Thrill Seeker (17 page)

Eventually, he said, ‘Now let’s try that again, shall we?’

I nodded, all meek and accepting. He led me back towards the dangling chain, and this time I followed without protest. My thighs were smeared with my wetness. I was so obvious. I stayed silent, allowing him to lift my arms above my head. He fiddled with the clips, connecting me, then stepped back. My limbs sagged, jerking on the resistance of the chain. I was strung up, exposed and vulnerable, completely at his mercy. At anyone’s mercy. I wished I could shield myself or at least lower my hands. The baring of my underarms was worse than that of my breasts.

Den walked towards the table. He tugged off his hoodie, slinging it onto the armchair as if he really meant business. My stomach fluttered at the revelation of more flesh. His T-shirt was a faded khaki green, hanging in a way that revealed, without clinging, his broad shoulders, toned, muscular chest and flat stomach. His forearms were hairy and his biceps hard, their veins snaking under a coffee-pale tan. High on his left arm, peeping below the sleeve of his tee, a faded black tattoo of a ring topped with three curly flames stretched over the bump of his muscle.

Finally, I had confirmation this man was the same as that in the photograph I’d received. In the flesh he was bigger, more pumped up. I wondered how old the photo was.

Den rummaged in his holdall then walked towards me, slipping something into his jeans pocket. Damn, he was beautiful, his wide, sloping face a haunting mix of composed and ferocious. He stood in front of me, lips curling in a smug smile. The vastness of the theatre seemed to shrink, becoming this one small space he and I occupied. Even though our bodies didn’t touch, my skin felt receptive to the fabric of his fully-clothed body. Placing his hands on my waist, Den ran them up and down, watching my expression. I bit back a groan, trying to conceal my lust. I wanted his hands to go both higher and lower but I asked for nothing, accepting his modest caress.

Eventually, his thumbs rose to nudge the underside of my breasts and I couldn’t help but moan. He traced lines to and fro along their uplifted swells then bobbed down to suck on one of my nipples. I moaned again, reeling at the intensity of his wetness and the flick of his tongue where he held me in the warm cavern of his mouth.

So gentle, not at all what I was braced for. Sensation
shivered to my groin. He moved to tongue my other nipple, his hand massaging my other breast. I swayed, arousal making me unsteady. My raised arms were hot and crampy. The chain creaked above us. I hoped that thing was safe, hoped the balcony circle wouldn’t come crashing down on top of us.

KINKY COUPLE KILLED IN THEATRE GAME

Oh, what was I doing? Why these risks? Why did I like them so much? But why did anyone like or hate anything? Why did I like running or red wine or certain types of music? No answer to that, or no reason need underpin a preference for anything. The reason was the result, was in the negative or positive outcome created by the thing itself. May as well ask a person why they like pleasure. I shouldn’t doubt myself by wondering about my strange desires. Best instead to accept their validity and focus on enjoying them.

Den stood straight again, his lips shining with wetness. He tucked his hand in his front pocket and removed a small, silver object. He held it in front of my face, grinning. A nipple clamp. He pumped its jaws, making them go chomp-chomp-chomp. The clamp’s tips were covered in stippled, cream rubber, a dozen tiny teeth to latch on to me. Still smiling, Den took a nipple between thumb and forefinger, creating a sharper point for the clamp. His watchful eyes flicked from my tits to my face as he brought the pincers closer to the nub of flesh he was positioning.

‘I don’t know,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t know if I can take it.’

‘Don’t know till you try,’ he said smoothly.

Slowly, he closed the clamp on my nipple. The bite grew harder and I wailed as the pressure rose, my tip crushed between the rubber-toothed jaws. Finally, I was at my limit, unable to take more pain.

‘Enough,’ I breathed.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Nearly there.’

‘No! No more.’

He allowed the clamp to take its final, deep bite. I howled as he withdrew his hand, the weight of the dangling clip adding to the pain, the chain clanking above me as I thrashed.

I kicked against my own shin. ‘Get it off, no!’

‘Count to five,’ he said.

‘I can’t.’

‘You can!’

