Being a Girl (10 page)

Mr Cartier stood to get a proper look and sat on the corner of the desk looking down at my pert nipples and willing me to fondle them. I tried fairly hard not to. This was a business meeting, wasn't it? But, as Oscar said, I can resist anything except temptation, and my itchy fingers were soon rolling the plump pink buds of my nipples between the pads of my fingers, squeezing and pinching until a delectable flush ran up over my neck and cheeks. The damp feeling between my legs was beginning to haemorrhage and warm juice smelling of the girls' dorm at Saint Sebastian's was coating my thighs.

I was dying to take off my skirt. Why? Where did these impulses come from? It was all new to me, new and fun and exciting. I didn't know where these feelings came from or where they might lead me, but I knew it was best to follow your instincts, wherever they led you. I adored being a girl. A woman. I wanted to be ogled and fondled. On show. I wanted to be spanked until my bottom sang, spanked and licked and
buggered
. Before I had set off with Binky for Scotland I hadn't been exactly sure what buggered
even meant. Now? Now, just thinking about it made the breath catch in my throat. I had three openings and when they were filled I felt fulfilled. I remember Sister Theresa saying she felt complete when she was on her knees and I suddenly understood what she meant.

A million questions were flying about inside my head and while I was searching for answers it came as a relief when Mr Cartier took my hand and eased me to my feet. Without giving it a thought, let alone a second thought, I pulled down the zip at the back of my skirt and let it fall to the floor.

There, naked at last!

‘You're not wearing any knickers.'

‘No.'

‘
C'est colossal
!
Excellent!
'

‘It was just . . .'

‘A lady never explains.'

Jean-Luc Cartier ran his finger like a saw between my legs and when he took his finger away it was shiny and slicked with my sticky discharge. We stood there for ages like
a tableau vivant
, frozen in that solitary moment, both looking at that glistening wet finger. He took a deep breath through his nose like a wine connoisseur and then popped the finger in his mouth.

‘Delicious,' he said.

I had come to ask him for a job and here we were, five minutes into the meeting, and I was starkers, wet dribbles leaking from my pussy, my poor little breasts tingling like electric fuses.

‘You are so wet, Milly.'

‘Am I?'

‘You mean you didn't realise?' he said.

He put his finger back in my pussy, ran it in and out, in and out, then popped it back into his mouth
again. He had a perplexed look about his features, two lines crossing his brow. He looked me up and down for a long time, he stroked my shoulder and hair, then stared into my eyes.

‘It's gone, hasn't it, Milly?' he asked.

‘What?'

‘Come on. You know.'

I felt the colour rise once more over my cheeks.

‘Was it . . . glorious.'

I nodded.

‘Good. You are just beginning. You have a special gift,' he said. ‘You will be marvellous.'

I felt my heart thumping, my breasts taut and quivering. ‘I don't know what you mean,' I said.

‘Well, you'll learn soon enough, come on now, close your eyes and open your legs.'

I did as I was told. I'm always a good girl and like to do as I am told. He stroked my bush like you would stroke a cat; it was lush, the hair soft and silky, a shade darker than the hair on my head. My pussy parted like water when a swimmer takes the plunge. He slid two fingers up inside me and remained still for several seconds. He then worked his fingers back and forth, in and out of the ooze. I pushed against his hand, rocking slightly, and a luscious feeling of pure debauchery swept through me. I could have stood there all day, rocking on my white heels, his fingers like the head of a drill pumping out a steady stream of oily gunk that trickled into my pubes and rose smelling like the stable into the air. I arched my back, I rose on my heels and dropped down again, screwing his finger into me, his eyes on my eyes and like a cat I shamelessly purred from the attention.

There was a tap on the door that I didn't so much
hear as feel, like someone tickling your nose when you're asleep.

‘Come in, Tara,' he called.

I awoke from my somnambulant state when I heard Tara's voice.

‘Sorry . . .'

‘Come in, I said.'

