The Story Of Odile Pt 01

Prologue

He's been speaking at the opening of an art exhibition for which he has been the major patron -- it's an exhibition of some of Gustav Klimt's lesser known works -- drawings, mostly. She is there because her tutor had suggested it would be an interesting and relevant show for her research, and because she has promised herself to attend at least one event per fortnight, in a determined effort to move her life on from the rut its been in for the last 8 months. The months since her split with Neil.

She is slightly embarrassed by the works -- she hasn't seen them before, only knowing the more mainstream paintings. They are disturbingly direct in their eroticism, and she is a little shocked by the immediacy of her own (disturbingly sexual) response to them -- especially as they are almost all of women.

But she is now much more interested in him than in the paintings, although she doesn't know why, exactly. She has heard his name before -- he's some property billionaire, but also an amateur art historian, and funds a highbrow art criticism magazine that she has read -- but that's not it. It was just something about the way he spoke, how he carries himself. He is much older than her -- old enough to be her father, she realises, shocked at herself, but she nevertheless has a strong sexual attraction to him.

Not that he's looking at her. He's accompanied by a young woman assistant -- very beautiful, very demurely dressed -- obviously an employee -- he speaks to her quite directly but not often. He has a remarkable air of focus about him -- at every moment, it is clear that he is entirely aware of what it is that he is concerned with, and fully engaged with it -- whether it is inspecting the pictures, talking to various important looking people, or staring abstractedly into the middle distance -- obviously thinking deeply, after which he often turns to his assistant and delivers some terse statement, which she diligently notes into a large phone.

At last, after finding herself staring at him often enough to become embarrassed about it, she is convinced that he hasn't looked at her once with the slightest interest. She forces herself back to the art, swallowing her renewed shock at how directly erotic in intent they are, and engages her professional judgement, forcing herself to apply the analytical techniques she is developing for her PhD thesis, making scribbles in her little notebook.

So that she is completely surprised to find herself face to face with him -- almost bumping into him as she turns away from a particularly erotic drawing.

"Oh!" She is immediately in turmoil, flushing red, feeling a little panicky. She's been an emotional disaster area since Neil left, paralysingly unsure of herself, and while she was happy to watch this most intriguing man from across the room, while he was unaware, it is entirely another thing to experience the the dry warmth coming from his body, to see him look from the -- frankly pornographic -- picture and back to her with a softly ironic twitch of his brow; she is suddenly frightened, eager to escape, mouth dry.

"May I ask what you wrote about this one? I've been impressed with your apparent -- objectivity, shall we call it? -- in the face of all this -- determined -- lewdness."

She is even more flustered by this, uncomfortably aware of the calm attentiveness of the assistant off to one side. She's briefly not sure that she can manage to speak, horrified at how shaming this would be, and desperately invents the need to cough, in the hope of kick-starting her vocal cords.

And it works -- except that she is fairly sure from his tolerant expression that he knows exactly what is going on with her (his gaze is unsettlingly direct, but not in the slightest aggressive; his smile hard, but not cruel) -- which is mortifying, but simultaneously somehow incredibly welcome;

"Ah-hem! Excuse Me! You... you mean my... my notes?"

He doesn't dignify that attempt at deflection with anything other than a slight intensification of his tolerance, and she immediately crumbles, feeling ridiculous;

"Of... of course you do... um..."

She is blushing uncontrollably, she knows;

"Actually, I was trying to set down just... just how the line quality is... is put to the service of the erm... ah erotic intent of the... the drawing..."

She is gabbling, but he doesn't laugh. Indeed, the amusement fades a little -- he's actually listening -- taking her seriously! She feels her heart swell and curses herself for being a fool. He is looking at the picture now, and she experiences mixed relief that the force of his calm but relentless gaze is no longer directed at her, coupled with a strong sense of the loss of his attention.

"It's an interesting point. It's certainly true that in his treatment of the face, for instance, the line is enormously stylised, while the treatment of the hand, the conveyance of the bulk of the thighs, is far more carefully naturalistic. Tell me, how do you come to make such subtle analysis?"

