Thrill Seeker

by Kristina Lloyd

  Acknowledgements

  Enormous thanks to Gillian Green, my editor, for encouraging me to explore more deeply and involving me in decisions about my supremely handsome book cover. To Emily Yau for speed and efficiency. And to all at Black Lace for reviving the imprint with such enthusiasm and style.

  To Alison Tyler because it’s high time I thanked you for constant support and for being an ever-present reminder of the importance of integrity.

  To my friends, especially Alice, Anne and Lorelei, for understanding when I can’t come out to play. To Jackie for accompanying me on my first trip to Hastings, and to Mike for my second trip. Who knew I would corrupt the town so? And to Anna because last time, I never got to thank you for being my village bike.

  To Peter for, um, technical assistance (and the pig).

  To Mum and Matt in France for not minding that I turned up as a holiday guest then wrote each day until it was time to start drinking wine (which, admittedly, is quite early in France). And to Mum, especially, for being proud of what I do.

  And to Ewan, light of my life, for reading version one on train station platforms, for inspiration, being awesome, and for all the love, across the years.

  Introduction to S. M. Taylor’s ‘Forbidden’

  the winning entry from the YOU magazine/Black Lace erotic short story competition

  In 2012, Black Lace and The Daily Mail’s YOU magazine ran a short story competition, the prize being publication by Black Lace. I was privileged to be on the judging panel along with bestselling Black Lace author, Portia Da Costa, and our editor, Gillian Green.

  We received over two hundred and fifty submissions. Many entrants told us they were inspired to put pen to paper for the first time, or dig out stories previously abandoned. The enthusiasm for the competition, not to mention the high standard of stories we received, makes me genuinely excited about the future of erotica. As judges, ours was a difficult task but, after whittling the entries down to a shortlist of thirteen, we chose ‘Forbidden’ by S. M. Taylor as our winner.

  When I first read ‘Forbidden’, I got goosebumps. S. M. Taylor’s voice immediately felt fresh, her exploration of conflicts in British-Asian culture giving the story an extra heft. I’m looking at my hard copy of the piece as I write this introduction. Scrawled in the margins are my pencilled notes and at the end, a simple, enthusiastic, ‘Yes!’. As Portia said, ‘Forbidden’ has the ‘it factor’, that indefinable something which makes a story glow.

  ‘Forbidden’ tells of a young Muslim woman, Sofina, and her secret love affair with a tattooed, Cockney boxer, Patrick. Sofina and Patrick have a sizzlingly hot encounter in a derelict yard in Brick Lane, the heart of London’s Bangladeshi community, and an area long-famed for its bustling markets. The scenario is as far away from aspirational erotica featuring long-fingered billionaires as you could possibly get!

  Followers of my work will know I’m partial to mean-looking men, urban decay, and sex scenes that play with danger and dubious consent. These themes feature in my second novel, Asking for Trouble, in many of my short stories, and once again in Thrill Seeker. S. M. Taylor’s story includes these elements and so, inevitably, it pushed a lot of my buttons. However, my judging criteria weren’t based solely on what a story could do for me!

  In ‘Forbidden’, the sex is raw and brutal while the story-telling is anything but. S. M. Taylor demonstrates a sophisticated use of theme-building, perspective shifts, erotic tension and pacing. Sofina and Patrick are well-defined, realistic, likeable characters. Their dialogue is top-notch: witty, tender, passionate, sexy and natural, drawing the reader into their intimacy and bringing their connection alive to us. We’re made to care about this couple, meaning, as readers, we’re emotionally involved in the unfolding of their clandestine lust in that tatty, East End yard. And when the heart’s involved, the groin is seldom far behind.

  And there’s the bigger story. Sofina and Patrick are in love, but Sofina’s family would disapprove of the relationship. The stakes are high and so is the tension. S. M. Taylor neatly encapsulates how the couple’s feelings and the difficulties they face are embodied in the sex: ‘Somehow, the ferocity of the way he fucked her made their love stronger. It was tangible. It was real. It hurt.’

