He wasn't even a proper boyfriend. I mean, I saw him fairly often, had sex with him, occasionally went to places with him -- but there was no real relationship, no depth to it, no thought in my mind that it could ever go anywhere.
Which just makes what happened even stranger. Not that it matters now, of course. Nothing matters any more. But it intrigues me, going over it, how one step led to another, how improbable and -- well wrong, it all was. Is. And yet when I think about each decision point, each place where I could have changed the way things went -- changed them for the better, for the saner, for the healthier -- I cannot imagine myself, at that moment, making any other choice than the one that I did make.
However crazy it was, whatever was suggested to me, I always made the choice desired of me -- often with a great deal of discomfort -- fear, often -- but always committing myself in a way which now seems inevitable, unavoidable. It always felt like the choice I knew I wanted to take. Even though, at the same time, it was always the choice which would lead me further down a one-way street. I was never deceived, never tricked, always chose what I chose freely.
And if I had known in advance, known how one choice, one decision, would lead inexorably to the next, and the next -- deeper, deeper, and deeper still? How getting out, although always explicitly on offer as a choice, simply never got any serious consideration ...
Would I still have made the same choices, had I known these things? I'd have run a mile, screaming, surely? Perhaps not. I'll never know. It's too late now. There are no longer any real choices.
Anyway, that morning, he had asked me to go for a walk with him. That was it -- a walk on the Heath. That was a little unusual -- he wasn't much of an outdoors type, and neither was I. But it was a lovely day, and he said we'd end up at a pub and have something to eat, and so I said yes.
I put on a summer dress -- pretty, but nothing particular, with some flat sandals. After some deliberation, I decided that I wouldn't wear a bra -- I didn't have one that wouldn't be annoyingly visible at the back. My breasts would sway a little -- I wasn't comfortable with that, really -- they had blossomed in my late teens, after I had come to terms with being flat-chested, going from nothing to a firm, proud CC in under a year. But I knew he liked them, and it was high summer, and I hate to look ill-considered.
Maybe a different dress, with a firm bra, would have changed everything? Strange to think of that. It could have been so different. somehow, though, I don't think so. Everything was sealed, I think, even before I knew anything about it ...
He was subdued, but at the same time jumpy. I got pretty irritated, in fact, and was considering walking off, except that by then I was a little lost, and he seemed to know where he was going. So I followed on, thinking that this was it for him. If he didn't come good by the end of the day, I'd cool him off. It was over, probably. I wasn't even sad.
So I followed behind, not speaking, as he took a narrow path into a stand of trees. Quite soon, it opened out into a pretty, sunlit glade, with a picnic table. It seemed very quiet and private -- we hadn't seen anyone else for at least a quarter of an hour. But there, at the table, sat a man.
An older man -- late forties perhaps, and really quite ugly, without there being anything particular you could put your finger on that made it so. He was somehow impressive, though, sitting at that table, with a financial newspaper -- the pink one.
In an expensive and very masculine business suit that he was completely master of, he lowered the paper a little, looking at us, calm, at ease, but at the same time a powerful, intense presence. It made me feel odd, to be outside, in such a deserted spot, to find this very powerful projected masculinity, this stranger. Suddenly the clearing felt like a private room -- his room -- and I was a trespasser.
This was silly! I walked a little faster, caught up to W. We'd be past him and on the way out of the glade in ten seconds or so. Just one of those little incidents -- I'm not even sure I was thinking any of this at the time -- it's just that I have replayed the scene in my mind so many times since that I feel every fleeting nuance now -- the remembered event is more real than what actually happened -- I don't really know any more. But my heart is beating faster just writing this.
And I'm moist between the legs, my nipples tightening deliciously, throat tightening. I was such a tender and innocent victim, and my degradation has been so ruthless, so thorough, so gloriously devastating, that I feel dizzy just thinking about that moment...
And I felt some heightened emotion then, too -- nervous. Breathing stops, then re-starts with a jerk and a rapid intake of breath, startling me.
How can this scene, so small in itself, have such a powerful impact, still? Because it led to here, to now, to what ...
What I am, what I have been turned into. What I glory and despair at. What tears me apart, what makes life worth living, by inducing this state where every nerve ending is fully alert, tingling with anticipation -- of pleasure or pain, where my mind and body are brought into a sort of frozen frenzy, which only the decisive and powerful demands of another can bring to resolution, and which resolution is so often denied, that I am become a helpless addict, utterly without the means to resist the most outrageous injustice, the cruellest humiliation, pathetically eager, grateful for the slightest teasing hope of attention.
Because W didn't keep walking, but stopped close to the table, nodded to the man, then half turned toward me -- mutely, but as if presenting me to this stranger. I stopped, unsure, uncomfortable, feeling the man's powerful being; intense, perfectly focused, but completely calm, completely confident, in control. He was looking me over quite thoroughly, without the slightest embarrassment, and without looking once at my face -- appraising me as a man might a horse. I want to shout at him, turn and flounce off, leave W to his -- friend? But somehow I can't move, can only stand there, blushing as he scrutinises me, feeling a strong urge from somewhere to adjust my position, to try to look more attractive -- to gain his approval. Why? In any case, I am all but frozen until I hear him say;
"She's pretty enough, but I want to see her on her knees, thighs spread."
His voice is deep, smooth, but with a sort of unconscious certainty of his power that gives it unnatural force HIs english is perfect, but there is a hint of an exotic accent. For a moment I am too fascinated by this character to register the words, and by the time I have, W has turned to me, and his face has a look I've never seen before -- quite desperate, really, intense. He's pleading with his eyes, really looking at me, more interested than I can remember him ever being before and I'm impressed despite myself.
But it isn't this that gets me. I'm impressed that W should be so intense, that he's looking at me with such urgency, but I'm in no mood to do anything at all on his behalf.
I turn back to the man, still seated, still as relaxed as before, despite the obvious turmoil he has induced in W, despite my confusion -- he's just looking. Then I realise, he's beginning to look away -- he's bored, losing interest.
And I don't want him to, I suddenly realise. I want him to think me pretty. I want him to be interested in me.
He looks at my face then, steady, cool, neutral.
Then I hear myself speak, hear my voice urgent, with a hint of panic in it.
"What? How? You ..you can't just demand that! I mean, who .. who are you?"
Of course, replaying it in my head I can hear my own weakness, my inability to just walk off, leaving them for the presumptuous jerks they were.
He just looks at me, as calm as ever -- a little interested, but not caring much. Patient.
