AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, 15 years since I uploaded the last chapter of this series (how time flies!), here is Chapter 16 of Car Show Slut. It's been written for some time (some years, in fact!) but for one reason or another I just never got around to uploading it. A recent chat with another lit.com author got me thinking that I should put it up and at least finish the series, so here we go. That people are still reading this series and still sending me comments after all this time, I have to say is just so gratifying Reader feedback -- the good, the bad and even the ugly -- are all deeply appreciated, and I apologise for not having replied to some. So thank you all. I hope you all enjoy this next instalment of Anne's adventures. There is one chapter to go after this.
This chapter is dedicated to the memory of DocCIS, whose input and advice was a big help to me when writing Ch.16. Sir, may you rest in peace.
"Italian cuisine, my sweet little slut?" Bill asked as he escorted me into the Italian restaurant. Sweet little slut. Why did those words, like a trigger, a switch, send such a sudden exquisite shiver down my spine? Damn it, was I actually enjoying this? No. But was I? I couldn't answer it, couldn't face it, couldn't face the possibility that yes, maybe this was exciting me. Yet I knew. There
was
a perverse pleasure in this, it was true: my humiliation, my capitulation. Oh God, but this was a desperate situation I'd managed to get myself into! We are supposed to be business associates but within just one day of us meeting he has managed to manipulate me into becoming his slut slave. This is not how it should be! This was just so damned degrading!
The waiter escorted us to our table.
"A drink, my dear?" Bill asked. "How about a nice bottle of red?" I nodded as Bill summoned the waiter. I looked across the table at Bill. He was watching me, his faced contorted into a kind of insolent grin as he studied me up and down, as if a hunter might examine a deer he'd shot in the woods. There was something unsettling in the way he was looking at me, and I found myself turning away. There was something unpleasant in his countenance, a powerful presence, sure, but one which seemed something close to evil. I didn't like him.
I could feel my anxiety surging through my body; my heart was beating fast, thumping in my chest. I didn't like this man at all, not at all. I needed to get away from him for a moment -- and yet, I knew, there was no escape from this in reality. I felt like maybe I was having a panic attack! I just needed a moment alone, some quiet space to collect myself.
"I've just got to go to the bathroom," I said, getting up from my chair.
"Of course, my dear," he said. His tone was ever so slightly sarcastic, mocking. "Oh, while you're there," he added flippantly, "I think you should remove your panties."
I nodded and walked away.
Walking into the restroom, passing other patrons in the restaurant, for a moment it felt like a normal dinner 'date'; well, not so much a date, not that at all, but a normal night out at a restaurant. But this was no normal night out. I was his bought and paid for whore for the night. That was the reality.
In the washroom I looked into the mirror. The image of myself that formed in my mind was sad and pathetic. I could barely bring myself to look at my reflection. Oh Anne, what have you done? He's an asshole, but you engineered this situation, how ever unwittingly, but that was the fact -- I had done the things that had caused all this. And, and - was it true? Was I enjoying this somehow? I was scared. Scared of what was going to happen, what he might make me do, scared that I wasn't even sure I could trust him, scared even that maybe I was enjoying it. Because somehow under the layers of my consciousness, there was an excitement, a sense of sheer thrill. It was palpable, visceral; it couldn't be denied. It was as though I was detached from myself, my identity, and that I seemed to be taking some kind of depraved satisfaction in the sorry spectacle of my professional destruction. Am I a successful career woman, or merely just a cheap slut? Here I was, hopelessly compromised, forced to submit my body as part of a commercial transaction. Some business woman I've turned out to be... If I had any moral or ethical scruples, I should walk out of here and resign from my job out of principle. I felt trapped -- trapped by the business 'arrangement' I had made and, even worse, trapped by my own depraved desires. Oh Anne, you are just pathetic; you are weak; you have betrayed yourself!
I felt so desolate. Tears welled in my eyes. I forced myself to hold them back. Tears were only going to make it worse.
Then my cell rang. I grabbed it from my bag. It was Mr Sheldon. For a moment I thought I would not answer it, so emotionally destroyed was I feeling, but I knew I should. In fact, I should have called him earlier, as I had agreed I would, to let him know how the meeting had gone. I would have do so but in the sheer turmoil of my predicament, I had actually clean forgotten to call my boss.
"Hi Anne, how did it go?" he asked. How did it go indeed, I thought. But I would have to tell him something.
"Um, I think it went OK, but they haven't made a decision yet."
"OK, well, that's got to be better than a firm rejection. I guess we'll just have to wait and see how they respond."
"Yes, I'm actually having dinner with Bill right now, so hopefully we'll be able to go over the proposal again over a meal."
"Yes. Er, Anne, there's something I should tell you about Bill."
"Yes?"
"Well, I was going to mention it before, but I really only had it confirmed to me yesterday -- and really it's actually not all that relevant. But the thing is, you should be on your guard a little if you're out for dinner with him, because my people in New York tell me he's got a bit of a reputation with the ladies."
"Has he?" I said, although I hardly needed Mr Sheldon to tell me that. I had already discovered it first hand...
"Yes. And I must confess, his 'reputation' is one of the reasons I sent you to this meeting rather than going myself. I mean, I thought that if he has a weakness in that area, having to deal with someone as vivacious as yourself might make the difference when it came to the negotiations -- and I know that you're an intelligent woman who can look after yourself. I hope you don't mind -- I really should have confided in you earlier. And I don't want you to think that this is all about the company using your feminine charms to win over a client. It's not that, it's not that at all -- you're one of my best, and I know that getting this contract was always going to be difficult, and outside of myself you were always first choice for this account. And, I mean, frankly I wasn't confident at all that I'd be able to pull it off myself. I thought you alone in the firm was the best equipped for this assignment, and that's why you're there. So please don't take what I've just said the wrong way."
"No, I don't mind," I said, although I wished he'd told me this before. Not that any such prior knowledge would have prevented what had happened last night, which was what caused all this.
