A s****l Odyssey

Chapter One-2

She lay stretched out on the bed for a moment, panting. He lay beside her, stroking her bottom.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘But I think I’d better go.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said, genuine regret in his voice. But she was already pulling on her underwear.

In the morning she ordered breakfast in her room. She didn’t want to run into him. He had served his purpose; there was no reason to extend the acquaintance. On the train back to London she reviewed the experience. She felt satisfied, even rather pleased with herself. She had put one of her ‘ideas’ into practice. It had worked out pretty much as it was supposed to. She got herself a drink from the bar in the next coach and sat looking out of the window as the countryside flashed past. She was, for once, open to introspection. How would she describe the motivation behind the act that she had carried out? Conventionally, a woman who behaved as she had done would be called a masochist, one who allows themselves to be used by others, selfishly, even heartlessly used. She hadn’t wanted him to admire her, to whisper endearments in her ear or offer her pleasure for herself. When he had, uninvited, pushed his thumb into her ass, she felt for a moment violated, and thrilled to be so. There was not just arrogance in the gesture, a man doing as he pleased. It was more than that. It felt as though, for a moment, she was degraded, that he wanted to humiliate her.

She sipped her wine. Wasn’t that in essence what her little ideas were all about? Wasn’t that what she wanted from the nameless men who entered her head, f****d her in silence then left her, her cunt throbbing, dripping, sore even? Sometimes the ideas were dark, very dark. Men did far worse things to her than shoving a finger in her ass. And in her mind she welcomed them. She craved the things they did. But now for the first time in her adult life she’d let a real man actually do such a thing. And far from feeling dirty or debased, she felt exhilarated. There’s no doubt, she thought, as fields and woods whizzed past the train window, something like this is going to happen again, quite soon.

What surprised her and made her resist the simple description of masochism was the knowledge that she had to some degree initiated the encounter. This was so firstly because of her mood, her unaccustomed openness to such a thing, which the man had clearly been aware of and then by her attitude to his frankly not very subtle approaches. Despite her initial resolve, she hadn’t made him work at all. She had let it be all too clear that she was available. He had simply had to pluck her off the tree. She had dropped into his lap.

And she didn’t feel ashamed of that – she felt empowered. She might crave to be abused, but she could see that it was altogether possible, and indeed desirable, to control by whom, and when and perhaps even in what manner, more or less, the abuse should be offered. Of course if you invited men to do what they wanted, you couldn’t then direct the exact position in which they should f**k you, or where exactly they should put their c**k. But you could choose which men you let do such things, you could choose only those men who appealed, and you could choose a lot more than that. She might want them to use her, but she knew what power women had over men. She knew how much men wanted s*x, how they longed for the woman’s body and the thrill of touching, of penetrating. Men could be so easily led by the mere hope of s*x; some would do almost anything if they thought it would lead to the s*x act. So she did not doubt that up until the time she surrendered, let them do their worst, she could keep control. If it was to be masochism, it would be a careful, a controlled, manipulated masochism. Or was that a contradiction in terms?

So, she thought, as the train neared the terminus, am I about to embark on a course of action? Are there to be other encounters such as the one with Pierre? Am I to venture out from my inner world into a real world of s****l adventure? She resolved to force herself to go slowly. She needed to learn more about herself, what sort of things she really wanted. And she needed to learn more about the sort of men who were capable of giving her such things. Bad men, she said to herself, the sort I’ve always avoided. The sort my mother warned me about and my friends would be horrified by. Be careful.

For the next two weeks there was no question of any further adventures. She had a big case come to court, and she was busy all day, then had to work long into the night preparing for the next day’s session. It was exhausting, though stimulating, work. Only when she was finally in bed, drifting off to sleep, did thoughts of bad men come to her again, and once or twice they came so intensely that she had to put her hand between her legs and give herself release so that she might sleep.

One night she dreamed. She was in a church, there were other people there. She was dressed in some kind of blue robe, ankle-length. But underneath she was naked. And she was walking up one of the aisles when she saw a man standing in a little chapel. Beside him candles were burning. He beckoned her and she went in to him and he lifted up her robe and looked at her nakedness, then touched her belly and between her legs. At that point she woke. Such was the arousal caused by the dream she feared she might not get back to sleep again, and she quickly fetched her vibrator and made herself come in order to discharge the s****l energy in her brain.

