This can only make as much sense as it ever will if you have read the preceding sections. Otherwise, no guarantees...
I awoke gradually, heavy limbed, floating in the sort of whole body experience of deep relaxation that only ever, in my experience comes the morning after a bout of no-holds-barred sexual intensity; my thoughts were like melted chocolate, smooth and sweet and slow, my whole being languidly relaxed, luxuriating in a feeling of warmth and looseness that was like a welcome gift.
But a gift for what? I lazily considered the question, while the answer formed, gradually impressing itself upon my drowsiness, the answer which, when it finally came, would astonish me, brazen in its clarity: last night, I had taken a big step towards becoming a company whore.
I had fucked my boss - or, more exactly, had permitted him to fuck me, just exactly as he pleased; had served him sweetly, eagerly, helplessly; had accepted the violence and the greediness of his use of me as if I was an habitual and degraded nymphomaniac.
And I had (mostly) loved it; was still loving it. However horrifying it might be to contemplate the implications, however shocking it most definitely was to have participated in the debauchery he had demanded from me, however shaming the idea that Ms F and Mr Nathan would likely know the details of my wanton behaviour; despite all this, my body knew its truth; that I was glowing with a fierce satisfaction - glee, even - at the memory of Sir James' use and abuse of me.
God, but I had been fucked well.
I was smiling, hard, stroking myself slowly, fiercely, writhing slowly in the bed, savouring the slow, dull heat of the strains and insults he had forced onto my willing flesh, feeling them as pleasure almost - certainly as welcome for the way they triggered intense, hot memories, the heat rising again in my belly as the mental pictures flashed into my mind, demanding to be relived .. and again, I was working myself towards a lazy, self indulgent orgasm ..
I never got there; the mood was already losing coherence as I came more fully to awakeness, the claims of reality clamouring to be heard, the self-preservation auntie and the righteous nanny wanting their say, and there; it was gone - the bubble burst. My hand was still at my sex, but the moment had passed, and I tensed, suddenly chill, folding my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me, the backlash in full swing like some sort of a vicious moral hangover.
Then all the bad craziness of the previous 48 hours
exploded in my head, like items on a charge sheet, accusations in court;
- my boss had asked me, the new intern, for a blow-job; straight-out, no warning, no attempt at sweet talk.
- my mentor had calmly informed me that it was all part of an agreed plan, sort of standard practice in the company, to use certain young female interns in this way - that the partners proposed to share me between the three of them - each using me as they preferred.
- I had been told that I would be required out-of-hours - used at evenings and weekends, too...
- .. and that if I complied, I would be well rewarded, and even have my career 'launched' (and, whatever they said, I was sure that the opposite applied - that if I said no, I would have obstacles put in my way).
- the senior partner had seduced me on work premises and subjected me to the roughest, most degrading sex of my life, used me as a sex-toy, rather than a partner (and yes, I had responded, and yes, it had been an incredible experience, but he'd also made it very clear that if I said yes, it was only going to get more demanding).
I was in tears by this point, slow tears at first, then gradually, as all the wider implications began to sink in, really weeping, until at last I was full-on sobbing, on my knees on the floor, pushing my face into the side of the mattress, shaking my head back and forth, in torment, wanting it all to go away, not to have to face this; my hands, each gripping the opposite forearm, savagely kneading my flesh - as if I could offset the anguish with physical pain.
At last I forced myself to stop.
This was outrageous! In this day and age, to treat a young female like this was unacceptable - and what's more, would be considered so heinous that the firm's reputation would be called into question at the merest public hint of such goings on.
Whatever the cost to me, it was important that I speak out - and in any case, the publicity around it might 'launch' me anyway - there would be interviews, perhaps a court case, I would be a hero to some - maybe I could write a book..
I went round and around this track of thought, winding myself up into a fine state of self-righteousness, until I stood up, defiantly clenching my fists, wiping my damp cheeks on my sleeves, channeling my emotion now; telling myself it all had to be dealt with - that I had to do something decisive; change the dynamic, become the author of my own life (yes, all the vapid cliches from the articles in women's magazines and personal development articles - all of that).
