Fatal Attraction

- This part has even less sexual content than the first one. You should read that one first. -

*****

His voice was as fascinating as I remembered it. Utterly confident, relaxed, certain. I felt my anger melting. An explanation! Yes! Something to settle these endless circles my mind has been looping in.

I look up, meet his eyes, and he has me. Direct, deep, understanding, while at the same time utterly without compromise. I take the bait, needy, weak;

"An .. an explanation?"

My voice was so tentative, so high pitched, warbling upward in tone like some silly teenager's, a fool. I'm embarrassed, annoyed at myself – but more, desperate for him not to think me an idiot. He let a silence grow, sinking me in humiliation, then;

"Just so. Shall we?"

He indicates the swanky, elegant car; cool, unemphatic, leaving it up to me.

The wind knocked from my sails, all hope of raking up some righteous indignation lost, I meekly get into the car, as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world, while the chauffeur holds the door for me.

He gets in on the other side as normal as you like. All my alarms are jangling, but at the same time it is somehow a requirement for me not to let my confusion show, to pretend to be cool. I can't understand why I'm here – in his car – this man who subjected me to the worst experience of my life!

Even as I form this thought in my head, I know it's a lie. It wasn't the worst experience in my life. Just the most shocking, the most intense, the most disturbing, the most remarkable, the most unforgettable, the most irresistible...

And now I'm in his car.

I'm desperate to sit well, desperately conscious that my work outfit is nowhere near as pretty, as sexy, as flattering to my body as the little dress I had worn for that walk in the woods with W, that the nickers I had on were workaday panties, that my bra was comfortable and actually a bit old, and decidedly unsexy.

But why? Why should I be thinking these things? He wasn't going to see me undressed – ridiculous!

Except, of course, that he already had...

It was impossible to look at him – just impossible – and at the same time I was in an agony to know whether he was looking at me or not; how he was looking at me, what parts of me he was looking at, whether he was satisfied or disappointed now that he had me up close. Was he smiling? Was he leering, was he smug, or bored? I had to know, and yet I could not turn my neck to save my life.

Trembling. I was actually trembling. My god, what was I doing in this car? He could be kidnapping me – aiming to rape me, murder me!

I was on the road to hysterics, to losing control, when he spoke, in that gorgeously calm and softly powerful voice, with its intriguing accent;

"It's such a lovely evening, I thought a stroll along the canal would be pleasant."

And the car draws smoothly to a halt; we're at a pretty bit of canal, with the odd cafe, children laughing, a delightful summer evening – a less threatening environment hard to imagine. The chauffeur holds the door for me and I'm gulping in air, clenching my fists, forcing myself to calm down, to try to act as if nothing is going on, and then, without really being sure how, I'm standing, blinking, suddenly feeling dreadfully dowdy in my casual work wear.

"Shall we?" He gestures; slow, calm, assured, and I hear myself say;

"Yes, yes, that would be .. nice."

Pathetic, vapid. Surely he will abandon me now – the girl who can emit only cliches.

But, don't I want to be abandoned – wouldn't it save me if he just made an excuse, said he had to go?

Except that, fickle as I seemed to have become – a girl I no longer understood - I now gritted my teeth in despair and determination at the very thought of him losing interest.

So when he takes my hand, tucks it into the crook of his arm, and we're walking, I find myself almost joyful to be holding onto him, having to control myself not to grip his arm hard, to at least appear calm – but all the same, I am holding onto him, onto this man who has knocked me for six, holding onto him for dear life.

"You are very beautiful, you know – very lovely, very desirable."

I'm speechless, trembling again, staring carefully at the ground in front of me. How can this be happening to me?

"You have enormous capacity for intensity, desire, extremity – but this is either deeply suppressed, or perhaps, you are simply unaware of it – it having never been awakened."

Of course, this is romance novel codswallop – utter tripe. The sort of nonsense men get taught to say by pick-up-artist conman youTubers. And I know it.

So why, then am I suddenly weak at the knees? Truly needing to hold onto him, now, afraid I might fall, so wobbly am I.

He's a rock, discreetly taking my weight, obviously strong enough not to really notice it, casually, considerately, slowing, turning so that I can lean on a handy railing, clearly helping me to hold on to some dignity.