I opened my eyes and Tara was peeking through a crack in the door, just as I had peeked into the greenhouse at Mummy and the Polish gardener that summer's day a year ago.

‘Come, come, come,' he added and I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or Tara.

She remained outside. ‘What shall I do next?' she asked.

‘Do you remember our little talk about discipline?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then, when I say come in, what I mean is come in.'

He carried on running his fingers up into me as Tara entered clutching an assortment of photographs and papers. She closed the door softly behind her. I wondered what she must be thinking. I was totally ashamed standing there with Mr Cartier's finger stuck in me like a doctor doing an internal and modestly lifted my hands to cover my breasts.

Ashamed? Yes, and fascinated, too. It was like being in a strange play and it was exciting making it all up as we went along.

‘I've got the . . .'

Tara had lowered her eyes and wasn't sure what to say. I just carried on tightening my thighs and bottom, my pussy muscles sucking at Jean-Luc's hand, my neck turning from pink to crimson.

‘Photographs?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she murmured.

‘Put them on the desk, then.'

I was standing against the side of the desk. Tara placed the photographs on the other side and, as she did so, he bent my back forwards like he was closing the lid of a suitcase and I rested my arms on the glass top. I automatically pushed my bottom out and spread my legs to get more comfortable.

‘What is the first rule of acting, Tara?' he asked the girl.

‘I'm not . . .'

‘Timing,' he said before she had finished speaking. ‘What's the second rule?'

‘I'm . . .'

‘Discipline,' he said, and with that he brought his hand down on my bum with an enormous thwack that brought tears to my eyes and an aromatic spray of misty sap from the lips of my pussy.

‘How was that, Miss Petacci?'

‘OK.'

‘That's not very good, now is it?'

Thwack.

Down it came again. I could feel a warm glow seep over my posterior like a slowly moving tide of agony and ecstasy, those conjoined twins of desire, those extremes of all pleasure and sensation. What was a girl like me doing with my bare bottom being spanked by a virtual stranger with a complete stranger watching? It was a mystery, but I felt oddly complete. This was my role, my mission, my purpose. You are just beginning, he had said, but beginning what? Would I, aged 39 like my step-mama, have the gardener's tongue up my pussy?

The questions sprinted through my mind like a little mouse running on a treadmill. It made no sense.
They were questions without answers. I hadn't come to the office intending to take off my clothes, but it had taken so little for it to happen. I had taken off my knickers in the lavs at the Jewel Royale for heaven's sake. I had been getting dressed for the show, or undressed to be on show. I knew there was a good chance that I was going to get another spanking and another spanking was what I really, really wanted.

Was spanking an obsession? An addiction? I had gone straight from the authoritarian regime of the nuns at convent school to the disciplinarian antics of Jean-Luc Cartier, from puberty to depravity! It was still all new to me. There was so much I didn't understand. I'd lost my virginity to Hamish, the Laird of the Black Watch, and he didn't even know it. He thought I was some naughty girl up from London looking for trouble and that wasn't really me at all.

And again.

Smack No 3. His big hand was signing the plump cheeks of my bottom with a pattern of palm leaves. I was all wet sticking to the glass top of the desk. There was sweat on my back. My hair was hanging down over the far side of the desk, my toes were stretched and my pretty little bottom was just where it wanted to be: the centre of attention.

‘Now, how does that feel?'

‘Better,' I murmured.

‘You see, Tara,' he added, addressing his assistant. ‘This girl says she needs to find a job but what she really needs is to be spanked. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘She wants to work in the movies and what she doesn't yet appreciate is that to do so she needs . . . what does she need?'

‘Discipline.'

‘
Voilà
,' he said, and he hit me again, much harder, and a sizzling jolt of electricity ran up my spine and down my thighs.

‘Is this your first time, Tara?' he asked.

‘I'm not sure what you mean,' she said timidly.

‘Come, come, come. Don't be shy. You are among friends here. Is this the first time you've seen a girl spanked?'

‘Well, I've never seen a girl being spanked before. Not exactly . . .'

