Sally turned Pt. 04

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 hoursexploded 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.

He would use me, actually. A lot. And hard. And in the ass. And hurt me, too, physically; inflict pain on me, if last night was anything to go by...

"OK, then."

I had said it out loud.

And that, somehow, was it. Decision made. Die, cast.

And then I was full of impatience, energy - something had to happen; now. I was suddenly upright, jittery; indecisive but full of the need to do something - because there was enormous tension. I'd decided to give myself over to him - to go where that led..

But.. but - it was Saturday morning - nothing would happen until Monday, now. I couldn't bear it! Crazy! Impossible! I would go mad with this backwards and forwards between sensible, frightened, boring me and 'let Sir James take over' me if I had to think about this stuff all weekend.

Self-preservation auntie and righteous moralising nanny hadn't disappeared with that dispersing smoke of course - they were still there, inside me, stamping their feet and yelling about the danger I was getting myself into for all they were worth. I had them under battened-down hatches, so to speak, but if nothing came along to stop me thinking, they'd find a way out, a new angle of attack, and it would be turmoil all over again - and I couldn't bear it, I knew.

The chances of me caving, of giving in (not going to the newspapers or anything, just slinking back to Mummy and Daddy and pretending nothing had ever happened, that I had never been shown what freedom and danger and wildness looked like) - the chances of this were diminished, but I certainly wasn't certain I could hold the line, on my own, for a whole weekend.

Because, you see, it wasn't that I'd become strong enough to simply make the choice for life, and excitement, and wickedness over safe, dull, conformity. It wasn't any strength of mine, oh no. The need - desire, fierce desire - inside me was real, and certain, and alive, but it wasn't enough to make me strong - after all, I had been suppressing it for years; years and years. Its only power was in certainty as to what it wanted. Me, I was still conformist little Sally, the sweet, pretty girl who did what she was supposed to do.

Just with a welding torch flame alight inside her, a demon.

The strength in this situation was Sir James. It was his greedy and assured certainty that had made it possible for me to go with his desire last night, none of my doing.

It wasn't even that the voice inside me wanted to be taken in the way that Sir James had promised - it was more subtle, and more simple than that. The needy one inside me wanted Sir James because only he was strong enough, greedy enough, uncaring enough to demand that I let him take me - only him that could save me from the clutches of conformity and blandness.

It certainly was not that I was a masochist, or even, perhaps a true submissive (I'm still not, not really - despite everything) - but that my only route to life, to intensity, to feeling real was to give myself into the hands of someone like him.

Because I was weak, but wanted an authentic life, I had to give my life into the hands of someone who simply would not permit the banal, the average - someone who was driven by his own inner demons to seek excess, transgression, the beyond. Someone who could, to use the clichéd term, take me out of myself.

I didn't really understand any of this at the time, of course. All I knew was that I couldn't stand the thought of waiting until Monday - but no-one would be in the office, and I had no direct contact details for Sir James at all - and only an approximate idea of where he lived...

And then it came to me that I had a mobile number for Ms F - she'd given it me when she'd told me that she would be my mentor; 'Call me anytime, Sally, and we'll see if I can't help you.'

She could help me alright, but .. I was brought up short - a lurching feeling in my belly.

I hadn't thought much at all about Ms F, and still less Mr Nathan, since last night. Sir James had filled me in more ways than one - become the single most important figure in my world. The other two, although theoretically part of the same world as Sir James, had faded away, become cardboard cutouts.

It was Sir James who wanted me, who would take me somewhere unimaginable, who would be the whirlwind, the unstoppable force that took me away from nothingness. The other two seemed irrelevant beside him.

Except, of course, that this was wrong. Mr Nathan was a lightweight, perhaps, but that morning, in Ms F's office, she too had been a force of nature - utterly uncompromising, certain, sure, demanding, seeming to experience no concerns at all as she came out with her outrageous statements.

Sir James, frightening and magnificent as he was, was my fixation now. At no point during the morning had I really considered what it might mean to be Ms F's plaything as well. I could feel the doubts clawing their way back into my consciousness again, and I couldn't let it happen - it would be all too much - my mind would surely give way..