I take a deep, deep breath, hold it a little, let it go, slowly, as I've learned from the self help book, try to avert this intensity, pluck up some courage, try to pretend that this is all banter;

"Are .. are you sure? Because .. because I .. I don't .." I trail off, chest heaving. For I have looked into his ugly face and he's smiling at me, softly, knowing, serious, utterly unafraid.

"I'm more certain every minute. And I am a connoisseur who has all he needs of beauty."

And I can't speak any more. There seems no need, even. It's as if something has been decided – though I have no idea what. After a minute, he makes to resume our walk, and I go with him, unquestioning, hanging frankly on his arm now, up against him. Needing his strength. Wanting his strength.

Not much more is said, until we arrive at a small restaurant, and he pauses;

"The food is good here. Shall we? Or, would you rather I had Jenkins deliver you home?" he gestures, and there, above us, on a bridge, is his chauffeur, the top of the limousine just visible.

I gather my wits a little, then, try for boldness, amaze myself a little;

"But if I go home, then you won't give me my explanation, will you? And I do think you owe it me, don't you?"

He smiles again, and I melt;

"Very true, pretty, very true. In that case, let's see what their best is like, shall we?"

If any other man in the world had called me 'pretty' in that way , as I was then, I'd have put him quickly in his place, but somehow, there, from him, it made me blush with pleasure (these days, of course, if I am called anything at all, I like it - really, like it).

There is no small talk. The practicalities of the restaurant, all very smooth – they seem to know him - he orders for both of us without any consultation, and I watch him, able to look now, accepting, feeling safe, I suppose, in the small, intimate room, so close to other, normal couples (is anyone normal?).

And he is ugly, a sort of permanent sneer implied by the way his top lip bunches, how thin those lips are, a nose that has obviously been broken and awkwardly set, small scar over one eye, those narrow eyes. Sometimes, in the night, I think that if he had been handsome, I would have escaped, that he couldn't have gained my confidence, that I would never have believed in his sincerity.

I'm probably wrong, just trying to pretend that my life's story could have gone some other way, once I got into that car.

Because he is, clearly, sincere. He has always been so. Never told me a lie, never hidden any painful truth from me.

There is a silence after the waiter is gone, while we both look at each other. My eyes drop quickly. My confidence ebbs, I cannot meet the frank, unconcerned confidence in those eyes. I am simply something interesting, and his interest is like a steel probe, not to be averted.

It is is if I am stripped naked. Not physically, but mentally; my thoughts open to him.

I'm blushing. I'm not even sure what my thoughts are, but I'm somehow certain he does, and that they are shaming, weak, pathetic.

I try to be brave, look up, take some responsibility for myself, speak. But all I can manage is;

"I .. I'm not dressed for .. for this place, sorry"

"Why should you be sorry? You had no idea you were coming here."

And of course he's right, and I'm blushing again, confused.

"You have nothing at all to be ashamed of. You are a radiant young woman, and I want you. Any man in this place would want you, if they understood you the way that I do. If they knew what you could become."

This is not said intensely, as by some ardent young Count in a Russian novel, but calmly, slowly, the words measured, steady, almost unemotional.

It makes me tremble, though.

More silence. He seems happy to wait, while for me the tension has my jaw quivering.

At last, in a low voice, I manage;

"How .. how can you say that, when .. when .."

He laughs a short, almost harsh laugh. There is no sparing me;

"You mean when I've only seen you for a minute or two in a skimpy dress, displaying yourself in public like a slut for a demanding and impertinent stranger who is old enough to be your father?"

I look around, jerkily, sure that this must have been heard by someone, but all seem engrossed in their own worlds.

"Please .. please, don't.."

"Don't what? Don't make sure that there is truth between us? But then what would your explanation be worth?"

There's nothing to say, noting in my head at least, and after staring at him blankly for a moment, I'm looking at the table again.

The wine arrives; water, olives, bread, tiny little cheeses, artichoke hearts. It looks and smells gorgeous. I have no appetite.

I have no anything, it seems, except that I can sit there, trying to sit well, not slump, not look too awful, and wait. Everything I have said has been a disaster, but I don't want to leave, I want ..

I have no idea what I want, and truly, daren't try to guess. But I don't want this to end; not quite yet, at least..

It appears that he approves of my silence, for he says so;

"Very well; it appears you are ready to listen. What I imagine that you want to know is just how it came to be that I was there, in that clearing, so obviously waiting for you and your boyfriend."

