Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  ‘Open up, Lana,’ he said. ‘Stop acting as if you don’t want it.’ His end butted at my lips again and, when I failed to oblige, he cradled the back of my head in one hand and pinched my nostrils together with his other.

  I made a muffled squeal of complaint but kept my lips tight.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Give me that whorish mouth. Show me what you’re made of.’

  My breath burst out in a rush and Ilya seized his chance. He lunged forwards, driving his hardness into my gasp with a smug, triumphant grunt. He clasped my head in both hands, tipping my arched body backwards as he slammed towards my throat. I coughed, gulped and spluttered but he showed no mercy. My saliva spilled from my mouth, sometimes erupting in bursts. I squealed in wet protest but all the while, and much to my shame, no matter how viciously he thrust, I kept my hands locked behind my back exactly as he’d instructed.

  ‘I knew you’d like it,’ he gasped. ‘Knew you were a dick-hungry bitch. I bet you’d drop to your knees for anyone, wouldn’t you? Let anyone use that greedy little mouth. That cunt, that arse. All of you. All of your holes for anyone and everyone.’

  Moments later, he withdrew and inched backwards, cock in his fist. He pumped hard, groaning, his end aimed at my face. ‘Open your mouth,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

  I complied because there was no use pretending anymore. He edged further back, eyes darting from my face to my breasts as he jerked himself off, face tight with focus, noises snagging in his throat.

  With a loud, broken groan, he came, his liquid jetting out in spurts. I flinched and blinked. Deliberately, he marked my face and chest, targeting the last of his come at the lipsticked words on my skin. I tasted only a droplet of him. My tongue darted out, searching my lips for more.

  Ilya gave a soft, satisfied grunt. I looked up to see him grinning. ‘Don’t move,’ he said, walking away. ‘Party’s not over yet.’

  I was motionless save for the heave of my ribcage and the swivelling of my gaze. I eyed the flex of his narrow buttocks as he slid open a high white door camouflaged as a wall. Inside was a floor-to-ceiling jumble of shelving and boxes. I heard him rooting around and then he returned to me, carrying a large white object on a cord. I strained my eyes to identify the object without breaking from my position. As he neared, I realised it was a heavy-headed massage wand, a toy I’d previously been curious about but had rejected for being too cumbersome, noisy and ugly. He knelt by my knees, crumpled my skirt high and pushed my thighs further apart.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ He ran a finger over the fabric of my crotch. ‘A greedy, wet cunt,’ he said. ‘Just as I expected.’

  He flicked the switch on the wand and the motor whirred loudly.

  ‘You look a mess,’ he continued. ‘You look used and cheap but it’s obvious you love it. Love being treated like a filthy whore. And now I’m going to prove you love it by making you come. If you want to know about Sol, keep your hands behind your back.’

  He guided the wand towards the juncture of my thighs and I pressed my wrists together.

  ‘Don’t try and resist,’ he said. ‘There’s no point. Because one way or the other, I’ll force it out of you.’ He moved the juddering head of the massager onto my underwear and let it drift over my damp, silky crotch. I gasped at the intensity of the vibrations, a fast, heavy rumble that stirred the depths of my flesh, even with a delicate touch.

  ‘That good?’ Ilya brought the weighty head of the wand to rest on the gauzy fabric covering my pubis. He nudged downwards, and the tremors reverberated through my groin, seeming to caress my clit from all angles, inside and out, without even making direct contact. I gasped over and over, shivers of nearness clutching in my thighs already. I wished I could touch him, could clasp his magnificent, naked body, and then bend over and have him fuck me from behind while this beast of a machine stimulated my clit. I suspected he wasn’t about to give me the satisfaction.

  ‘Let’s take a look at that dirty, wet cunt.’ With careful fingers, he edged aside my knickers, baring my split. My flesh tingled under his fleeting touch and I craved penetration, ached for him to fill my hollow, pliant body with the clumsy, aggressive thrust of his hand.

