"...did you hate it so much?"
He was laughing at me, and in the end I had to laugh too, even though I had, truly, hated it; I was blushing hard at the same time; caught by the usual trap Jason had me in - simultaneously ashamed of how I was with him, and excited by it.
"Yes - yes, I did hate it! You were so busy talking to all sorts of people I don't know, and ... and your uncle - or whoever he is -kept talking to me, and smiling at me, only he wasn't really talking to me - he was just ... just ... looking at me.!"
I giggled again, hating myself for being so pathetically weak, girly; feeling stupid, foolish, the blush rising to my cheeks as so often when I was around Jason, wondering for the millionth time why I couldn't keep away from him.
"Looking at you? Oh! You mean looking at your tits, looking at your legs - as if he was thinking about fucking you?"
I blushed again - but that was exactly how it had been - the lecherous old goat, he had been blatantly undressing me with his eyes, and utterly unabashed when I caught his eye - he had smiled a little, hard and cool, eyes mocking me, shameless - insulting, even.
Of course, I was wearing the tiny minidress that Jason had insisted on, with the low-cut front, so that I could hardly be surprised I was being ogled - since getting together with Jason, since he had begun to be so clear about what clothes he liked me to wear when I was with him, I had developed a complicated relationship with dressing to look sexy - which I had realised was just what Jason wanted - he wanted me to feel sexy, but not in a 'girl-power' kind of way - quite the opposite.
On the one hand, I was amazed and excited; happy in a way I had never expected to be, to feel sexually attractive in such a straightforward way. Matters of appearance and sexuality had always seemed frightening and complex to me, and my confidence was low, so that I had tended to dress conservatively - pretty, stylish, perhaps, when I put myself to it, but sexy - never.
Jason had changed all that. On the one hand by telling me I was lovely, and sexy, that he liked my tits, that I had great legs, a sexy mouth, he had shocked me, but also made a small warm glow inside me - an alpha male type like him, with a string of other girls - he thought I was sexy, sexually attractive! And on the other hand, by being pretty damning of clothes he didn't think contributed to that sexiness. Once he realised the extent of my lack of confidence in what would work, he took over completely, taking me shopping, choosing things for me, having me do little parades in his flat, ruthlessly making me return or throw away things that he didn't like, getting me to buy smaller sizes for a tighter fit. Anything I decided that he would like, he would reject - even if what he selected in the end was almost the same.
My choice in clothing was increasingly governed by what he liked, and I needed his approval, while my own confidence shrank - I liked the warm glow, knew that when he dressed me I got looks and attention (even if his praise was always in such crudely sexual terminology; 'great tits to get your hands on', ' those thighs make me think about spreading them', 'your lips are a public incitement to thinking about blowjobs' - how could he be so rude and get away with it?), and felt more and more dependent on his help in choosing. He actually had great taste and although I was more and more dressed to excite sexual interest, it was never boringly tarty - there was always style and subtlety - so my dependence on him grew again.
The downside, of course, was that I had never had the practice other girls had of coping with being looked at as a sex object. Don't get me wrong - I liked it; in complicated ways, I liked it a great deal - but I couldn't take it for granted.
It always, always had a great effect on me - I would feel that warm glow, I would feel my heart rate increase, I would become very self-conscious, I would feel as if I was almost naked - that the man could see my breasts, see between my legs, see my buttocks. I was never sure whether to flaunt myself more, or shrink away from the attention. I felt I should do the latter, yet I often did the former; pretending not to notice the man, I would nevertheless move so that my cleavage, or thighs, or arse would be presented more obviously, my heart pattering, skin tingling, until my nerve failed (which it was usually pretty quickly) and I made a swift exit.
All these things made me squirm with embarrassment. Was I a tart, or just enjoying feeling beautiful? How could feeling so much better about myself be bad? But how could objectifying myself, encouraging men in their tendency to look only at the outsides of women in terms of sexual attractiveness, how could this be good?
It was a good job I had Jason, really - when I was with him, he would tell me what he wanted, more often than not. And when I wasn't with him - which was most of the time, I could revert to the staid, sensible college-girl grown-up style that went with my old self, even if I was less and less happy with that self.
But this old guy at the party! He was so cool, so brazen, so ... impersonal. He didn't grin like a younger man, or smile like a practised flirt, or look embarrassed like a male version of my old self would. He just looked me over, calm, happy, enjoying himself, a faint smile his only expression. I had become twitchy at first, then as I tried and failed to get any righteous anger going (a common occurrence when in humiliating situations initiated by Jason), I began to feel somehow frightened - even though he never moved toward me, and it was such a genteel evening affair...
"Yes - he ... he was!"
"And don't you like him?"
"Well - I suppose ... no - no, I didn't! And anyway he's ..."
"Old enough to be your father?"
He laughed again, and I blushed again. That was another thing - for someone as articulate as I was supposed to be, I became ridiculously tongue-tied around Jason, talking in cliches, stumbling over my words. Too busy thinking about whether he liked the way my breasts look in this top, whether I walked better in the high heels today, after all that practice in my room last weekend. Too busy wondering if he would fuck me in the mouth again this afternoon (would we ever have normal sex again?), or whether he would just stand up when he had finished his coffee, and say goodbye, without so much as a peck on the cheek.
Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn't I tell him I was finished with his games? He has told me often enough he's easy to get rid of - 'Easy! Say no to me when I ask you to do something; you won't get any argument - I'll just go - there are plenty of others begging for it - you know that'. Just getting close to the point where he might say that to me, though, has me apologising to him, looking for something I can do to show him how eager I am - opening my blouse, lifting my skirt, going to my knees...
"He's not really my uncle, by the way - more an old family friend. He does like pretty young girls with long legs and good tits. He likes you - your body, at least. He likes to hear about what I do to you - how easy you are."
I look up, shocked; horrified, really;
