Blackmailed by the beast

by Georgia Le Carre

  I try to be as gracious as I can when Thorne introduces me to the bright sparks of his industry, but it is impossible for me to remember their names or faces. There are so many of them and they all wear the same awed expression when they are talking to Thorne.

  I see a different side of him. He is the star of this show. Everybody wants a piece of him. I take a step back and study his confident, relaxed demeanor. I know it is a mask, so very different from the dark, brooding man I know. I wonder about his AI. All these people think what they are seeing is the latest and most advanced technology, but Thorne has kept the best for himself.

  A beautiful blonde woman walks up to us. Even before she reaches us, my hackles rise and my body is on alert. She is taller than me, and her glittering green eyes flash between me and Thorne. A corner of her mouth twists upwards, but it’s not a friendly smile.

  “Chelsea Appleby meet Andrea Bloom,” Thorne introduces.

  I smile and hold out my hand. She offers me a limp hand and flashes another fake smile.

  “Well, well, Chelsea Appleby. You’ve made quite a catch there,” she drawls looking down at me.

  If I were in a different surrounding I would know exactly how to answer her, but this is Thorne’s big moment and I’m not going to be the one who makes a scene. I force a polite smile. “How is it that you two know each other?”

  “We used to date a lifetime ago, but Thorne turned out to be so extremely driven and ruthless there was no place for a woman in his life.” She looks up at Thorne and winks at him. “Looks like that is no longer true.”

  I can see right through her. She is making a play for him. My stomach burns as if I have drunk battery acid. The effortless way he hurt me in the car replays in my mind and I try to tell myself he doesn’t belong to me, but nothing can ease the fire in the pit of my belly. She wants him. Oh, God, maybe he wants her too. The thought is too painful to bear.

  “Anyway, that’s all in the past,” she says with a little laugh, and her eyes turn back to me. She glances at my dress and takes a sip of her champagne. “Is that a Chiara Boni?”

  I touch the dress self-consciously. “Yes, I think so.”

  Her eyebrows lift mockingly. “You’re not sure? How utterly charming.”

  I feel myself flush. “Ooo …” she coos. “How sweet. A girl who blushes.” She looks up and sideways at Thorne, a practiced, seductive gesture. “Where on earth did you find this creature? She’s absolutely entertaining.”

  I dare not look at Thorne. If I look at him and catch him returning her desire, I will be physically sick, or I will scratch her eyes out. The bitch looks at me again. “Don’t take anything I say to heart. I’m just a terrible tease. I only do it to the people I like. I wouldn’t dare wear that color, but it’s a delightful dress, and it certainly suits you.”

  God, she is so phony, I can’t stand it. I thank her for her empty compliment, then immediately excuse myself to search for the restroom. This is a mostly-men affair and there is no one inside, thank God. Stepping inside, I move to the mirror.

  I just need a few moments to myself to clear my head.

  Chelsea

  Standing over the sink, I rest my hands on it. I close my eyes and take in a few deep breaths. Suddenly the door opens, and Andrea is standing there with a smirk on her face. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “Hello again,” she says, and this time there is no sweet smile. The gloves are off. No one is around and she doesn’t have to pretend.

  “What can I do for you?” I do not try to hide my distant tone.

  “Just came to tell you not to get too comfortable as Thorne’s latest squeeze,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thorne becomes infatuated with a bright young thing every once in a while. It’s his way to relieve the tension of being cooped up for days on end by himself talking to those robots.”

  I frown.

  “Oh, you poor thing. Did you not realize that the man has no time for a real relationship? He just needs a body, any body, to satisfy his impressive sexual appetite,” she says as she walks over to me. Instead of looking directly at me, she stares condescendingly at my reflection in the mirror.

  I don’t look away. I don’t want to show any kind of weakness around her. “That doesn’t bother me,” I lie.

  She laughs. “It’s just a bit of friendly advice, woman to woman, but if you’re into being used, go for it. Enjoy it while it lasts, girlie. Trust me, when Thorne finds someone else, the fancy dinners, the expensive dresses, the Louboutins, the parties, and all of the romance … well, you can kiss them all goodbye, and go right back to wherever it is you came from.”

