special, somehow, with my card and my wilting daffodil. And when I was admitted into the palatial townhouse, I felt a little bit like a princess from a fairytale. That ended quickly, however, when I’d been shown into his library. There’d been none of the charm of the day before, none of the smiles. He’d made me stand before him as he fired question after question at me. What was the net worth of the shipping company? How many men did we employ and what did we pay them? How quickly could we recoup the cost of a new ship? The kinds of questions that he’d asked my father, but he must have sensed I’d have better answers for him, given that I actually kept the books of the business.
“What would you do with an investment of half a million pounds?” he’d asked finally, lighting a cigarette.
I’d blinked in the smoke. Half a million pounds… I couldn’t even fathom that amount of money. I stammered around possibilities of more ships, more men, advance payments on tariffs, layering it with copious thank yous, until he’d held up a hand to forestall me.
“Don’t thank me so soon. I haven’t given you the money yet, Miss O’Flaherty. It must be earned.”
“Earned?” I’d had enough sense then to start feeling wary, although I hadn’t had enough sense to run home to my father.
“Yes,” he said, and now his smile was back as he leaned forward, his eyes gleaming through the smoke. “Earned by you.”
In the end, I’d made the decision as I made most of my decisions—brashly and without much thought. What was my virginity worth to me? I’d seen dairy maids in County Clare tumble in barn lofts at my age; prostitutes in Liverpool younger than me. And half a million pounds was a princely sum for what amounted to a small barrier of flesh…
I’d missed school again the next day to be examined by Cunningham’s physician, who’d ensured that I was indeed a virgin, and then I was deposited at a gentleman’s club not far away from his house.
It had not been quick. It had not been gentle. He’d wanted more as soon as he’d finished, and he went over and over again, my blood and his come the lubricant after my own body had run dry. He’d slapped me, bruised me, and called me awful names. But even the pain and degradation I could handle. I’d refused to cry, forced myself to remain strong, for the company and for my own sense of pride. I had gotten myself into this situation…and I would see myself out, with as much dignity as I could muster.
But in the end, as he was fucking me one last time, he’d looked down at me and at my distant expression, and his face turned calculating. “No, my dear,” he’d said. “You don’t get to pretend me away.”
I hadn’t understood what he meant at first, and even as he pulled out and knelt between my legs, I still hadn’t understood. It wasn’t until he wiped me with a clean linen cloth and then lowered his face to the battered parts in between my legs that I realized what he was doing.
“No,” I’d whispered, trying to roll or buck away, but his hands—sharp with their vain, long fingernails—dug into my hips and kept me pinned to the spot. The true horror of it unfolded over the course of the following days and years, but even then, I could grasp an inkling of this terrible act. Of his tongue lapping and licking, of my body responding, of the way my mind screamed no as my body climbed inexorably towards climax.
He’d made me come.
He’d made me enjoy it.
And with that manipulative little act, he made me feel equally complicit in his perversion. The first man ever to give me an orgasm was the man who cruelly bartered for my virginity and won. It was the man who shoved his cock back into me as soon as my orgasm started, so that I was forced to feel the unfamiliar waves of pleasure while he was inside me and looming over me.
It had taken me years to get over that. Years to find the joy in sex, although God knew I tried very, very hard and very,
“What would you do with an investment of half a million pounds?” he’d asked finally, lighting a cigarette.
I’d blinked in the smoke. Half a million pounds… I couldn’t even fathom that amount of money. I stammered around possibilities of more ships, more men, advance payments on tariffs, layering it with copious thank yous, until he’d held up a hand to forestall me.
“Don’t thank me so soon. I haven’t given you the money yet, Miss O’Flaherty. It must be earned.”
“Earned?” I’d had enough sense then to start feeling wary, although I hadn’t had enough sense to run home to my father.
“Yes,” he said, and now his smile was back as he leaned forward, his eyes gleaming through the smoke. “Earned by you.”
In the end, I’d made the decision as I made most of my decisions—brashly and without much thought. What was my virginity worth to me? I’d seen dairy maids in County Clare tumble in barn lofts at my age; prostitutes in Liverpool younger than me. And half a million pounds was a princely sum for what amounted to a small barrier of flesh…
I’d missed school again the next day to be examined by Cunningham’s physician, who’d ensured that I was indeed a virgin, and then I was deposited at a gentleman’s club not far away from his house.
It had not been quick. It had not been gentle. He’d wanted more as soon as he’d finished, and he went over and over again, my blood and his come the lubricant after my own body had run dry. He’d slapped me, bruised me, and called me awful names. But even the pain and degradation I could handle. I’d refused to cry, forced myself to remain strong, for the company and for my own sense of pride. I had gotten myself into this situation…and I would see myself out, with as much dignity as I could muster.
But in the end, as he was fucking me one last time, he’d looked down at me and at my distant expression, and his face turned calculating. “No, my dear,” he’d said. “You don’t get to pretend me away.”
I hadn’t understood what he meant at first, and even as he pulled out and knelt between my legs, I still hadn’t understood. It wasn’t until he wiped me with a clean linen cloth and then lowered his face to the battered parts in between my legs that I realized what he was doing.
“No,” I’d whispered, trying to roll or buck away, but his hands—sharp with their vain, long fingernails—dug into my hips and kept me pinned to the spot. The true horror of it unfolded over the course of the following days and years, but even then, I could grasp an inkling of this terrible act. Of his tongue lapping and licking, of my body responding, of the way my mind screamed no as my body climbed inexorably towards climax.
He’d made me come.
He’d made me enjoy it.
And with that manipulative little act, he made me feel equally complicit in his perversion. The first man ever to give me an orgasm was the man who cruelly bartered for my virginity and won. It was the man who shoved his cock back into me as soon as my orgasm started, so that I was forced to feel the unfamiliar waves of pleasure while he was inside me and looming over me.
It had taken me years to get over that. Years to find the joy in sex, although God knew I tried very, very hard and very,
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