At the weekend she went out on a date, a dinner engagement with a pleasant young man. She enjoyed herself and when he drove her home she invited him in for a nightcap. She wasn’t particularly attracted to him, but she thought that s*x with him might provide some distraction; she’d been worrying about the case all day. He f****d her quite adequately, and for a moment she even thought she might come, but she didn’t. She felt a little guilty telling him that he couldn’t stay the night, but after all he had got what he wanted, or most of it.

After another week of hard work, the case was settled. She was on the winning side, and the euphoria she felt at victory had a direct affect on her libido. Two days later she went to a party, at a large private house in a suburb in north London. She was escorted by a man who had taken her out on several dates, a man whom she liked but whom she felt no special emotional attachment to. She sensed his disappointment at this, but there was no point in her trying to hide it. And he seemed willing to accompany her in social situations without making an issue of what kind of relationship they had.

At the party she had several drinks and danced with two or three men she had not met before; she didn’t feel she needed to stay close to the man who had brought her. At one point she saw a man across the room, an older man, perhaps as old as fifty. He was leaning up against a wall, a drink in one hand, as he talked to a young girl, a girl who must have been thirty years his junior, but he was talking to her in such an intimate way it was clear they were lovers. The girl was pretty, blonde, slim, with a wide mouth and blue eyes. Lucy had never been entirely confident of her own looks (but then what woman is?). But despite, or was it because of, the fact that the girl was so pretty, Lucy felt compelled to find a way to approach this man. Something about him set her imagination racing.

Suddenly she noticed that the blonde girl was gone. Perhaps she’d run off to get another drink, or visit the bathroom. Surprised at her effrontery, Lucy sidled across.

‘Hello,’ she said.

He stared at her, then smiled. ‘Hi.’

‘Where’s your friend gone?’

‘She saw a girlfriend she needed to talk to. Are you with someone too?’

‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘Not yet.’ She didn’t normally talk to men this way. But things could be different, she saw that.

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to walk in the garden?’ the man said.

She nearly laughed out loud. Was this becoming a routine, a quick saunter in the open air before…? She turned and walked towards the open French windows at the far end of the room. It was warm outside. She stepped onto the lawn, and then turned towards him.

‘Kiss me,’ she said.

Is this, she thought, the careful, reserved, even prim Lucy everyone thinks they know?

He put his arm round her waist and drew her to him. He crushed his lips against hers and one hand went on her ass, squeezing the buttock. It wasn’t a romantic kiss; it was the kiss of a man who f****d women as he pleased. Or so she imagined. He slid his hand round to her front, pushing it between her legs. I suppose, she found herself thinking, if it’s going to happen, then it will be out here, alfresco. She wouldn’t risk going upstairs to one of the bedrooms. There were people at this party who knew her, knew her real life. Maybe this is my real life too now, she thought, but if so it’s a secret one.

He’d managed to work her skirt right up her legs and get his hand under it, and then push it inside her knickers. This was going very fast and she didn’t know how to stop it now without a scene. But why should she want to stop it? She looked around. They needed some furniture, something to rest against.

She took hold of his hand, the one that wasn’t in her knickers. ‘Come over here,’ she said.

She led him to a wooden bench. She could hear the music from the party drifting towards them, but it was dark where they were and there seemed no one else around. She made him take his hand out from between her legs so that she could turn round. She knelt on the bench with her bottom towards him and pulled her skirt right up to her waist.

‘f**k me,’ she said.

She felt him pull her knickers to one side. The fresh air felt cool on her moist cunt. She heard the sound of a condom being unwrapped, then his c**k was pushing against her, and it slid in quite easily and once again she was being taken from behind, this time by a man whose name she didn’t know and whom she had never seen until ten minutes ago. Such a slut, she told herself, you’re such a slut, and she smiled as his c**k went in and out, in and out. He was f*****g her roughly, without finesse, without apparent regard to her pleasure, just a kind of rutting, seeking a release, and it came before too long.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said as he came in her. ‘Oh god!’

He pulled out. This wasn’t the sort of f**k where the gentleman enquired whether it was good for her too. She stood up, adjusted her knickers and smoothed down her skirt.

‘Do you think I’m a slut?’ she asked.

To her surprise he kissed her tenderly on the side of the mouth. ‘If you are, I don’t mind,’ he said.

Would she have preferred him to say, yes, a dirty little w***e of a slut? Perhaps not. Even though that was what she was? When in a certain mood.

She didn’t stay long at the party after that. A man she knew offered her a lift home and she accepted. He also offered to come up with her, but she declined. Whatever he did it would be a let-down after the f**k on the garden bench.