Sally turned Pt. 04

All part of the programme, of course. I've become good at it, though. I've had to.

Back then, though, just being kept hanging on the 'phone for 30 seconds was a trial, an ordeal. Just try it now: stop, pick up your phone, put it to your ear and count to 30, slowly, silently in your head.

It felt like an hour.

What was she thinking? What had come over me, to be so demanding? What was she going to say? Did she know what had happened last night between me and Sir James? At this I began really to get the jitters, realising that she might well know in great and mortifying detail just what I had allowed him to do with me, and I began to feel very strange indeed - a novel (then) mixture of shame, desire, fear and yearning, all mashed up together, feeling again my body readying itself for sex, my breathing slowing and getting louder (had she heard that sharp in-breath as a flutter gripped my belly?).

At last;

"That will work. A car will be with you in one hour. Wear almost nothing, with your highest heels. Carry nothing but your house keys. If you have anything arranged with anyone over the weekend, cancel it."

Silence again. I can't think of anything to say. But it appears that an answer is not required;

"I assume that your silence means that you understand. Be ready for the car."

And the line goes dead, leaving me a little stunned, and completely awed. How can she make this all seem so simple?

The transition from my expectations of working in a top literary agency, just three days ago, to this, is so staggeringly abrupt, so thoroughgoing, so complete, so relentless, that I need to sit down.

Every time I think I have got used to this, have some sort of an idea, the smallest handle on it, it is swept out from under me, making it devastatingly clear that not only am I not in control of this process, but that I have no clue what it really is, even.

Numb at first, the impact of those few clear orders begins to take hold. At first, I'm just short of breath, feel a little panicky, but quite quickly my heart is thumping erratically, my mind is racing, chasing its own tail to no purpose at all, just burning up brain cells, breathing somehow a lost art, requiring conscious effort, as if I am re-learning it after a stroke or something, then a rapid transition to hyperventilating; giddy, dizzy, feeling I must faint, until some shred of sanity calls me to order and I begin to regain control, do the head-between the knees thing, constrain my breathing; longer, deeper breaths, just think about the breath .. in .. out .. in .. out. No thinking .. in .. out .. no thinking.

That's it. I'm going to leave here as close to naked as I dare, with no money, no phone, no-one to expect me anywhere. And, just like that, I will be little more than a body. In her hands.

And that's it. An inevitability. Give yourself up to it, girl. And the demon inside me was absolute. No backing out.

And then I'm up; bathroom first, basin full of cold, cold water, wash the tears out of my face, hope the puffiness goes too, attack my hair savagely until it has some shine and shape, burying my thinking in busyness, gripped by a powerful need not to turn up without having done my best to be attractive.

Next, my meagre wardrobe, stripping off the sweats, looking in my underwear drawer - problem is, I really don't have many choices to make.

I'd always been a uniform sort of girl; spend ages selecting a 'look', then buy things that fitted that look, so that my wardrobe was mostly 'work uniform', 'student uniform' (with a fair bit of compromise overlap), plus one or two each of 'party uniform', 'date uniform', 'chill-out'. Even then, deciding what to wear was sometimes hard; worrying about minutiae, what different people I might encounter would think.

In the end, there was no option; the summer party dress - the flirtiest thing I owned; which was not saying much, really. Although it was a light, pretty, floaty thing, it wasn't exactly sexy - a demure neckline with a little collar, skirts down to just above the knee.

I spent a minute trying to convince myself I was brave enough not to wear a bra, or panties, without success, and then there was no choice there either - it had to be the only fancy set I had - which wasn't that fancy but at least looked as if I had made some effort; black, they didn't really suit the dress - but they were the only option. Ditto the heels - summer sandals that did go with the dress - not really high, but honestly the highest ones I owned.

I almost lost it at the make-up stage - I don't usually wear much, had never tried to do anything clever, and failed miserably when I tried. In the end, I stripped it all back, did my usual with a little more lipstick and eyeshadow and hoped for the best.

It was 12.45.

So I waited.

I didn't dare do anything else, so I just stood there, in the middle of the room, trying not to think, clutching my little set of keys in my hand (of course, I had no plans for the weekend to cancel), holding back the hysterical nervousness that was only looking for an excuse to claim me.

