An Easy Touch Pt1— a Naked story.

There was nothing careful about how he handled me, nothing at all. Every step was just what he wanted it to be, without reference to how I might feel or react. He just went for it. And took me.

He was always direct, always effortlessly my Master, even before I could see it.

It had been that way at the interview, when he’d asked a few questions that were definitely crossing some line; Do you have a boyfriend? Are you often out in the evenings?, Are you happy to dress very smartly, very attractively for me?.

And I’d blushed, and felt weird, but as he seemed so nice and smiley, so handsome and relaxed, and since I really wanted the job— more so since I’d seen the workplace— a beautifully converted loft penthouse in the historic downtown, rugged old cast iron columns and slick smooth modern interiors, the styles perfectly melded, lots of light too, and a very nice work space, with a view over the river and a smart new computer with a huge screen. The only negative was the bleak, hard face of the general assistant of his law firm, Ms Coldstone, her name suiting her, as she did not smile at all as she showed me up to the top floor from the law office below— only moved her lips into an approximation of something that might have been called a grimace.

But actually, the answers just flowed from me— I was happy to tell him, to reassure him that I would be focused on him— No, No and Yes (with regard to the last, I’d already seen in the job specification that there was a clothing allowance).

The thing is, I liked him too; not like that at first, but just as a person; he was open and friendly, and not all all intimidating, as I’d expected him to be, the famous author who was also the preeminent lawyer in this small Eastern Ohio county.

The job was to be his literary assistant, but I hoped it would help that I had a law degree and an English masters, which I’d taken at the same time, so that I met the minimum qualifications for the job at only 23. My lack of experience might count against me, but I was prepared to work for very little.

The reason the first two questions were easy was because I had travelled to the interview from my parents place in Mountain Home, Arkansas, where I’d been forced to return after school for lack of work. I didn’t know anyone at all in Ohio, let alone this small town.

I was back home because I’d refused to take on anything that I wasn’t enthusiastic about, and nothing had come up, apart from a poorly-paid job with a sleazy old professor of mine who had made it sort of clear what the job really was, and I’d run away home.

Only six days back in Arkansas though had made it very clear that there was no place in my home town for me any more, with my mom suggesting the Piggly-Wiggly might be hiring, which made me scream. This was the first interview, and the first job I’d really wanted, for a long time; I was really not about to make a fuss over some friendly if intrusive questions.

Indeed I was more worried about the outfit I’d chosen— was it too obvious? not obvious enough? It was impossible to know. His eyes had never strayed to my cleavage, or my legs, but that was probably more about me than my skirt or the button I’d not done up on the blouse. Such a minefield, for me, getting that sort of thing right.

And he was direct later, too, negotiating the reduction in the advertised salary I’d been expecting on account of my youth and lack of experience, but in such a way that I found myself liking him more. I would be penniless, need to live on beans and rice, but I’d get to work with him.

He asked me home to dinner, to meet his wife, Knarik (I kid you not— that is her name; I found out later she is Armenian, though that is the least important thing about her), and that made me feel even more safe— until I met her, that is. She was cool and impervious— she smiled, and everything she said and did was just as it ought to be, but there was something hard and cold in her eyes.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to be working with her, and when he announced, after the dinner, sitting in the lounge, with Knarik looking on, cool and unspeaking, that he would hire me, I was overjoyed and frankly a little pathetic in my emotional thanks, but I didn’t care, so pleased was I. He insisted I stay (in a guest annex, an old converted workshop— very cool) and he put me on the Trailways in the morning on the way into town.

And indeed I hardly saw her once I was working. I stayed at the homey little town inn for a few weeks, until a small apartment was found for me— by Ms Coldstone in fact— only ten minutes walk from the office, and everything was wonderful, really. It was drab and cold and uncomfortable, but cheap.

Mostly, I was on my own, while he worked downstairs, but he reserved two afternoons a week for writing, during which I kept him supplied with tea and occasionally helped him with research of one sort or another, and one morning a week for his literary correspondence and other non lawyering affairs. He generated plenty of work for me to do, alongside the main job, which was to organise and index his archive.