  She smiles again, but it isn’t a fake smile she presented before. It is a triumphant smirk. I want to wipe the smile off her face with a slap, but a lump in my throat catches me off guard. She flounces out of the Ladies. I tell myself she knows nothing about me. Nothing.

  I look in the mirror and all I see are my lips. Hot pink.

  Twenty years ago

  England is so cold and gray. Mama and I sit on plastic chairs in a waiting room of the Social Services office. Everybody here is pale and seems unhappy. We are sitting near an old man who smells of wee. He smiles at me and I try to smile back, but I can’t because I am so unhappy and frightened of what will happen next. Already I have lost Papa, Momo, and Monsieur Lemarie. All my friends are gone too. All I have left is Mama, but she won’t even look at me. She stares straight ahead.

  Now she turns to me. “When they call us in I want you to cry and look pitiful.”

  “What if I can’t?” I whisper back.

  Something cold and hateful flashes in her eyes. “Why don’t you think of Papa or Momo?”

  Surprised by Mama’s tone I say nothing else and stare ahead of me. When Mama’s name is called, we go into a cubicle and sit in front of a woman with bored eyes and untidy hair. Her name is Mrs. Stevens. Mama carefully puts the urn with Papa’s ashes on the table. Mrs. Stevens raises her eyebrows in a kind of disbelieving way.

  As soon as Mama starts telling our story she starts sobbing, but Mrs. Stevens seems completely unmoved. She just dumps a box of tissues next to the urn for Mama to use. Sometimes, she makes notes on a form she pulled out of her drawer when we first walked in.

  Mama lays her hand on my head. “This poor child has hardly eaten for days. She blames herself for her father’s death. She suffers from terrible nightmares. I am so afraid for her. She may be damaged forever.”

  I see Mrs. Stevens’s eyes flick down towards me so I quickly think of Papa and Momo and my eyes fill with hot tears that start rolling down my face. Although Mrs. Stevens was unmoved by Mama’s tears, she frowns when I start crying. I look at Mama and she smiles approvingly at me. So I cry even more.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Do you want a biscuit?” she coos in a high voice.

  I know she is being kind, but it shocks me that she thinks she can replace Papa and Momo with a biscuit. I’m not hungry, but I nod, because I can see that it is what Mama wants me to do. Mrs. Stevens opens a bottom drawer and takes out a packet of tea biscuits and holds it out to me. I wipe my tears and take a biscuit.

  Mama and me spend that night in a bed and breakfast. There are many families like us living there. We see them sitting around talking in the lobby downstairs as we check in. I spy two girls who are my age. One of them waves to me and I wave back shyly.

  I make friends with them the next morning at breakfast. Their names are Heather and Sylvia. Heather has a rabbit in her room.

  “I thought animals are not allowed,” I whisper.

  “That’s right, but I smuggled Harry in. Loads of us do it. Didn’t you bring yours, then?” she whispered back.

  “Mama didn’t know we could,” I say sadly.

  “Well, get someone to send him to you,” Sylvia suggests.

  I decide to write to Monsieur Lemarie and ask him to please bring Momo to us, but when I give Mama my letter she tears it in
to pieces.

  “What a selfish little brat you have become. Is this really where you want Momo to live? In this dump? In France he can run in the fields and go where he wants. Here he will be trapped in this small, stinking room day and night. Sometimes, Chelsea …”

  Social Services finally finds a small apartment in the beginning of summer for us. Mama is very happy. On the first night we move in she pulls out her little black dress with the lace sleeves that Papa bought for her, shaves her legs and pulls on her lovely black stockings. Then she paints her mouth with her hot pink lipstick and goes out for a drink with a man she met at the bed and breakfast.

  When she came home in the early morning hours, the hot pink lipstick was gone from her lips.