He is looking at her again, and she has forgotten to breathe -- he's really, truly taking notice of her -- interested in what she has to say! She smiles desperately, helplessly, feeling unutterably foolish, but the calm seriousness of his expression -- all amusement, all irony gone now, calms her enough that she can speak;

"I... it's a... a part of the, um, analytical technique that... that I'm applying to... to a wide range of artists of the period -- for my PhD. I... I'm looking for ways to relate... er... aspects of technique to the... um... freeing of art from, from the need for realism. By... by the advent of photography."

She's babbling again, she knows. And blushing. Her throat is terribly dry. Looking at her with what she is stunned to realise is an expression of interested approval, he turns a little toward the assistant;

"Some drinks, Nadia. Champagne, I think. Get a good bottle."

Can this really be happening? She is flooded with pleasure and gratitude at this impressive, fascinating man being so nice to her.

The Seduction

Two days later, looking back, it seems as if some soft but immensely powerful whirlwind had enveloped her from the moment he spoke -- the sequence of events was both unbelievable while at the same time proceeded with an unarguable inevitability.

Art talk, champagne, an invitation to pursue the conversation over dinner (Nadia dismissed), then a short walk through the warm summer streets, during which she had become foolishly tongue-tied, while he had been casually, wonderfully tolerant and reassuring.

An excellent, unfussy dinner, more talk about art, and then a pause; him watching, smiling, relaxed; she, horribly unsure of herself, uncertain about him; filled with a notion that the next few minutes had some enormous significance, but with no idea what this might be.

And then he had broken the pattern;

"You haven't been with a man for some time, have you?"

And she had forgotten how to breathe.

He... he couldn't have... that wasn't what came next!

And yet, and yet -- her heart is tripping over itself, her belly tingling, her skin suddenly feeling every tiny movement of the air against them; it is as if she has been given some drug -- everything is heightened; at the same time, she can't speak, can't think, even; can only stare at him, transfixed.

If he had been anything other than calm, his obvious interest in her response untinged by any need, or greed -- his grey eyes fully on her, seeing her, seeing through her, into her, it feels -- if there had been the slightest suspicion that he was looking for a reaction that he could turn to his advantage, perhaps the spell would have been broken. But he was perfect -- his gaze, his cool friendliness, his relaxed patience -- simply content to allow her to take her time, to see just how she is with this new turn, and this held her, calmed her, until she heard herself, her voice low, with -- amazingly -- an almost happy laugh in it, heard herself say;

""You... you are -- exactly -- right. Although... although that... that is something I... I hope will... change, very... very soon."

Becoming aware of what she was saying only after the words have left her mouth, her astonishment at her own boldness gradually gets in the way, and her voice gets quieter and more hesitant, but she finishes her sentence, and manages to look him in the eyes, chest swelling now with a needed intake of breath.

And that was -- effectively -- It. Decided. He would have her. She would give herself to him. Gratefully. She would beg him, if he wanted her to. Beg him to fuck her.

Over a long moment, his smile had gone, his expression become opaque, unreadable, and then it had ceased to matter, she had ceased to be able to be critical, to judge, as he had lifted her hand to his lips, entirely without any nonsense, very straight -- and kissed it.

His voice, too, was unemotional, but soft;

"The lady has spoken."

And she almost cried with relief; immediately lost her cool, went bright pink, couldn't hold his eyes any more, could hardly look at him, just sat there, staring at her hands on the table, trembling, her mind temporarily relocated to her groin, to the quivering need in her chest while he moved things along -- summoned the waiter, paid the bill, spoke on the 'phone, softly, so that in few minutes only they were in the elegant foyer of a small hotel, and minutes after that in a large and comfortable suite with an enormous bed.

He was at the same time extremely gentle with her, and entirely masterful, asking her body's consent with each move, kissing her skin as he gradually exposed more of it, kissing her breasts, her belly, but also her back, her forearms, her thighs -- relaxed, without the slightest urgency, but at the same time unstoppable -- everything proceeding as if ordained, certain, absolute -- and she wanted nothing more than to be borne along by him like this forever.