Two nights a week he came upstairs and we worked late on plotting and structure— his novels were complex, but at the same time, everything was very plain and ordinary— the cruel binds his characters ended up in not the result of twisted evil or greed, but simple life circumstances— ordinary people caught up in odd coincidences which caused them to become extraordinary. This took a lot of work to get right, and a fair bit of research, and my great joy was that I had begun to feel I was at least some help with that, more than simply serving him with whiskey. Another night a week he held a poker game on the top floor, to which I was very much not invited— Ms. Coldstone made sure I left on time.

I had one morning off per week in lieu of the evening hours, and we sometimes worked Saturday mornings, too. Honestly, I was happier in the office, than in my apartment, even when I was alone with his papers. Being with him quickly became my happiness, though.

His writing career had blown up seven years before, when he’d been 37, after a crime drama set in the Ozarks which he’d written over four years was a first novel sensation, then made into a Netflix series, and he now worked to produce a new book each year. There was a ton of papers in boxes and crates and filing cabinets, and I was working through them when I wasn’t doing more pressing work or attending on him.

He was only a little younger than my father, but it didn’t seem that way— he was dynamic, intelligent, interested, vigorous where my father was dour, grey and dyspeptic, with a perpetual smokers cough.

After three months I convinced myself that I had fallen in love with him, in a stupid, weak way that I knew made no sense.

But who says love needs to make sense?

There was nothing from him which had provoked this— no ‘behaviour’, nothing apart from him being himself; a decent, honest, smart and drily humorous man who was— very simply— impressive. Serious most of the time, when his smile broke it made my heart tremble. Yes, it was a crush, and I knew it, but it was a crush I had no desire to crush. I loved looking after him, paid minute attention to him, hopefully without being too obvious, and so learned all sorts of things which I could use to make his life better. If he noticed these, he hardly showed it, beyond polite thank you’s.

I paid especial attention on the rare occasions when he noticed what I was wearing, and quickly discovered that shorter skirts and higher heels caught his eye. I felt quite self-conscious about it, but the pleasure I got from making his eyes stray to my body was worth it, even if it was infrequent.

He took me for granted, really, but his manners were so good that it felt as if he knew me.

Then, one evening, as he sat back in his chair, me on the high stool that was my usual seat in his large study/office, me assuming we were about to discuss the plan of work as he did at the start of every session, he looked up at me, very directly, and said, perfectly naturally;

“I need to tell you something; Knarik and I had a conversation this weekend, and as a result, I’m going to start fucking you, from today— very soon in fact. I’ll be rough and demanding and I’ll hurt you, too; I enjoy hurting lovely young women, taking you past your limits. You’ll spend the evenings naked, and I’ll take you when I wish, whether you like it or not. I’ll force you; rape you if I have to. I’ll have you over to the cabin at other times, where you’ll be naked all the time and you can scream all you want. You’ll be discreet otherwise.”

“I see you’re shocked— of course you are…”

His manner was completely normal— he had said these astonishing things in just the same tone he would have discussing any other work plan, and he was smiling at me now, as I tried to understand what was going on, tried to control my body, which was going off in three different directions at once— fear and escape, a bubble of joy, and an enormous problem of how I could be, right then, in that room, with a man who had just said those words to me, why I wasn’t screaming at him…

‘Shocked’ was the understatement of the century— I was poleaxed, cast into turmoil (which, I would discover, was never, ever to be resolved) utterly ruined, just by him saying those few words. In hindsight it’s obvious that, whatever I thought I was doing, I was already his, so weak and unprepared, so vulnerable was I, to an assault like that.

For it was an assault, a calculated psychological assault on a young and innocent woman, and my Lord and Master is an evil man— a monster to have done this to me, in his infinite kindness to my worthless self (he calls himself Monster on occasion, without being at all ironic; he knows what he has done to me). I am in the hands of a Very Bad Man, and he has ruined me, and I, a pathetic, helpless wanton— I am nothing but weakly, humbly, passionately grateful to him.

I know this now, but at that point I was incapable of mounting any reaction at all it seemed, so confused was I by my own confusion (it should have been so simple to cry out in rejection of such infamy; but it was not easy, not at all— and in that difficulty lay his inevitable and obvious victory over sanity).

