Going Too Far

by Unknown

  ‘They’re not the type. Well, that’s just been demonstrated. I can’t imagine a New Age rapist.’ I gave him a sidelong smile. ‘I hate all that stuff.’

  ‘Me too. But of course you were relieved when that turned out to be what they’d come in here for, weren’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you weren’t just in your mind, in your fantasy, imagining being held down and fucked by all three of us?’

  ‘Well, I left out the holding down.’

  His eyes swept over me and I knew that it was my turn now. Wordlessly he pulled me up and took off my skirt and thong, and after fastening the choker to the wall he gave me as much hand and cock action as if he were three men.

  While I was sorry to say goodbye to Carlos next morning I was also looking forward to getting back to Red and Robbie to tell them of the trip we were going to make to Chiloe. He made sure I still had the address of his friend’s hotel in Santiago.

  ‘Hotel, sounds expensive. I might go somewhere cheaper, but I’ll look him up,’ I said distractedly. I didn’t want my reunion with Red and Robbie interfered with by some hotelkeeper.

  ‘Stay there, Bliss,’ said Carlos quietly but firmly. ‘He’ll make sure you’re all right.’

  I looked up in surprise. ‘What do you mean, all right? Why shouldn’t I be?’

  He shrugged. ‘You should be careful. When you’re in a strange country with different customs . . . you should make sure you don’t upset anyone.’

  ‘Well, of course I won’t!’ I said impatiently. ‘What on earth makes you think I might?’

  ‘You never know. I’ll just feel happier if you’ve got someone you know in the city. You’ll like him; he’s an artist. He only owns the hotel; he doesn’t really work there.’

  Something in Carlos’s previous words had struck a chord in my memory. ‘Carlos, do you think I might have upset anyone already?’

  He was packing his bag and just shook his head without looking up. ‘How would I know?’ he said into his case.

  How would he know? This man who had somehow tracked me down to San Pedro despite not having seen me since I left Lima, this man who had just echoed the words of the man in the jungle at Coroico, how would he know?

  ‘You’re having me followed.’

  It was a statement, not an accusation, and he didn’t refute it.

  ‘Not exactly. I just asked someone to keep an eye out for you from time to time. No big deal.’

  I sat on the bed, the wind taken out of my sails.

  ‘But . . . why?’

  He finally looked up. ‘Kip asked me to see you all right, so I am.’

  ‘Carlos, that was in Lima! That was in the big bad city! I don’t need anyone looking out for me! Stop it! Please, stop it!’

  ‘Hey.’ He stroked my arm. ‘If you want. He’s fond of you, and I am too. It’s just a little insurance, that’s all. You take too many risks, Bliss. Javier told me he wouldn’t have intervened if those guys hadn’t pushed you around in Coroico. He didn’t want to butt in, but he had to stop it before it went too far.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ I blustered. He didn’t have to know that at the time I really thought we were in trouble.

  ‘And last night. You don’t know me that well. For all you know I might have tied you up, let those two at you and then half of San Pedro.’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘You already did.’

  ‘Not precisely.’

  We were getting off the point. ‘But Carlos, how can you do this? Is it just that you want some power over me?’

  He grinned and fingered the handcuffs he was just packing. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know I like having power over you.’

  ‘Sure, but . . . where does it end?’

  ‘When you say,’ he said simply, zipping up his bag. ‘If you don’t want to see me again, OK. Tell Jorge and he’ll pass on the message. Otherwise I’ll meet you in Puerto Montt at the end of the month and we’ll soak up the sun in Chiloe.’

  He kissed me a little regretfully, as if he believed it could be for the last time. ‘Take care, Bliss. I hope I see you then.’

  Then he was gone, leaving me wondering what on earth I’d got into. He had had me spied on. For my own good, he said. Not only did he like having power over me sexually, but he had exercised a more threatening power. He knew how to buy it too, he knew how to hire muscle like Javier. And he had lied to me about being at Macchu Picchu. If I had doubted Red and Robbie at all, his own actions told me that he wasn’t just an ordinary businessman.