  Chelsea

  Someone comes into the restroom. She smiles at me. I smile back, then I turn away from the mirror, open the bathroom door and let myself out. My eyes immediately search for Thorne. I find him near the stage. He is speaking to Andrea Bloom. Unseen by them, I stare at the picture they make. She is laughing at something he says and gently touches his sleeve. The gesture is possessive. Every person who looks at them will think they are together.

  I feel sick.

  I want to run up to her and knock her head off. I need to forget this feeling. I want to forget ever meeting Andrea Bloom.

  “Chelsea? Chelsea Appleby?”

  I turn at the sound of my name. I haven’t seen the man smiling at me in years, but of course, I remember him. He is someone who used to supply the robotics side of Thorne’s business. He’s a handsome older gentleman with silver hair and flinty blue eyes.

  “Monsieur Blanchett,” I say with a smile. It’s nice to see a familiar face. He has always been very kind to me, so I’m glad to see him. Being French he air-kisses my cheeks three times.

  “It’s been so long. What brings you back to these parts?” he asks in French.

  I glance over at Thorne, who is still talking to Andrea. I feel the pain in my belly, but I turn my full attention to Monsieur Blanchett.

  “Thorne and I recently reconnected. I just got into the country yesterday,” I reply in French.

  “Oh!” He can’t help the speculative look that comes into his eyes. “That’s nice. How long will you be staying in England?”

  “Three months. I’ll be around for the next three months.” If Thorne is finished with me by the beginning of next month then that means I will be free of my debt to him. I will be able to return to New York and go back to my old life.

  “Ah.”

  “So you still do business with Thorne?” I ask, trying my best to concentrate on his answer and not turn around to stare at Thorne and Andrea. From the corners of my eyes I can still see the flash of her blonde head, but I avoid looking in their direction.

  “But of course. He is the most important person in AI development.”

  I nod.

  “Do you still work for Thorne?” he asks, turning to look around the room. He is looking over my shoulder and even getting onto the balls of his feet in order for him to be able to scope the room. “Where is Thorne anyway?” he asks.

  I turn to see if Thorne is still with Andrea, but both have gone. Jealousy and anger swell within me.

  “No, I’m not working for Thorne anymore.” My answer is honest.

  Monsieur Blanchett stops looking around and smiles at me. “Well, it would be lovely to catch up. May I invite both Thorne and you to have lunch with me next week?”

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what Thorne’s schedule is like.”

  “Well, you are welcome to come on your own. You can tell me … how do you say it … what the devil … you have been up to since you ran away without telling a soul.”

  I blush, then laugh.

  Monsieur Blanchett chuckles. “And I can bore you by talking shop.” I like him. I’ve always liked him. He reminds me of Monsieur Lemarie. Like me, he too has an appreciation for numbers.

  “Lunch sounds lovely. I’d love to come,” I tell him.

  “Fabulous. I will get my secretary to call you and set something up.”

  “Excuse me …” snaps Thorne.

  I am startled because I did not notice Thorne walking up to us. Monsieur Blanchett smiles.

  “There you are, Thorne. This beautiful woman of yours and I were just—” Mr. Blanchett begins, but Thorne cuts him off.

  “I don’t have time for niceties, Blanchett. We’re leaving, Chelsea,” Thorne bites out rudely, while glaring at me.

  Monsieur Blanchett looks shocked.

  “But what about the unveiling—,” I blurt out, confused and embarrassed.

  “Can be accomplished without me. Come,” he almost snarls.

  My head jerks back and my whole face burns. He is treating me as if I am a naughty child in a public place. I feel bad for Monsieur Blanchett too. He did nothing wrong.

  I open my mouth to protest, but the way Thorne’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow tells me that I’m better off keeping my mouth shut. As Thorne lays claim to his ownership of my body by slipping his hand around my waist, I give Monsieur Blanchett an apologetic look. Without a word, Thorne leads me towards the back entrance.

  I’m beyond furious. He has made a complete fool of me, but I don’t say anything. Let him have his control. Better this than prison.

  Thorne

  I am so fucking furious I don’t — actually fuck don’t, can’t— say a word to Chelsea on the drive home. Jesus, I can’t even look at her. My blood is boiling in my veins and I want to punch something. Hard.