The pain was abating before I’d even reached three, and believe me, I was counting fast. I drew deep breaths. ‘It’s OK, it’s fine, I’m there.’

He pressed a hand to my cheek. ‘Well done. Brave girl.’

His approval made me determined not to be such a wuss for the second clamp. But what can I say? Mice and men. I squealed as Den slowly closed the clamp on my other nipple, bracing myself for the impending spike of pain. Again, the rubber teeth gripped until I was convinced I’d reached the limit of my tolerance. I couldn’t imagine a worse pain but I knew it was about to pounce; and I knew I could take it because I’d already done so.

Den knew that too. At the last moment, he released the spring with an open-handed flourish. I cried, cursed and writhed, the chain jangling above me like a dungeon’s rattle. I tried to roll with the pain, not fight it; tried to rise with the bruising heat. Bastard, bastard, bastard! Then again, the pain subsided and I settled into a woozy ease. Den watched me all the time, coolly observant, a trace of irony lifting his lip and glinting in his eyes.

I loved that knowing control and how it contrasted with my freak out. Motionless and silent, he waited. When I’d calmed, accommodating the pain as best I could, Den smiled.
Then, blithely sadistic, he flicked one of the clamps.

‘Aieee!’ The pain exploded, tugging where I was tender, an internal burn fusing with the outer bite. When my gasps had quietened, Den did the same to my other nipple, making me howl again. Then he went back and forth, playing me like an instrument, smiling all the while and clearly relishing my pain.

‘That good, huh?’ he asked sweetly, as if he were spoon-feeding a baby.

It was and it wasn’t. The pain blazed. As an isolated, physical sensation, I wouldn’t have cared for it. But the pain was inseparable from the delirium it provoked, seducing me into a liberating madness.

‘Yes, good,’ I said, my voice cracked.

Den’s fingers stole a path through my pubes. He cupped my swollen vulva, his warm fingers paddling at my wetness. My nipples throbbed, their heightened sensitivity charging my cunt. With his other hand, Den pulled gently on one clamp, a reminder of my soreness and the power he had over me.

His fingers slid along my slit and he reached around to wind his other fist in my hair. He held my head firm, stepping closer so his clothes brushed my skin. I looked up at those flat blue eyes, at the low, sweeping plane of his nose and his scar-speckled cheekbones. I became disconnected, dreamy.

‘You,’ he said kindly, ‘are a nasty little fuckslut. I can feel you dripping all over my fingers.’ He eased two fingers inside me, moving them up and down with leisurely control. My wetness clicked, a tiny sound in the surrounding silence.

I gave a low groan, aching for more. For a long time, he refused me. Cruel and steady, he fucked me with two fingers but it was the slowest fuck in the world. After a time, he
released my hair and inserted a third finger, stretching me wide and tight. Again, I begged for it harder and faster. All he did was smile and continue with his unhurried fingerfuck, his knuckles bulky within my slippery, wet flesh.

When he pulled out of me, I was so crazed with need I could barely breathe, never mind speak. I tried some words but even I didn’t understand them.

I watched, dazed, as Den walked away to rummage in the kinky chaos of his holdall. He removed a thick, leather tube, flipped off its cap and tipped out an object I recognised as a flogger. It was a beast of a thing, its hefty, polished handle striped with a dark rainbow of colours, red leather fronds streaming like a flaccid fountain. Den twirled the baton in one hand, his wrist churning with a practised rotation so the streamers span in a quickening blur. He held out his other hand, then brought the lashes down onto his palm with a satisfying thwack. Then another and another.

Fear and hunger chased each other around my body, hunger taking the lead by a margin. Den returned to me, smirking. I tensed, ready for an onslaught, my senses sharpening, goosebumps of anticipation lifting on my skin. Still grinning, Den stood before me and raised the flogger high, allowing the tips of the dangling strands to rest above my breasts. He swished the implement left and right, its soft ends tickling my skin. Occasionally, the gentle movement caught one of the clamps, knocking an edge of pain into my nipple. But the sensation was slight compared to earlier, and the flogger as soft as a kiss.

