Ralph had been angry, rude, horrid. The sex had gone wrong— again, although Nimue had no idea why— she was neither experienced, or knowledgeable; he was her second proper boyfriend, only the third man she’d done it with, and she had never really been interested in reading about sex, or looking at the porn things the boys sent to her phone, or even in giggling about sex with her girlfriends.
She … it was silly … but she’d always wanted it to feel … natural— just to … to flow on, beautifully, from love— or at least tenderness— and kissing, and cuddling, and stroking, and touching— for it to just happen, like a beautiful dream.
Only … only boys didn’t seem to think like that— and neither had Colin at work been like that either, that time after the company picnic when she was drunk, even though he was a man— or should be— at thirty two and married,.
She liked Ralph— well, sometimes— but he seemed to know even less than she did about sex, and …
Well, it hadn’t worked, and she’d felt stupid and sad, and he’d got angry, and tried again, and his anger made him rough, and he had hurt her, down there, with his clumsiness, and she’d slapped at him and yelped and jumped off the bed and wrapped herself in the sheet, shaking, and he’d called her frigid, and a prude, and a cocktease, and other horrid names …
So it was over with Ralph, and that was making her miserable, but worse, somehow, was the thought that maybe he might be right— that she was a prude, or frigid, or something might be wrong with her, that she might not be a proper girl…
Only … only she didn’t want that to be so, and … and she didn’t think it was so … But then, how would she know? She did have sexy feelings, she did— often— and she did masturbate, too— and she was pretty sure she had orgasms, and … and she liked them, so … so he couldn’t be right, could he?
Only, it was true, that none of the times she had been with a boy, it had gone right— not the beautiful, natural, lovely way she had always dreamed of, or … or even the way they liked it either, so …
She had jumped up, then, that Sunday morning, after lying in bed for hours feeling wretched about Ralph, about being somehow wrong, about how pointless everything seemed, and yet … yet how much she did— she did, want to live, to have something better than this— dingy little flat, dull little job, no real money, nothing interesting to do or say, no clever or witty friends …
She had jumped up, with a sudden impetus to do something about it; not just mope, but do something. Only … what?.
She had got the bus into town, right to the heart, the busy bustling shopping district of the metropolis, full of people and things to see and do— and then…
Then what? She had walked, fast, the length of the street with all the big stores, looking into the windows, waiting for something— anything, really— to grab her interest, someone to talk to her— someone handsome and smiling and kind, of course, not the usual old men who grinned at her in that creepy way. It wasn’t her fault that she had long legs and ok skin and obvious breasts, was it? They thought she didn’t notice, trying all sorts of tricks to cover it, but somehow she always knew, in a split second, when she was been looked at … like that. It made her skin crawl, made her feel funny between the legs, made her feel hot and ashamed and … jumpy.
She hurried on, finding nothing, until she got to the big bookshop. OK, then— the self-help section— maybe there would be a book that could tell her something…
They were useless, the books; ridiculous, mostly— people telling her they understood how she felt, what she needed, trying so hard to suck her in to buying their book by asking questions. She didn’t want questions, but answers, and nothing they talked about felt like her. Then, in one, there was a chapter about sex; she was flipping past it, not interested; it was rubbish— or at least, meant nothing to her, but the thought came to her that she should at least have a look for a sex book— a proper self-help book on sex.
Picture: Nim, in the bookshop
Again, mostly rubbish— soft porn, amateur psychology, telling her how to feel good in her own body; she didn’t so much want to feel good— as feel alive, natural, excited. At last, she saw something that seemed worth a try; “Read sexy books” was the section heading, and since she was in a bookshop, she stopped, and read a bit more. It didn’t say much, either, except for this one thing that made her pause; “…reading erotic fiction can help you understand what gets you turned on” it said; “…you can read about things you probably wouldn’t dare to try, or have the chance to try. If you respond to what you read, then you can think about what you might like to try, and who with”.
Which was how Nimue came to be reading The Story of O in the surprisingly large ‘Adult Fiction’ section of the upmarket bookshop. Not just reading, either, but fully absorbed. The self help guide had mentioned a couple of famous authors— Anäis Nin, Emmanuelle Arsan, Henry Miller, Pauline Reage, and she’d found them, one after another, and not been grabbed— bored, in fact, until she had been hooked by the first paragraph of Pauline Reage’s elegant but also, depraved, story. Hooked, then hungry for more. It was outrageous, so direct, so appalling, so matter-of-fact about the terrible things which O was subjected to, about her mild and helpless acceptance of cruelty, humiliation, abuse and debasement.
