by Kailin Gow
“Well I didn't imagine you'd look like yourself either, Mr. Trell.”
He smiles a bit. “I'm a grown man, Sidney,” he says. “If you refuse me because you truly do not want me, it will not affect our professional relationship one whit. I think you're a damn good journalist and I would never be stupid enough to risk an asset like you. But if you are attracted to me...you're damn right I will make you submit. I will punish you, but you will love it. You will crave it. Are you attracted to me, Sidney?”
I nod wordlessly.
“I'm not saying I’m agreeing to anything,” I add.
“Well,” Philip says. “Now that we've cleared the air about this attraction thing, there are a few things you should know about me. I have very little patience for things. I like speeding things along. I like taking control. And if things aren't going so well, I like to use a few...motivators.” He glances at the door leading to what I can only imagine is his bedroom. I gulp.
Clearly Philip is worldly and experienced in far more ways than one.
Philip leans over me. His breath is hot on my face. “I don't care about social norms, either,” says Philip. “If something is taboo, forbidden, impossible...that only makes me want to do it even more. I like breaking taboos. I like doing the forbidden. And I like making the impossible possible. So Sidney Stone...have dinner with me. Explore. We don't have to do anything you don't deep down want to do. But I promise, by the end of tonight, you'll be begging me to do things to you you’d never imagine. Before you guide me...there's a hell of a lot I'd like to guide you. What do you say?”
No no no no no my conscience is screaming. But clearly some biophysiological chemical anomaly is taking place in my body, because I find myself nodding yes.
“Good,” he says. He grabs my hand and leads me to the kitchen. “So let's have dinner.”
Then, it's like he hasn't said a single thing. All the quasi-dirty talk, the threats, the hints about punishment and submission – they vanish. He pours me a glass of wine – the nicest wine I've ever tasted --- and starts to prepare a delicious dinner: lobster fresh-boiled in the pot. Scallops sauteed with garlic and shallots in white wine.
Before we start, Philip presents me with a dozen raw oysters. He presses each shell to my lips, lets me taste. I've never had oysters before – never been able to afford them – and the taste is mindnumbingly good.
He pours me another glass of wine, and then another. I don't know what happens. The room starts to spin. But it feels...nice. Calming. I find myself drinking more and more, letting myself get drunk – something I never do. Letting myself go.
Images pass before me: his hands on mind. Me sitting on his lap. His massaging my shoulders, brushing his lips along my neck, never kissing me but coming close, so close, so tantalizingly close. Whetting my appetite, my desire. Making me feel things I've never felt before. Setting me aflame. With each glass of wine we consume, we get more relaxed. Feeding each other – he tastes lobster and I can feel his lips tighten and suck around my fingers.
I'm getting drunker and drunker, but I don't care. I feel good. I feel free.
“Enjoying yourself?” Philip fixes me with a wicked grin.
“Mmm....” I moan.
“Good,” he says. “You should take care of yourself. Treat yourself better. That dog food story? It was punishment for coming back to the office before you were ready. You should have gone out and brought me a great story, pitched me something when you were well. I told you, Sidney. If you stick with me, you should expect a little punishment now and then.”
He taps my ass. A surprisingly good feeling. It's harder than I expected, almost a slap, and I let out a yelp as pain and pleasure merge.
Then he's back to the old, easygoing Philip again. He pours me another glass of wine. I'm getting sleepier and sleepier. How many bottles have I even had at this point? I'm not sure.
“Sidney Stone...” It's the last thing I hear as I start to doze, as he leans down to kiss my forehead. “You bewitched me...”
Chapter 12
When I wake up, I have no idea where I am. Everything is hazy, confusing. My head is splitting: an agonizing feeling. It's like a bomb has gone off in my brain. I moan softly, feeling nauseous. I try to move, but that doesn't work, either; instead, bile rises up in my throat. I am parched – absolutely parched. My body feels like a sponge that's been squeezed so tight that there's nothing left but petrified, stiff, coral.
Ugh....
I've been hung over, before, of course. In college, when we used to down cheap beer out of solo cups, but somehow this feels different. This is different. This is more than just a hangover. It's that feeling you get when the entire world is collapsing in on itself and you're at least 99% everyone who ever existed has died and you've just woken up in an apocalyptic wasteland populated entirely by robots and cockroaches. If you've ever been as drunk as I have, you know exactly what I mean.
And so when I wake up, in a mysterious white room, on a mysteriously pristine white sofa, staring at some white walls flanked by white curtains looking out onto a window from which the white sun gently streams eastwards with the coming of dawn, the first thing I think was is this heaven? Then I try to move again and thought oh God please let me be dead.
What can I say? It's bad.
Where am I? Could I be in the hospital again? No, that couldn't be right. I'd left the hospital the previous day...checked myself out...gone into the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices to get my story assignment...
