The Gift of Girls

by Chloë Thurlow

  With my wrists fastened to the bed and stretched above me, I could smell the almond scent of my underarms. My heart was beating fast, my stomach muscles clenching and unclenching. Being bound was a dance of conflicting emotions: arousal and acquiescence, and panic too, like the moment before the curtain rises and you go on stage.

  After Sergio Buenavista left me with the aftershocks of that bell-ringing finale, the first man to come through the door immediately unclasped the bracelets from the rings on the side of the bed and set me on all fours. My well-tanned backside like a monkey’s mating display was waggling in the air, my back bowed in a shallow curve, my breasts swayed and my nipples were pinging like fireworks.

  Men like this position, this simian pose, down on hands and knees, my spread cheeks like open curtains revealing the treasure kept hidden within the neat nips and tucks of my pretty bum which I could see in all its shiny glory in the clever arrangement of the mirrors. The man said something in a language that made no sense to me, spat on his fingers, wet the mine shaft of my back passage and shoved his cock straight inside that innocent chasm. His trousers were about his ankles, his jacket slapped about like the sail of a ship and no sooner had he started than he stopped.

  ‘Turn, turn about,’ he said urgently.

  I turned, dropped down on my haunches, took his thrusting dagger in my mouth, massaged his balls, and in two seconds he was pumping warm sperm down my throat, a stream of one hundred per cent protein. He took the back of my head in his two hands, pushed in harder. His blunt helmet tickled my tonsils and I could taste the sweet girlie secretion of my own bottom – and it wasn’t bad at all.

  He withdrew his withering apparatus and retreated from the room without a word, and I wasn’t surprised when I was later told that he was the Prime Minister from one of those anonymous countries that used to be a part of the old Soviet bloc and would have remained forgotten if it weren’t for their oil and gas, for the pipeline snaking its way underground to the new container ports built by the Americans on the Caspian Sea.

  How judicious of the men of the New World Order, I thought, to draw these old communist apparatchiks into their complex game, this bacchanal of free market sex and global domination. And how fascinating that the delights of the flesh and the demands of commerce should be so manifestly intertwined, two lovers carved from the same block of stone.

  It was an obvious market strategy, but not one that had occurred to me studying economics at Saint Sebastian. I had lived as most people live, like a horse in blinkers, and I felt as if the scales had peeled from my eyes. There is so much to this life that the man in the street doesn’t understand and I felt honoured to have this glimpse of the secret. Like Milly, I could see suddenly that being a part of this world above the clouds was a privilege as well as a pleasure.

  I sighed with contentment and wriggled like a fish. The room was warm. The round bed was huge, a pearl-white dais, and I lay there like a precious stone in the jewellers, my image passing endlessly from mirror to mirror. As I gazed at my dissociated form, my only regret was that there was no time for reflection among all those reflections. The door closed and the door opened. It was like a pub door, a revolving door that led to the tower room, and another man I didn’t recall was making his way in.

  He was plump around the middle and wore a clip-on bow-tie – déclassé, mother would have said, nouveau riche. He unceremoniously unclipped his tie and pulled open his shirt to reveal the lush coat of fur covering his chest. He tugged his black leather belt from the loops of his trousers with a saucy snap and doubled the length into his right hand.

  ‘I’m Kurt. You want to play around?’ he said; it sounded like a line from a Quentin Tarantino movie.

  ‘Ooo, yes please,’ I replied.

  He was standing between the door and the bed. He approached, slapping his palm with the leather belt. I rolled backwards from my prone position and landed on my feet. He chased me around the perimeter of the bed, wielding the belt like a horse whip, but I was far too fast for him. The lash cracked the air behind me but the tongue never reached my wiggling bottom. He tried a new tactic and ran across the bed. I allowed him to get close and did a back flip, landing on my feet. His eyes came out on stalks and, as he continued the chase, I did front rolls round and round the circular room, Kurt whooping and shouting and splitting the air with the bite of his belt.

