Thrill Seeker

by Kristina Lloyd

  I crunched towards the frothing grey surf, the hillocky bands of shingle slipping beneath my feet. When I was in the middle of the empty beach, I dropped to the ground and sprawled on my back, gazing up at pinpricks of stars emerging in the ink-wash sky. I was safe there, surrounded by space. Probably safer than being at home. More relaxing too, given how my house no longer seemed wholly mine. On the beach, no one could hide and jump out or approach without me hearing them. No one knew I was here.

  Above me, a gull soared past, its underside as white as a ghost. The waves crashed on the shore, their regularity lulling me towards peace. I felt so tiny and alone, a speck on the coast of a country in the world. A good place to take stock and mull over whether to pursue online dating or take a break for a while. The constant disappointments weren’t doing much for my morale.

  As if to prove my solitude wrong, my phone honked. I lay in silence, trying not to think about Baxter and love, until curiosity got the better of me. A message from Paul: It was nice to meet you. I thought we had a lot in common so if you change your mind, let me know. Good night. xx

  With a sigh, I returned my phone to my bag. No, that man was not part of my Northern Lights.

  Tears stung my eyes. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take of my hopes being raised and dashed. The stars above me swam in a blur. I recalled Alistair Fitch’s blue music studio, a mural of Van Gogh’s Starry Night swirling on one wall. I smiled to recall how artistic I used to think that room was and how cool Alistair Fitch. In reality, he was an ordinary piano tutor working from a gussied-up suburban dining room. I remembered how his Venetian window blinds obscured the daylight, cocooning him in a weird, other space, away from the everyday. Potted palms and ferns were dotted high and low amid the clutter of pianos, keyboards and stacks of sheet music, giving the studio the gloomy, oppressive air of a Victorian parlour.

  Those royal blue walls used to make me feel I was trapped inside a box of night and eerie dreams. One wall featured the Van Gogh mural, its wonky church rising like black flames, the heavens made of splodgy brushstrokes, while the other walls were scattered with yellow stars spinning like crazy suns.

  Trapped with Alistair Fitch, just as he would have wanted it. I was nineteen, I’d had boyfriends and some sex; I didn’t think I was naïve. My father’s diagnosis meant I’d stayed living with my parents while my friends left town for adventures at university. I got a brain-achingly dull job in a shoe shop and started piano lessons to give myself a focus and a goal. I liked the discipline of practising and the weekly tuition. Alistair Fitch was cute too, steel-rimmed glasses, short blond spikes, but in his mid-thirties so too old and sophisticated for me.

  Or so I thought. I was sitting at the baby grand, struggling with the legato in a piece from Brahms. Alistair approached me from one side and gently closed the lid over my hopeless hands. My heart pumped. This wasn’t right. Somehow, I knew Alistair wanted me to keep my fingers on the keys so I was motionless, the polished rosewood jaw resting on my wrists. ‘Legato,’ he said. ‘It means “tied together”. You’re lifting your fingers too soon, Natalie. The notes need to flow, no silences between.’

  I giggled. He made me nervous and the lid on my hands was silly.

  ‘It’s not a joke,’ he said. ‘You need to practise more. You’ve got to suffer for your art. Blood, sweat and tears.’

  I sniggered again, my defensiveness kicking in. This wasn’t my art; this was grade-two piano class I was paying for with shoe-shop wages. As an implicit challenge to Alistair’s pompousness, I began playing Chopsticks, fingers crawling awkwardly, the shiny lid bouncing to the terrible tune. The lyrics ran through my mind. ‘Oh, will you wash your father’s shirt …’

  Alistair let me play for a few moments. I was laughing inside, recalling his declaration at my first lesson: ‘We don’t play Chopsticks in my classes.’

  Calmly, Alistair lifted the lid. He took both my hands in his and raised them high above the keyboard. ‘Did you do that on purpose?’ he asked.

  Woah, this was new. My blood pounded, my cheeks colouring fast. What was he doing? We were shifting into illicit, unfamiliar terrain, I knew that much, but I said nothing, anxious not to make a fool of myself by appearing ignorant of some unknown seduction protocol.