I can't let this be said, blurt it out;

"Not my boyfriend. Not now. Not ever, really." I sound like a sullen teenager – but there, I've said it.

The satisfaction lasts a second only as I sense his wry grin. I'm amusing, at least..

"Very well, let's just call him W, then. He seems to think he's an enterprising chap. It appears he paid some money for access to a rather sophisticated personality testing toolkit."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Personality test?

"I see you recognise the term. Do you want to tell me?"

My skin is crawling. What .. what is going on?

I look up, and yet again, his ugly, calm, open expression, not kind, but not unkind either – and crucially, not at all eager – calms me.

I breathe, breathe again;

"He .. he said it would help me get a better job; that it was what the big firms all use, that, that if I did a few of them, he could help me get better at it, improve my .. my profile.."

"But .. but I only did it once. It .. was creepy - and boring too, and it took a long time, and then .. and then he got all weird about it."

Silence, then;

"Just so."

He sounded almost sad, and I looked up at him, and he was smiling, really smiling at me, kindly. Really, I swear, kindly.

"You see, pretty, it's like this. That test is indeed a very sophisticated test – the newest artificial intelligence tools are used. But he wasn't being honest with you – he wasn't interested in your job prospects – I don't suppose that's a surprise. Also, he did some other things I'm sure he wasn't honest about – installed a tracker on your phone and web browser that connects to the same scoring service."

I was staring at him now, fixated, trembling; half angry, half scared.

Somehow I feel sure now that a part of me knew just what was coming, even though I can't see how. But there was a feeling, right then, a feeling which has been with me, stronger or weaker, going away only to recur more intensely, ever since. A feeling of being in the grip of a deep, slow, powerful whirlpool. Not obviously frightening, but awesome in its relentlessness, its singularity of purpose – almost glorious, in fact, in the warmth and strength and inevitability of its embrace: it puts up no resistance when I strike out for escape, but just continues steadily on its majestic path, serene, uncaring, unstopping, unstoppable, until I exhaust myself, and relax back into its powerful hold, quivering in despair, weakened still further, ever less capable of resistance, pulled ever further in toward the singularity at its heart.

"You see, although the service is of the best quality; is indeed in use by the top firms – by my firm, as well, as a recruitment aid - its ability to identify personality traits has surprised even its designers. And your W was aware of, on the look-out for, one particular and rather striking type. At this point, it will come as no surprise to tell you that you fit that type rather well. So well, in fact, that W's initial intentions were surpassed by new ambition."

He pauses, looking at me, smiling again. I'm overcome by a deep sadness. 'This is going to destroy me', I think; 'I'm done for. Lost'. All that effort, all those hopes, all those silly ideas..

I look down, compose myself, look up again, nod for him to continue. Might as well. Not hearing it won't change anything. Not now. Somehow I know.

"What he was looking for, simply put, was a woman - a young and pretty woman, it goes without saying - with a deep sexual hunger, coupled with an inability to let it flourish – with some sort of block. I don't pretend to know what he was intending to do with such a woman – I'm not in the slightest interested – but I do know that when he saw the results of the scoring for you, his plans changed."

I find I am breathing deeply, slowly, but needily. I'm calm enough, but at the same time it is unbearable. To have to hear this, to know that it fits me, that this is me, that he does indeed know me.

"Nasty piece of work that he certainly is, he realised that with scores like yours, he would be able to sell you to a much nastier price of work, if he could only find a contact."

He is looking quite keenly at me now, and I'm trembling, he must be able to see, but he's waiting, waiting – waiting for me, I realise.

But it's bad - worse than I could have imagined. A nail through my heart. The rug pulled from under me. The strings cut. So sad.

I takes a great deal to speak, but he is waiting, and so speak I must;

"S ..sell – – me?"

Watching for his reaction, my whole body is alive – alive as it had never been – well, never apart from that day on the Heath. It's not that it is a good feeling, or a bad feeling - just that I am completely present, my focus at once total and completely without effort. I'm here.

And he doesn't fail me - meets me; here.

"Sell you. On the basis of your vulnerability."

I'm gripping the table edge, both my hands like clamps – I can feel the pain in my knuckles, but I am uncaring – just another data point.

Then the moment is gone, the clarity lost.

