The Gift of Girls (21 page)

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 gently 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.

A woman is fulfilled by being filled. We are born with wet vacant places designed to be plugged. This is a truth,
an
axiom, and understanding that is at the heart of female liberation. We are taught to be ambitious, to shatter the glass ceiling, but this I thought was bogus and wrong. Our role as animals is to continue the species. Our role as women is to seek the quintessence and core of our sexuality. Knowing that, feeling it on my skin, was like opening a safe door and finding the key of life.

As the man with the cock in my mouth stiffened, the spasm clanged the bell on my vibrating tonsils and the echo travelled through my gut, into my belly, ricocheting over the walls of my vagina and gripping the cock delving down inside me. As the first released a gout of semen, the second answered as if it was a tennis ball to beat back over the net. He tensed, he paused, and let go his load. They were shivering and trembling, but I felt relaxed, fed, nurtured, in control of my gift.

They rolled away, panting for breath, and a third man appeared through the revolving door. He threw off his clothes as he dissected the room, dived in among the sweating bodies and began kissing me violently, grabbing my hipbones, squeezing my breasts until they tingled with pain, biting down into that part of my neck just above the collarbone that sends tremors of pleasure shimmying down your backbone. He was grunting and panting like a wild dog with fresh prey. I wriggled from his grasp and, as I was about to vault from the bed, Number One caught me in a rugger tackle and swung me over on to my stomach.

On seeing my red bum, the new arrival buried his head between my cheeks and drilled his long tongue deep into the hidden valley. He came out panting.

‘Delicious,’ he yelled.

His cock soon followed, jabbing into me, a young boxer in the ring leading with a series of swift rights. His arms coiled under me, filling his palms with my breasts. He took my nipples in the thumbs and first fingers of both hands and squeezed down so hard I squealed in
ecstasy
, in that peculiar pain sensation that isn’t pain in any normal sense.

In one swift movement, he rolled on to his back, and kept pushing into my tight bum with me spread-eagled across his broad chest. Number One, who had just climaxed in my mouth, had found enough vigour to join the fray and climbed on top, pushing his cock limply up into the pool of semen left by Number Two. Number Two straddled me and the guy below me in order to push his pussy-juiced member into my gaping mouth.

Your wish is my command. Ask and it shall be given. Knock and the door shall be opened.

It seemed as if the moment I imagined taking three men at once, the universe answered my call and I lay there, as lucky as any girl can be, our quartet like the jazz musicians in the grand hall finding harmony and rhythm, our bodies joined like a machine mining precious substances.

I could see fully now the benefit of the many mirrors. I was facing the ceiling, my mouth filled with cock, but I could see in a long series of reflections a fourth man enter the room with Milly. They were holding hands like lovers. When they reached the bed, the man stepped from his clothes and lay down on his back. Milly straddled him, took his cock up inside her, and the alpha male with his cock in my mouth removed his member and transferred it to Milly’s mouth.

What did I taste like? I wondered.

We were four men and two girls.

A sextet.

I smiled as I stretched my aching jaw. I am an instrument in a sextet, a high note in the New World Order. It occurred to me that these men of big business spilling their seed together were united in a way that a thousand board meetings could never achieve. They needed no contracts, no handshake. Their naked body was their bond, their signature, and I and Milly and all
the
girls at Black Spires were the links in the chain that held them together. The glue, the gum, the gluck. They needed us. We were a part of something bigger and more important than I understood, perhaps more important than I could understand.