Thrill Seeker

by Kristina Lloyd

  I remembered him telling me that. I was naked on my knees, hands roped behind my back. ‘Look up at me,’ he’d said, standing there with his big, handsome cock jutting from his suit. I obeyed and he slapped me across the face. ‘Charm, see? Like that!’ I began sinking into my submission, face stinging, room spinning. ‘Baxter Logan, he likes to charm the ladies, charm his wee bitches then make them choke on his dick.’

  Baxter Baxter Baxter. What was he doing here? His words sounded so harsh now but at the time, they’d made me swoon. The idea I was one of many women Baxter could pick and choose from and use for his own gain, got me right in the groin. Were that scenario true, I’d have been devastated. But as a fantasy, because I was safe in the reality I was the only woman Baxter loved, it thrilled me. His faux-boastfulness made him, in my mind, all the more powerful and ruthless, a man ruled by his greedy cock. And I loved that. Loved that he could play with the concept of being a profligate, sexually voracious bastard while being a loyal, sexually voracious boyfriend.

  Except he couldn’t, as I discovered. That wasn’t what he’d been doing.

  I wished I could delete him. Nearly two years, and I still kept comparing new lovers to him. But remembering him in the midst of playing kidnap was a new low, a sign I needed to work harder on letting go. Oh, but if only he were the one doing this to me. Instead of a frightening faceless man, my abductor could be, in another dimension, Baxter Logan, his big hands on my body, his nasty words in my ears.

  I rested my tongue against the wedged rubber ball, disliking the taste but finding that position more comfortable than trying to keep my tongue out of the way. Gagged and blindfolded, I grew calmer. I recognised the feeling, that slow process of unravelling, of handing myself over to someone ready to take me.

  For a moment, that someone was Baxter. He was here, busying about my body, collar undone, his tie as crooked as his smile and his heart. In my mind, his face was clearer than it had been for ages. I saw the unkempt hair, the heavy brows and rough-hewn handsomeness. I saw eyes so brown their darkness was almost indistinguishable from the black of his pupils.

  That’s what I wanted to surrender to: the dark, wild chaos of Baxter’s unchecked passion. But no, that ship had sailed. He’d betrayed me. So why wouldn’t the longing fade?

  I pulled my mind back to the present, trying to get a grip, stay focused.

  I was alone in a van and my abductor had no face. Such a stupid risk to take.

  Den edged down my legs and shoved up my skirt, rocking my thighs left and right to accommodate the material. There was a pause, physical and auditory, when he revealed my underwear. I sensed his eyes assessing me, sliding from ankles to arse. The backs of my knees itched as if his gaze were a ticklish caress. I bunched my fists, fighting the urge to bat my skirt down and restore a semblance of modesty.

  With a masseuse’s technique, Den spanned each calf muscle and ran a hand up either leg.

  ‘Ve-ery nice,’ he said. When he reached my buttocks, he nudged my knickers higher, crumpling the flimsy fabric into a band and wedging it to form a makeshift thong in the crack of my arse. Behind the ball gag, I groaned in frustration, hating his scrutiny and the small precise manner in which he’d rendered me vulnerable. But at the same time, I liked being forced to endure his inspection; liked his inevitable enjoyment of my discomfort.

  I remained motionless as he caressed my rear cheeks, his hand gentle like a lover’s. I didn’t trust that hand one jot. I heard people walking past the van, a woman calling after her child. Den leaned forward, his breath on my neck, his lips touching the tip of my ear. He nibbled there, light as a feather, then traced his tongue along the edge of my lobe. With a gentle touch, he pushed my hair aside to lightly kiss my neck. I couldn’t respond, couldn’t move or kiss back. All I could do was lie in my own darkness, breathe through my nose and wait.

  His voice was low and close in my ear. ‘You know what I’m going to do?’ he murmured. ‘I’m going to strip you bare. Completely bare. Not your clothes. You.’ His hand roamed over the naked swell of my buttocks. The pulse in my cunt beat harder. ‘I’m going strip away your will, your personality, your self-respect. I’m going to break you, reduce you to a sobbing wreck.’

  A fantasy, a game, much like Baxter’s talk of getting fellated by a bunch of obliging, awestruck women.

