Part 2.
Olga, Stanley.
"Yes, okay," she said. "I understand." She grabbed her dress, half-heartedly pulling it open at the chest. There was a silly stab of regret as she felt the soft silky fabric tear. The dress was from Paris – she remembered the expensive little designer shop in the Marais where John had bought it for her. She thought back to how she had turned left and right in the reflection of the mirror. She had blushed when he said it was a present.
The dark man scowled – the streetlamp carved ugly canyons into his face. He pushed her hesitant hand aside and ripped the silk all the way down until buttons flew and her bare, sticky thighs caught the breeze. It made her shiver. She squealed as he slapped her exposed tits – his nails scratching the flesh. She felt the stubbles of his chin on her tender throat. His teeth tore at her nipple. Her cheekbone bruised where he hit her. She doubled up and almost vomited as his fist pounded into the messy weakness of her vagina.
"Now move!" he said. He pushed her into the car and slammed the door shut. She fumbled with the keys. His fist pounded on the roof. "Go!" he growled. The clutch protested. Then the small blue car drove off into the night.
***
Olga Jensen was 18 when she came to the city – alone and determined. She was filled to overflowing with the recklessness of the truly innocent. She would conquer the world. But mostly she would show her parents, her boorish ex-boyfriend and all the awfully stuffy people in her small town. She would show them who she really was and shame the tall blonde girls who had looked down on her for as long as she could remember. She would have her revenge on the teachers who shook their heads as she plodded on from one meager grade to another.
She got off the bus and breathed deeply. She hoisted the back pack over her shoulders and gripped the handle of her suitcase. The city stood around her – taller than her sleepy hometown, louder too. There was energy in the air – it buzzed and droned around her. If she reached out, she could touch her future.
Exhilarating was the word.
She found the apartment that she would share with a friend's friend. Her room was dark and small and at the back of the house, but she didn't mind. She was here. She had made it and she would stun the world. But first she would start in the secretarial pool of a large international advertising agency. It would be dull work at a low pay. She was the new, provincial nobody. But she didn't care. She was free at last and everything was amazing. There was nobody here to tell her what to do or to belittle her. There was no one to hold her back.
The men at the office looked awesome in their tanned skins and their Armani power suits. Their faces were fashionably unshaven, straight from the latest glossy magazines. The women would be called whores back home, but here they couldn't care less in their tight outfits and killer heels. They shook their styled, hair and painted their fingernails as they laughed throaty, shameless laughs with very white, flashy teeth. And, most amazing, they talked to her, they even listened. They advised her on what to wear, how to look. And they invited her for drinks after work.
She was never a drinker, but now she drank till there was a delicious buzz in her ears. She shared the gossip and danced in loud whirlpools of disco music. She let herself be dazzled by the lights and walked the cobbled streets on uncertain legs. She had the time of her life.
From Olga's diary:
"Yes! Yes, yes! I did it. I'm here! And it is all I dreamt of. The freedom, the people. They see me, they hear me, they think I matter! I am one of them!"
On weekends the girls took her with them to the beach to drink white wine and get a tan. They flaunted their tits for beach bums with blonde streaks in their windblown hair. Olga kept on her bikini-top, insecure about her imperfect breasts. But she knew she shouldn't be a party poop when the inevitable joint made its rounds. Or when greedy hands felt her up after the sun had sunk into the sea.
She was fearless. She kissed in hidden corners. She made out on dance floors and in the dark corners of cinemas. She took the little pills that kept her safe and the other ones that made her feel invincible. She gave clumsy hand jobs and sloppy head. Three times now she had let a guy fuck her – twice in the back seat of a car, once very hastily in a rather dirty alley.
She wouldn't have woken up if it hadn't been for Melanie. Melanie was an older woman – really old. She must have been at least thirty-five and a close colleague of hers. She had salvaged Olga from the alley where she found her, drunk and dazed and fucked out. The next morning Olga woke up on a couch in Melanie's light, clean apartment. Over breakfast the woman had told her what had happened and she warned Olga what could happen if she continued her indiscriminate ways. It made the girl's bristles rise. Who needs new parents?
But after that she went out less often. She took courses and was promoted. She had allowed the magic of her new life to rush through her body and mind. And she was proud of herself for having turned back at the edge – not shied away, she told herself, but chosen to back off. She was a seasoned city dweller now, she told herself. She knew the ropes. She belonged.
***
The Friday night before Olga turned 21 her friends and colleagues took her into town to celebrate. It was the night that she met him. He stood in the gloomy back of a bar they had visited after dinner. He was darker than the darkness around him – except for his eyes and the spotlight of his smile.
