This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Justine.
Southern France, Decision Day minus 6
Justine felt as if she must implode.
It was too much! Too many conflicting emotions!
Yes, she was ‘important’— so much so that the other staff were jealous— catty and teasy with her one minute, seemingly frightened she might get them into trouble at another (Neither Mme. Creux nor the security men were like this— Mme. Creux was sharply controlling but otherwise decent, the big men in their dark uniforms looked at her blankly, hardly spoke, but their grins spoke volumes).
At the same time, she was nobody, nothing; yes, she was the only one who took in the coffees, the tisanes, the pastries; the one who helped put up the whiteboards, who cleared down in the evening after photographing everything carefully with their super slick camera— she was la bonne du salon, ‘maid of the salon’. But no-one spoke to her, except to order her about, and she did nothing that really meant anything, let alone anything actually needful.
At least she got plenty of poolside time, and the weather was good, but apart from that, there was nothing; the staff room was unbearable, the library was off limits, so that she was forced back to her room, back to the emptiness of a life that had been filled by her mother’s ambition; ambition that had gone flat. What was she? She had achieved the target— the prized place at the top university. She was almost sure that she could do well there; ‘succeed’— but for what? At what? Nothing made any sense, any more. Not even her mother cared.
She had managed to get some of her reading list books from her case, although she was allowed nothing else and it had been locked away again for safe keeping. She had looked, but it didn’t seem as her purse with her passport and money was in the same store room as the case. It was hard not feel a little freaked about this.
But this worry was only one among many.
Why did Stefan— Sir Stephen— not talk to her? That woman— the one who spoke so little, but seemed, somehow to be the one the others spoke for when they spoke to Sir Stephen (who mostly spoke for himself, it seemed— although his words seemed to carry more weight that anyone else’s) that woman— Danika (everything was on first name terms, she knew no-one’s surname apart from Sir Stephen’s) looked at her, sometimes, with something, at least, more than she would have in her eyes if she was looking at a chair, at least. But the others, apart from the expected assessments of her body in the elegant little maid’s getup, had all but ignored her.
Stefan hadn’t ignored her! He had noticed her, noticed her body, when she had first appeared in the uniform. Of course, that was just sexual energy— it didn’t mean anything. Except that it did.
Except…
Except for the thing she couldn’t, shouldn’t be thinking about; the thing that shouldn’t— can’t possibly— be happening.
Except…
Except that it is.
And this was the thing which, weird as it was, somehow fitted with everything else, made it all of a piece, The others ignored her in the room, speaking to her only as a functionary, a lackey, and efficient little helper (she was occasionally praised as such— a trésor, no less, according to the Asian woman, Chanxin).
The thing.
Three separate incidents, all of them by nature intensely private.
Three things, which were somehow obviously all one thing. A pattern.
Three times, now, she had been molested. By a different principal each time. And, three times, she had gone along with it.
The first had been the fat old arab man, M. Habib. She had been on the way to the kitchen, having removed some used glasses and plates— a heavy tray full. On the way back, she had encountered him in the narrow servants’ corridor— what was he doing there— it wasn’t the way back from the posh washroom they used?
Picture: M. Habib
He had grinned at her, his fat lips unpleasant, and told her she must curtsy for him when she met him, didn’t she know this? Indeed, she had been brought to understand that she must curtsy each time she enters the Salon, and curtsy quite deeply, lifting her skirt hem.
Confused, she had lifted the tray a little, not daring to contradict him, but showing him the heavy tray, laden with fine glasses and china— couldn’t he see that it was impossible for her to curtsy?
His grin had become a leer, then;
“No excuses, little girl; I can see I will have to do it for you.”
Picture: M. Habib, grinning unpleasantly
And then, almost naturally, as if it were an everyday thing, he had put his hand right up between her legs.
And she? Justine, who had so skittishly jumped when propositioned, when lightly touched, Justine, who had been so outraged to be patted on the bum when in her waitress outfit, who had made loud noises, demanded assistance at much less intrusive handlings, this time, in the atmosphere of that house, Justine had done the opposite, had suppressed her nervous reaction, her outrage at such behaviour.
When, later that evening she had wondered Why?, the answer had not been simple or comfortable. There had definitely been something about the tray which had felt like a trap, desperate as she had been not to let it shake, not to break anything; that was what she told herself, at least, as she had let him do as he willed, between her legs, let him forage, right there, push her panties up into her slot, let him discover that she was damp there, getting damper by the second, as he pressed at her. She had sighed, audibly, softly and high pitched; had closed her eyes, had softened for him, even felt herself leaning back toward the wall, offering her weakness, had moaned, opened her thighs when he had pushed at her, and then …
… and opened her eyes, because he had stepped back, looking at her for a second, grinning complacently; smug, clearly happy to see the dismay and confusion in her eyes; mildly pleased with himself, but not in the least excited about it, before he had turned and casually walked away, as if nothing at all had happened.
But there had been something else, too, some part of her which had almost welcomed it, welcomed the feeling of being trapped, of being unable to resist, of having her instinctive response overridden, suppressed. That part of her which had wondered, alone at night, hand between her legs, what might have been if she had let one of those drunken men at the parties push her into a service corridor, kiss her on the mouth, pull her breasts out of the skimpy uniform, pull down her panties…
That part of her had made her hold herself open to the fat man’s fat fingers.
By sheer force of will, she had delivered the tray to the kitchen without breaking anything, then scuttled desperately off to the staff toilet, a bleak and tiny room, whitewashed, smelling powerfully of bleach, and jammed her face into the corner, heart pounding, blood boiling, knees trembling, not allowing herself to acknowledge what it was she was feeling. Not indeed knowing what she was feeling, save that she was feeling it very intensely indeed.