  Den wrapped his other hand in my hair, trapping my curls in a fist and forcing my ear against his lips. Nearness made his voice fuzzy, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he spoke, his breath almost as loud as his words. The touch of his lips made my desire leap.

  ‘I’m going to get so far inside your head, you won’t know who you are any more,’ he said. ‘And that’s good, because you won’t be anyone. You’ll just be a thing for me to use.’ His hand slipped between my legs to stroke the damp pouch of my briefs, the scrunched fabric only just containing me. A shiver chased along my spine, leaving prickles on my neck. My groin felt unfeasibly swollen, so responsive to his delicate, teasing touch.

  ‘And from nothing, I’ll make something,’ he went on, tender voiced and darkly seductive. ‘I’ll rebuild you and make you mine. My little bitch.’

  My heartrate quickened as my mind flashed back to a FancyFree exchange where I’d shared my fantasy of being kidnapped, chained to his bed and referred to as his ‘little bitch’. At the time I was no doubt chanelling Baxter Logan who often called me his ‘wee bitch’. Was Den speaking words I’d offered or using his own? I wondered if I might end up chained to his bed and began to regret saying that. I didn’t think I’d like the reality of being cold, stiff and unable to sleep.

  Increasingly anxious, I tried to recall what else I’d said. Rash fragments swam in my mind: ‘I like the idea of being afraid because I don’t know what will happen next … a man who enjoys my fear … a jumble of bondage, blindfolds and gags.’

  I wasn’t sure what I most feared: this mysterious stranger or the capacity of my overwhelming lust to urge me along dumb, dangerous paths.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back,’ he said.

  I did. He took one wrist and wrapped it in a soft cuff, presumably leather, then pulled the buckle tight. He did the same on my other wrist then, with a click, linked the two cuffs together by the small of my back. I tugged, testing the small amount of slack between my wrists. The resistance I encountered sent lust surging to my groin.

  ‘So, let’s take a proper look at you,’ he said.

  He hooked his hands either side of my knickers and unceremoniously dragged them down and off. His touch brisk and firm, he splayed my thighs, holding me open. I could feel him examining me, eyes locked on the place where I was bloated and slick. Instinctively, I jerked at my cuffs. The short link between them jolted my wrists, sparking another corresponding jolt of need in my groin. I heard myself groan and the sound, though muffled, was filthy, awash with desperation.

  Den gave a victorious little laugh. He’d sussed me out, had seen how predictably easy I was and how much his unkindness aroused me. I couldn’t hide it from him, even if I’d wanted to. He stroked between my legs, fingers paddling in my drenched split. I groaned heavily, thinking I might die if he didn’t penetrate me. But he didn’t, he just laughed again.

  Kneeling between my legs, he raised one ankle, easing it towards my butt. He buckled a bond around it. I caught the creak of leather, the clink of metal and felt the tug as he tightened it. Another cuff. He slipped a finger between leather and leg, checking the fit, then repeated the action on my other ankle.

  ‘You’re very acquiescent,’ he said. ‘This bodes well for the things I plan to do to you.’

  My entire body was shot through with lust, my cunt made of hot, wet throbs. I squirmed against the mattress, unable to prevent my hips lifting in search of his hands.

  Metal clanked again. A cheaper, tinnier sound this time. Another object. He fumbled with one ankle, then the next. Only when he drew back and I tried to move did I realise my legs were pinned apart, a rod between my ankles p
reventing me from closing them.

  What did you call them? A spreader bar, that was it. I’d seen them online during one of my many fantasy-shopping sprees. A rod of hollow metal linked to ankle cuffs, forcing the wearer’s legs apart.

  I thrashed and sobbed. The position was excruciating, exposing me, splitting me, making me long to get fucked. I tugged my feet inwards. The bar rattled but the extra few inches I gained offered no more dignity, serving only to emphasise my powerlessness. What a cruel, clever device the spreader was, forcing me into a brazen display of pink-lipped greed, mocking me for my need while intensifying the very thing it created and offering no respite.

  I gave a petulant double-kick at the mattress.