Picture: Nim, absorbed in The Story of O
It wasn’t that Nimue was sexually excited. Well, she was, she realised, with a shock— was wet between the legs, her nipples stiffening— but more urgent was the way the dread unfolding of events in O’s life had her gripped; the tightness in her gut, the catch in her throat, the urgency with which her eyes scanned the text for the next heart-stopping sentence, then going back to carefully re-read the paragraphs for their deep emotional impact, as an intelligent, capable woman, with a good career, an interesting life, simply let some vile men turn her into a violently degraded sex slave.
“An amazing book, isn’t it? Quite remarkable.”
Nimue, lost in the horror of O’s suffering at Sir Stephen’s brutal anal rape—
She ground her teeth in rage and fought when, having whirled behind her, bent her spine forward till her elbows and forehead touched the floor, jammed his thighs behind hers and forced up her haunches, he drove himself into her anus, tearing her as René had said she would be glad to have him do.
— had almost screeched in shock.
The smooth, rich voice of the woman— soft, but very close— had come as a complete surprise, and had come freighted with fear as well— she should not be reading this book— not in public, not with anyone knowing what it contained!
“Oh my dear, I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The woman was both sincere and gently mocking, her smile complex. She was perhaps in her middle thirties, Nimue, thought, slightly taller than Nimue, who was tall herself, handsome rather than beautiful, immaculately dressed with great taste in a dark, tailored skirt suit— like a supermodel businesswoman, Nimue found herself thinking, in her confusion.
Picture: Ms F, in the bookshop
Nimue couldn’t speak. Could do nothing but stand there, feeling foolish, lost, jittery in the face of the woman’s casual calm, her smile, her fingers, which were deftly rescuing the book from Nimue’s limp fingers (she had been about to drop it).
“I … I … I …” was all Nimue could manage, but it seemed to be enough, because the woman’s smile became a little kinder, and she said;
“I know. I know. Exactly. It’s alright, you know. Quite alright.”
The woman looked down, then, at the book— still open at the page Nimue had been reading, scanned it for a few seconds, before looking up, smiling more; “Come! I’m going to buy it for you. It’s a book worth owning; you’ll find you need to read it over and again.”
She turned and walked off at that, not looking back. She didn’t walk fast, but neither was she slow— long strides, Nimue found herself thinking— why was she noticing all the details, rather than asking herself the important questions— like who was this woman, what did she know, what did she mean? But the elegance with which the woman walked in her extremely high, extremely glossy, extremely expensive looking black courts was mesmerising.
Without thought, Nimue was following. At the counter, the young man at the till obviously knew the book as he reached to take it from the woman, and his face, when he looked up, though intending disinterest, had a curiosity in it— who was it who was buying this book, full as it was of elegantly, eloquently described depravity? The woman met his gaze with the faintest challenge in her grin, which was mostly amusement, and had him trapped, not letting go of the book, so that he either had to pull it from her, or wait until she chose to release it, release him. He flushed, pink spots burning on his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, and could only mumble his way through his sales routine.
With a little glance to Nimue of shared amusement at the young man’s confusion, the woman was off again, taking the book in its thankfully anonymous store bag with her, and again, Nimue followed, like a lost lamb, with no idea of doing anything else.
Just outside the elegant chrome doors, the woman stopped, and turned to Nimue.
“Will you have some tea with me? I’d be pleased to look at you some more.”
Such an odd thing to say, thought Nimue— not offensive— rather flattering, in fact, but just … unusual.
And then it occurred to her— this— exactly this, was what she had come to town for— to have something unusual happen to her.
She was trying to get her mouth to work, if only to say yes please, or thank you, when the woman smiled widely at her, evidently pleased, and said; “Just so!”
She was on the move again, without looking back to see if Nimue was following. When she caught up, the woman looked at her, the smile amused again;
“Although, of course, you won’t be allowed in to Browns in those,” indicating Nimue’s jeans with their knee rips and her scuffed pink trainers.
“And I don’t trust anyone else to make a proper pot of tea. So, let’s go in here!”
And she turned in to a fast fashion chainstore, went straight to the skirts, seeming to know just what she was looking for— or, at least, what she was not looking for; ignoring almost everything, holding up a couple of choices, rapidly discarding until she had made a decision, paying no attention to Nimue, who was trailing along, as if under a spell.
She had tried a question, uttered the word; “But…”, in a soft voice, then rapidly given up. Easier just to follow. The woman was seriously going to buy her new clothes!
A brief gesture, smooth but somehow impossible to ignore, was all it took for the woman to have Nimue into the changing rooms, where the woman handed her choices over and sat on the comfortable chair near the big mirror;
“Not your normal style, I’m guessing, but you’ll see— these will suit you beautifully.”