It seemed, though, that I might not need to respond, for he continued smoothly on, as calmly controlling of the moment as always, while my body flushed and froze, melted and quivered, as tears prickled my eyes and my nipples tightened as never before, my throat closed up tight, heart pounding. I was grateful to him for not requiring a response— defeated already, do you see?

“You may of course choose to leave. Indeed you should leave! What I propose is vile and abusive and horrific. My assumption, though, is that you’ll stay, since you are clearly at least half wanting something like this, whether you know it or not.”

“In the case that I am wrong— and I will be happy to be wrong, my dear, since you truly are a wonderful flower in bud, and letting me use you as I wish to use you will certainly prevent your blooming as you promise to, since I’ll ruin you, absolutely. Still, as I say, I believe you will be unable to leave. To encourage you to do so, let me tell you that I’ll provide 6 months severance pay and a moving grant, too, if you do.”

He left a long pause then, during which I could do no more than tremble, in a frantic stasis, filled with urgency, but unable to actually do anything— to even speak.

“However, since as I say, I anticipate you staying, and since you seem to be rooted to the spot, I’ll give you some more information which will be important to you if you do not prove to be sensible.”

“This will not, of course, be any sort of relationship— you’ll be a whore, selfishly and violently abused, little more than a sexual amusement— but there will be a substantial pay-rise and a new contract which makes all clear. I’ll be an abuser; very demanding; sexually and physically violent with you, and there will be a destructive regime of corporal discipline, too, so that you will often be in real pain, which will also, I am sure, bring with it much humiliation and shame. But the hardest thing to come to terms with, actually, will be the extent to which you respond; how easy you find it to give yourself over to the intensity, the brutally simple reality of it; how quickly you will give in to that part of you which wants it, which wants more, even.”

“I imagine that this will take some time for you to digest, so what we’re going to do now is go over the road to the diner, and have an early supper, and perhaps a little glass of spirits for you, in a public place where you can feel safe from molestation— not that anything like that is on the cards, I assure you, absent your full and signed consent to these arrangements.”

“When we come back, though, you’ll strip, then sign, and then I’ll introduce you to the riding crop, and give you a test-run, see how skilled and responsive you can be; after that, you’ll be mine, and you’ll find yourself helplessly responsive and wiling to please, and powerless to resist in any case.”

And that… that is what happened. In exactly that order; all of it.

Almost especially, the part which he had said would be hardest to take; my own eager complicity in his abuse of me; how quickly it becase the most important thing about me— that I was his; his to hurt and fuck as he chose— how fiercely determined I was that he should continue wish to hurt me, wish to fuck me, as often as possible.

Shell-shocked, speechless, I allowed him to help me into my coat, then guide me, gentlemanly as always, by the elbow, into the rickety old elevator and across the street, me walking like an automaton, cheeks burning, heart thudding, knees like jelly— I was terribly glad of his hand, his support, no matter that accepting his touch made me squirm. He had brought something with him, and he showed it me— a long, stiff, leather crop, of the kind that a hunter would use on his mount; well worn; utterly normal and ordinary in itself; deeply disturbing in the context of what he had been saying to me. He hung it on a large hook in the elevator.

“You’ll learn what this really means very soon now, pretty girl.”

And, bizarrely, I was exultant, alongside the fear and the deep disturbance to my self-respect. He wanted me, no matter the awful words, he wanted me— had called me wonderful, pretty, lovely. He wanted to fuck me. Fuck me hard. I wanted to have him do this to me, I knew. Abusive as it might be, I wanted it.

I wanted him sexually, I wanted to please him, I could not bear to be without him, I was wet between the legs.

At the same time, I was terrified, I did not know how I was going to live with myself having let a man— especially him— speak to me that way, make such enormous presumptions about me, and let them be true.

I had never, in my wildest dreams, thought that the word ‘whore’ was going to have any relevance at all to my life.

But all this was private in my mind. There was no way any of it could actually be known to him — I would die of shame.

Maybe … maybe, if I was totally passive, limp, he would just just do all those terrible things to me, and I … I would suffer them, and … and that would be the cost of being with him, terrible as it might be, and I would pay it, just to be with him…

Anyway, he was probably exaggerating wildly— he couldn’t— couldn’t really do anything like what he’d said to a young woman employee— it … well, it would ruin him!

