Carnal Acts

Somehow Gaz had managed to sleep, on his side with knees drawn up and arms folded over his chest. The bed was wide and the sheets fresh. The only light came from the crack beneath the door. It was enough for him to see the toilet through the other door, that one open. After drinking thirstily from the tap, he realised that his clothes had been removed. He was wearing some kind of loose gown, white. His heart missed a beat when he understood what it was – he’d seen his father in one when he was coughing his life away in hospital.

He ran to the door and banged on it, shouting. The wood was thick and the handle round, cold and immobile. Turning to the bed, he saw there was food – rolls, cheese, apples – and kneeled by the low table to satisfy the hunger that suddenly raged. Then he sat on the bed and tried to remember what had happened.

He’d been pissed, all right – the usual Friday night pints in the pubs he and his mates visited. It had been damp in Newcastle, but only drizzle so his nuts hadn’t frozen off for a change. They’d gone for a curry and downed plenty of Indian beer. Then his memory got rough around the edges. They’d gone to the nightclub, he remembered that, and he’d danced with a fit bird, long dark hair and a foreign accent. And after that? A big car. Had he passed out in the back seat? Must have done. But what the fuck was he doing locked up in a room that had blacked-out windows? Never mind the soft mattress and clean sheets, the place smelled damp and old, like a dungeon.

Gaz cried out again, a chill running through him. The place was warm enough – he couldn’t work out how – but he was afraid. He might have been over six feet and the hardest centre back in the amateur leagues, but this was way beyond
his experience. What could anyone want from him? His job at the warehouse didn’t even pay enough for him to get his own place. He thought of his mother. She wouldn’t be wondering where he was; he often spent the weekends at friends’ places. She’d be at the kitchen table, smoking and throwing back voddie and orange. He held up his wrist in the dim light and saw that his watch had gone. How long had he been here? Another shiver gripped him.

Then he heard footsteps, heavy as they approached, boots like the steel toe caps he wore at work. He shouted, but his voice dried up as bolts were drawn and a key turned in the lock. There was a light in what he could see was a stairwell, stone steps leading upwards. A barrel-chested figure wearing a black balaclava, thick jersey and jeans filled the space. What really scared him was the object in his captor’s hands. It was long and metallic, with a sharp point.

‘Lie down!’ the man ordered.

‘Fuck you!’ Gaz said, making a dash for the door. He was poked with the pole and a jolt of electricity threw him to the stone-flagged floor.

‘On the bed!’

Quivering, Gaz got to his feet and did as he was told.

‘Arms out, legs open! I’m aiming the cattle prod at your cock.’

Gaz felt metal on his right wrist and heard a click as the cuff was closed. The same happened on his other hand and both ankles.

‘Don’t you piss yourself,’ the man growled. ‘That’ll earn you an arse that’ll sting for days.’ The heavy head came close to his face, dark eyes boring. ‘Aye, you’ll do,’ his captor said. ‘I see you’ve stuffed your guts.’ He straightened up and raised the gown so that Gaz’s groin and abdomen were bare. ‘One more thing.’ He took a balaclava from his pocket and pulled it over his captive’s head. This one didn’t have eyeholes. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said, with a sick laugh.

Lying there immobile, blind and defeated, Gaz reckoned the chances of pleasure were less than zero.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Joni Pax was at the window of her flat near Corham Abbey. The street ran behind the ecclesiastical building. Its stone flanks were now even more like honey under floodlights, the square tower surmounted by the yellow-and-red-striped Northumberland flag. For the first time since she’d transferred from the Met to the newly constituted Police Force of North East England three months ago, the chill had left her bones. The rain and cold winds had been a shock, the snide comments of her colleagues in the Major Crime Unit less so; for some of them, black people, even mixed-race Caribbean and Caucasian like Joni, couldn’t survive in the wild north. She’d proved them wrong about that and several other things, but she had a way to go before they accepted her fully. In the meantime, she was going to enjoy what was left of the first real weekend of spring. She’d got to know the city and had read up about its most famous custom, as well as picking her colleagues’ and neighbours’ brains. She’d also driven around it in the nine-year-old Land Rover Discovery she’d reconditioned.

All over Corham, midway between Newcastle and Carlisle, preparations for May Sunday were coming to an end. The evening of the first Sunday in that month was traditionally an unofficial parade. The real thing, with re-enactors playing medieval monks, Viking raiders, Border Reivers and Roman legionaries, took place the following Saturday, in daylight. May Sunday, despite the religious significance it used to have (pagan Beltane and Walpurgis Night, replaced by Christian Roodmas), had for decades been an opportunity for citizens, especially the
young, to let off all the steam they could raise. It was a demographic fact that more Corham babies were born in February than any other month, particularly to underage mothers.

Springtime, fertility: Joni felt oppressed. Her mother, who lived half-an-hour’s drive further north, regularly reminded her that time was running out. Joni was thirty-four and had never been interested in starting a family, but the maternal pressure was wearing her down. It would help if she had a man, especially one who could look past the crimped scars on her abdomen.

It was time to hit the streets. Earlier she’d been for a two-hour run near the Roman Wall. She was buzzing, invigorated and ready to take part in the local carnival.

Gaz heard the door open again – it could only have been a few minutes after the gorilla had left. Listening intently, he realised that it hadn’t closed. He could see a blur of light through the wool of the balaclava. For a moment he forgot about his bonds and tried to get up. A soft hand was laid on his stomach. He breathed in through the damp wool and picked up a hint of perfume. It was more subtle than any used by the women he got his end away with.

Then the hand began to move slowly downwards. He gulped involuntarily as his body responded to a shock almost as violent as the cattle prod’s. He was erect before the fingers closed around his cock. He tried to raise his arms, desperate to touch the woman’s breasts. A thought struck him. Maybe it wasn’t a woman. Maybe the shithead who’d tied him down got off on dabbing perfume behind his ears and slathering on hand cream.

He breathed out as he felt himself being guided into what was without any doubt a cunt, moist and welcoming. The woman began to move slowly up and down on him. The sensations were
so overwhelming that Gaz came in seconds, thrusting his groin upwards in a series of jerks. He was still breathless when he took a hard slap on the cheek. The balaclava soaked up some of the force, but his head still whipped sideways. Obviously he had disappointed her.

He heard the door close. What now, he thought. This is fucking crazy. Despite the painful rubbing of the cuffs, he laughed. His mates weren’t going to believe this. Tied down and used as a sex toy? It was like something out of a porn film. Then he remembered the man with the prod. What the bleeding hell was going on?

Some time later the door opened again. Fingers touched his damp cock again and worked it. Then he felt the woman’s breath through the wool.

‘Make it last this time,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll cut your balls off.’

Gaz made it last.