  ‘Sol’s cunt,’ said Ilya. ‘So this is what he gets to fuck, is it?’ Still holding my underwear to one side and focusing on what he was doing, he let the wand hover on my clit. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  I wailed, my orgasm rushing close. He laughed gently and moved the tool to a less intense spot, allowing it to throb against the swollen outer folds of my labia.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, glancing from my exposure to my face. ‘Come, Lana. Come while you’re covered in spunk after being face-fucked by a man you barely know. You can act as if you hate being used but I know the truth. That you’d drive miles to a stranger’s house to get what you know you deserve.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut, panting for breath as he released my knickers, keeping the wand inside the elastic so it throbbed within my underwear. Shame and humiliation blazed on my skin. I was wretched with lust. Seconds later, Ilya held the wand to my clit again. My thighs were crammed with urgency, arousal shooting across synapses, my flesh quivering. I snapped my eyes open, howling and swearing, feeling as if my lower body were melting while vibrations poured into me, churning me into a new form. Ilya looked different. No, he’d changed position. His fist was held high. My heart lurched. He was filming me on his phone. Oh fuck.

  I glanced at him. ‘No,’ I whimpered.

  He had one hand on the wand, the other raised with his phone tipped towards me. He grinned, looking from the little screen to me. He rolled the hammering wand-head away from my clit, taking the edge off my closeness.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear that,’ he mocked, nudging towards my clit again.

  I panted and gasped. After the jolt of shock, I didn’t even care. I was too far gone to protest any further. All I wanted was to come. My body started to buck, tiny jerks rushing along my spine as my peak bunched tighter. My groin was a tumult of sensation, the strength of the vibrations unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Being recorded made me feel objectified and insignificant. Just a porno woman coming. A slut for unknown viewers to get off on. My fantasy of being watched, a reality I’d shied away from, was made manifest in Ilya’s cold, controlled, intrusive recording.

  I teetered on the edge of ecstasy, afraid of how hard I was going to climax. I was spaced out, floating, breathless, debased. Then I started to tumble, screaming as the first wave of my orgasm ripped through me. The looseness of bliss surged, my back arching, my inner muscles clutching as wave after wave lifted and lowered me. My calf muscles clenched and my feet twisted. I unclasped my hands to steady myself, dropping closer to the floor, knees splayed.

  Trails of silver stars swirled behind my eyes. I heaved for breath, cursing in incredulity. I felt wrung out and my clit was still pulsing hard. Ilya removed the wand and silenced it. He brought the phone camera in front of my face then downwards for a final shot.

  ‘That’s who she is,’ he said, holding still before lowering his arm and switching off the camera.

  My ragged panting merged with the rhythmic beat of the sea, warp and weft, water and breath. I felt cocooned in a soundscape, glowing with bliss, my mind stunned into unthinking. I could barely feel my legs. Ilya fiddled with his phone, paying no attention to me. He laughed to himself, watching the small screen. I heard my own groans of pleasure, remote and small.

  ‘Looking good, Lana.’

  I pushed myself forwards, wiping wetness and damp hair from my face. Ilya, kneeling beside me, had a semi, his stretched curved length resting on his wiry black pubes.

  ‘And my reward?’ I asked through gasps and gulps. ‘Where’s Sol? Or are you going to keep spinning this out?’

  ‘You want to see?’ He turned the phone screen towards me, inches from my face. I saw myself in miniature, head thrown back, face twisted, crying out as I climaxed. I looked pained and shocked. My cries sounded
as if they were trapped within Ilya’s phone.

  Naked in front of me, as if he were my friend and lover, Ilya kept the phone steady, watching me watch myself. The shaky camera angle panned down from my face to my chest, to three bold, bright words written in red on my pale skin, rising and falling with my breathlessness. Moisture and come had smeared some of the lipstick, and pink dribbles trickled towards my breast, but every letter was legible. Inside the phone, Ilya’s recorded voice said, ‘That’s who she is.’

  The words on my body read: SOL’S DEAD WHORE.

  I recoiled, shuffling on my buttocks across the glossy tiles. ‘No, no!’

  My blood was ice. Ilya gave me a predatory grin. My heel skidded on wetness as, half-seated, I tried desperately to push myself away. I wanted to stand, to flee, but my body was useless, stripped of strength. My orgasm had left me trembling and now fear made me shake. ‘No! Don’t hurt me. Please.’