Then it all comes flooding back to me. The memories of Philip's supercilious stare as he assigned me that crappy dog food story, the insistent text, the way he commanded me to dress for his pleasure in a pink body-con dress...so that's what I'm wearing...the way he had me come over to his house, the filthy, thrilling things he said to me, the way he withdrew and became at once the model of English politeness, of English gentlemanliness, and was so sweet as he poured me glass after glass after glass of fine white, nicer than any Chablis I had every tasted, as we steamed the lobster together and then feasted on every part of the shell, sucking the soft white succulent meat from the flaming-red shell. I remember feeding him, letting his lips close around my fingertips as he tasted the lobster, tasted me. I remember him feeding me, tantalizing me by lightly tracing the delicious morsels around my lips, allowing me to garner a taste – just a taste – of whatever it was that was driving me wild, making me moan in unfulfilled desire before at last he would give me what I craved, dropping the meat straight onto my tongue, pouring me another glass of wine.
“Intoxication complements sensual pleasure quite nicely, doesn't it?” he'd purred then, filling my glass to the brim so that the very top spilled over onto my wrists, my forearms. He'd licked the wine off me, then, his lips sucking every last drop from my inner wrist, tasting my pulse. “Your heart is beating so quickly. I can tell this is what you wanted, isn't it? Yes...” he'd started kissing my neck, then, nibbling gently at the contours under my cheekbones. “Yes, Miss Stone, I can read your body like a book. I can tell exactly how much you want this. You may think of yourself as a prude – but I know deep down there's a fire in you. A desire that perfectly complements mine. And I ache to see how far it will go...”
Nothing had happened. Or had it? I look down. My underwear's still on. My pink bodycon dress is hiked up high, so that the bottom of my ass cheek is exposed, but I think that's just a matter of my having fallen asleep on this sofa.
I look across the room to the other sofa, across the coffee table. And then my mouth falls open.
I'm staring straight at a rock-hard cock. The biggest cock I've ever seen in my entire life. Philip LaFleur is naked and dozing right in front of me.
Did we....
I don't remember us having sex. I don't remember us even kissing. But what I see before me fills me with terror and desire at the same time. His muscular thighs, his tanned, smooth skin, the golden brown of summers in Italy, his enormous cock, agonizingly hard. I can't stop myself. I go over,
take a closer look. I'm still a little drunk; the liquor of the previous night has far from been absorbed into my system, and so it seems like the most natural thing in the world to do to give into this strange, wild yearning, this need for him. His cock is so large, so round, so full. The veins that pop out from the side only serve to increase the appearance of girth. And a hunger in me I have never before known takes over. I want to touch him, to wrap my fingers around it, to feel the weight of it in my hand. I can't stop myself. Desire and alcohol both make me bold. I reach forward. I touch it. The feeling is like an electric shock. He jerks, suddenly, in his sleep, and I almost withdraw my hand, but the sound he makes is a groan of pure ecstasy, real joy. He's enjoying this sound. The moan he makes is one of undeniable pleasure.
I can't stop myself. I don't want to. I reach out and touch his cock again, wrapping my fingers all the way around it, in a fist. I've never touched a man's cock like this before. In college, there had been some drunken fumbling, a few furtive hands underneath a man's boxer shorts, but this is different. He's completely naked, and in the cool morning light I can see his loins in all their Adonis glory. My first is all around him, and I find myself growing aroused, wet, at the sounds he's making, the low, soft moans of need.
Then, with a groan, he opens his eyes. And the bright blue piercing gaze is boring straight into me.
“Phil!” I cry.
All at once I'm overcome by embarrassment and shame. How could I have let this happen, I think? For all I know, he'll call the cops on me – think I'm some creepy pervert who just assaulted him while he lay sleeping.
And what's he doing sleeping naked next to me anyhow? Unless we...
But I don't think we had sex? If we did, I'm sure I would know.
“Miss Stone...” Phil's expression is inscrutable. His face is unreadable, like the stone of a Greek statue. But some archaic smile twitches at the corners of his lips.
“I....Phil...” I'm trying to think of words that don't sound like “I'm a bloody pervert, sorry.” “I...didn't mean to...I don't know what got into me...”
There's a terrible pause.
You've really done it now, I think. Way to go, Sidney. If you're lucky, he'll have you resign from the paper quietly. If you're unlucky, he'll probably file a sexual harassment suit and have your ass on the street before the next staff meeting.
I'm so mortified I can't even meet his gaze.
Then I hear it. A low, dark chuckle. Laughter. Philip LaFleur is laughing at me.
“What?” I ask. A defensive anger rises up in me. “What's so funny?” He's the one who had me over to his house, who stripped naked while I was asleep, who said all that stuff about unconventional desires and making me submit...why should he be so surprised that I thought this was the logical next step?
“Clearly your own desires do surprise you after all, Sidney,” he smiles a cat-like grin. “Clearly you don't know yourself as well as you thought.”
“What are you even doing – sleeping naked like this?”
“It's my house, isn't it?” He shrugs and grins. Like his logic is impeccable. Like there's nothing to argue with here. “And a man can do what he likes in his own house, can't he?”
“But did we...”
“Your touch – it felt good, you know. Perhaps unschooled, but with the passionate fervor of a devoted amateur. And I'd love to teach you some...greater expertise. I almost climaxed in my sleep under those shapely hands of yours.”