  Den laughed, satisfied. I felt cheap, whorish and objectified, as if the point of my existence to him was my wet, eager cunt. Not my mind, my nice eyes, personality or infectious laugh. Cunt. That’s what I was to him: cunt. And every nerve in my body sucked in the dark pleasure of that, cradling its delicious baseness.

  ‘We’re going for a little drive now,’ said Den.

  I writhed, tipping my arse to him and groaning in complaint. I didn’t want to go for a drive. I wanted to get fucked.

  ‘When I open this door again,’ Den continued, ‘I want to see you in exactly the same position.’ He leaned close, his breath dusting my ear, his hand bunching my hair. ‘If you try to do anything stupid, I’ll make you pay. So don’t bother. Just lie there, nice and still. OK?’

  I nodded, huffing for breath through my nose and making a vaguely affirmative noise behind my gag.

  The van door slid open and I squealed, afraid of being seen by passersby. Quickly, the door swooshed and banged into place, leaving the van rocking. In the ensuing silence, I felt horribly alone. If only I could see who this man was. I hoped he’d remove my blindfold when we got to wherever we were going. What if he didn’t and I never got to see his face? Hell, I should have thought this through more.

  I’d never set out to snag Mr Right but I’d veered so far off that track I was now at the mercy of Mr Dangerously Wrong. If the thrill of my fantasy weren’t so addictive, I’d be coming to my senses about now. But clarity of thought counts for little when you’re bound and gagged, intensely horny, and are being taken into the unknown by a man you’ve never seen.

  The floor beneath me rumbled as the engine started. I noticed a ticking somewhere by my feet. Clock? Time-bomb? The mattress beneath me swayed as the van moved. A short while later, I sensed us turn a corner. Left or right, I couldn’t say. A small wave of motion sickness lifted inside me. The ticking stopped. What was it? Where was he taking me?

  Another fragment: ‘the more authentic the danger feels, the hotter it is for me.’

  I lay there in the dark, thinking, ‘What a dumb, reckless thing to say to a stranger on the internet.’

  If only I’d said it to Baxter when I’d had the chance, I could have got this fantasy out of my head without fearing for my life.

  Seven

  Baxter used to say, ‘What a mess you’ve got yourself into. Look at the state of you. How d’you end up up like that, eh, hen?’

  I remembered being half-dressed and roughly bound, face forward over the back of my armchair, arse upturned, dainty dress bunched beneath the ropes. Baxter came upstairs from the kitchen carrying a bottle of beer. Just the sight of him acting all cocky and leisured after rendering me helpless made my groin flare. I loved how he was so masculine without being macho; loved how that was expressed in so many different ways: the suit, the beer, the easy swagger, the hard-on, the pace, the control.

  He took the bottle-opener from the mantelpiece and flicked the lid off his beer, watching me all the time. My lust blazed to feel his eyes roaming over me. I tried to picture what might be running through his mind. I felt like a target he was plotting to destroy, his cunning hunger homing in on the weak spot of my desire, aiming to ruin me by taking me to ecstasy and back.

  ‘What a fucking mess,’ he said, shaking his head in despair. He took a swig of beer then proceeded to stalk me, circling the chair while acting baffled and sympathetic. Occasionally he’d readjust a rope or stroke me with possessive tenderness, continuing to make out I was to blame for having ended up in such a humiliating position.

  All I could do was wait for him to unleash himself on me. The more he made me wait, the wetter I became. And as ever, the wetter I grew, the more horny, triumphant and grateful Baxter was when he finally started to fuck me. ‘Ah yessss,’ he’d hiss, spinning out the ‘s’ as he sank in deep. ‘What a beauty.’

  Another memory: Baxter making me confront myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I was on my knees, hands cuffed behind my back, both of us naked. I’d just been sucking his cock, or rather he’d just been fucking my mouth. He once taught me a word: irrumatio. Not fellatio, where I suck his cock, but irrumatio, where he fucks my mouth. ‘Learn to love it,’ he’d growled, hands in my hair, cock driving hard enough to make me splutter.

  When he withdrew, he stuffed my knickers into my mouth, feeding in the last of the fabric with two big fingers. My cheeks bulged, pink lace foaming from my lips as he turned me to meet my reflection. He held me by the hair, waggling my head in warning when I tried to look away. Black tears streaked my face, my eyes bloodshot, my skin hectic and blotched. Next to me, his cock was ramrod-stiff, gleaming with my saliva, his pubes curling damply.