  In good erotic fiction, the sex has to matter. A story which describes two people merrily making out, with no consequences to their interaction, isn’t enough. Here, the sex matters because this young couple’s love matters, both on a personal and on a wider, cultural level. Patrick is a fighter in the ring. With Sofina, he must face a different fight if their love is to survive. This is a story about Sofina and Patrick; it is Romeo and Juliet with the battle lines drawn on contemporary ground. It’s a story about the changing landscape in multicultural Britain and, crucially for our genre, it’s also beautifully, boldly erotic.

  I can’t wait to read more of S. M. Taylor’s work. I hope you enjoy ‘Forbidden’ as much as I did. If you want to know more about S. M. Taylor, please stop by the Black Lace website www.blacklace.co.uk to read my interview with this exciting, talented, new writer.

  Kristina Lloyd, May 2013

  Forbidden

  by S. M. Taylor

  The silver kitten-heel sandals lifted away from her bare feet and clicked back again like finger cymbals against the pavement. She adjusted the red silk dupatta covering her hennaed hair, which was freshly oiled and jasmine-scented, and plaited down to her waist. The scarf cascaded over the matching shalwar kameez, and Sofina smiled at her flowing reflection in the shop window.

  The outfit was handmade in Pakistan by a renowned tailor, a gift to herself for all her hard work, and bought with the first pay cheque that she had earned in her new job. Her mother would say that the silk was too clingy and the heels were too high and she would get a reputation as being ‘that sort of girl’, and who would marry her then?

  But this outfit was not for her family, nor in readiness for some stranger who was ‘a nice boy’. It was for her, Sofina.

  She stopped at a market stall piled high with ethnic fruit and vegetables. She stood still for a while, regarding the array of produce and, then here and there, Sofina reached out her French-manicured hands to touch and squeeze the offerings. After a brief exchange with the trader in a patois of Urdu and English, she purchased a lush bunch of coriander, a handful each of red and green chilli peppers and a couple of very ripe brown figs.

  As Sofina paid for the contents of the brown paper parcel, her mobile phone rang.

  She moved away from the busy stall and, trapping the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she juggled it with trying to manage the contents of her overflowing shoulder bag.

  ‘Fatima!’ she said excitedly. ‘Listen. You are now talking to Sofina Khan, ACA. A very proud and very relieved, newly qualified chartered accountant!’

  Across the street, leaning against a wall papered with tattered posters and painted with graffiti tags, a tall, muscular man watched the young woman weave in and out of the crowd, smiling and laughing as she talked on the phone. He sported a black eye and a buzz cut and wore a grey hooded sweatshirt rolled up to the elbows to reveal sleeves of black tattoos.

  From a distance, he watched how the delicate silk outfit caressed the contours of her shapely figure – outlining the fulsome bust, bottom and thighs. As she got closer, he saw how the black kohl eyeliner enhanced her chocolate-brown eyes and the ruby-red lipstick her full lips. She passed him and he noticed the way the shiny thick plait swung at her bottom like a pendulum as she walked. He also heard the chinking of the rows of heavy Indian gold bracelets adorning her wrists.

  ‘And why is it that the first word is “congratulations” and the second is “husband”?’ Sofina laughed. ‘Fatima, I’m twenty-three years of age, hardly a spinster.’

  The man shadowed her from across the street, hands dug deep into his jeans pockets, gradually moving through the crowd and looking about, to the left and right and behind, as he followed her.

  He loved the w
ay she moved. She sashayed. With every step, her large bust bouncing, the broad hips swaying and each ample buttock rising and falling. He felt his cock stiffen. This woman was fucking perfection, he thought.

  Sofina continued with her conversation, unaware of the eyes upon her or the sexual attention that she elicited.

  ‘No, sorry, Fatima, I can’t now. I’ve – err – I’ve got a dental appointment. I’ll call you later. OK? Bye.’

  She ended the conversation quickly and dropped the phone into her bag, which she swung by her side as now she almost skipped along the path.

