This piece was prompted by a comment I saw by Erozzeta on the forums. It's an attempt to describe, in detail, how a man thinks and feels as he is forced to masturbate in front of a female friend.
Plenty of visuals though. No stinting on that.
If you like, you can imagine the dialogue in a British accent.
Thanks -
GuiltyCowboy
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I'd known Nathalie since our first year at university. Whenever I described her to anyone, I'd say she was a cross between Sophia Loren and Ingrid Bergman. It was a pretty accurate description, if you can imagine that. She spoke like Ingrid Bergman and looked like Sophia Loren. She also - let's cut to the chase - had the breasts of Sophia Loren. And that's what I was essentially communicating when I said she was a mix of those two women. There was a reason I didn't just say 'yeah, you know the one: big tits, foreign accent.' And that's because Nathalie was a friend, a good friend in fact.
I had a proper affection for her. We had studied French and Spanish together. I noticed her because she had flawless olive skin, like Sophia Loren in fact, and was slim, with slender upper arms. You couldn't really not notice her. But then I saw she took a genuine delight in laughing. And I liked that especially. And she had a strong European sensibility - an ineffable chic, one might say. And she loved being teased about it. In short, she was lovely.
The funny thing, though, is that Nathalie was actually from Hertfordshire. Just outside South Mimms. A town most famous for being a so-called welcome break on the A1. 'Sixty-two minutes from Notting Hill', she used to say. I'm not sure the real Ingrid Bergman or Sophia Loren had ever been within 10 miles of the place. She'd been sent away to a boarding school near Lausanne as a teenager, though, and so all her friends were from places like Malta and Colombia and Indonesia. And that's why she spoke with a foreign accent. As for her breasts, who knows? There must be something about the tap water in South Mimms.
So, she was lovely. And she seemed a bit mysterious, though she really wasn't.
If Peter Sarstedt had written a song about her, he'd have had to swap the back streets of Naples for the golf courses of London's commuter belt, and the Aga Khan's racehorse for a Ginsters sausage roll. You get the picture.
So, Nathalie and I had been friends for several years. And she had had a boyfriend throughout the entire period. The one time she was single was during our year abroad, when she was in Paris and I was back in the UK. She'd broken up with her boyfriend and immediately met a French guy from the seventh arrondissement, heir to some of the most significant vineyards in Burgundy. And I'm really sorry to say this but: the guy was actually pretty decent. They were a sweet couple.
Thanks to that annoying ineffable European style, I had never seen Nathalie get drunk and flash her tits, or snog someone in the corner of a grotty nightclub, or lose a bet about kissing another girl for the viewing pleasure of a gurning man-child. Other girls did that, not Nathalie. She'd laugh about that stuff, throwing her head back in joy when she heard the stories, but she'd never do it herself.
Anyway, we were in our mid-twenties and trying to make a life for ourselves in London. Nathalie had managed to get a job in an advertising agency - the office was just north of Charlotte Street - and when she heard that a new job was opening up, she gave me the heads-up, plus all the details I'd need to stand out in the crowd. I got the job. That's because I look the part, and sound the part. It's amazing what you can get away with when you're 5'11", have a moderately deep voice, and know how often to use shampoo.
Now, I have absolutely no interest in advertising. I just needed to get my foot in the door somewhere, earn a little cash, put a line on the CV. And it would be super fun having a friend like Nathalie to hang out with at work. It was a bit like being at school, if I'm honest. Most of us were a bunch of mildly intelligent kids who liked a bit of mischief every now and then, and hanging out and chatting about nonsense over a Pret sandwich at lunch. And our boss was like an incredibly intimidating headmistress. She knew everything, was 15 steps ahead of anyone else, had seen it all before, knew your weaknesses, your greatest fears, controlled your life, she knew it, you knew it, and was hugely respected in the industry. She was in her mid-fifties, married, divorced, no kids. She basically operated on a level of power that most people didn't even know existed. She was terrifying. She ate smirking young men like me for breakfast; she probably sprinkled them on her cornflakes.
One Thursday afternoon, I was called into a small corner office by her. That was highly irregular. There was absolutely no reason for a private conversation with her. None that I could see. What had I done? What could possibly be said by someone like her to someone like me on a random Thursday afternoon? I had been trundling along just fine, keeping my nose clean. I didn't want to have a meeting with my boss in the small corner office. Nothing good would come of this: I was either in trouble or she was going to give me more work.
When I closed the door, Nathalie was sitting at the small table in the centre of the room. Our boss - actually, she has a name; it's Freya - Freya, our boss, was sort of leaning back against the windowsill, perched there like a bird of prey, an eagle with her arms crossed. I remember thinking, in that exact moment, whether a woman's arms cross above, on, or below their breasts when they cross their arms and whether the breasts sort of get in the way. I'm not actually very good at my job.
"Hi, hi," I said.
Nathalie smiled, Freya simply said "You'll want to close the door."
"Yup, sure." I closed it and then spun on the spot and stood there by the door. Why would I want to close it, I thought. A bit ominous. My feelings about that door were entirely ambivalent.
"This is a test," she went on in her matter-of-fact way. "Don't ask me to explain it because I won't. Is that clear? It's not for you to know."
Nathalie and I looked at each other. She gave me a look as if to say, 'I haven't got a clue'. I returned the look with a barely perceptible shrug.
"Is that clear? I asked you a question," Freya said, as if she was dealing with idiots she couldn't trust.
"Yes." "Yes." Both Nathalie and I quickly responded. Nathalie smiled discreetly, glanced at me again. Naughty schoolchildren in front of their headmistress.
"Right. This is what's going to happen. I won't beat about the bush. Nathalie, you're going to sit where you're sitting now and remove your shirt. And, Tom, you're going to stand on that side of the table and face Nathalie and masturbate until you ejaculate."
And then time sort of stopped still. Except it didn't because I was suddenly acutely aware of both the noise from the street and the sound of my own heart. My heart was incredibly fucking loud. It's a hot day, I thought, it's early July, and the sun is slanting in through the window and occupying its usual corner at this time of the afternoon. This is real. A police siren could be heard in the distance.
And then the penny dropped. Advertising execs are always pulling stunts like this. Oblique mind games, getting you to 'think outside the box', taking you 'out of your comfort zone'. Awful fucking phrases; I was subjected to them several times a week. It was always such pretentious bullshit. Like Ogilvy and his stupid matryoshka dolls - something every poor sod who entered the industry had to hear about at some stage. Though these things were normally pulled off with a little more flair, I have to say. More elan. Freya was losing her touch. Bloody hell I was relieved though.
And how dare she use us like this. What a twat.
"So this'll be for the Churchill Car Insurance account, I take it?" I said.
Levity is the way to go in situations like this. Facetiousness is a much-undervalued quality, I've always thought.
