by Penny Birch
That was best, only she shouldn’t have been so nice. Instead, she should have dragged me out of the water by my ear, telling me I was a filthy little sloven, that I had no self-control. She should have made me change on the beach, no towel, pulling down my trousers to show off my soiled panties, then those too, exposing my filthy bum to the beach. She should have sluiced me down with buckets of sea water, then made me wash my clothes, still bare from the waist down, bent with my bottom and pussy lips showing, my bumhole still dirty. They would have watched, hundreds of people, all delighting in my utter humiliation, and then when I was wet and clean, the big woman would have quite calmly thrown me across her knee and given me the hardest, most painful spanking of my lifetime, in plain view, bare bottom, punished for my filthy behaviour as I kicked and screamed and struggled and blubbered . . .
I came, really screaming it out as the orgasm hit me, so loud that my neighbours were sure to hear. Not that I cared. Masturbation was no sin, neither was having lovers in, not like getting a kick out of filling my own panties with mess. Fortunately they had no way of knowing what I was thinking about, and they were welcome to think it was some slim young man from the city or some respectable, trendy profession.
That brought my mind to Damon, who undoubtedly felt that I had stood him up. With luck it would be a rejection too many, even for him, and he would go his own way. Unfortunately I had a sneaking suspicion that he would do nothing of the kind.
Another person who needed to be considered was Gabrielle. Technically I owed her a body massage and detox, but I was unsure if I wanted to do it. I still felt certain that she had ulterior motives in being so friendly, although it was very hard to accept that she could be so callous as to frig me off if she didn’t fancy me, at least a bit.
In the end I decided that it was all too much for that time of the morning. Pouring myself more coffee, I began to get up, only for the doorbell to go before I was dressed. I threw on the first thing to hand, which happened to be the brilliant yellow beach shorts and Percy’s shirt, then stuck my head out of the window. It was Damon.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.
‘There you are,’ he answered. ‘Where have you been? You really showed me up at the weekend.’
‘How? What are you talking about?’
‘The weekend, the Independent Film Forum. You were supposed to come with me, right?’
‘No, I didn’t say I’d come. I was doing something else.’
‘I said I’d pick you up. You must remember. We agreed.’
‘No, Damon, you told me. I had other plans.’
‘Sure you did! Now will you let me in? We need to talk.’
‘No we don’t. Just go away. I don’t want to see you.’
‘You do. You know you do. Look, Natasha, I’ve had enough of these stupid games. You’re behaving like a teenager, with all this hard-to-get business . . .’
He trailed off, his head moving back to look past me. I glanced up, to see my friend Charlotte’s head sticking out of the attic-flat window, her hair dishevelled and her face set in a sleepy frown.
‘Sorry,’ I said automatically.
She gave me a cross look and her head disappeared.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ I hissed downwards. ‘Jesus, Damon!’
‘Let me come up then,’ he demanded.
‘No!’
‘We can do this two ways, Natasha. I can come up, or I can shout at your window. Which is it to be?’
‘OK, OK, come up!’
I pulled my head in and marched to the intercom, absolutely boiling inside as I pressed the button. I heard the click of the door opening and a moment later the clatter of Damon’s shoes on the stairs. Turning the catch to my own door I stalked back into the living room and threw myself down in a chair, my arms across my middle. Damon appeared a moment later.
‘So?’ I demanded.
‘So we need to sort this out,’ he answered. ‘Just listen, right? You really embarrassed me at the weekend, deeply, but I’m prepared to overlook that, and all the other girlish crap you’ve been giving me. You don’t need to do that to me, pretending you’re not interested and that modesty stuff. I’m a modern guy, I understand female sexuality.’
I tried to glare at him, but it just came out as a sulky look. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him to fuck off, but I just couldn’t find it in myself. It was too early, and my head wasn’t straight. Instead I just sat there, wondering what I could possibly say to put him off.
