This will make much less sense if you haven't read the previous sections. They're more scenes than chapters, so parts are less stand-alone than you might expect.
I didn't expect that I would end up writing about how it is that I'm writing this, it just happened - and so the narrative thread will need to be picked up again, but it has been useful, I think.
I feel freer now, and somehow more vulnerable too - in a good way. Vulnerable to you, my reader.
I didn't imagine a reader, at the outset - I began writing in an attempt to make sense of myself, to myself, I think. But in explaining my writing at all, it becomes clear that, as someone wise once said, no-one ever really writes without imagining a reader, without wanting to be read.
It comes into my head that perhaps this is why my demons permit this writing life, this withdrawal from the world of fuckers. Maybe they understand that opening myself to anyone who happens to read this is another way of of me getting fucked. Maybe telling you all of this, making clear every detail of my innermost feelings, my shameful vulnerabilities, is a way of letting all of you fuck me, of opening myself to every fucker that can read. Maybe you're my fucker.
Maybe. Perhaps. I suppose that that is really up to you, not me. But that's how it is, how it has always been; it's never been up to me; If you want to, go ahead; you already know that I'm easy, that I'm weak, that I'm open.
-----
As for my first fucker, Sir James, he had not finished with me that night; smiling, standing over me, kneeling naked at his feet, still breathing hard and brokenly from the twin effects of breath deprivation and having my mouth filled with his thick come, he shifted, deliberately made his cock slap into my cheek, insolent, demanding;
"Entertaining as that was, girly, you haven't accomplished your task in the slightest - if anything, it's stickier now than it was before; I think you need to try again - only this time maybe just use your tongue."
He's smiling, sharing the little joke, acknowledging that the responsibility is really his, but nevertheless making clear what he wants - for me to clean him up, with my mouth, naked, on my knees, while he grins at me.
And, without any idea of what else to do, I comply, smiling helplessly at him, softly and carefully using my tongue as instructed, burningly aware of how clearly subservient this is, but also aware of a deep satisfaction in me at being able to please him - even if it is as a naked whore, on her knees, cleaning her boss's cock with her tongue, pink with embarrassment, giggling to conceal her humiliation as he swings his dick aboout, teasing her, laughing at her, pointing out that his balls are sticky too, calling her a good girl when she stoops to take them sweetly, gently into her mouth, grinning as he watches her breasts sway, as she flexes her ass in the hope that he'll like it.
For this girl, this Sally that I used to be, the experience is nearly as intense as the ruthless face fucking he has just inflicted on her; different in character, but in its way equally significant. She knows that this is servility, submission, subjugation, knows that he is enjoying it, that she has let him see her acceptance of it, that he will use this, take it for granted as his due in future. And she knows, too, with a secret guilty delight (not as secret as she thinks, to a man of his experience), that she likes it, feels somehow privileged to humble herself (as ridiculous as she knows this is), knows that to let all this be so obvious between them is trouble, but gives in to it anyway, willingly, sweetly, even as she loses a little of herself in the process.
The sexual intensity of the throat-fuck can perhaps excuse her to some degree - passion is passion, after all, but this - this is just her, confirming and accepting her situation as his whore, doing things that an hour previously she would never have believed of herself, never wanted for herself, doing it attentively, conscientious, knowing that he is watching her, liking this knowledge even as it burns her with shame, finding ways to hold herself that she hope will be sexy, will be enticing. Whoring herself and knowing it, feeling this knowledge entering deep, deep into her being, the knowledge that she can be brought to this, and so easily, without even a hint of resistance, loving it, fearing it, trembling.
But while the experience is so intense, for her, for him it's no more than an entertaining little coda to a pleasurable fucking of the new intern, so that when he's had enough, he simply turns away, with a curt; "That'll do".
And then, moments after giving me the fucking that changed my life, just by buttoning his trousers, he became once again the well-dressed public man of letters, the champion of all that mattered about literature, the darling of the broadsheet supplements, while I was left naked, kneeling on the floor, sore, adrift in sexual and moral shock, slick with a mix of our bodily fluids, trembling, thighs splayed, my poor sex puffy and pink from its multiple and varied batterings, nipples stiff and smarting from the rough attentions of his hand which had continued throughout the relentless fucking of my throat, mascara tracks down my face, lipstick smeared; left me, as a gothic novel would have more succinctly put it, ruined.
Fucked.
He had fucked me.
And I? I worshipped him for it. Still do, if truth be told. Would crawl to him and beg for him to do it again - and more...
The gratitude I now feel to him and to Ms F in particular for using their power, using my weakness, without casually destroying me, as they so easily could have, as others, less civilised, so nearly have, is perhaps the source of my habit of responding to those who control me the most fully as if they are to be worshipped. It is my knowledge of my own weakness, my vulnerability. These people are indeed as gods to me; they have held my life in their hands.
I had no understanding of any part of this, of course, at that moment - I was like a child, caught up in forces that were new to me, all feeling, without comprehension. But I did know, without question, that I worshipped him at that moment, in the most abject and helpless way, my heart banging so loudly and sweetly in my chest that I thought it might burst, my sex wanting him again already; harder, more, needy...