I feel sick, angry, desperate, exhilarated, tingling now, jumpy, ready to stand up, throw the table across the room, roar, scream my defiance, my outrage, ready to break down in tears of despair. Why me? Why like this? Is this really it? This is my chance at a sexual awakening? Here, with this, this,

dirty,

old,

man

- who has so obviously 'bought me' – or thinks he has, in some grubby, slimy deal.

Suddenly I'm hyperventilating, and I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to breath through my nose, fighting for control, for agency.

All through this, he's watching, calm, unworried, giving me space, time. Until I run out of steam. I've done precisely nothing. I'm exhausted.

"Just so – ", he says, calm as ever, forthright and casual at the same time; " – here you are, sitting across a table, in a bijoux little canal-side restaurant, with an infinitely nastier piece of work. A man who has paid money for you, on the basis of a computer rating which puts you in the top five percent of women vulnerable to just such a campaign as I am subjecting you to. A man who is mesmerised by the way your breathing is causing those lovely breasts to move. A man who plans to exploit that personality trait of yours to the full, without restraint, if you will only let him."

And just like that, he takes me down, disarms me. It's the honesty. I know it now, but this knowledge provides me with no strength, no armour, no defence, no cynicism. It just gets me.

"Ah, here's the food."

I'm compelled – no, I'm not; I compel myself, in fact – to sit there, as far as possible as if this is a normal night out – a first date, say, or perhaps a young woman dining with an uncle, or friend of the family - having a slightly intense conversation perhaps, but nothing, nothing at all out of the ordinary – while the waiter clears the small plates, brings the meal, the sides, new wine, which is to be tasted, accepted, poured, then water glasses refilled, enquiries made as to whether everything is satisfactory...

.. by the end of which, of course, it would be ridiculous, embarrassing, fake, to attempt to recreate my earlier intensity, the strength, the capacity to do something..

.. and anyway, I'm suddenly ravenous, and I stab into the food, which is delicious, tearing through half a plateful before I stop, take a deep swig of wine. And look up.

I have no idea what comes next, until I hear my own voice – quite strong, almost playful;

"So, what are you going to do with me, then? What is to be my fate?"

And suddenly I am aware that I'm wet between the legs, that my nipples are hard. That whatever he is, however he came to be here, whatever his plans for me, I want him – that I really want him. A new feeling for me, delicious, wild, sweet, demanding – and, in my crazy mood, irresistible. I wonder if he can see it, I hope he can..

He is smiling again; the real smile. Refusing to hurry, he takes a sip of wine, enjoys it, puts the glass down;

"Well, pretty, that depends upon you. It works like this you see. I am, as I have said, an infinitely nastier piece of work than the disposable W. But at the same time, I have a – conceit – a vanity, you might call it. Pathetic, really, but there it is. It goes like this; the women I destroy – and I do wish to destroy you, lovely Chloe – must offer themselves up for destruction – must volunteer, must go into it knowingly. That they must know that they may change their mind at any time, and be released, be free."

"You see, I am sick – a damaged character. This – twist – of mine is not, truly not, healthy. And similarly, the strange inner blockage that renders you so interesting to me is not evidence of anything but damage. And I am rich. I could attempt to find healing for myself – except that, well, I find that I don't."

"I can though, offer you the chance of healing, of some resolution, or at least some learning about how to mitigate that inner knot that makes you so vulnerable."

Once again, there is no hint either of deep emotion, or neediness - nor of any strain to suppress such – he is easy, conversational, clearly sincere. A man in full knowledge and acceptance of himself, good and bad.

And now I'm putty in his hands again, desire receded, simply waiting for him; this is not the talk of a man about to ravish me, abduct me, consume me, overpower me – even seduce me – I wonder, is he going to leave me like this?

I'm cold.

The waiter appears, a mute enquiry – he – the ugly man (I haven't asked his name, I realise, have no idea who he really is) gestures at my half empty plate, the knife and fork abandoned where I dropped them; I look down briefly, dimly unbelieving that I had been able to eat, shake my head as if in a dream, and again we are in the limbo of service, as plates are cleared, more enquiries made, shakes of the head, but yes, coffee for him, and a brandy, double, a whisky – he names a brand, double, for me, no ice – again I am not consulted. Again, I accept without concern, already a different woman, somehow, than I had been only a few hours ago.