The Story of Odile Pt. 01

Gradually, she takes control of herself, and begins to look around for her clothes, her bag. She showers, dresses, puts on a little make-up -- feeling unreal the whole time, but forcing herself not to give in, not to cower on the floor, not to cop out.

Nevertheless, when she emerges, fully dressed, she is very shy -- almost unable to face him, so shocked is she by the reality, the intensity of her memories, what she has done with him, permitted him (invited him!), to do to her.

Once again, as she timidly steps into the main room, this fear dissolves rapidly in the face of his matter-of-fact calm, his attention, his reassuring smile, and she feels herself relaxing. There is food -- simple but luxurious -- and it is a marvel; it is if she has been starved -- for how otherwise could coffee, toast, fruit taste so incredible, how can she want it so much?

He laughs at her, then, as she stuffs a too large piece of toast into her mouth, jam dripping onto her chin, and, amazingly, she likes being laughed at, melts into it, hams it up for him, smearing the jam over her lips like lipstick, then putting her tongue out to lick it away, deliberately sultry, shocking herself.

His face turns serious then; he leans forward and puts a finger under her chin, stilling her, requiring her attention;

"As I said, you had not had a man for some time. You were vulnerable -- needy. I took advantage of that. You are now even more vulnerable... no, no, hussy; you need to listen -- there will be time for you to speak, but for now I ask for you to hear me out."

... for she had felt the urgent need to tell him that she did not feel taken advantage of, not at all -- rather the opposite -- that she was exalted, full of gratitude, it is him that she fears is mistaken, that she is not... she had begun to interrupt, but his finger on her lips seals her silence, and she takes a breath instead.

"You make my case, pretty girl -- with your eagerness to tell me how happy you are that I took you, how it was just what you needed, how grateful you feel -- that I mustn't concern myself with worries about having taken advantage of you."

"Listen. I am going to take advantage of you; ruthlessly, completely. I am going to enjoy you fully -- do everything and anything I desire with you."

"And you won't be able to stop me -- you won't want to stop me. If you do try to resist me, for whatever reason, you will find me impossibly persuasive; you will give in to everything, permit anything, for I understand your vulnerability, your neediness, your lack of experience, far better than you do yourself -- for there have been, and there will be, you must know, many other girls."

"I will make it delicious for you, entrancing, to be the object of my attention; and you will delight in knowing that you can give me what I demand, what I desire. But I am a dangerous man for such as you, pretty girl, and you need to be prepared."

All this, from any other man -- would have made her laugh, so overblown does it seem -- but again his tone is calm, serious, and he clearly intends what he says to mean something to her, rather than to bolster his own self-opinion.

"I am telling you this, Odile, so that you know that you can escape me, that you know how to escape me. This envelope -- he indicates one on the table, in the heavy cream wove of the hotel's stationery -- contains the business card of a very discreet and capable lawyer. All you ever need to do is to go to her office, mention my name, and all will be handled for you."

Odile is transfixed, speechless, trembling, her heart thumping audibly in her ears. Why? Why would he speak so to her?

What -- what does all this mean, what can it portend?

Is -- is she to be frightened? From his face, it does not appear as if he wishes her to be -- his expression is mild, his body language relaxed -- if anything a little distant. Nevertheless, she feels a definite sensation of fearfulness; her pulse is fast; a sensation at her neck makes her shiver.

Is she to be impressed? Is this boasting? Again, there is no suggestion that he thinks she ought to be; no grandeur, no self-satisfaction about him. But despite this, she feels humbled, grateful that such a man should talk to her so openly, so sincerely -- expose himself, in a sense. The implied strength of character is, unavoidably, deeply impressive.

Is this foreplay -- some sort of sexual game? Some invitation to a fantasy role-play? Again, he seems altogether too serious, too low key, too relaxed. The effect upon her is, though, undeniably sexy; the idea that this man wants to -- intends to; 'enjoy her fully', 'take what he wants' from her, that he will not allow her to resist, that he will have her 'give in, permit everything', that he will make it 'delicious, entrancing' for her is feeding her desire powerfully.