From Olga's diary:
"He said his name. I hardly heard it. I presume I told him mine – who cares? I guess I giggled a lot. I must have acted like a fool, but it did not matter. My hands wanted to touch him. My fingers needed to feel the strong muscles of his bare upper arms, the moist silk of his generous lips. God, how I needed to feel his body against mine."
Olga never looked back for her friends. She had no eyes for their knowing smiles as they left her with the tall black man who so obviously made her forget the world around her. The last one to leave was Melanie and when she went out, she shook her head. "Call me tomorrow," she said. Olga didn't hear her.
They had not danced. She had not even drunk much. She just drowned, sucked in by his incredible eyes. His embrace felt sweet and natural. Her hard nipples pressed into his chest as if they belonged there – just as her trembling lips belonged on his, her tongue inside his mouth, her belly against his growing cock. There had been no hesitation, no reserve. She knew it was love, even though she had never felt it before.
She didn't remember leaving the bar or how they had come to this tiny room. She could not remember losing her blouse or her bra, her skirt and even her panties. But she remembered coming hard and long when his hand touched her naked pussy for the very first time. She arched her chest, feeling his soft greedy lips around her nipple. Just touching her had been enough to send her into a world she had never been before – and make her faint.
When she came around, she felt that he had entered her. His stone hard erection stretched her tight lips wider than ever. Her legs were spread and up against her body. He was in all the way, and he was fucking her, pushing the air out of her lungs. She wasn't Olga anymore – she knew she wasn't. She was just part of him, a tight glove to his fucking. The hard, deep pounding ripped her inside out each time he retracted. He was so big – her world turned around his axis.
She heard his grunting and whispering. His voice meandered around the moaning and the wailing she hardly recognized as her own. His words punctuated his breathing. "Whore," he said. "Sweet little whore. My darling sweet slut…oooh, fuck, yes….my white, tight fuck hole bitch…mmmmm."
She didn't mind the words – she hardly heard them. She just felt the huge piston slamming in and tearing out, taking her beyond hurt and pain into a world where she did not exist. Did she come? Oh yes, she did – over and over. She came so often that she never knew where one climax ended or another began. She just floated on a bed of lava – moaning, sighing until she lost her consciousness. Or was it her mind?
From Olga's diary:
"Am I insane? I must be. My head is exploding with emptiness. I can't think – not that I want to. I just want to be inside this cloud, floating away.
My body aches. My pussy, my poor titties, my…asshole. Oh God, what have I let him do to me? I don't ask. I just walk around smiling this wide, empty grin. I even smile as I wince.
I walk beside my body, admiring its sensuality. He created it, it is his. It stopped being mine. Am I insane? I must be."
***
Reality returned from beyond the furry darkness of sleep. It wasn't welcome, but it insisted. It took the shape of a ringing telephone. She had to clear her throat twice to get an audible "hello" out. Melanie asked her how she was. She said "fine". And she said " fine" and "fine" again when the voice didn't seem to go away. No, she did not want to meet her for coffee in the city. No, she was fine. No. No! She returned the phone to its cradle. She slumped onto the bed. Her hand crept into the hot, sticky hollow between her naked thighs. She moaned his name.
When the phone rang again, her heart leapt at the sound of the deep, male voice. "Yes," she whispered, and "yes" and "yes!" The chilliness fled her heart. She was whole again. The voice that tickled her ear made her juices flow. His easy laugh sent a rush of excitement up her throat. There was only one single thought in her head: he wanted to see her again. Her god hadn't abandoned her. He saved her from the yawning abyss of rejection.
They went to see a movie. She never saw what was on the screen. After that they had some food. She never tasted a bite. Then they went dancing. She never danced a step, unless you'd call rubbing yourself into a hard male body dancing. At last she found herself back in the tiny room. He fucked her on the mattress and over the back of a chair, against the wall, on the table and inside the narrow shower-stall. He fucked her in her mouth, in her pussy and in her asshole. She would gladly have torn open new holes for him had he asked her.
After she passed out and woke again, he was gone. She washed under the meager drip he called a shower. Then she collected her clothes, dressed and went looking for him. The house was a maze of unpainted corridors, narrow staircases and countless doors. At last she arrived at a space obviously used as a common kitchen. It looked dirty. The sinks were full of used plates and cups. The air smelled of stale food, cigarettes and alcohol. Two black men were sitting at a long table, smoking and watching television. She asked where her lover was. They shrugged. Then one said he saw him leave earlier. The other one looked her over – he gave her the creeps. She went back to the room, but after half an hour she decided to go home.
***
He never phoned her for two weeks. He didn't answer her calls on the number he gave her. He wasn't home when she went looking. She slowly sank into a swamp of despair.