  ‘Are you trying to rile me?’ he prompted.

  I giggled again. ‘Might be,’ I said like a belligerent adolescent.

  He jerked my arms higher and my world started to slide. There, that tug on my limbs, the sharpness in his voice, the attitude. Such minor details and yet the combination caused an almighty great commotion in my groin and heart. Did he like me? Was suburbia’s answer to Jools Holland hitting on me? And why did that tug and tone have such an impact?

  ‘Anyone would think you wanted me to punish you,’ Alistair continued.

  Punish. Oh God, what a word. What a delicious, horrible, compelling word. I’d never known it to have such a charge. My senses span, heat thumped between my thighs. In the corner of my eye, the crazy Van Gogh suns twirled on the wall.

  ‘Do you want that?’ He released my hands and I let them drop to my lap. My hair was short then and his cool hand touched the back of my neck, thumb and fingers spanning its width. I stared at the black and white keys before me, my pulse refusing to steady itself.

  ‘Well, do you?’

  I gave a tiny, breathless giggle. What were you meant to do when a man said that? Was he being silly or was he getting the same rush from this as I was? Punish. Hurt. Need. Lust. How did these mismatched things fit together? I raised my upturned palms as if for a schoolroom reprimand. ‘If you want,’ I said.

  ‘Naughty girl,’ he replied, his tone warmer and gentler. He walked away, returning with a wooden ruler. I stayed facing the piano, hands out, and Alistair stood by my side. He landed a light, cheeky tap first on one palm then on the other.

  I laughed. ‘That was pathetic.’

  He hit my palms again, harder, each time letting the ruler rest on my hand. The ruler listed all the kings and queens of England. William I, William II, Henry I. He kept hitting me, making my palms pink, the ruler bouncing faster and higher. I soon stopped laughing. My hands stung and at the juncture of my thighs, I was a flood.

  ‘Stand up,’ said Alistair, the crisp, bossy note back in his voice. My legs were jelly as I moved away from the piano, my face burning with shame at my secret arousal. Alistair stooped and smacked the ruler against my bare calf muscles. I yelped, jerking my legs, kneeing the air.

  What we were doing? This was wrong, we should stop.

  ‘Bend over,’ said Alistair.

  I hugged my arms to my chest. ‘What do you mean?’ I said, although I knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘Tip forwards. Hands on your knees.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to do?’

  Alistair hit his own palm with the ruler. ‘I’m going to spank you on the B-T-M,’ he said, his manner unusually jolly.

  And I let him because I wanted it. Then, when he told me to bend over the piano stool, I was on my knees with barely a word of complaint. I held still, listening, waiting, blood thundering in my veins. I was so needful of something bad and unexplored, there was no saying where I might have drawn the line in that starry, blue studio. But it was Alistair giving the orders and re-setting our boundaries. Part of me said this was seriously warped but a louder voice said if Alistair thought it was acceptable, then it must be. I would go along with his suggestions.

  Carefully, he lifted my skirt. I could hardly breathe. Oh my God, Alistair Fitch was looking at my knickers and I didn’t even know which ones I was wearing. Piano class so nothing special. I could never tell anyone about this, ever. My heart drummed against the stool’s leather upholstery and my head boomed, on the verge of a headache. With the same slow precision, Alistair hooked his fingers into my knickers then slid them down to the creases of my bent knees. Oh God, oh no, this couldn’t be happening. Alistair Fitch was looking at my bare bum.

  An eternity passed. My br
eath ran so fast I was close to panting. Could he see my cooch? My pubes? Oh fuckity fuck. He was around thirty-five years old. He must have had loads of women, seen loads of bodies. This was probably normal for him, while for me this was so thrilling I was in danger of fainting with arousal.

  Then still using the ruler, he hit me. A stripe of pain bit into my buttocks.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Don’t say “ouch”. Say “one”.’

  ‘One. Ow!’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Good girl. We’re going for twelve per buttock. So hold still, brace yourself.’