In any case, sitting in the diner with him, it was all I could do to look even approximately normal— for I was consumed by a horrible certainty that everyone there knew what was going on with us, could somehow see my shame, how weak and disgusting I was, that I was going to let him do this to me; that I would let him make me trash.

But I could not look at him, could not actually move, staring at the menu the girl had brought, unseeing, my hands working on the seat either side of me. It took all I had to manage my breathing. I knew my chest was heaving at random intervals, whenever a gust of emotion shook me, and knew my breasts were moving, obvious, and hated myself for knowing it, for knowing that he could see it, for being happy that he would see me like that, see that I was weak for him.

But still, I could not look at him.

It seemed to last forever, that breathless, trapped moment— I have no idea how long it really was, but I do know that he was patient, that I had no sense at all that he was dismayed, or irritated, or wished to hurry me.

If anything, it seemed that he was deeply interested; almost, that he was fascinated. It was almost as if … as if he loved me, in that moment, and indeed, I have come to love such moments myself, when my distress— always controlled (as it must always be, for him, for this is what he has told me)— my distress is so intense that I think I might die, but nevertheless I hold myself for him, for his eyes on me, feeling myself being destroyed while he watches, fascinated, entertained, his cock hard for the inevitable violence of his ravishment, which will destroy me all over again. The cool, cruel destruction before the rough, brutal destruction. I don’t know which I need more, anymore.

Gods but I am lost in him. So helplessly, dangerously, hopelessly lost in him, feeling, with terror, with existential dread, the inevitable lessening of his fascination as he finds that he has plumbed whatever shallow depths a 22 year old innocent might have, so thoroughly debauched is she, all her reserve shredded from her, without the smallest mystery remaining; as my despair, my disintegration becomes ever more complete, ever less novel, ever less poignant, ever more tawdry, the day when he will pass me on to some fat old fool he wishes to owe him something; to the days when I will serve the fat old fool with desperate eagerness, since such service well be all I will have to remind me of what is possible through degradation. Degradation with His eyes on me. The most terrible, the most agonising, the sweetest, most addictive torment in the small universe of my existence, which is everything to me, all I have left.

Oh, how hard it is not to lose myself in this foreknowledge of my abandonment, of the pain and damage it will wreak on my already ruined psyche.

It is almost funny; I can almost laugh at my poor, pathetic self. A laughter filled with derision for the silly, stupid, weak little slut sitting in the diner, her legs together, thighs clamped together, thinking she had anything, any rights to the guiltily slick slot between those trembling thighs, the nipples that were so shockingly tender and tight under her prim little brassiere, to that throat which was also tight, clenched, convulsively swallowing, which so soon would be convulsively spasming, invaded by his thick, hard cock, choking her, filling her, raping her face; such an astonishing experience, every time, impossible to get used to, only the knowledge that it has been survived before, that he gets great satisfaction from doing it to me making it possible to survive it again, to perform for him each as beautifully, with as much servility as I can muster.

Oh how I despise that me for not having the strength to stand and leave. How I love her for her weakness, which ensured that I could be as I am now, naked, pierced, tattooed, chained, enslaved, nameless, disposable; His. How I am so permanently eager to be raped (since it is my only meaning, my only means of knowing I am worth anything at all), aching with the knowledge that it has been days since he has looked at me, let alone taken me, hurt me, even; writing this for his entertainment, hoping it will be what he wants.

He: my lord, my master, my god, my monster, my Godzilla, burning me in his fire, devouring me alive, my destruction not any act of deep care or attention on his part, not a sign of any significance of myself, but more a natural side effect of him being himself.

Thank you, Sir. This whore thanks you, and begs you, most humbly, for the mercy of your unrestrained attention.

I apologise for this digression, and take us back to my former self, trembling in the diner, unable even to face him, held by his patience, his calm assurance that she was his.

Eventually, I looked up; I had exhausted my reserves, was at point non-plus, nowhere to go. Stupidly, he was the person I most wanted, most trusted, to help me with this impossible choice.

But it was true, and, I had no-one else and I needed him and I showed him with my eyes that I did, trembling with my weakness, my desperation, and he laughed at me then; not unkind, not all all, but at the same genuinely, almost boyishly entertained to see such weakness, such neediness in me.