The ride was no better, wondering helplessly if the driver knew anything, if my shame was common knowledge, wracked with questions, suddenly rearing in my head, about the other staff in the office - did they know? Would they know? When they found out, how would they treat me?

Madness. It must claim me if I could not learn to let these unanswerable questions wash through me, unconsidered. What would be, would be - the responsibility was theirs, not mine. What I had to do was seize my chance, take this ride, let it tear me loose from my moorings.

Back then, I think I had the idea that there was to be some powerful transformation - that these feelings of great uncertainty, of trembling anticipation of soon to come unspecified outrages to be demanded of me, enacted upon me - that that this churning, belittling powerlessness and helplessness in the face of the unknown would just be a phase - that through it I would become a different person, somehow party to the debauchery, be as wild and carelessly greedy as them. Be free.

Somehow thought that if I could just get through the next few days - weeks, at the most, then I would find some new equilibrium, some new bargain with life that included transgressive sex with my bosses; a fair bit wilder, perhaps, but was somehow manageable.

If I had known how foolish, how naive, how delusional this idea was, could I have, would I have, changed anything? Probably not - so caught up was I in the whirlwind they had snared me with. A mercy then, those delusions, for without them, perhaps I might have snapped, lost the plot completely, become a casualty (later, much later, I learned that there had indeed been girls who had fallen apart, had been unable to cope, had cost them serious money - even this had not stopped them, such was their confidence, their certainty of their own power ).

The reality was that the wildness, the denial to me of any reliable understanding, the continual crossing of boundaries, imposition of unthinkable transgressions was the core definition of their modus operandi - the way they took nice normal girls like me to places where it became impossible to make judgements any more - to places where their will, their desire, their needs and greed became the only sure guide by which to navigate.

And this morning, I had taken another step into that whirlwind. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I wanted it, and so I sat in the cab, in a fervour of mixed excitement, fear, exhilaration and panic, my nipples stiff, thinking about sex, feeling my hips wanting, needing, to flex in a most disturbing but also delicious way.

The car stopped at a grand four-story villa in the classical style, overlooking a small park - grander than I'd expected. It seemed the house had become three apartments so I pressed the button labelled Frankl, and after a moment a voice I didn't recognise said;

"One moment, please", and clicked into silence.

The person who opened the door was a surprise - a girl, younger than me - maybe 20, possibly Spanish, about my height, a handsome rather than pretty face, very striking with heavy black eyebrows and long lashes, full red lips, shoulder length black hair, thick, heavy and immaculately glossy. Her slim but curvy figure was well served by a short, slinky dress, low-cut and simple - sexy and classy at the same time - a noticeably heavy choker and those weird mashups of high heeled wedges and sneakers - all in black.

She didn't smile or seem at all welcoming, just looked at me quite hard, for a noticeable few seconds, as if evaluating me, before saying;

"OK, jou follow me", turning on her heel and walking off.

Her accent was Spanish, too, quite heavy.

All in all, this welcome had done nothing for my febrile state, but there was nothing for it but to follow her. On the stairs, it was hard not to notice that the short, clingy skirts were riding up her legs, and making brief flashes of her crotch visible. Was she wearing panties? The dark shadows made it impossible to tell, but somehow I needed to know, only to feel as if I'd been caught staring when she suddenly turned her head, face impassive;

"Did jou close the door - hard? She is sticky."

She was looking directly into my eyes, face impassive. It didn't seem as if she was at all worried about whether the door was closed, but I was so embarrassed by the thought that she might know I had been staring up her skirt that after a few seconds, I turned tail with a mumbled;

"I .. I'll go and .. and check", and scurried back down, to push uselessly at the firmly shut door like a bad stage mime, feeling utterly foolish, cheeks burning.

She hadn't waited for me, and hadn't left the apartment door open either, so that I had to knock, and wait again.

"Oh" she was smiling this time, a faint amused triumph in her eyes at having established her superiority; "It is jou" - before turning away and disappearing through an inner door without a further word.

Slowly, unsure, I stepped inside.