And it was true. Alone, in the little booth, Nimue had a chance to reflect on this little whirlwind that was carrying her along, to assess. She resolutely avoided either; to assess, or to reflect, carried with them the possibility of stepping out of the whirlwind, of saying she had to go home, and then running away. If she knew anything, it was that she did not want to do that; did not want to miss this, whatever it was. Not for worlds.
Instead, she had made haste to shed her jeans and tee shirt for the new things.
When, later, she looked back, having indeed lost her world; rather, having been asked to give it away, and, in helpless fascination, simply offered it up, handed it over, irrevocably, to a virtual stranger, it did always seem that there was a moment, when, down to her underwear— supermarket nickers and practical sports bra, both black— looking at herself in the mirror then, at her body, when things might have gone a different way.
She had shivered, powerfully, a strange sort of cliff-edge fear assaulting her, as if she were about to do a bungee jump, or dive a hundred metres into a waterfall. Not that she had ever done anything so exciting.
And, later, despite everything, she never could bring herself to regret her choice; which, of course, meant that, despite everything, her choice was still that same as it had been that afternoon. To let gravity take her as it would, to risk being smashed, for the wonder and astonishment of the fall.
In that moment, then, she had taken the plunge, committed herself— her body— to jump into the unknown, and found the feeling exhilarating, and liberating. She was going to go with it, go with this woman, who seemed so sure, so exciting, so different.
She had shaken herself, then, and heard herself make a sound; not loud, nothing she had planned, the meaning unclear, except that it was a soft, slow, moaning sigh, which relaxed and resolved itself into a small, frightened set of her lips, which did not quite make it as a smile.
Again, much later, she came to see that that sound had been the acceptance of an empty presentiment. She had not known, in that little booth— could not possibly have imagined, never mind that she had just read about the horrors and destruction meted out to poor ‘O’; could not have imagined what was to be her own experience, but still, looking back, that sigh meant that she had, somehow, known; known without knowing. It was at that point, alone, without any pressure, long before she had fallen so completely under the woman’s sway, that she had accepted her fate.
It had been a sigh of defeat, she now saw. Nimue had never been going to be free, never been going to have tenderness, was never to have gentle, natural love-making flowing from such tenderness. Whether she was, as the woman would soon tell her, ‘a born wanton’, or whether she had been moulded to become such, her fears of that had been proved correct. She was not, and never would be, ‘a proper girl’. Would never get the chance to even try.
Feeling weak and irresolute, Nimue nevertheless turned to address the new outfit, which was indeed nothing she would have chosen for herself. The little skirt was crochet— the sort of thing sexy girls wore over a bikini when walking onto the village on a beach holiday— nominally decent, but very short, and rather revealing. The top was a relief— much classier— a short sleeved satin blouse, simple and elegant. it was low cut at the front, with only a few buttons, but it rescued the ensemble from looking slutty.
The sight of herself shocked her; here was a Nimue she had never seen before, never imagined; not a slutty Nimue, an elegant Nimue, but at the same time very much a sexually inviting Nimue. It made her tummy tingle, and she trembled. She wasn’t … she couldn’t … could she? No. She couldn’t carry the look off, not … not without being at the woman’s side, at least. Maybe that would give her strength to be this new Nimue— because once— even if just once, she wanted to feel like this other girl;, this desirable girl, this girl who could not be afraid of sex, not dressed like that…
There was a problem, though; her underwear; both knickers and bra were visible, black and ugly, under the elegant, sexy top and skirt. Numue dithered, but there was nothing to be done, and the woman was waiting.
I don’t even know her name; not the first thing about her. Only that I want her to know me.
Feeling decidedly uncertain, both hopeful and nervous, weak and brave, Nimue walked toward her.
Picture: Nim, in her new clothes
The woman looked up from her own book without expression— she’d had a bookshop bag already, when Nimue first saw her; her face was bland, her look at the same time casual, disinterested, and all-seeing. Nimue felt her power then. This woman was unstoppable, because she knew who she was, knew what she wanted of the world, and had the confidence and capacity to make sure she was going to get it.
I will never have any of those things, Nimue saw, as if the insight had been handed down from the gods.
She felt small, and weak, and needy, If the woman didn’t approve of her now, if she was to walk away, lose interest, it would be devastating. She must not!
From somewhere inside her, Nimue found it important, right then, to take control of her body, to bring herself upright; to think about her posture, the placement of her feet, how she held her hips, her shoulders. The woman was watching her; she had better be worth looking at.