  “Come to my study,” I order when we arrive at the house. She looked confused and hurt when I didn’t want to tell her about my AI and I actually felt bad, but what an idiot I was. I turn my back on her for one second and she’s accepting lunch dates with another man. Fuck her and that old fool. He thinks he can handle her. This bitch will have him wrapped around her little finger and licking her boots before long.

  I walk ahead of her, deliberately keeping my stride long. Behind me, I hear the sound of her shoes as she quickens her pace to keep up with me. I open the door and hold it for her. She walks through, her eyes staring straight ahead, and turns around to face me defiantly.

  I count to ten to calm my nerves. She’s so unbelievably untrustworthy. What the fuck am I even doing with her? I should kick her out of my house. She’s turning my life upside down. The longer I keep her here, the more enslaved I become to her body.

  I thought overindulgence would cure me. If I overdose on her body, twice, three, four times a night, I will tire of her smell, her taste, her feel, but she is like a disease inside me. Spreading. There is an old Indian saying I should have taken heed: indulging in desire is like pouring clarified butter onto fire. It doesn’t quench the flames, it fans it.

  I should tell her to go.

  “You’re mine, Chelsea,” are the words that come out of my mouth. The rest comes out as a growl throbbing with aggression and jealous anger. “For the next three months I own you. You are fully paid for, which means you cannot flirt with another man. You cannot accept lunch dates. You cannot touch another man. And no man can touch you. Do you understand me?”

  “It didn’t mean anything. He’s a nice guy,” she whispers.

  “I don’t give a fuck whether it means anything or not. You do not talk, hell, you do not even look at another man for the next three months. Do you understand me?”

  She stares at me in shock. She opens her mouth to say something, then she drops her head and nods. I am not satisfied with that response.

  I take a step forward and she steps back nervously. I make another move towards her, and she counters it with a move in the opposite direction. We play this game until her butt bumps into my heavy mahogany desk.

  With a slow, cold smile, I take the final step in her direction. She stares up at me, a strange expression of desire and fear frozen on her face.

  My large hands land on her waist.

  She draws a sharp breath, but makes no protest. I let
my hands run down the shapely curve of her hips. Then I pull the skirt of her dress up until it is bunched around her hips. Wrapping my hands around her I pick her up and sit her on the desk. Roughly I spread her legs. She searches my eyes. She knows what’s going to happen to her next, but she doesn’t stop me. She just licks her lips and pretends she doesn’t want it.

  My arms go under her thighs to bring her closer to the edge of the desk. How sweet, a little pink G-string is all there is between me and her pretty pussy. I tear off the scrap of lace and fling it behind me. She groans and I sense the heat and tension in the air.

  “You’re wet, my darling,” I mock.

  She swallows hard, but doesn’t say anything while I look at her open pussy. My cock is throbbing for her. I want to be inside her right now, but she has to be reminded of who she belongs to. She is going to enjoy everything that I do to her on this desk or I’ll be damned.

  I widen her legs further and she leans back on the palms of her hands.

  I lower myself onto my knees and the scent of her makes my head spin. Fuck her, and her magic spell. I bury my face between her legs. In reflex, her hand moves to grab the back of my head and push me closer to her.

  I smile as I lick and suck at her wet folds. Her pussy tastes so sweet to me, and I lick the opening all the way up to her plump nub. Chelsea moans and claws the back of my head. She is completely enjoying herself and that makes me enjoy her even more.

  Her legs are over my shoulders now, she is using them to steady herself as the feeling inside of her becomes more intense. She asks me what I’m doing to her, but I don’t answer. She doesn’t seem to notice since her moans have become much louder.

  I suck on her clit while using my tongue to lick the very tip. The different sensations cause her to shake and her legs begin to clench my head. She is on the edge of climaxing. What I’m doing feels so good to her that her body begins to quiver uncontrollably. Clenching her teeth, she grips my head and pulls me in as if she wants to be swallowed by me.