‘Right,’ he went on, ‘so from now on, we don’t need to get into that any more. I’m coming round tonight, seven o’clock. Put on something from a name, because I’m going to take you somewhere special, really special. It’ll amaze you.’
‘I don’t want to go out.’
‘No, Natasha, I’m not going there any more. I’m collecting you at seven, that’s it.’
‘Look . . . look, Damon, I don’t want to let you down, please believe me, but the truth is . . . the truth is I prefer girls.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you cured of that.’
‘No, really, I’m having an affair . . .’
I stopped myself just in time, remembering that Ami was his PR agent. It wouldn’t have been fair.
‘. . . Gabrielle Salinger,’ I finished. ‘Not any more, you’re not. You’re with me, right? You don’t need anybody else. I’ll tell her myself if you like.’
‘No!’
‘Then you must. I’ve got to run now, you’ve already made me late. Oh, and I love the Daddy’s girl look with the big shirt and the baggy shorts. You’re to wear it tonight, for your after-dinner treat. Think about it to get yourself ready. Ciao.’
He went, banging the door behind him to leave me sitting there feeling numb. I’d meant to argue, and normally I would have done. As it was he’d just browbeaten me into accepting the date. I had to go too, because he obviously wasn’t going to go away and I didn’t want him coming round shouting up at my window again.
My feeble attempt to claim I was a lesbian had fallen flat as well. Worse in fact. I’d really dropped myself in it. He was arrogant enough to tell Gabrielle what I’d said, and I could just see her response, nodding thoughtfully as she wondered if I’d developed an obsession with her because of the detox episode or if I was just mad. There was only one thing for it. I was going to have to call her and explain.
I did, and she must have heard the emotion in my voice, because she suggested coming over to see her immediately. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I badly needed to talk to somebody, too badly to decline, and under an hour later I was at her clinic in Victoria, sprawled on the black leather sofa she used as a couch. It wasn’t technically a professional appointment, but that made it easier still to let go. I told her the whole Damon saga, from start to finish, and she listened, nodding and making the occasional note.
‘It seems,’ she said when I had finally finished, ‘that he has come to view you as a possession, something which it is his to control.’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ I told her.
‘Therefore, to him, you can no more reject him than a dog can reject its owner. Does he use the word ‘‘bitch’’, perhaps during sex?’
‘Yes, always when he’s coming. He likes to come down my throat, to make me gag.’
‘Again, this is typical. Both are common manifestations of male sexuality, the need to control the female. He wishes to see you as his bitch, implying both doglike loyalty and an inability to restrain your sexual desire for him, although this is unlikely to be entirely at a conscious level. The same is true of the need to make you gag, by which he exerts his control over a crucial life function – your breathing.’
‘I’d more or less worked all that out.’
‘It is simple, of course. The consequence is that you cannot reject him . . .’
‘I can try!’
‘No, that is not what I mean. In his own mind you cannot reject him. It is likely that in his mind he sees himself a
s a hunter, and therefore you as prey. Should you continue to reject him, it is possible that he may become compulsive, calling you at all hours, sending letters, emails, stalking you, making threats . . .’
‘I get the picture. So what am I supposed to do?’
‘Well, you have the choice of legal action of course . . .’
‘No, please. I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it all. Anyway, I’d feel he’d won.’
‘A common reaction, and in extreme cases legal action may prove counter-productive, increasing his sense of antagonism towards you. You would do better to try to make him reject you.’
‘I’d already thought of that one. That’s why I told him I was a lesbian. He said he’d cure me!’
‘No, this was the wrong choice. By claiming to be a lesbian you merely provide him with a reason to accept your rejection of him, on your terms. You provide only an added challenge. He needs to make the rejection himself, on his own terms.’
‘I see, but what can I do?’
‘Initially, you must discover what he finds unacceptable in women. For instance, many men have a strong need to feel that a woman is theirs alone, that she has been ‘pure’, ‘inviolate’ before. In their minds they are conquering a woman by taking her virginity, after which it is easier to view her as their possession.’