  He was tired a long time before me. He made one last desperate charge, tripped over his shiny shoes and collapsed, crumpling like road-kill against the mirror. He sat up and watched, shaking his head in disbelief as I coolly stretched backwards, placed my hands on the floor behind me so that my feet were facing one way and my hands the other. I arched my body in a perfect circle, making the sign of Ω, the twenty-fourth and last letter of the Greek alphabet. In astronomy Omega refers to the density of the universe, as Pi is a mathematical constant which represents the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter.

  God, would I ever leave school behind me?

  Where was I?

  Aah, yes. I walked very slowly towards him like some imaginary creature from the Island of Doctor Moreau, my hair a long mane dragging behind me, my open pussy like the eye of the Cyclops.

  Kurt stood to admire this arrangement of enticement and suppleness. He dropped his belt, flipped his erection from his trousers and cautiously slipped it inside me. In this position I could do nothing but maintain my balance and use all my powers of pussy control to clasp the length of his cock, my vaginal muscles clenching and releasing with contractions.

  I got the feeling that this guy was one of those speed jockeys, the wham bam off to the races type. But with my slippery young crack presented in this unique way, he became a tortoise; he discovered his serene self. He took his time, filled me to the brim with his pudgy thick cock, withdrew and pushed in again, slowly, slowly, until I felt the spasm gripping his body focus like a laser beam around the head of his engulfed penis. He paused, as do the old on the stairs, or parachutists making their first jump, then released his sperm, pumping the stuff out in slow steady jerks as if wringing the last drop of water from a canteen in the middle of the desert. He was panting like an old cart horse.

  ‘Very gut. Very gut. You very gut,’ he moaned.

  He slid from me and, pushing from my fingers, I straightened up in one effortless motion. He was spent, but I was relaxed, refreshed, re-energised. Sperm was oozing from me, creaming my thighs, coating my crotch with the aroma of lust, that mesmerising scent, that supernatural elixir that persuaded the Greeks to launch a thousand ships – it wasn’t Helen’s face that drove them to folly and war. How absurd. It was her allure, her looks, her mystery, her magic and, most of all, her smell. The Greeks understood the powers of Omega and Pi but not the whims of a woman.

  I breathed in deeply through my nostrils. I could smell all about me the reek of lasciviousness, the matted copse of my glistening pubes sheltering the lips of my sodden pussy, that clump of fur I loved to stroke and fondle like a little pet or a stuffed toy.

  I felt in my round room of many mirrors like a satiated little animal, like a red-assed monkey in the midst of a marvellous experiment, like a bird in a mirrored cage. I was the cocoon girl metamorphosed into the butterfly woman, ensnared by Simon Roche, yet free to be all that I am and all that I may ever be. I may with my nudity and bondage straps have lost facets of my individuality, the memory of who I thought I was, but the men who shed their seed in the dome of my vagina lost aspects of their individuality, too. Only through merging your self into the oneness of pure debauchery could you reach the heights of the erotic.

  I realised, too, that I had been thinking along these libidinous lines for a long time. It wasn’t sudden. Not really. Didn’t I, in my quest to learn how to beat the casinos, allow Sandy Cunningham to take me on a totally licentious journey? I had told myself immediately before and immediately after that it was awful, shameful, a terrible trial, but, if truth be told, it came as easily as breathing. My clothes wer
e off and his cock was up my bum on that hotel bed in about the same amount of time that it takes for me to swim two lengths of the swimming pool.

  That was me. The real me. That was the girl who had begun to appear in the mirror during my last year at Saint Sebastian, the look in her eyes growing ever more knowing, more aware, more sensual. The girl in the reflection was replacing the inexperienced schoolgirl gazing into the long mirror in the shower room and, as her body changed, swelled, re-formed, the girl I had been slowly vanished to be reborn as the girl I am.

  As I lay back on that round bed in that circular room aromatic with lust, it was obvious that I should have found my way into the New World. As people are born to be leaders, to win Olympic medals or to clean lavatories, I suppose, we are each one of us born with a purpose, a talent. We speak of talent as a gift. The secret of life is to discover who you are, to be the best you can be, to nurture your gift and share your gift as an artist shares the gift of his written or carved or painted work. When we are moved by an object of art, we are grateful that the writer or artist created that work, that he dug deep in the quarries of his gift and brought it to the surface.