  ‘Look at the state of you,’ he said brightly. ‘How d’you end up like this, eh? Dirty little cocksucker. You know why your panties are in your mouth, eh? Do you?’

  I shook my head, grunting into cotton.

  ‘Because I dinnae want to hear you speak,’ he said. ‘All that mouth’s fit for is being used. Not got a dick in it? Then it’s surplus to my requirements. Now come on, suck me again. Do it!’

  I grunted to indicate he needed to first remove the underwear from my mouth. My hands were tied, see? Baxter was having none of it. ‘Spit them out,’ he said. ‘Prove how much you want my dick.’

  I did as told, glad to be rid of the knickers, gladder still to have Baxter gliding into my mouth again. I loved the strength in his shaft, loved to breathe in the intimacy of his pubes as he bunched my hair in his fists, pulling me close. And most of all, I loved it when he told me what to do. He knew I got off on that because I’d tried to explain it numerous times. I couldn’t say why I liked being forced to submit, only that I did; that I longed to be overtaken and reduced in this way. I didn’t so much get off on the act of submission but in being made to submit. I wanted to resist as if I hated it, the pleasure arising from the process of him doing what was necessary to push me to that place where I had either become greedy and willing or was too weak to fight back.

  Does everything, I’d once wondered aloud to Baxter, have to be explained before it gets a pass? Does the nature-nurture debate need to be resolved before I’m allowed to fuck who and how I want? Didn’t gay people get asked the same question – Are you born this way or made? – and discover the answer is: ‘Accept us for who we are, don’t pathologise and try to fix us’?

  Baxter took it in his stride, not seeking justification but happy to be with someone he viewed as on a par. My kinky desires were as legitimate as his, and together we could celebrate what we relished, and make each other happy.

  What a mess you’ve got yourself into.

  I could almost hear him and wished he were with me. Alone in the back of the van, I was suddenly wretched, the pain of my loss spiking like it hadn’t done in months. Oh, it was nothing compared to the immediate, soul-crushing loneliness I’d experienced when Baxter and I had split. But I felt it again, a loss too entangled with longing for me to come to terms with a Baxter-less future. Get over him. Move on. But that’s easier said than done. I’ve never yet discovered how to speed up the process. All I’ve learned in life is to not act on the pain of heartbreak, to understand that grief doesn’t grant you any rights. You’ve just got to sit it out like a hangover.

  Tick, t
ick, tick.

  The noise in the van kept coming and going. It sounded as if my time were running out, a countdown to the start or the end of something. Earlier in the journey I’d realised the ticking came from nothing more sinister than the van’s indicator lights. Nonetheless, I couldn’t disassociate the noise from that of a bomb about to explode.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  The van stopped, engine off. Moments later, the door rumbled open, bringing in a sweep of fresh air. Instinctively, I tried to close my legs. The spreader bar clanged its refusal, the leather cuffs jerking around my ankles. A slice of light peeped through a new chink in my blindfold. The floor of the van dropped as Den climbed in. He didn’t close the door so I guessed we were in a place hidden from public view.

  ‘You OK?’ His tone was sharp, the question perfunctory.

  I nodded although I wasn’t sure.

  He removed the spreader bar and ankle cuffs. Grateful, I drew my legs together.

  ‘Kneel up, move back,’ he said. ‘This way. We’re getting out. Come on. Trust me.’

  But I couldn’t see a thing. Like a nervous animal being led by a friendly vet, I shied away from whatever was in front of me.

  ‘Come on, it’s OK,’ he cajoled, his voice gentler.

  The blackness was behind my eyes and I was walking into the void, being taken to the edge of a precipice at midnight. Den got out first, feet thudding on the ground. He hooked his hands in my armpits to help me down. I let him take my weight as I climbed from the van in a terrified half-crouch.

  My feet touched the ground. I stood alone. The van door banged shut. Traffic mumbled somewhere in the distance. Gulls shrieked. The sounds carried, suggesting we were close to the seafront, not hemmed in by buildings. I thought I heard far-off waves then decided the rhythmic slush was simply the pounding of blood in my ears.