  The little thwacks detonated in the silence, my flesh warming to make each strike worse than the last. The final few of each dozen stung sharply. I knew my rear was glowing and that Alistair was looking at it.

  He rubbed the sore patches. ‘There,’ he said. I could hear his quick breath as if he’d significantly exerted himself.

  Between my thighs I was a throbbing mass of sensation, my body hollowed out with need. I was loose and open, craving penetration and half-scared of my own raging appetite. I ached for relief but instead, Alistair told me to straighten my clothes and try the legato again. I obeyed.

  I wish I could say I played like a dream but my hands were trembling, my concentration shot, and my fumblings probably had Brahms spinning in his grave. But it didn’t matter because I felt transformed, as if I’d tasted a new life of dangerous excitements and there was no returning. Even as I was screwing up the notes, I was telling myself I needed to practise till I was perfect so Alistair would approve.

  And I did practise, and my playing did improve. But every week from then on, Alistair would punish me for some minor keyboard error, exactly as I wanted him too. During those weeks, he never touched me there, nor did he ever suggest I touch him, and he always used the ruler, never his hand. We rarely spoke about what we were doing, as if acknowledging our actions might bring us to our senses. And all the while, although I longed for our sessions and obsessed over Alistair, I was consumed with guilt for enjoying how he treated me. I thought I was a weirdo. I felt so desperately alone in my desires.

  Years later, I would look back and realise Alistair took advantage of my emotional vulnerability and naivety. He knew my friends had left town and my father was starting to die. After a couple of warped months, I quit the lessons. My longings left me too troubled and confused. Later, I was able to recognise that part of what I felt was simply due to the self-loathing women are often made to feel for indulging in pleasures of the flesh, be they derived from food or sex. But in addition to that, our tacitly agreed refusal to discuss the spankings left me believing these desires were immoral and sick. Ours was a secret so shameful and appalling we couldn’t even confront the reality ourselves.

  When I tell men I meet online that I first explored my submissive side with Baxter, or B as I call him to strangers, I’m being economical with the truth. Alistair Fitch was my first, although explore is probably not the word to use. He saw something in me, or took a potshot that paid off, and I responded because I found it erotic. The role Alistair played in his studio helped me make sense of a range of desires I’d known prior to him. My experiences began to cohere. I could see how certain moments in books and films that had turned me on matched to an attitude I found sexy in men.

  But Alistair left me feeling so shabby about myself and what I liked that I didn’t go near those intoxicating hungers until years later. It was imperative to resist, to just say no. If I followed my urges and sought satisfaction, everything would get worse and I’d end up dead in a ditch. So I kept my lusts to myself, drawing on them as fantasy material during masturbation or sex with Jim, and never telling a soul. If the internet had been as widely available then as now, I’d have been able to explore and educate myself. Instead, I struggled alone and my secret sexuality turned sour on me.

  Only after my relationship with Jim ended and nice-guy Grant frustrated me with his gentlemanly approach to sex did I understand I could embrace this hidden part of me and become the architect of my desires. If I were to live a fulfilled life, I needed to not be silent. Silence eats you up like a slow disease. My policy of honesty paid off, big style, when I met Baxter Logan. The great joy of Baxter was his lack of shame. He loved the sex we had and the dark paths we ventured down. He revelled in my appetite and encouraged me to explore my twisted imagination. Guilt and inhibition were not part of Baxter’s world. Finally, I felt loved for who I was and free to be true to myself.

  Baxter Logan. Oh, why did everything keep coming back to him? Why did he still have such a hold on me after two years of being apart?

  I inhaled lungfuls of air and scrunched pebbles into my fists. The stones were cool and gritty in my fingers, their coating of tacky saltiness making my hands feel dirty. They clattered softly by my side while, somewhere beyond my feet, waves crashed and shushed, scraping pebbles into the water. Above me, the stars twinkled more brightly. They were light years away, many of them probably dead already. I was gazing at a snapshot of the past, the truth still travelling through space to be recorded by human eyes.