  The girls gathered at Black Spires were conscious of their gift. They found genuine pleasure in sharing their gift, and it occurred to me that unhappiness, depression and disappointment awaited those unable to explore and enjoy the miracle of their divine talent, that one special gift.

  The girls were slender, ethereal, dainty, svelte, yet with perfectly round bottoms, lean waists and unusually full breasts. Even barefoot, they walked as if in heels, their naturally full hair heavy on well-defined shoulders, their eyes gleaming like stars in the sky. Naked, their bodies ingeniously cut by the six leather bands, they were a breed apart, a different species, and it was a relief and a strange joy to know that I was one of them. I had fooled myself into thinking I was born for a career calculating numbers, although I had, I recalled, begun to suspect as my bottom curved and my breasts filled out that my gift lay elsewhere, less in figures than my figure. Sister Benedict had known it, too. That bottom, her eyes informed me, had to be spanked.

  Girls like Melissa and Sarah were not born for this life, as they were not born to taste the Sister’s cruel cane. Melissa carried too much avoirdupois, big thighs, breasts like udders, objects of amusement more than desire. Sarah was anorexic with sunken cheeks and arms thin as matchsticks. Girls required slenderness, not thinness, a sense of grace without heaviness. Girls born with the gift were born blessed with the eternal, perfectly proportioned physique of the feminine ideal: the beauty that must be profaned at the height of the erotic in order to reach the erotic, the core of the gift that sleeps deep within and awakes in the chosen woman.

  If we look at engravings of Helen of Troy on ancient coins and shields, or the maidens copulating with men and gods carved on the walls of caves in India, or at the girls offering up their bottoms to be thrashed and filmed on Far East Media, through three millennia they all have the same willowy-ripe busty innocence, they all have that ill-defined flawlessness men want to beat and adore.

  There is a moment, a precise second, when a girl becomes a woman. It’s that moment when you notice men looking at you and you know what they are looking for. They are measuring your breasts pushing through your high-buttoned blouse, the roundness of that saucy bottom wiggling by in a pleated skirt down the high street, the turn of your plump lips they want to consume, as the Duc de Peralada had done as soon as he got the chance. It’s the time when Sister Benedict starts bending you over the desk so that she can lower your knickers and tan your backside, beat all that ripe sensuality out of her convent.

  Whatever it was the Mother Superior hoped to achieve, beyond her own gratification, it didn’t work. It never works. Girls like me have to be what they were born to be. There is in each of us the propensity for all extremes both good and evil, the escape valve that saves us from mediocrity. Are we that different from the kidnapper, the assassin, the thief ? If temptation is put in your way, as it was put in mine, is it not natural to take the prize, slip the gold ring on your finger, the $100 bill into your palm, to transfer £3,100 from the company account into your own? If you were a fat cat banker with the prerogative to pay yourself a million-dollar bonus would you be able to resist?

  The men who came into that room were tempted and lured by this eager young girl bonded to the New World Order, bonded by black bracelets and anklets, with breasts yearning to be touched and a lush-smelling crotch that grew wetter and more desirable with each coupling. Those men were doing what comes naturally to powerful men, to all men, I imagine, and it was both a surprise and a revelation to realise that it came naturally to me, too.

  I felt no shame, no ignominy, no doubts. Heaven forbid! I felt good about myself. It was a pleasure parading around starkers. It was pure bliss being crowned the queen of the mirror room and taking those men whose names I didn’t even know into my body without the bourgeois, time-wasting game of getting to know you, without preliminaries and foreplay. I was a spring flower bursting with nectar and they were a swarm of hornets darting into my sticky parts with the gift of their juicy liquids. I was created, it seems, to spend time on my back, on my front, on my knees. I was born to enjoy sex in every possible form and position, and what better time to indulge this craving than now, at the age of eighteen, at my succulent best.

