This will make much less sense if you haven’t read the previous sections. They’re more scenes than chapters, so parts are less stand-alone than you might expect.
Picture: Sally on her knees Click here to reveal.
“Now, now, pretty girl; it’s good to know I have made you cry; never think I am not pleased to have done this— it is lovely to know that our selfish requirements affect you so deeply.”
“A few tears, though, will suffice; your emotions are to be expressed only to the extent that you hope they are entertaining for us, do you see? Of course you do; clever, thoughtful little girl like you, aspiring writer— she would understand what pleases us, wouldn’t she? Would be very sensitive to our preferences, would know just how many tears to let fall before buttoning her shame and fear away. She would know how to be entertaining? No?”
“So it’s time to stop crying now, and sit up straight— spread your legs apart, split your little pussy open; shoulders back, clasp those hands tightly behind you and push your pretty tits out, part your lips, let’s see the tip of your tongue on your lower lip, bum up in the air, just— and don’t make me have to tell you this again, ever, please! You’ll practice the pose at home, perfect it for us. There are other positions, but this is the basic one. We’re not interested in training you - you’ll be judged on your ability to pay attention, learn for yourself, perfect yourself - you’re an intern, after all!”
There was only token affront in me at the patronising, controlling tone in her voice, at the implications of what she wanted me to do, at the idea that this was to become normal for me; I knew I ought to be angry, violently angry with her, righteously denounce her for behaving so badly towards an employee, a junior, a younger woman— a sister (she had made her name as an anthologiser of feminist writing!).
But in truth I was saved by her certainty, her clarity; pathetically grateful for it. Without it I knew I would have been lost; for I had no idea whatsoever as to how to manage myself in this situation of abject defeat, dress half cut away, sex still yearning for her hand, humiliation and eager need at war within me. Her orders were simple, clear and came with the added benefit that compliance would not be likely to displease her— the physical sensation of despair which her earlier demolishing of my presentation of myself was something I very definitely did not want to repeat. I was weakly glad to be controlled.
Nowadays, I do not know how I could live without being controlled; it is simply unimaginable to me that I could bear the awesome responsibility of directing my own life. How could I be responsible for arranging to be fucked with the ruthlessness I need? How could I arrange to be beaten? Who would chain and unchain me? The questions don’t even make any sense.
None of this meant that I was not consumed by shame; shame at my instant, submissive compliance, shame at doing this in front of the girl, shame that I could not muster any resistance, that I had been so easy for them, forward-looking shame for what my obedience would mean next.
Obedience helped, obedience was like a life-line; concentrating on obedience meant not having to think, not having to process, not having to let all of the implications sink in; just, do what she said, and— more— try to deliver what she wanted; obvious submission to her will.
It was the safe place to be; even if, deep down, I knew it was the road to danger.
Always the short term against the long term, now, for me; preemptive obedience— the quest, the requirement to be perfectly submissive, perfectly sexually inviting, perfectly helpless, perfectly eager to please, all in service of the short term reward of a smile or a fucking (or even a whipping), versus the long-term road to utter degradation and despair at what I have lost, given away, had ripped from me.
But still, push those titties out, split that cunt, jiggle that ass, wet those lips, let a little soft moan escape you, to speak of your weakness, in the hope of some small sign of amusement, or— better— sexual interest; god, but it’s good when it’s good.
It has to be, to make up for the dark night hours of grinding shame. Although, of course, it is those dark hours which make me ever more determined, the next day, to offer myself, to encourage use and abuse. And so the cycle goes on, a deepening spiral of seduction by the dark.
I try my best to turn her harsh, degrading instructions into elegance. How different was Ms Frankl from Sir James; he had spent no time telling me what he wanted, instructing me to behave, or present myself; rather he had ruthlessly controlled me, forcefully taken from me what he desired (what I had rapidly discovered I wanted him to take from me). That had been physically hard, but mentally easier, since I had had no choice. With Ms F, by contrast, everything was stress, all the time, the desperate requirement not to have her disapprove, the ever present knowledge that she demanded perfection ensuring a constant undercurrent of strain.