Ms F's apartment was humbling. Clearly architect designed, minimalist to an extreme within the classical shell of the house, of which it occupied the top two floors, double height spaces, stark lines, all offset by sculptural furniture of great warmth and character - thick rugs, an antique leather sofa like an aircraft carrier, danish dark wood and leather chairs, low solid tables of some oriental style with metal inlays, heavy brass vases, serious art on the walls (Matisse, Braque, Dora Maar photographs), sculptural plants: an in-your-face assertion of her cultural confidence, knowledge and status. It made me feel like an eight year old, awed, deeply certain that nothing would ever make it possible for me to achieve anything like this, and deeply grateful to be associated with Ms F, who could do this as well as maintain a pre-eminent position in the world of literature and run a successful business too.

I was still only a few steps into the room, staring round-eyed, mouth open, when Ms F appeared on the staircase - a dramatic spiral of dark wood. She didn't speak, looked at me for only a second or two, without seeming interest, then walked over to the door the girl had gone through;

"Gata, dear; coffee, please."

Then she turned and came up beside me and held her hand out. After a second I realised she wanted my keys, which I realised I had been holding onto so tightly, that they were hot and sweaty in my palm. I gave them to her, helplessly, feeling as if some lifeline was gone, and watched her drop them into a brass pot.

She looked at me again;

"Good. So you're here, and .. this is how you present yourself?"

The girl, Gata, appears and makes her way across to a semi-enclosed part of the room, the kitchen I suppose, while I stand there, trembling now, feeling incredibly dowdy and unattractive.

I daren't speak, and Ms F appears not to be expecting me to, either, so I stand, trying to hold myself well under her mild but unignorable gaze.

"This is not what I was expecting. You were to wear almost nothing. Did you not understand?"

Her voice was not angry, not threatening - it was all perfectly conversational, but the naughty girl in front of the headmistress feeling was back again, at full strength. This was ridiculous, I knew, on some level, but right there, right then, it was deeply serious.

"I .. I think I .. understood, yes, but .. but I .. I don't have many clothes, and .. and this was .."

"I see; you poor girl. We must help you get some prettier clothes, and very soon. You may dress as you like on your own time, but this won't do at all for our requirements. Your work clothes, too, will need to change. Perhaps I'll send you to Claire tomorrow - she likes shopping. Yes, I think that will be for the best. Claire was ours, you see, for a couple of years - before we launched her as a fashion writer. Gata can arrange it."

She stood, contemplating me for a while, then her expression changed, hardened a little;

"Do you have underwear on?"

Again, her tone was entirely mild, but it was clear that she was not going to be pleased by the truth. Stupid, but I was tongue tied for quite a little while, blushing; 'how can she do this to me?'. At last, I managed to answer, my voice pathetic and weak;

"Umm yes , yes I .. I do."

"So I take it that I am to understand that, for you, 'almost nothing' must include underwear, even under a dress as modest as that one?"

There was clearly danger in the air. Ridiculous to be as close to tears as I was at that moment, but that was the truth of it.

"I .. yes .. I .. I suppose it must be - oh!"

She startled me by taking two steps forward and taking my chin in her hand - soft, but very firm, standing at arm's length, looking into my eyes. Voice soft and gentle, looking deeply into my eyes, she clearly wanted me to pay attention;

"Sally, you must realise; the standards that apply to you now, in relation to the firm, are our standards, not yours - whatever those might be. So when we say something like 'almost nothing' to you, you must attempt to understand what we mean by that, and put your own views out of your mind, do you see?"

She wanted an answer, and so, humiliating as it was to agree to this (I hadn't ever yet said that I was going to accept their demands, had I? And yet here was Ms F, acting as if I belonged to her - and me, going along with it without even a hint of resistance), I nodded;

"Yes, Yes I .. I understand."

And now she smiled at me for the first time, patted my cheek;

"Good. Good girl. So. Do you think that underwear are included in my definition of 'almost nothing?' "

I shook my head.

"Very good. So let's see what we can do about this, shall we?"

I'd almost forgotten why I was there - that it was was my idea - but I was carried along like a leaf in a torrent, all illusions of agency evaporating.

