Prilly's Journey Pt 2

You will want to have read the previous episode of this story.

The next half an hour was spent cycling between near euphoria; trembling, tingling excitement at the prospect of something sexual happening with Mr LeStrade (except that excitement was too weak a word— it was more like a rampant yearning), and its mirror image— breathless trepidation at the enormity of risk to her self image, her reputation, her emotions.

Was LeStrade actually nice, but with a teasing attitude, or was he rather cruel, just with a polished manner? Was he something in the middle? Did he really, really want her naked at all times? She couldn’t! Roddy would have a fit— tell everyone at school— she’d be a social pariah! And Maria, and Santi (her son)— they couldn’t see her naked!

On the other hand, the feeling that had been born in her groin when LeStrade had first appeared, and which had blossomed into a raging heat when he had toyed with her sex, had caught fire again as she had climbed the stairs, finding herself going more and more slowly, thinking harder and harder about what it would take for an apparently normal walk to be maximally eye-catching for a man (for THE man— the man who had pushed his fingers into her pussy without even a preliminary kiss), and had hardly cooled since.

She was occasionally all but breathless with need. She had hardly ever masturbated, finding everything about it too embarrassing, but she could not help but touch herself, there, where his fingers had been, hoping to recreate, or at least explore the feeling. Whatever she had hoped for, though, it was nothing like her sense memory of the experience. Dimly, she realised that it was the violation that was missing; the shock, the feeling of being invaded, taken advantage of, intimately used without consent, and by a stranger, too…

Her hips kept shifting, rolling, grinding, seeking sensation.

All the while, though, under the powerful feelings, all the surface tumult of new thoughts, fears, desires, imaginings, she was aware that something was building in her.

An understanding; a knowing, a certainty.

He had changed her, opened a door in her, that was never going to close. That was certain.

Also part of the knowing was that this was just a little crack that had been opened into a new way of thinking about life. That it was frightening, dangerous, risky. That she could be hurt. Had already been hurt, actually— she was never going to be as self-confident about herself again, having been so easily shown that there were strong urges inside her which she had never before seen, let alone allowed herself to experience with such rawness.

That despite all this, she did not want the crack to close up was another revelation; that she was in fact fiercely certain in herself— determined— in her willingness to face all sorts of fears and pains in order to keep the door open.

Also, too, not as certain, not a knowing, but a powerful intuition— that LeStrade was going to push at the door, enlarge the crack— that he was going to press her, in his easy but hard-to-resist way, to open herself up more, so that he could enjoy her to the full. She had no illusions; it was sex he would be wanting from her, nothing else; her body, and for his entertainment, nothing more. He was not interested in her, in Prilly, for herself. He wanted her to change herself, so that he could enjoy her more, more freely.

And that is what I want, too. The thought came unbidden, immediate, hungry.

As these revelations grew in her, she felt her surface emotions fall away, and she went inside herself, overawed, overwhelmed. Slowly, she let herself fall forward off the side of her bed, fell to her knees, then toppled sideways, softly hugging herself in a foetal ball, feeling utterly fragile, weak, letting the weakness, the softness, the fragility own her, letting the novelty of it all flood her, remake her as it would, knowing she wanted it to change her, full of fear as to what she might be, but more scared of not giving this new reality a chance.

Picture: Prilly, curled up on the rug Click here to reveal.

And this was the biggest knowing of all; that she wanted to be changed; that she was too weak, too frightened, too uncertain of what change might mean, what she wanted from it, too disempowered by having been shown how little she understood herself— all of this— so that she was certain that she could not find change by herself.

That, without knowing him, or even really trusting him, she was going to let LeStrade change her, ask him to change her— beg him, if that was what it took— as best she could; let him have his way with her.

And with that, came a great release; a rush of fear and gratitude and wonder and … yes, yet more fear, and, underlying it all, a deep hunger. Not so much for simple sexual experience— though that was there too— but for something more; for passion, intensity, for a life that was full of brightness, where everything was sharp and colourful and immediate; a life she had never imagined she could have, and she was tingling with it, and then the little bell that Maria used to signal that a meal was ready sounded and she laughed, and rose to her feet, immediately knowing that she was different already— that the knowledge was inside her, hard and frightening but also wonderful— that she was going to walk downstairs, naked, go into the morning room, naked, let them all see, show LeStrade that she was open to him, feeling that knowledge change her.

For if she was to be naked for LeStrade, she must be offering herself to him for sex. That is what he wanted her for, so there was little point being naked and not making of her nakedness an invitation. It was like a fire, eating away at so many unconsidered assumptions, at her habitual body language too.

If she was to be naked, she would be as conscious of her body, at all times, as she had been for those few moments on the stairs.

It was astonishing, bewildering to be thinking these thoughts; she had no idea if she could do anything with them, what she might do, but she felt her body making its own adjustments, as if it had known, all along, and had only now been given permission to take charge of how it displayed her.