  Ilya crawled after me on all fours, his pace heavy and plodding, lips tilted in a sick smile. ‘I’m starting to like you, Lana,’ he said. ‘It almost pains me to have to do this.’

  ‘No, please,’ I begged. I scooted backwards on my butt, making feeble progress. ‘I’ll do anything. Don’t hurt me, please.’

  ‘You’d do anything, anyway,’ he said coolly. ‘So your offer doesn’t count for much.’

  ‘Please,’ I sobbed. One arm gave way and I slumped to the floor. Quickly I propped myself up again.

  Ilya followed with deliberate, lumbering slowness as if emphasising the hopelessness of my situation. His lengthening cock swayed by his thighs. I kept trying to power myself away but my arms were as wobbly as my legs, my elbows made of sponge.

  ‘Where’s Sol?’ I cried. ‘Who are you?’

  With a grin and a controlled lurch, Ilya grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck. I screamed. He crouched above me, big shoulders blocking out the room’s whiteness, and I froze. His knuckles dug into the back of my head. His cock twitched higher.

  ‘You want to know what I’ve got for you?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move except to tremble.

  ‘This is going to hurt, Lana.’ He watched me intently, eyes sparkling with cruel glee, brow hunching in a frown. His expression darkened and the fist gripping my hair tightened.

  ‘Your boyfriend’s a cop,’ he said. ‘He’s a spook, an undercover officer, and you’ve been taken for a ride, sugarplum.’

  I stared at him. Impossible. This was another bad dream. I needed to wake up and get a grip. ‘No.’ I was melting into the floor, turning into the tiles. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was clipped and firm. ‘Sol’s used you, Lana. But not in the way you enjoy.’

  ‘No. Not true. Can’t be.’

  ‘And I want him off the case,’ continued Ilya. ‘Off my fucking back. You hear?’ He pulled on my hair, arching my neck backwards. He leaned towards me and, with the wet tip of his tongue, licked a line across my throat, left to right.

  I wondered if I were dying. Had already died. This reality wasn’t possible.

  ‘And if you don’t make that happen,’ he said, ‘then that’s what you’ll be. Sol’s dead whore. They’ll find you in a ditch one day with those very words carved into your pretty, white flesh.’

  The damp track of his tongue cooled on my skin.

  ‘I don’t care how you make it happen,’ he continued, ‘but you make sure it does. OK?’

  I couldn’t do anything except sob and shake beneath him, stuck in the cold grip of horror. Because I knew it was true. All the pieces began slotting into place. Sol’s patchy backstory, his interest in Misha, his recent disappearance.

  Besides, Ilya had no reason to lie to me. I wondered what Sol’s reasons were. Why me? I didn’t even care that my life might be in danger. Sol had deceived me, betrayed me. That appalling knowledge made me realise how much I cared for him, even at the point we were unravelling and he was turning into someone else.

  ‘I’d really like to fuck you now,’ said Ilya, ‘but I think you’re traumatised enough so I’ll spare you.’

  ‘Who are you?’ My voice was a shivery whisper.

  ‘I help people out,’ he said calmly. ‘Make sure business transactions go smoothly. That kind of thing.’

  ‘What kind of thing? Who’s Misha?’

  ‘Was Misha,’ he corrected.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘He was a grasping, double-crossing cunt,’ said Ilya, his voice perfectly level. ‘He was supplying certain chemicals to, let’s say, a different pharmaceutical industry to the one he legitimately worked in. Then he got greedy and started supplying to a rival company. It’s quite fortunate he died, really. I was about to have a quiet word in his shell-like on behalf of some associates.’

  ‘And you were going to do that in my bar?’ I asked. ‘That’s why you were looking for him? Is my bar some kind of drugs den?’

  Ilya gave me an icy grin. ‘I wasn’t looking for him, Lana. I knew he was dead. I was looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’ My voice fractured into a sob.

  ‘So you can steer Sol and his merry men away from me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ I said, my words tumbling in a panic. ‘I swear. I don’t know how I can influence Sol. I have no money, no connections. I don’t know what I can do. Please, please! Don’t hurt me, please.’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’

  ‘How? What? Sol’s not going to listen, is he?’ I cried. ‘Not if I don’t mean anything to him. Not if it was all a sham.’