He reached out and briefly touched my jawline— not loverlike at all, for we were in the diner where we had had so many working suppers, but it was almost the first time he had properly touched me and I swooned for him, reviling myself for my weakness, by my betrayal of myself to him, but equally overjoyed that he might see just how he could affect me, just with a little touch.

“Oh my, pretty, such a sweet bind to be in, to have no-one to turn to for advice but the man who intends to debauch you.”

And I trembled, and winced, but said nothing; could not speak. Honestly, I have hardly spoken to him since, outside of work conversations, which now seem to be over since he hired the pretty redhead, who intimidates me with her cheerful smartness. I cannot wait to see her humbled, defiled, raped, degraded in her turn. Cannot bear the possibility that he might not intend such a fate for her. That he might actually respect her.

But then I hug myself, for if he does, she will never know the astonishing wonder of being utterly helpless, under his casual, cruelly absolute command. Of looking at her own sex, her own breasts, her own mouth and knowing that these are not at all hers, but his, in all respects that matter.

“The thing is, pretty girl, that you do not, in fact, need any advice, for you have already chosen; chosen with your body, at least— and of course the mind of a girl like you is absolutely the creature of the body it inhabits.”

“You are already mine. There is nothing at all to worry about, no difficult choice to make. I am your answer, and I will always be your answer, and you won’t have to ask, merely wait to discover what it is I have ordained for you. You are simply suffering from the brutal pace of the change I am forcing onto you; if it helps— and it certainly will, in retrospect, if I understand you as well as I am sure that I do— you will eventually find that you can take some solace from that.”

The waitress came then, and he ordered the special for both of them, along with the promised shot of whiskey, and I found myself wanting him to look at me, look at my breasts, and realised that I had been sitting, slumped, like a dull little student girl and, ashamed, knowing that he must see what I was doing, but determined neverthless— non-negotiable— I reset my position, straightened my back, set my shoulders and then, because it seemed necessary, even though it was not visible to him, I— trembling with it— opened my legs a litle way; I pushed my chest forward, and blushed, feeling the heat of my cheeks.

He laughed, softly;

“Oh my, pretty, you are indeed mine already, and working to play your part— to offer my your sweetness, for me to use. Asking me to use you. It’s delightful, and you will reap the whirlwind, I can promise you.”

This did not just melt me, but set me alive with a soft but engulfing flame, which only intensified as he continued to say astonishing, appalling, wonderful things to me;

“You are even more beautiful, more desirable, now that there is fear and shame in your eyes. love is so insipid. Helpless vulnerability to exesses that will ruin you is is infinitely more interesting. You are stronger than you know, my dear. This is excellent; you will last quite a while, I imagine, and I will be able to be very free with you. This is good.”

How could he say such things to me?

How could I experience them with such lust, such helplessly emotionally soaring responsiveness, when the import of every word was revolting?

I simply trembled for him, mostly unable to look at him, occasionally possessed by the need to look up, only able to stand meeting his eyes for a half second before lowering mine again.

I experienced my sense of self diminishing in real time; felt myself becoming weaker and weaker, more and more needy, his dominion over me establishing itself minute by minute every more inevitably. it was remarkable; terrible and glorious, horrifying and arousing.

We ate the meatloaf— well he did. I mostly stared at mine, or, unseeing, out of the window, and occasionally at him, when he would always meet my eyes, directly, give a firm, not-in-the-very-least sleazy smile, give me a confidence boosting nod, affirming me as I wrestled. It was appalling, that he knew he had me, and at the same time immensely welcome. Quickly, his astonishing proclamation began to feel like a big soft airbed that I was just going to collapse into, be engulfed by, and loose my footing forever.

For I had nothing else going on inside me. Nothing. Nothing but him and what he wanted of me, what he would take from me; how it would feel to be taken like that; how incredible it was that he had chosen me.

I tried— I really did— tried to be outraged, angry, get up some feminist anger at his patriarchal assumptions, his patronising maner, his calm presumption.

But it was all paper thin, and I know it, and the paper soon caught fire from the heat in me, and the wisps of ash crumbled and left me, more naked than before, with even less belief in any other reality than his.