‘Not Damon, he gets off on me being a slut. Anyway, that’s another thing he used to call me when he was coming.’
‘It is a common alternative, taking pride in the possession of a highly sought-after woman. To further the analogy of hunter and prey, he sees you as a trophy.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Should you prove socially unacceptable you would cease to be a trophy. Yet you are slim, beautiful, educated, rich . . .’
‘Thanks, Gabrielle, you know how to cheer a girl up. Not rich though.’
‘No? You own a flat in Primrose Hill, a sports car. You have, I suspect, private means?’
‘Well, Daddy pays for a few things – the flat, the car.’
‘Wealth is relative. To Damon Maurschen you appear rich.’
‘Whatever. So what, I’ve got to put on ten stone to get rid of him, or give everything to charity? No way!’
‘No, this would only be seen as an attempt to evade him, to prevent your capture. In any case, it would be wrong to pay so high a cost.’
‘Dead right.’
‘No, it is essential that he does not realise you seek to escape . . .’
She went on, but I wasn’t really listening. An idea had occurred to me.
Damon picked me up at seven, by which time I was nearly ready. He had asked for designer clothes and I’d gone to town for him – shoes, stockings, suspenders, bra and panties all handmade by the best names, and topped off by a crimson Gaultier gown I’d bought in Paris, beautifully cut to show off my back and tummy, but high enough to cover the mess Monty had made of my boobs. The colour worked with my hair, which I’d put up in a gold fillet, Athenian style, along with jewellery set with rubies, including one for my tummy piercing. The moment I stepped from the front door Damon’s expression changed to smug satisfaction. He’d caught me.
‘Hi,’ I greeted him. ‘Do you like it?’
‘You look beautiful,’ he answered. ‘As a woman should for her man.’
I smiled, simpered really, and slid myself into his car, which was some Japanese four-wheel drive thing. He started off, turning south, then west on the Euston Road and out on to the flyover. I’d expected somewhere in central London, and was wondering what he was doing, until we passed the M25. It seemed certain that he’d decided to take me to Le Beaunois, which was even better than I’d expected. Perfect in fact, because Percy had known the owner since before I was born.
Not that I said anything, allowing Damon to have his moment of glory as he finally turned off an Oxfordshire lane and parked in front of the long Cotswold stone building with its great gnarled vine twisting up around the windows. I oohed and aahed a bit to show how grateful I was, and allowed him to take my arm.
‘The vine is supposed to be nearly a hundred years old,’ he said, as we approached the door.
‘Eighty-three,’ I answered. ‘It’s a Pinot-Noir, supposedly grown from a cutting stolen from la Romanée-Conti itself at the end of the First World War.’
‘Your subject, of course,’ he said. ‘Natasha!’
The grapes were showing full colour, and I’d picked one, popping it into my mouth in full view of the man coming to meet us at the door. He was tall, grey haired, with an air of absolute propriety, sending Damon into immediate stumbling apologies for my behaviour, which were ignored.
‘Nearly ripe,’ I pronounced. ‘Not bad for an English summer. Good evening, Louis.’
‘Miss Linnet, good evening,’ Louis answered. ‘A pleasure to see you again. Sir.’
He finished with a polite but minimal bow to Damon, then ushered us inside, still talking.
‘Your usual table is taken I fear. Had I known, of course . . . yet there is another within the conservatory, if you care to take it?’
I nodded, following him past the main dining room to the glass and iron space of the conservatory, where he showed us to a table that looked out over the countryside, with the lights of Oxford in the distance.
‘An aperitif, perhaps?’ Louis suggested, sliding my chair in beneath me. ‘Cristal, perhaps?’
‘Mineral water, please,’ Damon put in.
‘Poor Damon’s driving,’ I said. ‘I will though, a half of that Vaudésir ninety-nine if you have it?’
‘Certainly, Miss Linnet.’