  My phone honked, interrupting my reverie and bringing me back down to earth. I rummaged in my bag, thinking I ought to be going home anyhow. Navel-gazing while stargazing could only lead to trouble. I’d text Liam to let him know how the date went then, once I was home, I’d check the doors and windows and go to bed with a book. If Rory was in the mood, maybe she’d curl up by my feet. Tomorrow was another day. Everything would be fine. I’d give dating another whirl. Maybe put a new photo on my profile. One more month then if I hadn’t met anyone, I’d give it a rest.

  I lifted the phone above my face, not bothering to sit up.

  A text. Number unknown to me.

  Friend or foe?

  Saturday night’s break-in came soaring back to me. He’d found my address, had entered my home and now he’d escaped the internet. For a while, I’d forgotten him but suddenly, I was a nervous wreck again. I clicked the message icon. I can’t recall precisely what was running through my mind but I think even then I knew it was him. The text read: ‘EVEN CLOSER NOW.’

  Oh fuck. I sat bolt upright, scanning the dark beach, twisting around. The emptiness, which had felt safe when I arrived, now seemed dangerous. I had nowhere to hide, was such an easy target to track. Where was he? Could he see me? Why the Hell had I given him my number?

  I stuffed my phone into my bag as I scrambled to my feet, shingle slipping. Don’t panic, Natalie, don’t panic. Stumbling, I hurried across the beach towards the street lamps of Sea Road, the fairy lights strung between them promising the brightness of safety, traffic, people.

  The pebbles were quicksand, the small slopes vanishing as I tried to climb them. Keep calm. Less haste, more speed. To the left, the sparkly fairground swirled and tipped. My breath galloped. I cast around me. No one about. To the east, I could make out the black shapes of the derelict fishing beach, rising from the ground like a ragged graveyard of love.

  I tried not to look, tried not to think of Baxter and how safe I once felt with him.

  He was gone. We were over. Safety couldn’t be trusted.

  Four

  Run, Natalie, run.

  But you’re not meant to run, not meant to look afraid. I hurried across the wide road, away from the prom, inland towards streets and buildings. My pulse thundered in my ears and the warm night air thickened in my throat. So much pressure inside my head, as if my brain were expanding, throbbing against my skull. I needed to pee. Needed to breathe properly too. The air was a blanket and my lungs were full of fluff.

  I passed a handful of people, wondering if they’d turn out to be witnesses, one of the last to see me. Was he following me? I heard no footsteps on my tail, saw no shadows in doorways. Supposing he’d predicted my move and was lying in wait? What to do? Take the fastest route home, that’s what. Stupid not to have done that in the first place. Lunacy to lie on a dark, empty beach as if I hadn’t a
care in the world.

  Damn, should have flagged a taxi down on Sea Road. Double back or keep going? An image popped into my head. I’d get into a taxi, slam the door shut. As we moved off, the driver would turn to me, his face a beaked Venetian mask.

  The thought made me pick up speed again. I’d watched too many films, that was the trouble. But this wasn’t a film. He’d broken into my house. This was real. I might be in danger. Might not be. Same wavelength? Or psycho?

  Whatever, just keep running, Natalie, run like the wind. Save the risk assessment for a later day.

  Then another plan struck me, one so audacious compared to my original notion it might have sprung from a different mind. I would phone him back. Right there and then, I would call Kagami in the street. Forget running scared and being the victim in the dark. I would take charge of the situation whether he liked it or not.

  I slowed, breathing hard, legs quivering. Don’t think, just do. My hands shook. I pressed ‘call’, listening out for a ring tone starting up nearby.

  I heard nothing except the tone in my ear, the pump of my blood surrounding the sound.

  Voicemail. It would go to voicemail.

  Third ring.

  A robotic, female voice, that’s what I would hear.

  Fourth ring.

  A man answered. I didn’t think my heart could thump any faster but it did. There was life on the other end.

  ‘Natalie,’ he said. ‘Glad you called. I hoped you might.’ His voice was deep, his tone amused.

  ‘Where are you?’ I said, heaving for breath. ‘Can you see me? How close is close?’

  ‘I can’t see you,’ he said smoothly. ‘But I’m close.’

  It took me a moment. ‘Psychologically?’