He was going to fuck me. I was going to be naked for him, often, he was going to fuck me whenever he wanted, and even the words ‘riding crop’ seemed to have some level of excitement about them— not that I had ever had the slightest interest in being hurt during sex in all my life.

There was, at that thought, a little resurgence in me, and I heard myself say— entirely without anger, my voice indeed filled with awe and wonder, but serious too, as I said;

“You … you ask this this of me. You can’t; I’m … I’m just a girl, and you … you’re my boss, and you … you need your reputation, and … You can’t. You can’t say those things.”

I looked up then, and held his gaze for a little while, again without anger, or fierceness, powered solely by the sincerity of the thought I had expressed.

And he took me seriously, although his smile never dimmed, only softened, twisted a little, wry, entertained;

“Well of course, from many perspectives, you are almost certainly correct, pretty girl…”

Oh how delicious it was to be called pretty, in that casual way; how belittling, how the paradox made my heart thump, my groin surge.

“… but you see, in the only way that really matters, I have already said it. Said it out loud, said it seriously, sincerely, unambiguously, with the full commitment of my will and intent to carry it through. The thing that cannot happen, in reality, is that you will resist me.”

“That’s the problem so many people have with the Law; they think it has some reality about it, some status alongside the laws of nature, even, when in fact every legal position is just a bargaining chip, and a relatively weak one, too, alongside other sources of chips; money, rank, force of will, social pressure, that sort of thing; and of course, the ultimate source; naked power.”

“I know, from reading a couple of your papers, that you understand what I just said from a purely intellectual position; today, you will learn how to understand it with your naked, vulnerable pussy, with the soft skin of your inner thighs, your lovely tits, your trembling throat, as I handle you, as I command you, as I hurt you, as I invade you; take full possession of you. An important lesson, I feel, for anyone with ambition in the legal profession.”

I couldn’t look down, after that, but instead watched him as he ate, fixated, fascinated, almost empty of thoughts; filled, softly paralysed with a disabling field of deliciously discomforting, tingling energy, as if he had cast some sort of magic spell on me, my body rehearsing those words with breathless anticipation; handle you, command you, hurt you, invade you, take possession of you.

He was going to do those things to me, and I was going to be helpless; and he would find the dreadful, hungry wetness between my legs, and know that I was weak for him, and I would be finished.

How little did I know about the impossibility of ever being ‘finished’ in that way; how each day I am conquered, all over again, how deeply I experience it; how dreadful, how delirious it can be; how grinding, how destructive, how exhilarating, how terrifying, how painful, how transcendentally liberating, how endlessly fascinating…

And then he was done, having eaten as heartily as ever, and he had watched me as at his gentle but impossible to resist suggestion I knocked back the whiskey (something I rarely drank) while he ate his slice of cherry pie.

And then, appallingly inevitable, it was time to go back to the office, and it was lovely, truly lovely, to have him, gentlemanly as always, take my chair for me, softly support my elbow as I stood, usher me gently out into the street, saying such normal, everyday things to the waitress about the chances of the high school team in the ice hockey game on Friday night as we left, people in the place with looks and smiles for him, all so wholesome, oblivious to what had passed between us in front of them, the difference between me and them so stark; as I understand it so clearly now; them people, me just a well-used, over-eager whore.

The cool air, though, the view of hills in the distance, the waning sun, somehow revived me as myself, and, on the pavement outside the office, I managed to take a couple of steps back, away, distancing myself from him. One last stand;

“I … I can’t do this; I … I must go, now. I’ll … I’ll see you in the morning, to, to fetch my … "

My voice petered out. He was as interested as ever, as entertained, as soft and unhurried in his demeanour;

The word almost flowed from him, rather than him saying it, as his smile became beautiful in its serenity; “Perfect.”

And my knees all but gave way at how much it hurt to know that I was going to leave him.

Then; “This is proving to be rather something. Thank you, thank you, lovely girl.”

Which was all it took to reveal the truth; his truth; that the only point of that little resistance was to use it up, to prove to myself that I was lost, as, after a few endless moments, at the simplest, most undemanding move of his hand, I accepted his invitation to go back inside, a flood of relief letting me breathe once again, even as my heart started banging in my chest like a drum.