  Sofina made her way out of Brick Lane market, leaving the spiced air of the Bangladeshi restaurants and the buzz of the crowd behind her. She turned left into a road lined with old warehouse buildings and then, after about a hundred yards, she turned right into a backstreet marked ‘Private’.

  Suddenly she felt a sharp tug at the back of her head and a feeling of being reeled in backwards. Her plait was being coiled around the man’s fist and in seconds the back of her head was cradled in his arms.

  Her voice was caught in her throat.

  He held her in a firm embrace and swiftly drew her towards a rickety wooden door, which he kicked open to reveal a cobbled backyard. Sofina’s body stiffened as she was propelled against the brick wall. She lost one of her shoes and her handbag was flung to the floor.

  The man pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it across the yard. His expansive chest was adorned with a tattooed Celtic cross. He pinned her to the wall with just the strength of his groin forced into her pelvis.

  Staring down at her, held fast before him, he methodically took each of her arms by the wrist and held her hands above her head, grazing them against the rough brick. She could feel the hard muscular contours of his athletic frame cutting into the soft flesh of her body and she knew immediately that physically she was helpless to resist this man’s brute strength.

  He was a foot taller than her and she had to crane her neck to look up at his face. In an instant, she took in the bruising around his left eye and the old silver scar on his right cheek. And then she connected with his piercing blue gaze that bore into her wide brown eyes and held her there transfixed.

  In contrast to this man’s solid, cocksure presence, Sofina betrayed her desperate state with her breathlessness and trembling limbs.

  He leaned in to her, bringing his face down to a level with hers and slowly traced his nose over her soft dusky skin, from her nose, across her cheek, to her earlobe. His sweet-sour breath left a warm moist trail across her face.

  ‘Now what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ he whispered in her ear. His Cockney accent was rough but his tone was playful. ‘Are you looking for someone, darlin’?’

  She unconsciously bit into her bottom lip. The scent of him, of his sweat blended with that aftershave, Trussardi Uomo, intoxicated her mind, her heart, her sex.

  ‘Come on. You can tell me. Tell me what you want, love.’

  He licked her gold-droplet earring into his mouth and sucked on it, tugging at her fleshy lobe.

  She felt faint and nauseous. She had to shake her head to bring herself to. She caught her breath.

  Sofina stuttered, her words almost unintelligible, ‘I … I want you.’

  ‘Again. Say it again,’ he demanded.

  Now he bit into her earlobe and held it between his teeth.

  She whimpered, ‘I want you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You, Patrick. I want you.’

  He released the marked, swollen flesh. ‘Do you?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes. Patrick, please…’

  ‘And do you feel how much I want you, Sofina?’

  She could feel his stiff cock bulging against the metal buttons of his jeans and digging into her belly, forcing her bottom against the wall. His powerful sex trapped her there in the alley.

  But she had enticed him, she thought, and smiled to herself.

  Patrick bit into her earlobe again and whispered between bites, ‘Do you know I can only get hard when I smell jasmine or sandalwood?’ He laughed. ‘You’re my drug. I’m addicted to you, Sofina. You’re opium.’

  He brought his face to hers, seeming to kiss her then pulling away at the last moment, again and again. This man was toying with her, testing her. Then he lunged at her mouth, forcing his over hers, scratching her harshly with his facial stubble and bruising her lips. His tongue penetrated her mouth, thrusting deeper and deeper and licking her inside-out; overwhelming her with his carnal passion.

  He pushed his knee between her legs, roughly spreading them.

  ‘I’m the only man who’s ever had you. And I’ll always be the only one. The only one. Do you understand, Sofina?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  ‘You’re mine, Sofina. Since the first time I saw you. I’ve only wanted you.’

  He stretched one hand around her slim wrists and with his other he hoisted her silk tunic over her breasts to her neck and then pulled at the cord to loosen the paijama, which dropped to her feet.

  She was left naked, exposed in that derelict yard off Brick Lane. No bra and no panties to cover her most intimate parts. The parts of a woman that only her husband should see, her mother had warned her. And especially that part between her legs that would be opened up by her husband on the wedding night.

  She was torn between the instincts of fight or flight – but the fight in her with this man was more primitive than that. The energy was caught between her legs.