  I stretched and sighed with a sense of wellbeing, a feeling I hadn’t really had since Daddy announced that he was selling the house in the country, our flat in Lowndes Square, the Andy Warhol print of Clint Eastwood he’d acquired in a moment’s excitement in New York, his cherished Cessna SkyCatcher, Mummy’s jewellery, my brother’s future, my own. I had cried for a week. Mummy was still crying. Then I woke up. I dried my eyes. I applied to be an accountancy intern and I took Melissa’s advice, and dressed to kill for that interview with fate. The path through life, it seems, is like a helter-skelter and once you push off from the top of the chute you spiral round and round and down and down until with your head spinning you arrive at who you are.

  We are, each of us, the master of our own ship. I felt positive, optimistic, more alive. Something had crossed over in me, perhaps it was the reality of growing up. When I strode naked through the Roche-Marshall building, it wasn’t only my clothes that I’d left behind. I had left the child, the schoolgirl, the past, the fear. I would have to redirect my destiny, make my own future, and it started here, now, in this round room of many mirrors among the most powerful men in the world.

  I had quite forgotten Kurt, the Quentin Tarantino extra. I lay there on the big bed enjoying my own smell, as all animals do, and watched as he pushed his belt back through the loops in his trousers.

  ‘Very gut,’ he said.

  Then he was gone and another man appeared. The fourth, was it? Maybe the seventh? Perhaps the tenth? Was it an odd number or even? A prime or square root? It was hard to keep score, to keep count. And it occurred to me that under normal circumstances a girl might sleep with eight or ten men in a month, even a year. In that old Norman mansion in the aura of orgy, there need be no end to the number of men you could drain and entertain in one long night. I lay, spread like a starfish on that circular ten-foot platform staring at an infinity of Magdalenas in the mirror tiles of the dome above my head, each reflection a different angle, a different aspect, a different suggestion of what we might be in life.

  The door opened. I watched the man whom I had first seen spanking the twins, before doing them as a pair, approach with another, quite similar-looking man in the same sort of dinner suit, the same swagger and look of confidence.

  ‘The oyster in the shell,’ said the first man, gazing at me spread out on the bed.

  The other was removing his clothes. They both did. Beads of sweat were coursing between my breasts; there must have been under-floor heating and the temperature was rising.

  Ravisher One licked away the sweat, tasting me, and started nibbling my nipples, his stiffening cock pushing gentl
y against my hipbone. Number Two spread my legs and pushed his tongue into that discreet arch containing the firebird, that mythical creature men know is there even if they can’t always find it. He found it.

  This was nice, one above and one below, my body a playground for inquisitive teeth and tongues.

  ‘Wow, she’s wet,’ said Number Two, an American.

  ‘It’s my hormones,’ I whispered and he laughed.

  Number One straddled my neck and tapped my closed lips with his mauve helmet, knock, knock, knock. I opened the door, allowed it entrance, this salty, fishy thing that had been locked in his underpants with a vague hint of the emerald twins, and I wondered if the two girls had the same smell, or if all girls were different, that like fingerprints we are blessed with an individual scent. It was something I thought I might study when I got the chance.

  Number One’s silky cock slithered down my throat and I did my trick as it drew back again. I stippled the tip of my tongue around the indentation. Then, I pressed down with my teeth before opening my gullet once more and drawing it down, down, deep inside the sensory cathedral of my gaping mouth.

  Number Two had given up invigorating my clitoris. Sitting with legs spread for balance, he lifted my thighs over his torso and his cock went scurrying like a hungry serpent up inside my insatiable pussy.

  They were like two men rowing a boat, getting into a steady rhythm, two cocks gliding inside me at the same time, one in my mouth, the other in my vagina, and I knew before the night was through I would know what it was to take a third, to be filled with cock, and honestly couldn’t wait.

  It was deep-rooted in me to want to overstep the limits, to sell my soul in the surreal frenzy of orgy. Mummy believed a woman’s role was to be obedient, something she taught me but never practised herself. It made me sad that my beautiful mother had never learned that discipline and corporal punishment weren’t humiliating and undignified. Au contraire. All fleshly pleasures are empowering, emancipating. Those black leather bands decorating my naked body were a symbol of freedom, a sign that I had broken the chains of an imposed and artificial respectability, a morality that belonged to that part of society that was deadly dull and really not for me.