The sex was rather straight -- almost conventional.

She did nothing; he kissed her everywhere until she was yearning for him, and then, when he was ready, he lifted her onto him, effortlessly, so that she could take him inside herself -- so smoothly, shocking herself by how slippery she was, by how ready she was for him, how urgently grateful.

It was her that kept pushing the pace, then, looking for frenzy, and him that kept cooling things off, building slowly, until at last she gave in and let him control her, control the build-up, holding her hips even though she was on top, until she began to feel orgasm building in her in a way that she didn't recognise; always, before, she had been worrying about her partner -- would they finish, would she get off -- would she need to lie about it; so much worry -- but here, now, there were no doubts in her; none -- for he was in charge; effortlessly, kindly, gently, but fully in charge of her, and so she could watch; watch herself, watch him, feel herself under his command, relax into it, wait, let it build, go with the magisterial rate of acceleration that he enforced, feel him going deep, deep into her, pushing herself against him, wanting him all, always impatient, always having to accept his pace, until some sort of wild feedback of desire started between her groin and her brain and she found herself making noises (a first for her) -- a long, rough, half-moan, half-wail as it built in her belly, quiet at first, but growing, the sound breaking into choppy, urgent calls that got faster, shorter, louder until it was a wail again, only much, much louder, and she was battering herself onto him with desperate urgency now, unable to take the growing pressure of need for another second, driving herself to the climax, seeking it, needing it, feeling him following her, feeling his intensity, his hands suddenly gripping her hips as if he will snap her pelvis, their bodies seemingly trying to fuse through the application of pressure for a second or two -- and then it had crested, becoming long, juddering rushes of keening ecstasy, one after another, in which she loses herself, gratefully, helplessly, ceasing to think, to know, to understand.

She is brought back into focus by the aftershocks; every few seconds, for what seems like an age, her body jerks, flooded with soft, lapping heat and delicious, intense satisfaction -- her body simultaneously terribly, terribly tender, over-sensitised, almost in pain, and urgently needing to be held, to feel the pressure of his hands, his body.

She hears herself breathing the words --

thank-you, thank-you, thank-you

-- over and over, feels tears in her eyes -- tears of sadness, strangely, for what she has realised she has been missing -- tears of joy, that he has given her this, that she has, once at least, experienced this.

And then, rather quickly, she feels herself falling into sleep -- and despite all sorts of urgent things she needs to say to him, kisses she wants to cover him with, she falls gratefully into the soft, warm darkness.

Introduction to a new reality

Waking -- with no idea at all whether it is early or late, at first unaware of even who she is, so soundly has she slept, then, with a rush, experiencing again, in double-fast time, the events of the previous evening, she is overcome with an awful and building fear; fear of everything -- fear that he must have been disappointed with her inexperience, fear that he has left already (where is he? Is that his voice, that low rumble?), fear that he must think her a slut for having slept with him so easily, fear that he will think her frigid for her non-existent participation, fear that... everything. Fear that the fairytale can't be true. Fear that it is true, but certain that it cannot last, fear that debilitates her, freezes her in the bed, covers pulled tight to her.

Fear that he instantly dissolves, simply by appearing, and by again, performing that trick he has of making it clear that he is -- really -- paying attention to her -- of softly putting his whole being to the work of seeing her, while at the same time being totally open to whatever that might be -- simply interested to see what he can see, with a relaxed certainty that, whatever it might be, he will know how to respond.

Neither of them spoke, for what seemed like a long time, until he said -- again with that rather dry, hard tone that made the words he said seem absolutely carved in stone, definitive, unarguable;

"Your vulnerability, your tenderness, your beauty, your need -- all together, are... delightful, pretty Odile."

And she felt as if she might be allowed to be happy again; then, when he suddenly grinned, and looked down at his robe, which was showing signs of stirring below the waist, and said;

"They also make my cock so stiff it's getting painful", the surge of desire in her was like a physical wrenching in her belly, and she came up out of the bed, naked, and went to him.