I showered fast, freezing, super hot, then freezing cold again, planning my campaign in my head, rigidly controlling myself; hurriedly pulled on sweats, made strong coffee, wolfed two bananas and handfuls of dry granola, then sat down at my laptop. First, a time line - clear descriptions of everything that had happened - which would be followed by a search for lawyers, which would be followed by a decision about the right investigative journalist to contact. I had a plan.
Except that, within ten minutes, I was weeping again; weeping very softly this time, not anguished, but defeated.
It was all horseshit, and I knew it. I'd got half way through setting out what Ms F had told me - got to the part about what Sir James would expect from me, and then it had come over me like a flash flood; need.
I needed him; right there, right then, I needed him to hold me, to open me, to want me, kiss me, fuck me, use me if he wanted to, any way he wanted to. I wanted him. My body wanted him. Wanted to give itself to him, be his plaything again, be taken there. Heart hammering; lightly, but so, so fast inside me, hands jittery, belly fluttering at random, groin tingling, nipples stiff, memories of his hands, his mouth, his cock; on me, inside me, hurting me, caressing me, owning me.
Again, my hands were in fists, as I tried, tried so hard to tell myself that this was just a flashback, a wave of emotion, that this was just weakness - to be expected; after all I had been abused and psychologically manipulated...
... but it was no use, no good, not enough, not deeply felt enough, and my head went down; slowly, so slowly, until I laid it, face sideways, on the keyboard, trembling, feeling all the determination, the anger, blowing away like smoke does as the flames break out of a fire - all that revealed as fakery; the false front that had been erected by my fears - fears of transgression, fears of losing myself, fear of the unknown, fear of - fear of my own desire - all in the attempt to reel me back in, to safety, normality, to acceptability. To averageness.
And I saw my whole life as having been lived through this framework of fear - lived through expectation, norms, what others hoped for from me - good, dependable, enthusiastic, determined, hardworking, pretty little Sally. Ha! - even my supposedly exceptional academic ability had never been heartfelt; never. How had I never realised this before? Did I want to write? Did I want to be a publisher? Who knew? Maybe. Maybe I wanted to run away to South America and live in the jungle with hunter gatherers.
Maybe I wanted to be a sex slave to three powerful literary agents.
Maybe I didn't. Probably I didn't. No, I really didn't. Not that. But if that was the only avenue of escape? The only way to break out? I had never even had the strength to think these thoughts until now. What if this was my chance?
And also, right now, I did, urgently, deeply, savagely, want to be Sir James' lover. Whatever that might look like. OK, not even lover. The girl he fucked on evenings and weekends. Whatever that might feel like. However wild the landscape might be. I did want that. This was what my heart felt, what my body knew.
The tears dried up and slowly, ever so slowly, I lifted my head again. Still trembling, massively unsettled, my mind filled with wonder, with questions, with uncertainty, still totally off-balance, but with this difference; at the core of me now, for the first time ever, there was something that was really alive, something that was certain, something that knew what it wanted, and what it didn't want, something that didn't really care about what anyone else thought, or what was 'the right thing' or 'the safe thing'.
This wasn't a welcome feeling - it wasn't reassuring to know this at all; I had not the faintest idea how to handle it. In many ways it didn't feel like me - but one thing about it was undeniably exciting and new. As far as anything went that it - this certainty inside me - cared about, there would be no need for second guessing, for compromise, no point in worrying about what anyone else wanted, or what they might think, how they might judge me - because none of that would change what I knew, inside me, about what I wanted.
I met my demons.
Sitting there, feeling out this strange new knowledge, this urgently demanding new part of me, this new shape of the world, of myself, I began to laugh a little, softly, lightness inside me, layers of my past life lifting off me, to leave - what? It was as frightening as it was liberating, but freedom is exhilarating, and that's why I laughed, why my back straightened, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing deepened and slowed.
If I didn't let the fear get me, didn't backslide, this was going to lead me somewhere utterly off the map. The old map at least.
And Sir James would fuck me.
