- This part has hardly any sexual content either. Reading the first two parts will help with making sense of it. -
*****
Opening my eyes from sleep the next morning, I am hazy from the intensity and disturbing perversity of the dreams I've been having, from nights of broken sleep -- but most of all by the bizarreness of waking up to process a reality stranger than dreams.
I have somehow accepted -- in my head at least (physically, nothing at all has changed; I've met him twice, he's hardly touched me) -- that I have given myself over to the perverse desires of a virtual stranger. That I am in some sense his.
The fact that I have experienced almost no inner resistance to this is bizarre in the extreme. Despite him having given me every reason to understand that I am welcome to reject this insanity (not to mention the freedom that £10K buys), the truth is that I haven't really given that option any serious consideration.
By some strange means, he has woven a spell on me that is so intense in its feeling, so raw in its fascination that my heart rate increases whenever I replay his words in my head (which is a fair proportion of my waking hours); my breathing gets deeper and slower, and I am filled with something that I can only call need, or desire, or yearning, or infatuation - it is as if I am fifteen again, crushing on the geography teacher.
Ridiculous; that sort of thing was harmless - nothing would ever really happen - that was the point of it, surely - rehearsing adult emotions without having to commit to anything?
But this, this is hyper-real - already I've jeopardised my job, which means earning a living (£10,000 of extra cash feels like wealth - but will only keep me going for four months at most if I stop earning).
And then, as I have done for days, I simply put a stop to it - stop thinking, stop questioning; just, stop. I'm going to the beautician's today, aren't I? He's got it all planned. I'm his.
I drift into drowsy meanderings of thought -- intertwining erotic imaginings and prospects of relaxing into a featherbed of wealth, luxury and idleness -- following the same path as I have been for days now.
But something is different. Something real. I have an appointment to be made-over -- somewhere they 'know what he likes'. I am either going to be changed to suit his preferences, or this will be over. Today.
And I'm up, showering, preparing myself meticulously, as if for a first date -- except that it's not like that -- it's not like that at all; I'm preparing myself, not to attract a man, I realise, wonderingly -- but to present a man's property in public in a way he would approve of.
And it changes everything. When I might have kept the blouse buttoned almost to the neck before, now I'm certain that he will want my cleavage to attract attention. Where I might have gone for the pretty bra, now I go for the extreme uplift one. Instead of the 'high enough to do something' heels, I'm wearing the punishing ones that are a half inch taller. The (much) shorter skirt -- even though (because?) it makes me feel vulnerable. Extra red lipstick. Stockings and suspenders, not tights, despite the faff.
And all these decisions are so much easier than anytime before. It's not up to me -- his choice rules. And somehow I know easily what that would be; at least I think I do - and that gives me confidence, clarity that I have never had. Life is simpler, I think to myself ... remarkable!
Looking at myself in the mirror -- again with a different eye -- I am highly critical, as if I were judging another girl who will be offered to him, wanting her to be worthy of his attention (as I so nearly had not been, that first time, on the Heath - such a strange memory, now). Again, it's easy; untuck the blouse, the bottom two buttons unfastened; the sleeves neatly rolled up to above the elbow -- really, I should have a sleeveless one that's a little more sheer, I decide, but this is the best I can do right now.
No, no jacket -- I'll use a clutch-purse, the smallest one.
And I'm in the street, hailing a cab, aware, now that I'm in public, that I'm giving off signals -- I see it in the driver's eyes. It's a shock. Everything has been in my head for days -- but now, here, looking at me, there's a real man, overweight, old, unshaven, grinning, liking what he sees and letting me know it. And we both know that he's right. I'm very obviously dressed to invite sexual appraisal. I have done this to myself; specifically, carefully, willingly.
I want to retreat, withdraw, cringe, fold my arms, protect myself -- I'm not used to this. It's frightening; every girl has to have developed some internal sense of where the boundary is between 'attractive' and 'looking to get herself into trouble', 'asking for it'. It doesn't matter where your boundary is; go beyond it and you'll feel it when a strange man grins at you like that.
But just as my hands start to come in, my shoulders hunch, my thighs tighten, something stops me. What if it was Him looking at me now -- looking at me like that? Should I cower, cringe, hide? I need to practice this, I think; let him look, let them all look. There was nothing to be frightened of -- I was his -- protected. They should look -- envy him, that he has me.
And I make myself straighten, loosen, shoulders back, stand still and let the man look, look me over, for a good three beats, giving him time, waiting...
