Today I was going to write about gendered language and pronouns, and talk about something which astonished me when it was pointed out to me last weekend. However, it’s Friday (edit: at the point I’m posting this it’s actually early on Saturday morning) and it’s been a long and stressful week. Finding the energy for coherent thought isn’t easy, but letting the filthy, pervy thoughts rise up in my head is. A friend gave me a suggestion for a direction to lead those thoughts in, though I think I twisted his words a little…
If she hadn’t worn the violets in her hair I would never have known, but it was a code used by the rich and poor alike. Little purple flowers woven into your hair or pinned to your dress was a subtle sign that you were of a sapphic turn. When I saw her that night, I discarded the plans I’d carefully constructed and decided that there was a much easier way to get the information we needed.
The dress she was at the ball wearing had been sewn especially for her for that night, hours of work going into designing the delicate embroidery on the bodice and pearls hand stitched on to the skirt. I was wearing a gown that we passed between us for when we had to go undercover. When I first saw her, I hated her with every atom of my existence.
She represented everything I hated, she was the product of everything I was fighting against. But I had an aim, an objective, and there was a chance I could achieve this and have sex.
I danced with her. I whispered to her as we held hands and walked slowly round in careful circles, following the ridiculous patterns of their performances. I looked in her eyes and made promises which were lies. Later, she let me lead her away from the ballroom, and our laughs rang out in the cool evening air as we walked through the columned courtyard in search of somewhere private.
She was beautiful. If she wasn’t a stupid, stuck-up aristocratic bitch, and I met her under different circumstances, I might have liked her. That night, though, tender kisses turned to something more desperate, and I had her right where I wanted her.
And she wanted me; that’s what made it work. She held her breath as I pressed gentle kisses along her jaw, but she whimpered when I bit down her neck. “Oh, you like that? If I reached under your skirts would I find that you were wet for me?” I whispered, smiling as I inhaled her sweet aroused scent. My hands moved to the bodice, tearing at fastenings and ribbons and lace until I could reach her breasts. I tortured her nipples until she was moaning, but when I pulled away she looked at me pleadingly.
I used sex to get what I want.
A thousand filthy names fell from my tongue, but she lapped them up like they were nectar. When I told her that I wouldn’t touch her cunt (“Your worthless, high-class cunt.”) unless she gave me the information I wanted, she begged to be allowed to tell me, and begged again for me to touch her. I teased her and taunted her, and fucked her roughly until she came, her cunt clenching around my fingers. I coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of her, until she lay trembling beneath me. I kissed her again.
I found out what we needed to know; I fucked her. I was ruthless; I walked away.
But things are never quite that simple.
The intelligence I had gathered proved useful. I volunteered to see her again, to see what other information I could extract. A different dress, a different disguise, and I slipped a letter into her hand while she was mounting her horse in the stable for an early morning ride. It is easier to pass as a stable girl than a high-born lady, but she looked into my eyes as I helped her into the saddle, and I knew she recognised me.
So I saw her again, and I fucked her again. I fed the information she told me – the snippets of secrets she gave away while I was withholding her orgasms or teasing her to the point of distraction – to the Resistance. I never felt guilty. She knew I was using her in some way, even if she didn’t know who I was or what I was part of. She seemed to get off on that – on being used, on knowing that she meant nothing more to me than a source of knowledge. Oh, and a delightful fuckable toy.
I discovered, in the short conversations we had before the sex started – before she was forced to give up her secrets and submit to me – that maybe she wasn’t as stuck-up or selfish as I’d assumed. When we talked after the fucking – while I hastily dressed, and she lay between tangled sheets and watched me – I learnt that she was anything but stupid. Privileged, yes, but also aware of it. I asked her, once, if she felt that me fucking her roughly was penance or punishment for her elevated status. I never got an answer though, she distracted me with a kiss which led to me grabbing a fistful of her hair in one hand and pulling her closer.
What had started with me using her turned into something else. There were other missions, other parts of my life, but the hours I looked forward to were the ones I spent with her. The way we fucked didn’t change: we both liked it filthy. The way I felt about her though? That did change. I would hold her in my arms after I’d fucked her. I’d ask her for ideas for ways I could defile her.
On the day I trusted her enough to finger me, I told her I liked her. “It was easier when you hated me, wasn’t it?” she teased, and the fact that I’d never hated her, only what she stood for and the society she benefited from, dried in my throat.
She represented everything I hate, she was the product of everything I was fighting against. But I couldn’t hate her.