  Patrick looked her up and down, from her eyes to her mouth, her breasts to her sex, and slowly back up again. God, he loved her. But he was caught up in this place between love and lust and madness. He wanted her. He ached for her night and day. And he wished he had never set eyes on her.

  He traced his wet tongue over her parted lips, under her tilted chin, down her arched neck and over her full breast to the large, berry-brown nipple. Sofina gasped as gently he took the sensitive flesh in his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. He teased it with his tongue while he watched her beautiful face react to his touch, to the pleasure and pain of oral foreplay. He sucked hard on the erect nipple between his teeth and she moaned long and loud.

  While his mouth worked at her breast, his hand worked its way between her legs. His fingers stroked the soft delicate skin at the inside of her thighs, following the curve, and reaching the wetness of the mons. She was shaven according to her cultural habit, and the smooth plump folds were open to him like the succulent flesh of an exotic fruit.

  Its musky scent and nectar drew him in. Was he hunter or was he prey, he wondered.

  ‘Is this for me?’ he asked.

  Sofina nodded and smiled, biting her lip again.

  ‘Beg for it, Sofina.’

  ‘Please –’

  Before she could finish, he thrust two fingers deep inside her.

  She responded with a sharp intake of breath and her whole body tensed.

  ‘You’re really wet. I like that. Excites me.’

  He felt her pelvis gyrate her sex against his cupped hand.

  ‘You want it, don’t you? You want my cock inside you.’

  Sofina swallowed hard and mutely indicated her desire with the longing in her dark eyes. He made her want him so badly. She would say or do anything for him. It felt like she had lost her mind to him. She hated losing control of herself yet she craved the release.

  ‘I’m going to fuck you now, really hard and fast. Just the way you like it, Sofina.’

  Patrick withdrew his fingers from her wetness and unbuckled the belt of his jeans.

  Sofina loved to watch his hands at his belt buckle. It was so sexy knowing that he was about to unleash his manhood. And his hands were so elegant even though he was a fighter. The leather belt was soon hanging open and he fingered the top button of his jeans. Sofina was aching to see his cock and feel it deep inside her.

  In her most private moments, when she would think of Patrick, it would most often be with the
image of him with his big, hard cock in his hand, smiling down at her with those sea-blue eyes, somehow both intense and playful at the same time.

  All the while, he watched her – her head back, her eyes closing, her mouth opening, breathless as she anticipated him entering her.

  So rare was the time they had together, Patrick had willed himself to commit her every feature, every expression, every movement to memory. In these snatched meetings, he studied her face and body like a work of art in a gallery. The areas of light and shadow on her dusky skin, the fine dark line from naval to pubis, the large dark rounds of her areolae, the auburn and chestnut tones of her black hair.

  In one swift move, he took his erection and slammed it up into her tight, wet hole. Still holding her hands fast against the wall with one hand, he cupped her buttocks with the other, lifting her away from the wall and impaling her on his thick cock.

  Patrick was an athlete and a martial artist. His body was testimony to a punishing training regime for strength, speed and stamina. This physical prowess thrilled Sofina. She loved how he could so effortlessly overpower her. She marvelled at how he could hold her down simply with his body weight and that he had the energy to fuck for hours.

  Patrick made her feel so intensely alive.

  ‘Look at me, Sofina!’ he instructed. ‘Watch me fuck you.’

  She opened her eyes to his smile.

  He thrust all the way into her and pulled out almost immediately and then rammed his cock back inside her again and began to pound into her sex. She cried out as Patrick fucked her painfully hard, just as he knew she liked it. She could barely breathe; he slammed into her so hard and fast with no time for her to recover between strokes. His cock filled her and stretched her, time and time again, in a frenzied fucking action. She took his entire length and savoured every inch of the divine penetration.

  Suddenly he withdrew his sex from her and stopped in his tracks, his erection poised at her now empty, gaping hole. The shock of his withdrawal brought Sofina back from the ecstatic brink. She opened her eyes to his face staring down at her. His eyes were blazing.