Waiting for Him (I still don't know his name, do I? - the wonder pops into my head) -- only he's not here, so I'll wait for the driver, his surrogate (a man, interested in that about me which is sexually overt, in my willingness to advertise myself sexually - and thus, perhaps, make myself available - and not much else). And of course, the protection holds, and he drops his eyes, abashed -- my standing straight has told him, somehow, that I am out of his league, a sexually available woman whom he may not have -- another interesting new experience for me.
"Where to, luv?"
He watches me in the mirror, when he can, but he's furtive now, looking away if he thinks I've noticed. I force myself, though, to sit with my legs parted, rather than keeping my knees primly together -- my hands palms up on the seat, away from my thighs, not folded in my lap, my gaze unfocussed.
Strange how we all know these poses -- from fashion shoots, glamour shots. Before, I would have carefully avoided doing these things with my body; no-one talks about what they signify, but nevertheless, everyone understands the visual currency very well, so that these simple choices about how I sit, how I hold my body, are heavy with meaning.
Women call other women who act like this in normal life 'whores', but they buy the magazines which are filled with 'polite' versions of these poses (Vogue, Elle and the like), while decrying men who buy the 'rude' equivalents, and despising or envying women who act this way in public (which attitude depending mostly upon how expensive the woman's clothes and setting are). I would not have sat like this before (I see now), because what it means is -- 'I want you to think about fucking me'.
I know I'm not getting it just right, but I know what to try -- and also that I'll be looking at myself in the mirror again later, looking at fashion magazines, looking at porn too - seeing just how to get better at it.
But for now it is enough to get used to the feeling of sitting, alone in a moving car, with a strange man looking at me, and knowing that I want him to be thinking about fucking me.
These days, of course, it is my duty to do everything I can to make sure such a man actually does something about that thought -- 'When not otherwise instructed, your duty is to act in a way which you believe brings the strongest chance of inciting rape, of getting you fucked, and fucked hard; to present yourself as both vulnerable and sensuous, but with no overt evidence of desire on your part: remember; you are a servant of the desires of others -- your own wants and needs must be actively and continuously suppressed.' -- this is the standing order, repeated so often I know it by heart.
And it works. My metrics for penetrations not pre-planned by Him are notably high (penetrations are counted, recorded, discussed, statistics analysed -- not that the numbers really matter, but the practice does what it is intended to do -- eats into a girl's self-image, day after day, week after week, month after month -- 'I am valued for nothing but the number of fuckings my holes receive').
He boasts about these numbers to visitors. Even now, after so many fuckings, such frequent fuckings, this kind of explicit reference to my status can inspire real desolation, emotional distress, tears - so that it is hard to smile at the visitors who, on hearing these boasts, turn to stare at me. I am, of course, smiling, smiling because I am required to; smile shyly, sweetly, put out the tip of my tongue, bite my bottom lip - deploy all those tricks that make people think about the sexual availability of young women, that advertise vulnerability, helplessness in the face of desire, of strength, of will, of force, of violence...
So smile I do, whatever I am feeling inside (to be honest, these days, the presence of a strange man is all it takes for at least some of what I am feeling inside to be anticipation of being fucked, of being taken to that other place, where all doubt is removed in reality of being used so intimately, without the slightest intimacy); I make myself use all that experience to imagine just what it would take from a girl to incite this particular one to grab her by the hair, right there; throw her down onto the floor, force a cock into her mouth, her sex, her ass; would he be most immediately provoked by a desperate nymphomaniac? a shy and vulnerable innocent? a seductive siren? a terrified slavegirl? a helpless submissive? Whatever seems appropriate, I try to project just that invitation.
Again, I am apparently notably successful at this task. Am I proud of this? Not in the slightest; instead, I am deeply, deeply grateful for the approval that comes with being told this; the validation that this cunt is still useful. Soul-destroying, but also the best feeling ever.
It is a very particular experience, being excitedly ass-fucked by a stranger, to whom I have just been presented by Him; face down, ass up, on the cold stone flags of the main hall, stockings shredded, knees bruised from the force with which I've been dragged to the ground, dress ripped, the servants all in attendance, my tits swinging wildly (nipples grazing the ground, as I've been taught is proper), the stranger's own wife looking on, while I'm begging him softly to 'hurt me, hurt me -- please' (only partly because it has occurred to me that he is the type who will find this strongly arousing, mainly because I need this to be as much like a real violation as possible -- still unable quite to handle my own complicity in these outrages). It's the worst, when, in spite of myself, I am unable to suppress an orgasm. So disturbed am I by such experiences, that I often need to be restrained for days after. Wives, too, tend to be rather cruel, after incidents like these ...