A silence extends. He is calm, smiling, fully present as always, in no apparent hurry to speak. She by contrast, is quivering with jumbled and fluctuating emotions, urgently needing something to defuse the tension that is building in her, but at the same time utterly unable to speak, despite there being a multitude of half-formed questions, reassurances, irrelevancies jostling in her mind.

She feels her cheeks grow pink, desperately wishes she could look down, but cannot escape the trap of his pale, hypnotic eyes, knows that her breathing is audible, that she is betraying her emotions in a hundred ways, cannot believe what he has done to her, the importance he has assumed for her in such a short time, cannot control herself, doesn't want to control herself, and is simultaneously horribly embarrassed that she cannot.

He laughs, then -- not harshly, not cruelly, but still, at her; his tolerance, his appreciation of her ridiculous confusion is hard to bear. And yet there is nothing she can do but bear it, since he lapses once more into silence, while she is less capable than ever of acting, of doing anything at all decisive. She feels utterly exposed, transparent, without mystery, without secrets; known. It is at once gorgeously welcome, reassuring, secure, and also unsettling, belittling. She feels at once safe, held, reassured, and also small, weak, disempowered.

She manages to look away for a second, then down, before, as if drawn by a powerful magnet, she snaps her eyes back to his. She hasn't felt this flustered since she was 13, sent to the headmistress after she'd been found tearing up the diaries of another girl who had a crush on the same teacher. It is unbearable -- and at the same time glorious. To have a man make her feel like this! A man who is interested in her -- who says he wants to ruthlessly take advantage of her.

She suddenly knows she needs his touch, and half stands, thinking to place herself on his lap, then loses her nerve, so self-contained does he seem, and instead sways down onto her knees, looking up at him, almost for permission, before laying her head onto his lap, arms reaching around his waist.

It isn't a sexual move, but when she feels his cock stir, semi-stiff, she realises how close her mouth is, how easily it could be in her mouth again, how willing she would be if he were to suggest this, right now, and a deep fluttery sigh washes through her, filling her body with a warm lassitude, her mind with soft acceptance. If it's going to be like this, then -- yes. Yes. Whatever he says. Yes.

Gently, firmly, he takes her head in his hands, lifts it, so that he is looking into her eyes again, then speaks, his voice soft -- almost tender;

"Exactly so, my dear. I am... dangerous... for the likes of you. And so it is important that you will be able, one day, to make a break with me: without meeting me, without speaking to me. There will come a time when you should, for your own self-preservation, make such a break. You will know. At that point, you will use this card, you will call Mme DuClos, and she will make all safe; look after you, guarantee your future; you have my word. I am a monster, but not yet one without self-awareness."

And now, at last, she can speak -- she has something she urgently needs him to hear from her;

"I... don't care if... if you are a monster -- at least, I don't think I do, because... because you are like... like nothing that has ever happened to me before and... and I want it. Whatever it is. I... I know -- more than ever, now, after last night, that... that I don't know much about... about life. But I do know that I... I want, well -- whatever you want me to experience..."

She is trembling, without really knowing how this lovely breakfast, in such a lovely, sun-filled room, such a warm morning, after a night of such life-affirming sex, can have become so intense, and so weird, but fiercely determined not to lose, through any lack of acceptance on her part, the promise of something extraordinary which has been opened to her.

His hands move to her shoulders, still holding her firmly, his strength welcome, while his gaze bores into her. It is hard, hard to continue to let him look into her with those unreadable eyes, with that implacable intensity which she finds at once intimidating (despite the complete lack of aggression) and enthralling (despite its coldness). She feels naked, opened, skewered by this attention. And then he speaks, and takes her breath away, too;

"If you have listened, you will understand that your own experience, intense as it will surely be, is not my concern; rather, I will at all times follow my own desires, and what I require now, without delay, since I must leave rather soon, is to fuck your pretty face, rather hard, while your arms are tied behind you."

Her shocked look is trapped by the calmness of his -- as if he has just told her that he wants her to kiss him; something ordinary, rather than that deliberate and shocking crudity. Of course, it has just been in her own mind that she wants him in her mouth, but... but...