After only a few tens of seconds though, she had made herself straighten up, check herself in the miniature cracked mirror which hung from a rusty wire wedged into a crack in the wall, splash her face with cold water from the tap (there was no basin, just a drain in the worn brick floor), rearrange her panties, bunched as they were into her pussy, and, having to be brutal with her self-control, told herself she must walk back to the salon, enter as normal, curtsy as required of her and carry on with her job.
Something in her would not permit her to fail them. Meaningless as it was, strange as it made her feel, it had come to seem that all of them— except, perhaps, for Danika, who had her own magnetic personality— that all of them were somehow different aspects of Sir Stephen, that the meaning of the work was not the work itself, but her opportunity to become something more than a little girl in Sir Stephen’s mind.
This made the idea of letting the incident— however it had seared her, however sure she was that it was going to keep her awake that night, replaying it, judging herself, recreating for herself the intensity of the sensations it had fired in her— made the idea of letting it disrupt the smooth flow of the day’s work seemed irresponsible, selfish, childish. It was strong, beyond question, the feeling in her that everything, everything would collapse if she did not perform exactly as was desired of her— that if it did, she would bitterly regeret failing at this job, having these people judge her to be unsatisfactory.
That she would lose her chance at something important, something she needed, something that she urgently desired; at least with a part of herself.
Even though she had no idea what it was, she could somehow taste its nearness, its promise. And even though the not knowing (later she wondered; did I not know, really?), even though the not knowing was unnerving, frightening, that just made it more tantalising.
Curtsying, this time, as she entered the room, was both an ordeal, and a revelation.
An ordeal, because she could not but feel as if all of them knew exactly what had happened there in the dark little corridor, just how dirty she was, just how easily she had succumbed, just how traitorously her sex had responded to the mauling, just how strong the sense memory was in her, of the feeling of those powerful, greedy fingers in her pussy, invading her, colonising her, owning her…
A revelation, as she discovered that it mattered to her; mattered very much, that her curtsy was indeed a ‘reverence’. She was needy; she needed their approval. They required that she curtsy, that she show her respect for them, that she declare herself as a servant, as an inferior. And that made it matter to her, that she let them see that she did, truly, consider them superior to her.
The realisation surprised her, and her reaction to the surprise also surprised her— that she was grateful to them for being superior to her. Her whole life, under her mother’s oversight, had been about being better than everyone else. Here, it was a source of deep comfort to her, to be inferior; small, unimportant, weak. To be around them was to be in their shadow, their responsibility, their power, their wealth, their certainty as to what they wanted from her; all that was wrapped around her now she was with them. To be weaker, to be their servant, their inferior was to have a life made simple, to be absolved of responsibility. Obey, perform, present herself, just as was desired, in a role that required very little - almost a cartoon of a role; the idea became more attractive to Justine the more she thought about it.
She was weak at the knees, for certain, as she curtsied, but strong in her determination to serve.
She respected them, she had discovered, respected their power, their wealth, their calm, unhurried seriousness in their pursuit of power, of wealth. She respected them all— including the fat one who had just had his fingers in her sex.
Indeed, as she served him that afternoon, as he paid her no attention at all, she found that her respect for him had grown, rather than shrunk, as a result of him having mauled her. He had simply taken her, as of right, and she; she had accepted his right to do as he liked with her most private place, right there in the corridor where anyone could have seen. He was powerful and unmoved by the experience; she was weak and had been dirtied, lessened, revealed as a wanton.
Standing next to him, she felt small, needy and humble. His age, his fatness, which was how she had thought of him, were not the point. What was the point was that he wanted her - her pussy at least; wanted her emotional response, too. She was dirty, but at least she had something he wanted. That it was her sex he wanted, that there was no emotion involved, only greed, made perfect sense to her. Him enjoying playing with her pussy was no different than him being pleased when she got his coffee right, or found the right documents without keeping him waiting.
Only there was a difference— a difference in her; the feelings he had aroused in her when he had her, trapped against the wall, gripping the tray so tightly, defenceless; the feeling when he had thrust his fingers inside her, those were very different than the silly little satisfaction at pouring his tea without a drip.
The feelings rose in her, then, all unbidden, almost as if he was doing it to her right there, in front of all the others, and she was overwhelmed, having to keep a tight hold on her emotions, on her breathing, on the trembling at her wrists, her fingers, between her legs, while he was unchanged, stirring his coffee as he always did, saying his piece, slow and serious and thoughtful as always, this big man who now had the right to put his hand between her legs. For she was sure that, having established her passive willingness, he would do it again. And that she would not fight him. More, that she would open herself for him, let herself lean back; give herself to him.
She knew that she wanted him to. Wanted him to do it again, do more. Somehow that he was fat and fleshy and not at all her idea of handsome, no-one she could imagine having any sort of ‘relationship’ with; not even liking, let alone loving, all this made it more exciting, when, in the small hours, woken by a feverish dream, she had found herself wet between the legs, and had deliberately brought herself off with the thought of him jamming his short fat fingers into her, hard, lifting her off the floor, all her weight on the invaders in her sex, having to cling to him to save herself from falling, having to let him push his fat tongue into her mouth, slobbering on her, wriggling herself against his hand to stimulate her clit…
It had been a strange, disturbing orgasm, left her feeling weak and dirty and confused.
But she knew that if he appeared like that again, the two of them alone, she would not run, but rather stop; stop and wait for him; so that he would do it again. Do more. Do anything he wanted.
She could hardly breathe as she brought herself off again, humping hard, terrified that she might make a noise, pushing her face into the pillow, short of oxygen as the paroxysms of her climax made her whole body shiver, uncontrollably.
Read the next part of Justine.
