small, brave grin, nervously cheeky;

“Okay. But … it’s still, ‘Yes’ — to your condition.”

She was blushing then, and he’d grinned at her; a hard grin, different from his smile; the dangerous him for sure, and she flinched, just a little. His voice was as even as ever, though;

“Very well, foolish girl; conditions have been accepted, sight unseen. I’ll need to make a ‘phone call. Walk in front of me; I want to to watch your ass move.”

This too, was delightful, even though she knew it was outrageous. She wanted him to watch her ass move, and she walked carefully for him, her feet swinging in, just a little, as if she were walking along a narrow ridge, knowing that her hips would sway, her buttocks switch, just as it had when she was on the catwalk. This wan’t about selling clothes, though. This was about getting him to fuck her, getting to experience his danger.

“Charles. Hi. I’m going to be a little late. Perhaps half an hour. But I’m bringing something pretty with me. You’ll enjoy looking at it.”

He had called her a ‘something’; described her as ‘it’. She knew she shouldn’t like it. But she had found herself smiling; her lips curving, joy in her chest, and extra wiggle in her walk.

He’d directed her from a couple of paces back, telling her when to turn, she looking over her shoulder, smiling cheekily at him as she wiggled her bum for him, he smiling easily back, tolerant, amused, but otherwise as cool and calm as before. She knew that she was working to see lust in his eyes; blushing as she had realised just how much she would be willing to do to see that, to have him lose his control. She had stopped smiling, then; got more serious about her walk, slowing down a little, getting silkier, remembering her moves, feeling herself flushing, intuiting, rather than seeing, the looks she was getting from others on the street.

“We’ll go in here.”

She had had to retrace her steps; a small boutique, expensive looking, Simple clothes in luxury fabrics, elegantly cut.

He had done all the talking inside;

“A simple, rather small dress, very short, thin fabric, strappy, pale colour; no sleeves; very high heels to go with it. And a little clutch purse.”

Fifteen minutes later, she preceded him back onto the street, feeling almost naked. Essy had adopted a uniform when she stopped modelling; denim dungarees, plaid shirts, plain mens work shoes, black leather jacket. She hadn’t worn a skirt or a dress for years. The pretty, short dress was pale blue with spaghetti straps; so were the heels. The day wasn’t quite warm enough for it, and she knew people would look.

He’d had her leave her mannish briefcase behind in the shop, along with her clothes, to be couriered to her flat. In the tiny pink clutch purse was her housekey, her phone, and nothing else. She still had on her sports bra and plain white knickers. The boutique owner herself had brushed out her pony tail so that her hair hung down, shining. The price had been high, the tip stupidly generous. Essy’s heart was thumping and she kept blushing. She hadn’t been able to meet his eyes for a while, and his hard grin was showing more. She was very sure she wanted him to fuck her, then, however frightening he might be.

“Thank you.” she had said, in the small voice that seemed appropriate for him, now; “It’s very lovely. I .. I hope you like me in it.”

The warm smile was back; “Very fuckable indeed, Essy.”

“The meeting will be boring. You won’t pay attention, or look the others in the face. You’ll say nothing, unless asked a direct question, and then your answers will be polite, but short. You’ll address the men as ‘Sir’. You’ll hold yourself well. They’ll look at you as men look at women they think thay have rights over. You’ll let them. They won’t touch you or demean you, but they may pass some comments on your looks. You will thank them with a smile and a shimmy, however you feel.”

“Those were my conditions. You’ll make good on them, I’m sure. And afterwards, we’ll talk.”

Read the next part of this story.