While these thoughts tumble in her brain, while she is frozen with surprise, he, without hurry, and without reaction from her, rips the blouse from her shoulders, buttons flying, and pulls it down her back, trapping her arms; bending her, unresisting, forwards, he then pulls the loose tails of the blouse up behind her and ties them, firmly, at elbow height, making the immobilisation of her arms complete.

Straightening her up again, he sits back, watching. She can meet his eyes for moments only before, without lowering her head, she blinks, lowers her gaze. She has not cowered away, is not fighting her bindings. She holds her position, chest heaving. Deliberately, then, feeling her cheeks grow hot, she straightens her neck; unbidden, her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She's quivering, but steady. She has consented, and they both know it, although the impact and value of this moment is so different for each; a life-changing decision for her, a coin coming up heads for him.

She doesn't see his small, lazy smile, but she senses it, and it burns her, knowing, deep down, that she has become just another girl for him. She has made a choice, with her whole being, a choice which she knows is one which diminishes her.

It is sad, terribly sad to accept this, to accept her condition as simply one of 'many other girls', but at the same time she feels exalted.

Sad, because there is no happy end with this choice, at best experience and heartbreak, but exalted, because, at this moment, the idea of having him thrusting into her mouth, with her arms tied behind her, of him believing that she is the one to do this for him, this is making her breathless with anticipation; she is at some weird crossroads between hyperventilation and asphyxia, her whole physiology in turmoil, alert, alive, anticipating; unsure whether she should laugh or cry, she finds herself attempting to smile, which seems to amuse him -- at least, he chuckles, softly, and leans forward to bite at her soft, parted lips -- gently, but biting nevertheless -- a promise of ruthlessness that has her trembling, her breathing loud, ragged, her chest heaving.

"You, pretty Odile, appear to be a very peach, ripe for the plucking. You must understand that this generates a powerful and greedy desire in me. There will be no mercy for you, no consideration, no pity; if you succumb, I will use you up."

"At some point -- you will feel it, if I judge you correctly -- at some point, you will know that a turning point is near. At this point, Odile, I must tell you again, you are to use that card, go to Mme DuClos, ask her to free you. You must do this, if you can, for otherwise -- if you miss the moment -- you will be consumed; suborned, taken over without remorse or second chances, and there will be nothing for you from that moment onward but the greed of others. You must not hesitate -- the moment for you may be ten minutes from now -- if so, then waste no time, none."

"You have been seduced into the domain of a monster, who will devour you, whole, if you let him."

For Odile, this whole speech is just another aspect of the otherworldly character of the last minutes: she hears and understands the words well enough, but their meaning has no purchase in her mind -- they are experienced as mood music that fits the scene like a glove, and simply add to the intensity of feeling as, sitting back, he pulls her brassiere upward, skilful, then smoothly reaches out to get something -- apparently a knife, from the way that the straps part and the thing is gone, her breasts swaying free, to be possessed by his big hands and then by his mouth, to her shivering pleasure, the feel of his teeth as welcome, more thrilling even, than that of his lips.

His voice comes again, in the dreamworld that cannot be part of her humdrum reality, so lush, so rich in feeling, meaning, quality is every second there;

"I don't mind at all paying for pretty lingerie, my dear, but in the end, it is access to your parts that matters to me; while you are with me, you are offering them to me, for my pleasure, for my desire, for my usage. Impediments to that usage will be destroyed without hesitation."

And indeed, while he says these words, his hands are busy beneath her skirts and her panties are equally swiftly ruined and removed, his fingers at her sex, then inside her, without ceremony or subtlety, but with immediate and welcome effect; her hips surge, her whole body inflects for him in response, her mouth cries out, wordlessly telling of the intensity of her reaction, of her gratitude, her open-ness.

Then his hands are gone, he's standing, and his cock-head presents itself, insolently prodding at her lips until, very simply, without thought, without hesitation, she opens herself to him, even as his hands take control of her head, and for the very first time in her life, she has a cock in her mouth and no control at all.