Louis left, beaming and I picked up the menu to hide my smile.
‘You’ve been here before?’ Damon asked.
‘Once or twice,’ I admitted. ‘My uncle likes to bring me here. I’m sorry you can’t drink, the wine list is spectacular. The house used to belong to a Major Allens, the man who pinched the vine cutting. When he died and Charles bought the place they took over the cellar. There are things you wouldn’t see outside an Oxford college.’
‘I thought you said that man was called Louis?’
‘Louis is the cellerman, the manager too. Charles is the owner. Now, what shall we have? Foie gras of course. They have the La Seigneurie.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘Oh don’t worry, they’ve always got some. Louis will dig it out for me. We’ll have it pan fried, with an Yquem. I do hope they’ve got some of the ’sixty-seven left. First though, oysters, which will go nicely with the Chablis. Oh, and there’s grouse, we can’t miss that, and they have the most wonderful chocolate dessert, which means we’ll have to have Banyuls. I will anyway. I’m really sorry you can’t too. Couldn’t we get a cab back or something?’
‘To London?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘No, don’t worry. I’m happy with mineral water.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Damon was going to say something, but went quiet as Charles himself appeared with my half bottle of Chablis. He was his normal unctuous self, full of flattery for me and ignoring Damon almost completely. I was sure the only reason he’d never made a pass at me was out of respect for Percy, and I could tell from his questions that he was trying to find out if we were still together. It was rather fun, but I answered evasively, not wanting to make Damon jealous.
When Louis returned along with a waiter I gave our order, everything I had planned, including the ’sixty-seven Yquem, of which Damon obviously had no idea of the price. Damon added his, going for much lighter choices and declining the foie gras. Louis waited, the ancient notebook that contained the Major’s original stock list in his hand.
‘Would you care to?’ he queried, holding it up to me with a smile as the waiter left.
‘Naturally,’ I answered, and turned to Damon. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling?’
‘You go ahead,’ he assured me, smiling back.
‘With grouse then,’ Louis said, ‘perhaps the Clos
Vougeot ’sixty-four from Jean Gros? Or Louis Remy’s Chambertin ’fifty-nine, which is truly superb.’
‘Thanks but no,’ I answered. ‘I almost never get the whole bottle to myself, and Damon’s spoiling me. I’ll have Chambertin, but the Leroy ’forty-nine.’
‘Magnificent, of course,’ he answered, casting a quick glance towards Damon.
Damon gave no outward sign of having understood, which made it pretty certain that he hadn’t. Soon afterwards the oysters arrived, and I tucked in, enjoying myself immensely, filling the shells with Chablis and pouring the contents into my mouth, which drew an indulgent look from Charles and one of disapproval from Damon.
I began to flirt with him after that, as the alcohol slowly warmed me up. With two and a half bottles to drink I was going to be almost under the table by the end, but that was fine, and I soon had my shoe off so that I could stroke Damon’s leg under the table, and even press my toes to his crotch so that I could feel the soft mass of his cock and balls beneath.
That left him smiling, and half erect by the time I took my foot away, pretty agitated too. I could just imagine what he was thinking, of stopping in a lane on the way back, making me suck him until I gagged on his cock, maybe fucking me over the back seat. I didn’t want to hurry though, and lingered over the meal.
The combination of foie gras and ’sixty-seven Yquem was exquisite, the grouse and Chambertin ’forty-nine better still, with the wine everything it was supposed to be and maybe even the finest I had ever tasted. Naturally I had to let Charles and Louis have a glass each, but the rest went down me. By the end of the bottle I was feeling mellow to say the least, even a bit mean. The ice that followed to break the meal cleared my head a little, but only until the arrival of the chocolate pudding and a ’seventy-eight Banyuls Grand Cru, which left my head spinning and my pussy so wet I was wondering if I’d leave a damp patch on the chair, a thought which just made me giggle. I still managed a glass of Armagnac, after which I was wondering how I was going to manage to stand up.