Tiptoes, enforced by the hurt, but now mandatory whatever— if for no other reason than he liked the way it made her ass move (she was aware that somehow, in less than an hour, he had occupied a central controlling position in her mind— it was definitely strange, and would definitely need to be thought about, but not right then, that was for sure); her shoulders back and open— her breasts had to be given their best chance to attract attention, to sway…

She went quickly to the en-suite, had the quickest of cold showers, shivering, knowing that she was using the cold not only to make herself alert, but also to stiffen her nipples; she towelled rapidly, briskly, half-dried her hair, then rapidly combed it through. She was still damp as she made herself walk— on titpoes— out onto the mezzanine hallway (not daring to stop lest the very real fear in her heart rise up and stall her), trembling at the reality of this, the irreversibility of it, feeling sick in her stomach, but driven, however she might tremble, to walk, walk as elegantly as she could, down the stairs.

The sight of Santi, his eyes widening to stare, then abruptly look away as LeStrade’s office door opened— all this was like a tornado of new feelings, new realisations, none of which could be addressed since the storm was only increasing as she felt LeStrade’s eyes on her. A storm which she was unable, utterly unable to handle, as unable as she was to meet LeStrade’s eyes, her heart trip-hammering, feeling her nipples stiffen further, the hairs on the back of her neck rising with the intensity of it, her eyes fixed, but only half focused on the door to the morning room where all meals apart from formal dinners were taken, her body fixated on walking well, whatever that meant— except, except that she knew, of course, just found it hard to acknowledge to herself— her hips must switch, her breasts must sway, her buttocks must alternate, each visibly clenching and relaxing with each step, her jaw must be relaxed (when it occurred to her to let her lips part, just the littlest way, she knew immediately that this must be so, that an open invitation at her lips was something she must learn to offer at all times… Sexy women parted their lips. It was just so.)

… there was so much, too much, just in walking, and it was, it was; just what she had understood, it was as if she was on fire, every instant crucial, desperate, terrifying, miraculous, as she heard LeStrade’s voice, as if from far away, but also, shockingly close; casual, entirely normal-sounding, even if she was in some scene from a magical realist novel;

“Fetch the little stool will you, Santi? We’ll have Miss Prilly on that, since she is displaying herself so prettily for us.”

Sitting down was astonishing; a whole new world to navigate, to understand, since it seemed that every instinct, every habit, ran counter to the logic of nakedness.

Faced with a small, hard, round stool, she felt herself getting ready to tighten herself, to be able to sit centrally on it with her thighs clamped tightly together, knees angled off to one side to de-emphasise the existence of her pussy, there at the focus of all the lines of her body; her hands to be clasped in her lap, her uper arms wanting to to all they could to cover her breasts, hide her nipples.

It was stomach churningly obvious that none of these would do, but the alternatives were neither clear nor easy to accept. Walking was one thing— the constant movement made many things inevitable, all positions fleeting— but sitting made the choice of position much more settled, more chosen, more high stakes.

What worked, what she made herself do, had to live with, was a source of both heart-stopping self-consciousness and building sexual arousal. The stool seat being small, sitting neatly on it didn’t work, so that she ended up with most of her weight on her left buttock, and her right thigh shockingly splayed, so that her right foot could provide stability and take some weight. Without being able to hide what she was doing, she had then shifted herself to more directly offer LeStrade her pussy, clearly visible between her parted thighs, her labia pink and swollen already.

Her hands were the other problem, and in the end, she put them behind her, no position tenable for long until she remembered from her school-days that she could cross hands behind her back, clasping each elbow with the opposite hand; this was at once a very unusual, disempowering position (so you won’t fidget, she remembered from school), and helped push her breasts out. This was at once exciting and the source of despairing feelings of shame.

Picture: Prilly, on the stool Click here to reveal.

In all this, she was intensely aware of, and focused on, LeStrade; all this was for him, she was making herself an obvious slut for his benefit; she had to know if he appreciated her, but found it at the same time impossible to even begin to look at him. It was suffocating, the need for validation from him crushed by the physical impossibility of lifting her gaze to his face.

But whether he was looking at her or not, she felt the heat of his attention as if it were a brazier, and it made it impossible to stay still— her body was restless, needy, uncertain, and she knew that she must be revealing this to him, no matter that it only made her more uncertain, and intensified the feelings.

Crazy, crazy, crazy to have done this! She considered bolting— jumping up from the stool and running to her room, to hide in the bathroom, lock the door, demand an air ticket for tomorrow, run to her parents and hide…

But it was not going to happen; in any case she did not think she could physically manage it, so weak did her knees, her thighs feel, and so it became inevitable;

I’m going to be fucked! He’s going to fuck me, any old how that he wants to, and I will have nothing to say to it because I have done this. He’s going to assume he can fuck me on demand, and he’ll be right, because … because that’s what I want, too … I … I want to be fucked on demand. Jesus that sounds so whore-y!

Her cheeks were red, she knew, and felt the blush on her chest, too, knowing it would extend to the upper slopes of her breasts if the embarrassment persisted, which seemed a given.

In order to survive, she had, somehow, to live in the moment, as if everything made sense— even though it was crazy— thinking about it would drive her mad, and she tried to lose herself in sensation, in the glory of being naked for him.

But when Roddy blundered in, though, full of bluster and noise (building himself up to act self-righteous with his father in-law about his unauthorised use of the villa), Prilly was forced back into reality by his shocked outcry, and everything crashed in on her.

“What— the— Fuck!?”

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.