There is no gentleness to it -- at the same time no roughness -- as he thrusts himself slowly, smoothly, powerfully in, right in, directly to the opening of her throat, to the point where her whole body reacts to repel the invasion.

Smoothly, he retreats, only to present himself again. And again.

By the fourth time, she realises that her active acceptance of him is being asked for -- she must find a way to let him go deeper, or fail -- fail what, she has no idea, but it doesn't matter; the very idea of failing him is impossible, and at his next thrust, she pushes herself forward to meet him, trying to take control of her throat muscles, wanting to have him understand that she is giving herself.

His response is to become more demanding, push further, push for longer, and she takes this as approval and tries harder the next time, but it seems as if a limit has been reached -- she just can't do more, until she remembers something from some trashy novel and tries to make a swallowing action -- and then, just like that, he is in her throat; the hot, thick, pulsing (she can feel a vein throbbing), otherness, and her surge of prideful pleasure is replaced by panic; her body convulses, and it takes all her control not to bite him, since she cannot pull her head back, firmly held as she is by his strong hands. Her body jerks, and threshes, but he has her, holding her seemingly without effort (it is scary and glorious, how strong he is, how pointless it makes her intentions feel); holds her there for an agonising beat or two -- until she knows that he can hold her indefinitely should he choose -- before pulling out with just as much control as he pushed in.

This time though, he squats in front of her, takes her chin in one hand; she can't keep her eyes from his cock; thick, red, engorged -- she can see the vein throbbing; the idea that it was in her throat leaves her breathless; she is inflamed with the rawness of it all, feeling like crying, like laughing, like screaming at him to get away from her, leave her, like thrusting her hungry sex at him, hoping to be fucked, panting deeply, hoarse little noises coming from her tender throat, the soft flesh feeling as if it is swelling up already.

"You're to force ourself, now, slutty girl, show me how much you wish to please me; push yourself, take it all, make me shoot inside your throat. Give your throat to me, to my cock."

On his knees now, he leans back on one elbow, the other hand in her hair, pulling her down -- she has to spread her knees to stay stable, and now his cock-head is at her lips again, and she's crying; soft, hot tears running down her face, weak little whines, looks up at him, pleading in her eyes, frightened -- not of him, not of choking on his cock, but of how she will feel if she does this, of how it will change her, where it might lead, wanting him -- what does she want from him? Does she want him to force her? Does she want encouragement? Does she want to see something in his eyes, some cruelty, some greed, that will make it possible for her to get angry, scream at him? She doesn't know.

In any case, she gets none of these; instead, the hand in her hair tightens, and his voice has a note of intensity in it that she has not heard before;

"This is a door, Odile; one of many that I will open for you, that you must choose wholeheartedly to enter, or to step back from. Each is a door to freedom -- to a life less constrained, more free; at the same time, each is a one-way door -- you can never afterward be the you that you were before passing through. These are the transformations I am telling you to be aware of, to be vigilant about; when you have had enough, you will use the envelope. That may be now; do you want to be the girl who co-operated as she was broken in to deep-throating a by a man she hardly knows, in the roughest and least romantic style, or do you want to be the girl who stepped back, who will always remember this as the limit of her capacity for freedom, for wildness?"

"Whatever happens, I will always remember you with a smile; you are, simply, delicious, little Odile, and I will not regret enjoying you to the fullest extent you are capable of opening yourself to."

And he grins at her -- wolfish, but genuine. Her belly lurches, and slowly, very slowly, but without hesitation, her heart pounding, her sex pulsing, eyes locked on his for as long as she can, she pushes her weight forward, opens her lips to take him in and, increasingly determinedly, pushes herself down onto him, desperately swallowing, pushing, swallowing, pushing again, letting the spasms shake her body, but not her resolve.

It takes three attempts; three gasping, choking withdrawals and three more determined, impossible impalements before she feels his wiry pubic hair in her nostrils, her whole body juddering with the intensity of the sensation, and a wave of warmth floods her, and gives her the strength to stay down for one... two... three... three unbearable convulsions until she pulls herself backward, trying to remain under control, until, gagging and choking, chest heaving, she hears herself, urgent, humble, sincere, needy;