"Gata - scissors please - the big ones."

The girl's approach to Ms F was almost unrecognisable from the haughty, status conscious attitude she had shown me; humble, servile almost - waiting for a little nod after she handed over the scissors before going back to the kitchen.

Ms F came in close, dropped to her knees and without any warning or apparent consideration, took the scissors to my dress. I was stunned - 'she's cutting my clothes!' I looked down, to see that she was making the skirts shorter. Much shorter - like just a couple of inches below my bum shorter. I was really trembling then, but at the same time, I knew I liked it. Personal attention, from the Ice Queen.

She leant back, tilting her head a little, considering. She wasn't looking at my face at all, paying no attention to me, asking me nothing. And it was OK. Really - it was easier this way. I was a little humiliated, but much less frightened, and she could hardly complain about how I was dressed after this, could she?

And then she lifted my skirts. No preamble, no hesitation, just flipped them up. Her face was inches from my pussy, and I almost fainted. I'm not a lesbian - really, I'm not, but the imminence of her touching my sex was enough to make me weak all over. Instead, though, I feel cold metal on my thigh; snip! And again, at the other side; snip! Her hand reached up between my legs, grasped the material covering my quivering bum, a quick pull, and I was naked down there, she looking directly at my sex; then (unbelievable!, impossible!) touching it, but with such great delicacy - ever so gently exploring the folds of my labia, teasing out my clit from its hood; so, so soft..., .

She was touching me, right there, with that girl in the adjoining room. Touching my sex. And I was so wet there, I suddenly realised. Crazy wet, crazy horny, and so, so grateful - all I could do was to stand there, quaking. I heard myself uttering little soft sounds, helpless; the situation was impossible, couldn't be happening, and so it must be a dream - so much easier - no responsibility...

And then suddenly she was not; not there, it was not a dream, but all too real, and she was standing, to look me direct in the face, a twisted smile, pleased, a little wicked;

"Well, well, Miss Sally Dainty, I have to tell you that you have been hiding a rather appealing little pussy in those cute panties. That won't do anymore, you know. Of course, we'll have to get your little bush neatly trimmed, but that's it for panties for you. Bought and paid for, missy, and all .. ours.."

Her hand was back, and this time it wasn't gentle; not rough either, but rather a supremely assured and skilful invasion, occupying me, owning me there, in complete and casual control, and I could not restrain a glorious, grateful gasping moan, out loud, full throated, which became a soft sobbing plea for more as she slowly, oh-soooo-slowly, began to work her hand in me, and her voice was in my ear, soft, but clear, and very definitely in command;

"Hands behind your back, missy, grasp your elbows, hold them tight. Good, Now, spread your legs just a little wider, and open yourself to me; that's right pretty, you have no choice, let your hips move, offer yourself, let your pussy tell me how much it wants this, that's it, not your fault - this is me, bossing you, owning you, don't worry - just do exactly what I want, and everything will be fine, pretty, just, just, fine..."

And I was hers, lost, moving for her, whining softly, knowing I was lost, that that was it; now that she'd had me like this, and Sir James had me dreaming of his hands and his cock, my chances of real resistance were zero. I gave myself over, completely, to working towards the orgasm I could feel coming, that I wanted so much - no matter that the Spanish girl would see - worse was sure to come to me now I was a whore, and I wanted it..

And then her hand was gone, she'd stepped back, watching me, watching my face, and I'm knew that she could see just how easy I would be, just how lost I was, and I couldn't hide it, even though I knew her power over me was growing by the second, even though I knew she would use that power, I didn't want to hide from her, I wanted her to see just how much I wanted her, wanted this;

"Please .. oh! oh! Please? Just .. just a little, little.. That .. that was sooo, soo nice Never .. I've never been touched like that , never.."

And then her fingers - the ones that had been inside me - were at my lips, inside my mouth, and she was smiling at me sweetly, firmly, as I realised what was expected of me next, and froze for a second; but of course there was no choice - her iron will against any small tatters of my self image as a straight girl - no contest - and I softly, hesitantly, began to suckle her fingers, tasting myself like that for the first time, heart pattering wildly in my chest, pussy still yearning.