  I couldn’t trust him, and part of me was tempted to go to Santiago, book in to the youth hostel and call Jorge and tell him I wouldn’t be staying with him or meeting Carlos in Chiloe. But the other part of me, the stupid, risk-taking part of me, was excited and seduced by my role as spy. Unless Red and Robbie decided it was too dangerous I was off to stay with Jorge.

  ‘Imagine waking up to this every morning,’ said Jorge, gesturing to the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean through the wall of window. ‘It would be impossible not to be an artist with this feeding your spirit.’

  We were in one of the homes of Pablo Neruda, Chile’s greatest poet. Not being an avid fan of poetry I had had only a cursory interest in him until Jorge had taken me to his house in Santiago. I was enchanted by it and clamoured to visit his oceanside home.

  Had I walked away from San Pedro determined never to see Carlos again and told Red and Robbie I was quitting as a secret agent I would have turned down a fistful of experiences. First of all an idyllic two days in the tent with the guys in San Pedro, followed by the trip to the capital via a visit to Antofagusta and a couple of days’ sunbathing on the beach at La Serena. Then I would have missed out on Jorge and the Hostal de Arte.

  Arriving in Santiago Red and Robbie had decided they would first head south of the city to do some walking in the mountains, so we arranged to meet a few days later and I got a taxi to the most unconventional place I had ever stayed in.

  On the ground floor of the Hostal de Arte was an art gallery, then on the first floor Jorge’s own exhibition area and the hotel reception. As Carlos had told me, Jorge didn’t work in the hotel himself, but the staff who did wouldn’t have got jobs in The Ritz, I can assure you.

  Ulla was from Norway, and a severe-looking blonde who normally wore a pristine white overall. With her hair scraped back from her face and her flat lace-ups she looked more like a nurse than a receptionist. Isabella on the other hand had cascading black curls and dressed exotically, always with stiletto heels and extravagant makeup. And Manuel, with his long dark hair, suspiciously smooth cheeks and impeccable clothes, looked as though he really wished he were Manuela.

  I didn’t think too much of it at first. When I checked in they called Jorge from his studio and he greeted me with a bear hug. I liked him immediately. He was short and stocky, around forty, and wore his curly hair shoulder length, a bit like Che Guevara. In fact, with his wide-mouthed, amiable smile and his hands constantly gesturing complete with habitual cigarette, he looked like one of Mum’s old hippy friends I remembered from my childhood, though with a Latin exuberance rather than a laid-back London passivity. Maybe that was why, despite the fact that he was a friend of Carlos, I immediately felt safe with him.

  After he took me personally to my room he walked me round the gallery, and then took me into his studio. In the centre of the room was his work in progress, a half-finished installation he called Casa de poeta – the poet’s house – a tangle of objects centring around a ship’s figurehead, including seashells, beermats and brilliantly coloured glass, with photos of the exterior of three houses. The objects were similar to those in Neruda’s houses, which he enthused about at length and promised to take me to see.

  Lining the walls were some paintings and many photographs. Nearly everything was almost garishly colourful, apart from a series of photographs of a woman. Bound. By corsets, cuffs, chains and cords.

  ‘I see what you have in common with Carlos,’
I said tartly, inspecting the pictures. They all portrayed the same woman. She had pale skin, her face almost ghostly, set off by dark eyes, red lips and flaming red hair. Her body was matt, chalky white against the glossy black satin and leather of her bonds, corsets and belts.

  ‘Susie, yes,’ said Jorge, amused. ‘I didn’t think you would have met her.’

  I spun round. ‘What? I meant bondage.’

  His face was in an oh-silly-me expression but I think he took a sly delight in my shock.

  ‘Sorry. That too.’

  I studied the woman more closely. So they shared her? I knew Carlos would have at least one woman, and now I’d found half of one. The black corset was certainly familiar, as was the wide black leather belt. We were obviously the same size, although her feet were bigger than mine.

  ‘She works here sometimes, and sometimes in Lima. She uses the office there,’ he said indicating a door marked ‘Private’.

  ‘Is she South American?’

  He laughed. ‘No, she’s from New Orleans. Do you like her?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? I wonder if Carlos might bring her to Chiloe with us.’ My mind was already going over the possibilities and running completely out of control.