  Ilya released my hair and stood. ‘And that’s the greatest tragedy,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you together. It’s obvious he adores you. But, trust me, he can’t have it both ways. Now tidy yourself up and leave. You’ve served your purpose.’

  I couldn’t move. ‘You’re vile,’ I said. ‘Despicable.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, grinning. ‘But you enjoyed it.’

  Dressing and trying to make myself presentable was the worst humiliation. I wanted out of there, fast. I made a cursory attempt to clean myself with tissues but the lipstick remained as a stubborn red blur across my chest. I gave up and grabbed my bag. I tried to fasten my shirt to the neck as I hurried from the room but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  ‘I’m watching you, Lana,’ he said as I left.

  I fled down the white corridor, following the enormous Persian runner to the entrance hall, where light glowed in the glass panel of the door. Outside, in the strange, sudden ordinariness of the sun, I ran down the gravel driveway, trying not to sob. The central metal gate parted as I approached, the large gate for vehicles rather than the side gate for people, as if Ilya wanted to emphasise I truly was free to go. The gates swung open, ironwork arms welcoming me on to the empty avenue, where my car stood like a small sanctuary. Evidently, he was still watching me. I imagined him smirking at my image on a screen, the damsel in distress fleeing the ogre in his lair.

  Even now, hours later and safe at home, I feel as if his eyes are on me. I’ve bathed twice since then. I can’t get rid of him.

  For the first time in years, I didn’t swim today. I must swim.

  I need another lipstick too. I left mine at his, discarded on those buttermilk, fake-stone tiles. He won’t return it, will he? Maybe he’ll bin it or keep as a souvenir. Maybe he’ll use it on some other poor woman. I’ll never be able to wear that colour again.

  I can still feel the line of his saliva on my neck, as if its coldness has been soldered there. I don’t know what to do.

  How can I influence Sol if I can’t even contact him? I contemplated leaving a message on his phone, telling him what has happened, but I’m too scared. His phone could be tapped. I don’t know who’s watching who, or how to distinguish lies from truth.

  My head’s spinning as I sit here, propped up in bed, writing. My brandy is enormous. I’m going over and over the past, analysing Sol’s behaviour from my new, darkened perspective. Everything makes a sick kind of sense and I wish it
didn’t. I wish I could roll back time so I could unmeet him, unsleep with him, unknow him, unlove him.

  And if he knew the truth about me, if he knew what I’d done, he’d probably wish for much the same.

  Part 6

  I close the journal and switch off my Maglite. There are no further entries after that. I feel guilty as hell for reading her inner life. But, as I peel off my gloves, I’m also thinking I am seventeen different kinds of fucked. My cover’s been blown. Travis is on to me. I need to get off the case, pronto. Worse, after all I’ve put her through, Lana’s going to hate me to high heaven and I can’t say I blame her because now I hate me too. I fucking hate me. Have done for a long time, doing a job like this. Right now, the hate is spiking.

  I drop the gloves on the bed beside the journal and remove my glasses. A noise startles me. I turn. She’s standing in the bedroom doorway, so petite and fair, my English rose. I didn’t hear her come back. Too absorbed in my reading. Hell. A rookie mistake. Her blue eyes are wide, a hand’s clamped to her mouth, and she’s just staring at me. Staring and staring like I’m a monster. And I think, no. Now I am eighteen different kinds of fucked.

  But so is she. Because this account of events isn’t a diary. It isn’t her truth. It’s a lie, a trap, an alibi, or something else I can’t begin to wrap my head around. My English rose, she isn’t without her thorns. Meaning she’s screwed too. We are both damned. We’re going to hell in the same handbasket or to jail alone.

  I want to haul her into my arms because, holy fuck, this woman blows my mind and I’ve missed her. But now we’re strangers to each other because I’ve read her shit and I’m busted and we can’t get near. Besides, if my suspicions are correct, I’m concerned she might be dangerous. Petite and fair can be deceptive, especially to dumb schmucks like me who allow their dicks to get the better of them. But, no, who am I trying to kid? It wasn’t my dick, it was my heart. Still is.

  ‘I didn’t know you swam every day,’ I say, feeling nervous.