Ah! I wondered. There is more to Tara Scott-Wallace than meets the eye.

‘And?'

He spanked me again while she thought about it.

‘It's quite nice.'

‘Mmm,' he said thoughtfully. Then he addressed me again. ‘How many is that?'

‘Five, Monsieur Cartier.'

Thwack.

‘That's six,' he said and took a deep breath. ‘Tara, come here. Stand here, where I am, that's right.
Très bien.
'

I heard them shuffling about behind me. I felt a soft girlie hand resting on the small of my back.

‘Here,' I heard him say.

I had a very firm notion that what he had placed into her hand was the wooden ruler I'd seen earlier on the desk. I had thought at the time how out of place it had been in that high-tech office, but now it all made perfect sense as a sharp snap from the ruler cut a path across the soft flesh Jean-Luc had carefully tanned.

‘Come. Come. Put some feeling into it.'

Tara beat my bottom once more with the ruler and it really hurt. She was beginning to enjoy herself. No
3 came down just above the last one and the sound ricocheted off the walls with an abrupt retort that brought a little round of applause from Mr Cartier.

‘That's better, Tara. You're getting warmed up. Take your blouse off now.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Your blouse. Take it off.'

‘But . . .'

‘Remember what I said about discipline? Come along, now, we don't want to keep Milly waiting, do we?'

Jean-Luc Cartier was a genius. It was that accent, soft as silk, yet so commanding. Men on the battlefield would charge enemy cannon if he gave the order and girls like me wanted to obey, wanted to please, wanted to be disciplined. You spend your whole life waiting for something special to happen, and when something special happens you have to recognise it, know that it's happening and go with it, wherever it takes you. The first time I stepped into that office and Jean-Luc Cartier told me to take off my school blouse it was like a call to shed my old skin and become myself, shed the constraints of the chrysalis and become the butterfly. Inside us all is a desire to change, to be all we can be, in my case to be free and outrageous. A sort of animal instinct, a primal urge, the deepest expression of our humanity. I had wanted to take off my clothes for him and I had a feeling that Tara wanted to as well. We were the same age. I was exploring my potential and she surely was doing just the same.

‘Monsieur Cartier . . .' Her voice trailed off.

‘Yes, Tara.'

‘I've never . . .'

‘Then now is as good a time as any.'

There was a long pause. She had more resolve than me. But not that much.

‘It's not something I want to do,' she finally said.

‘Are you feeling all hot and sticky?' he asked her.

‘Yes . . .'

‘Do you like spanking Milly?'

‘Yes . . .'

‘And you don't want to take your top off?'

‘Not really.'

‘And why is that exactly?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You can't dismiss something you've never tried, Tara.'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘No buts. It's warm in here. Take off your blouse.'

She stamped her foot. ‘I won't,' she said and of course that means I will.

‘Come along now, let's get on with it.'

‘But Monsieur Cartier . . .'

‘TAKE OFF YOUR BLOUSE.'

His voice had a different tone, stricter, more demanding. The air was charged with a sense of waiting, of anticipation. I could smell pheromones and fear. There was a brief silence. Then I heard a button snap open and a smile crossed my lips. Once that first button is released you are on a shiny silver chute. There is nowhere to go but down, down to the next button. You have made a decision to expose yourself and, once you start, you want to go sliding down, faster and faster, your head in a topsy-turvy of unfamiliar desires and new emotions. I heard the ruffle of material, the cotton blouse slipping from her skinny arms. She was on the slippery slide and I knew where she was going even if she didn't.

‘And that, if you don't mind.'

Again the pause.

The same thing had happened to me. Jean-Luc had created a special set of conditions and taking off your top seemed logical, normal, natural; it is a reasonable thing to ask, a reasonable thing to accept. You could justify it in your mind. But exposing your breasts was a step into the unknown. I knew as the pause extended that Tara had every intention of removing her bra but needed to imagine for a few moments that this wasn't her intention at all. It is a mind game, a game you play to lose.