  Jorge was talented, no doubt about it. As I was considering taking up photography seriously we had plenty to talk about, and he was keen to show me the galleries of Santiago. Meeting him was a terrific plus as he took me to studios I would never have found without local knowledge, while he didn’t neglect to show me the sights of the city and, though the memory was hazy in my mind thanks to over-zealous tasting, a trip to a vineyard.

  I’d been in the hotel a couple of days when it occurred to me that although there were always plenty of people about, there was usually only me and maybe one other couple at breakfast, which was served by the polite but unsmiling Ulla. Jorge wasn’t an early riser but sometimes Manuel would join me for a chat in Spanish, which still being rudimentary meant we weren’t really communicating. Then on Saturday morning, before we set off for Valparaiso, there were loads of people sitting in the breakfast room as though they were waiting for something.

  ‘What was the crush at the hotel this morning?’ I asked Jorge curiously as we wandered out of the house at Isla Negra on to the beach.

  He winked, rather absurdly. ‘Saturday morning, no work. Courting couples, of course.’

  ‘What?’ I started to catch on. ‘You mean coming for sex?’

  ‘Sure. Great money spinner. They usually only take an hour each, sometimes less. You know, Chile is a Catholic country, and one where most people live at home till they marry, apart from screwing in the car – where else?’

  ‘I thought they’d want to stay virgins until they marry.’

  ‘Most do. These are just the fast ones.’ He raised an eyebrow satirically. ‘Unless they take it up the arse, of course, which a lot of them do.’

  ‘I never realised that was a method of contraception.’

  He smiled widely. ‘Very practical. Sometimes makes a mess of the sheets, mind you – but then so does Manuel.’

  I had an inkling then of exactly what sort of establishment he was running.

  ‘So most girls want to stay virgins . . . so the men hanging around during the week are . . . clients?’

  He nodded. ‘I wondered when you’d put two and two together. Good operation, don’t you think? Minimal effort, maximum income, I can get on with my art.’

  ‘So Manuel is a male prostitute?’

  ‘Almost male. Some men want to be faithful to their fiancées. Or they just like him.’

  I felt I’d been a bit naïve to not fall in before, but what the hell. It was rather amusing to be staying in a brothel.

  ‘So what about the other guests? The Austrians who are there now?’

  ‘What about them? They come in off the street by accident. We don’t turn them away.’

  I wondered whether Ulla specialised in correction – she certainly looked the type – but in view of Carlos and Jorge sharing Susie I didn’t want to question him too closely in case he took it for an invitation.

  He didn’t need encouraging. In the car on the way back to Santiago he stopped abruptly in the middle of a conversation about Man Ray and Herb Ritts and said, ‘I want to use you in my work, Bliss. The gallery will be open tomorrow afternoon. Will you be an exhibit?’

  ‘An exhibit?’ I asked cautiously. ‘How?’

  ‘Bound. Sometimes Susie has done it; you remember the clown photo?’

  I did. Susie’s natural pallor had been completely whitened and she had clown-like red spots on her cheeks and black clown eyes, with the regulation teardrop. Her hair had been pulled back and waxed into three points. Her big clown’s ruff was made of black leather and chained to the wall, as was her black leather-belted waist and her black-booted legs, but her hands were free, juggling with three red balls. Apart from that she was naked, her body as pale as her face apart from rouge-reddened nipples and her brilliant red pubic hair.

  ‘That was taken from an . . . exhibit?’

  He nodded vigorously. ‘Performance art is always part of my work, and if it can be a woman in chains – will you?’

  Was this taking exhibitionism too far, I asked myself? It was one thing fucking Red while Robbie looked on. To be naked and chained as an art exhibit before a crowd of strangers was something else.

  Jorge shook his head impatiently as I voiced my thoughts. ‘It’s an invited crowd, not a free for all. Come on, Bliss, you’re an artist. The boundaries have to be constantly pushed back, you know that.’

  One thing I do know: I love it when someone calls me an artist.

  ‘I’m in.’

  In chains wasn’t to be taken literally, I found out next morning when I reported to the studio at ten o’clock.