He went down on one knee and caught her in his arms, lifting her effortlessly, as if she were a baby, on her back, cradled, legs akimbo, feet swinging, head thrown back while his mouth went straight to her sex; licking and kissing her there, very direct, letting her feel his teeth, not at all gentle, but shockingly welcome, so that her cry of surprise turns straightway into a low, harsh moan of deep response, a different sort of shock, at the intensity of her own feelings as much as the raw sensation of it.

And this time it's not vanilla, as she is held up in the air throughout, utterly controlled, thighs split, back against the wall as he drives into her, hard, insistent, faster than before -- while she responds with urgent need, a rag doll in his arms, head lolling back, moaning at random, panting, gasping, running her hands over him, crying out at the violence of it, encouraging him, until she begins to wail as her orgasm undoes her. He doesn't stop, or even seem to notice, and when, the crest of her climax having passed, she begins urgently to want him to stop pounding -- her sex desperately sensitive now; begins to push, to struggle, and at last to jerk hard against him, he simply ignores her.

As well to argue with an earth mover -- she is overborne without effort; the tempo and the vigour of his strokes continue to build, inexorable, powerful, slamming, so that she squeals, yells, thinking she must actually be being damaged, so intense is the feeling -- only to suddenly discover herself spasming, and as the spasm washes through her, find herself once again needy, find herself moving with him, the revelation of the promise of another climax driving her to meet his strokes until they both come, she squeaking like some demented bird, he grunting deep and harsh.

He carries her to the bed, and they collapse there, he breathing harshly, she still wailing a little, the experience of two such powerful orgasms in rapid succession new to her and well nigh impossible to realise the truth of -- she's half hysterical with the wonder of it.

At last, she pulls herself together and looks up -- he's lying back, relaxed, watching her with a light, appreciative smile. His body is half ugly in a different way than his face -- he has several large scars, some lumps missing -- although at the same time he is clearly in excellent shape; muscles well defined, firm.

His cock, now she looks (half wondering at her own unaccustomed boldness) -- is not as large as she had imagined from her experience of it moving inside her -- and suddenly she knows she needs to kiss it, thank it for the unprecedented pleasure -- for her it is as if she has discovered sex for the first time, so far removed from her previous experiences is the way it has been with him.

She surprises herself -- formerly hopelessly, embarrassingly under-confident with naked men, especially so after sex -- by leaning forward and, quite simply, taking the end of his cock into her mouth The cock that has just been inside her, that tastes of them both.

She is nervous, gentle, tentative. He offers no advice, no guidance, but moves to make things easier for her.

She's painfully certain that her inexperience, her lack of confidence must be obvious, but nevertheless, she is driven by a desire to give him something, to get beyond her previous self, to try, if she can, to meet this liberating new experience of sex full on.

His fingers are at her pussy, then -- inside her, exploring; casual, confident, and it's like being invaded -- shocking; she convulses, catches herself, stopping an instinctive clamping of her thighs, and turning it into a spreading instead, deliberately opening herself to him, to this big, hard hand, in her most intimate place; almost, she thinks, taking possession. His cock, in her mouth, and his casually manipulative fingers, in her sex -- between them, they make everything else unimportant for some undefined period of time, and when he makes a move, softly disengages, his voice seems to come from far away;

"Enough, little wanton; you may be a carefree student, but I have other concerns. We need to eat -- and there are things you must hear."

It takes a significant effort to 'come back', for her; there is a definite feeling of loss, of something having been denied her, something to mourn, but when she does fully open her eyes, to see his back as he leaves the room, her feelings are rapidly transformed by a blossom of fear -- how can she feel like this? So... so wanton, so... so needy, so... so exposed? How can it be that after less than 24 hours, this man can have done this to her, taken her to such surprising places?

She almost runs into the bathroom, to hunker on the toilet seat for some time, calming herself, telling herself, over and over, that this is wonderful -- just a surprise, that's all, but wonderful -- she's met a man, a real man, and she likes it -- really likes him; that's all, really; that's what has happened.