“Did we...” My voice gets forceful. “Philip, I was drunk, I don't remember a lot. Did we have sex or not?”
“My dear – of course not!” He smiles at me. “I'd never try anything of the sort with you incapacitated. I want you to feel every single sensation of what I do to you – when I do it. I don't just want you to consent – I want you to beg for it. A woman in a dazed state isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“Oh...” I breathe a sigh of relief. My cheeks burn pink. “Of course. Of course not. So...nothing really happened. Thank God...”
He frowns suddenly. Like he's offended that I'm quite as relieved as I am. And my cheeks get even hotter.
“So, you don't want me to fuck you, Miss Stone?”
“I didn't say that,” I look down, unable to meet his eyes. “I mean...I'm not saying that I do, either. Or that...even if I do want to, that I think it’s a good idea.”
“Giving into your desires is always a good idea, Sidney.”
“Not when it's with my boss,” I say.
“Ah. Yes. That.” He looks slightly wounded. For the first time, he shows vulnerability. “I told you, I'm a professional.”
If we were professionals we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with, I think.
“Look, it's your house,” I say. “Be naked, or not naked...it's up to you. But...I work for you, Philip. And whatever's going on with us...” I sigh. “I love my job. I really love it. And I don't want to risk it...”
“By you touching my cock? Looking at it like you wanted more than anything to taste it?”
“Stop it...”
I'm embarrassed, overwhelmed, ashamed of my behavior. At how drunk I got. At how I let all this happened.
“I have to go...” I murmur.
“Must you?”
“I need to get to the dog story,” I say. “Do whatever I can. You know – this whole job thing? I need my job.” I don't have a rich family to bail me out whenever the going gets tough.
“Let me at least get my driver to drop you off...”
“No!” I say. My voice notches higher. “Please. Just let me...I can't accept anything else from you, Philip. Not until I figure this out.” Not until I get control over myself again.
“I have to go, sir,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.
Then I bolt.
Chapter 13
I run out into the street. Like a crazy person, I think. I'm probably the only non-multi-millionaire on this street. I probably look like a hooker, I think. A call girl hired for the night, doing the walk of shame in this stupid too-short dress. Everyone who sees me is probably thinking the same thing: stupid whore.
I'm flush, crying, as I call Kiley. I can't call Johnson now. Something in me stops me from taking that crucial step. I don't know why. We've been best friends for years. But somehow I can't let him see me like this. There's a darkness to Johnson, a possessive streak, I don't touch. He'd rush into Philip LaFleur's apartment and beat the shit out of him for having dared to touch me. For having taken advantage of me. But I'm not sure how I feel about what happened. Was I taken advantage of? Did I want to be taken advantage of? Was everything that felt so wrong also, in a sense that goes beyond flesh and into the deepest and most primordial parts of desire, right? My body had been awakened to all sorts of sensations, desires, needs, hungers, cravings I didn't know I had. And there's something freeing about that feeling. About knowing that my body is more than...a receptacle for other people's desires. A picture on whom men can project their longings.
My whole life, even the men who wanted me felt like they just wanted...an image of me. They wanted to get their pleasure out of me: like I was some sort of box holding galleons of treasure and they wanted to horde it for themselves. My sexual experiences, limited though they were, were all about feeling like I was giving something to someone else. Like I was doing it for them – like it was a favor or something. Maybe because I liked them. Maybe because I just wanted to be polite, I don't know. But being with Philip, despite the power differential, despite the wrongness, turned me on in unimaginable ways. Made me conscious of what I wanted to do. Made me conscious of myself, my body, my needs.
“Kiley,” I wheeze into the phone. “I need you to pick me up...now.”
“Are you okay?” She sounds dazed. I feel like shit calling her – she's probably just gone to bed, given the nature of her jobs, which are all night shifts.
“N-n-o...” I admit. “I'm not. I'm texting you my GPS coordinates right now. It's an emergency. I'm so sorry, Kiley.
”
“Not a problem,” she says. “I'm always there when you need me, Sid, you know that.”
I wait in the hot sun for thirty minutes before Kiley turns up in her beat-up old car. Her face is full of worry and concern.
“Jesus, Sid, what happened? Your hair...it's a mess.” She looks really worried about me. She can see my face, the tears in my eyes. “I brought coconut water for the hangover. I thought you might need it...”
I grab the bottle and drink it greedily. My body is desperate for hydration after the night I've had. I feel like a sponge again, soaking up the moisture.
“I was so stupid...” I let the tears fall. “I can't believe how stupid I was. I got drunk at my boss's place...”
“Your boss? You mean Philip LaFleur?” She opens the car door for me.
“Yeah....”
“So, you weren't at a nightclub, then?” She nods. “I thought you might be with him. Something about the way you talked about him...it sounded like there was something going on.”
“Something's going on,” I admit. “But...I'm not sure what. Like – he's my boss. And he's always ordering me around. And he ordered me to come to see him today – and I knew it was a sex thing. At least, partially. But...this sounds so weird, so gross...”