“You’ll learn to do better, pretty, but it is good to see you try so earnestly, so sincerely. Gata dear, can you get some pictures, a little video? Our friends will love to see how she’s coming along.”
I knew myself to be pathetic, but my heart sort of burst at those demeaning compliments, even as my belly churned at the implications, and I flexed myself with shaming commitment when Gata, standing over me with her ‘phone in her hand, told me;
“Jou! Jou mov’ now; how jou say? Yes— jou weeegle for me now, guachita, make jou tetas mov’.”
It went on for only a minute or two I suppose, but felt like an hour, my cheeks warm, the feeling of my breasts moving so freely, the knowledge that I was wanting Ms F to find me attractive, find me sexually appealing— so strange and powerful in me, my breath catching my throat.
“Very well, Sally; now that you have presented yourself in something like a satisfactory manner, you told me that you were coming here to say something important to you. You will tell me what it is.”
Panic. I had nearly forgotten who I was, let alone a detail like what I was there for; it took an age to dredge it up from my mind, and once I had, I knew I was in trouble.
Because I had to say something— I had been demanding on the ‘phone, initially at least, and so I needed to say something. And yet the idea of even beginning to say out loud what had made sensed back in my flat seemed like madness here, now, kneeling in front of her, half naked, Gata looking on, a sly and amused little smile on her face.
But there was nothing to be done but say what was in my head— there was no way on earth that my poor disordered brain could make something up that would convince Ms F for more than a few seconds, and the idea of her finding me out in a lie was too much to even contemplate. So I had to say it, even though I was dying of embarrassment.
“I … I … I wanted to say that…”
My throat closed up. I could only look at Ms F’s feet, my chest heaving, my breathing noisy, uncontrollable. I could feel my face burning.
Her patience was not kind, but cruel; the silence screamed at me, my powerlessness crushing me, destroying all kinds of previously unquestioned assumptions about my own strength, autonomy, confidence, sense of self (the violent lesson— the lesson which would— which has— crushed me; the lesson that I am nothing, nothing at all, but what others desire of me, beginning even then to take hold of my psyche). In the end, the pressure forced words from me that I could not believe I was saying out loud.
“I … I came to ask that … that I could be allowed to … to serve Sir James only; that I would accept that; more, even; that I would do my best to … to please him; be … be what he wants me to be.”
“But I … I dont think … I can’t … I just can’t be … be used … by … by all of you.”
“Please.”
The plea at the end hung in the air, its abject weakness and lack of conviction a symbol of my certain defeat, before Ms F even spoke.
Picture: Sally on her knees, begging Click here to reveal.
But when she did, it was not to crush me, but rather to prolong my agony, to intensify my distress, to emphasise my utter helplessness, as she manipulated me blatantly, enjoying herself at my expense, much to the entertainment of the now openly grinning Gata.
“Well, pretty, I think perhaps we should have a little conversation about that with Sir James, don’t you?”
“Gata, dear, do a video call , will you? I think Sir James will enjoy seeing our little Sally presenting herself so prettily, even though she’s finding it so hard.”
“And Sally dear, while Gata makes the arrangements …” (Gata was setting her ‘phone up on some sort of tripod contraption, pointing directly at me, of course) “… I should tell you that Sir James told me how he enjoyed you last night; you will be pleased to hear that his doubts about hiring you in the first place are somewhat assuaged. He liked the looks of a much more buxom Irish girl, you see, but Mr Nathan prevailed on the basis of a careful character assessment, and I backed him up.”
“The Irish girl called last week to offer herself for free by the way— she sucked Mr Nathan’s cock very eagerly at her interview— so it’s really up to you if you want to stay, or tell us it’s all too much for you— it means very little to us either way.”
“What’s that? Oh thank you Gata, we’re live, are we?”