'But it's easy', came a realisation from within me, from the place of certainty; 'Call her. Go and see her. Tell her that you'll say yes - but only to Sir James, not to all three of them. Sir James wants you. He's had you, the other two haven't. He's the boss, the senior partner, the Founder. They'll agree. Do it. Do it now.'

And for lack of anything else to do that didn't lead into some yawning abyss of anguish, I did. And it was easy - seemed easy, anyway; just pick up the phone and do it. A revelation! Something like that would have been impossible for me, just days before, would at the least have required hours of agonising, argument and counter argument.

Now, I found the number in my 'phone, pressed 'Dial' and, when she answered, simply said;

"Hello, Good morning. It's .. it's Sally. I .. I do hope I'm not disturbing you, but .. well .. I'd like to talk some things over .. I mean, that .. that thing. Please? Can .. Can I come today?"

OK, my voice wasn't as calm or firm as I'd have liked (in fact I was trembling and my cheeks were hot as the reality of Ms F actually hearing these words began to build), but to call at all was significant.

There was a pause. A long silence, during which my nerves only intensified their jangling. I wanted to put the 'phone down, run and hide my head under the duvet, but the new certainty inside demanded that I persist, gripping the 'phone oh-so-tightly, waiting.

Waiting.

The obvious picture of a sex-slave is of her in use - being used for sex (or, if your mind runs that way, being spanked or whipped). Those are certainly the parts that stand out in the memory, that you put in a story.

But the waiting is equally hard - if not harder.

People who keep slave girls, you see, tend to be rather rich; and wealthy people, counter to another popular image, are generally not entirely idle and fancy free. This isn't to say that they are all hard at work maintaining their wealth, not at all - mostly they're rich enough to have other people do that for them. No, they're mostly super-busy reassuring themselves that they are wealthy - going out and flaunting it, sitting with their advisers feeling important, dealing with some problem about that third house in the South of France, shopping hard, being expensively pampered, doctored, exercised.

And all of this effort - the effort of simply being a wealthy person - leaves them no more time than the average person for having sex. OK, perhaps two or even four times as much as the average person. But let's be ridiculously generous and say they get ten times as much sex as the average person (there are certain obvious time advantages to having a sex-slave on call - no minutes spent getting the desired partner into the mood, or hours taking her out on a date. Opportunity advantages too; you get to use her when the mood takes you - no wondering where your desire has gone by the time she's put out the cat, got her jeans off, visited the bathroom and taken her earrings out).

But even then: the average person has sex around twice a week - so let's say our wealthy slave-girl-owning type has twenty trysts each week. And let's say that she's the only girl around (wealthy people tend to have a lot less trouble than regular people in managing to get people to have sex with them, so this isn't usually the case, but let's persist).

That works out as three trysts per day (-ish). If these add up to an hour each (which they mostly don't - one point of using a sex slave is that you don't have to spend much time making sure she gets hers), then allowing 11 hours a day for sleeping and necessaries, our lovely harem girl still has 10 hours a day for thumb twiddling. Except, of course, that she is not usually allowed to thumb twiddle - but is instead expected to wait, posing attractively, enticingly dressed, ready to serve. Waiting.

Waiting is a very cheap and easy way of impressing upon a girl her lowly status. It takes no effort at all to forget about a girl, kneeling, all but naked, on a cold stone floor, outside your door, or face down ass up in the corner, while you read a book, watch a movie, have a conversation with your friends, a dynamic business meeting, a round of golf - fall asleep, even.

But the cost to the girl of this happening again and again, knowing that she has simply ceased to exist in the mind of the master or mistress, but that for herself, she may never forget what she is, what is is kept for, she may never really relax, must be ready at all times to respond with pretty and sweet compliance - for any lapses will be punished, usually with disproportionate zeal and vigour - this has a powerful effect over time.

Waiting, bored, cold, stiff, humiliated, sexually frustrated, sore from a punishment; other staff, strangers, dogs, all walking past, about their business, not quite ignoring you, but certainly without any sign of friendly interest, constantly on tenterhooks in case someone might report you for not looking inviting - this reality, day after day, hour after hour, eats into a girl's self image.