  ‘Everything off,’ Jorge instructed. ‘No make-up – good. Ulla will do your hair after.’

  ‘After what?’

  He produced a huge catering pack of clingfilm and a reel of transparent twine. ‘After I’ve wrapped you up.’

  I was dreading a skinflick oven-ready-chicken-type scenario but it wasn’t that demeaning, though it was more bizarre.

  My arms were pulled back and bound in place, the transparent twine going carefully around my arms and body at elbow and wrist level. Nothing else needed to be bound. That was just to get them in the right position.

  The plastic wrap was next. Starting with my feet, Jorge meticulously wrapped me, tightly, making sure it overlapped by exactly the right width. He placed the clingfilm on the floor and rolled me over and over as he wrapped. All the time he kept up a stream of chatter about art, the difference between the erotic and the pornographic, and the necessity to shock.

  As his hands brushed against my pubic mound I quivered, just a tiny, involuntary movement, but he felt it. His hand lingered.

  ‘It would be even better if you were shaved. Do you ever?’

  ‘Yeah, but only for work. I always let my beard grow on holiday.’

  He grinned and encouraged by my eyes his finger pushed gently along my cleft and brought out my moisture. ‘Carlos said you love to be restrained.’

  ‘This isn’t exactly the same, is it.’

  ‘No. I’d like to fuck you, Bliss.’

  ‘Not as an exhibit.’

  He laughed, moved his hand and carried on wrapping me. ‘No. Later.’

  I kept my options open.

  By the time my whole body was encased in the clingfilm I was feeling hot. Maybe it was just being wrapped in plastic or maybe it was because Jorge’s hands on my sex and breasts had put me into horny mode. He had certainly spent a long time on my tits, squashing them with the clingfilm, pulling it even tighter than on the rest of my body as though he was trying to flatten them. He had left me on the floor and was beating something in a bowl.

  ‘You’re a slug, Bliss. You’re going to crawl across the floor and leave a trail just like a real slug. What do you think?’

  Sweating, I looked
up. The bowl contained something white and translucent.

  ‘That looks like come.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Egg white. But in an ideal world it would be semen.’

  Kneeling down beside me, he put his face close to mine. ‘In an ideal world I’d have ten men masturbating over you, so that you could leave a trail of come as you crawl along the floor. What do you think about that?’

  As there weren’t ten men in the room and this was purely fantasy, I liked it. Like any girl I have the orgy fantasy, not to mention the degradation fantasy, and ten men wanking all over me simultaneously was just fine as long as it wasn’t real.

  ‘I would like to wank on you, Bliss. In fact – you look so naked like that, so soft – will you suck me?’

  He undid his trousers. He wore nothing underneath and his cock sprang free. It looked curiously boyish and eager to please. I raised myself into a sitting position and manoeuvred on to my knees. Wrapped, I was rapt, as with my hands helpless behind me I sucked.

  He came on to my subdued breasts and it trickled down my front. I knew what he wanted and lay face down on the floor and tried to wriggle forward. Progress was difficult; my body isn’t quite as flexible as my mind.

  Jorge turned me on to my side and kissed my mouth, but there was no time for tenderness. Ulla came in to pull my hair back and wax it to lie close to my head, and it was covered in a transparent cap that came down over my eyes. The plastic wrap, which Jorge had stopped at my throat, was extended to cover my mouth, leaving my nose free to breathe through. Finally, feeling rather like a Spam fritter, I was coated in beaten egg white along one side and instructed to lie on it. It worked; I could easily wriggle along in what seemed to me quite a slug-like manner. Jorge was pleased.

  So were the guests. A bohemian crowd, they treated Jorge with great respect. As instructed I slid around the room; not too easy when you’re trying to avoid a couple of dozen people, and I was a bit concerned when passing under anyone holding a cigarette. I tried to avoid the chain-smoking Jorge like the plague.

  I wondered if anyone would touch me: the imagination worked overtime again, with the poor slug being groped with fascinated horror by the assembled company. However they were a sophisticated crowd and I escaped physical contact apart from the toe of one woman’s shoe. Bitch. I wished my mouth were unconfined so I could bite her leg. I resolved to have more sympathy with dogs in future.