Den trailed the lengths of leather over one shoulder and lightly swished. His gentleness brought me down a notch but at the same time made me wary. I had to remind myself to breathe, relax. He moved behind me, broad leather tips still
brushing here and there, skimming the swell of my buttocks, my shoulder blades, my back.

Eventually, he began tapping my upper back with a sway of the strands that grew into a series of firmer touches. I murmured in pleasure, my skin tingling as the hits striped across the canvas of my flesh, painting heat on top of heat.

‘So biddable,’ he said.

Moments later, a fiercer hit fanned out. The weight of it shoved me forward, leaving a warm, stinging patch in its wake. He hit me again. Then again but to the left. Each blow slammed, a thud streaked with intensity, knocking me off balance. Before long, I was gasping with the impact of the blows. Den moved lower, the leather thumping across me, licking my waist. I began to feel zonked, calmed by the pain. Den hit my butt, left cheek, right cheek, harder and harder. I hissed as the straps lashed my flesh, those vicious streamers whipping around my curves, biting nastily.

‘Open your legs.’ His request was quite casual.

Oh fuck. This was too scary. I hesitated, reluctant to give him access.

Again, in a stronger command, ‘Open your legs, whore.’

I complied.

‘Wider,’ he said. ‘I want full access to your cunt.’

I shuffled my feet apart, staring at the domed, red and gold ceiling as I braced myself. When I looked down, Den was swinging the flogger between my legs, the red straps arcing back and forth. The leather ends caught my inner thighs. After a few more swings, the lengths curled onto my cunt with a light tap. Again and again, he hit me there. It didn’t hurt. It was worse. The caress of the straps toyed with my sensitised flesh until I was mad with lust. I wanted to
tug down the balcony above us, anything for some let-up. I hardly cared if I brought a ton of rubble on our heads.

‘Please,’ I gasped, ‘please do something to me.’

‘Like what,’ he said smoothly. ‘Make you come?’

‘Yes, I need to. Please, please.’

‘Let’s see how badly you need it, shall we?’ He stood in front of me, brandishing the flogger as if the stripy handle were a cosh. ‘You have to hold this in your cunt, grip it with every muscle.’ He stooped a fraction, matched the smooth, carved tip of the handle to my entrance and began feeding it into me, inch by inch. ‘If you let go of it, you lose your chance to come.’

I bleated as he inserted the handle, squeezing as hard as I could with my muscles. I was so wet and open I feared the flogger would slip from me the instant he let go. But it didn’t, and I focused all my energy on keeping the handle within me, no mean feat, especially with the weight of the hanging straps trying to thwart my attempt.

Then Den touched my clit, rolling it expertly beneath his fingertip. I cursed, my body clinging to the flogger, unable to indulge in the sensation in case I relaxed too much. With his free hand, Den tapped one of the nipple clamps.

‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Hold on tight or you don’t get to come.’ He opened the clamp, releasing my nipple. Pain sky-rocketed as the bloodflow returned to my crushed tip. I wailed, trying to process the feeling, to hold on to my sanity: it’s just pain, it’ll pass! But Den released the other clip and my mind went into meltdown, so overwhelmed by the physical it couldn’t hold a single thought.

His voice drifted into my agony. ‘There we go. All over.’

He brushed my nipples as if that would soothe them but his fingers were made of fire. My nipples throbbed while
my groin dissolved. Den clasped the lodged handle of the flogger, drew it down then up. I cried with gratitude, glad not to be gripping the damn thing. My body softened around the wooden shaft as Den fucked it in and out of me, harder, faster, his biceps flexing in the blur of my peripheral vision. My wetness ran freely and when Den touched my clit, I was so fat and sensitive I began to come. I thrashed, pulling on the chain as my orgasm tore through me, shivering and squeezing. Tremors of pleasure darted up to my face and down to my toes, leaving me flushed, weak-kneed and panting for breath.

Den withdrew the flogger, smiling. He crossed to the table, set down the flogger, and from his bag, selected a long, thin cane of rattan or bamboo. A slim, corded handle made the implement resemble a rapier. Den took the cane in two hands and flexed its bendy length.

‘Do you know why I brought you to this place?’ he asked.

I shook my head. He walked towards me, painting the air with the cane as if testing his technique. With a smart whip of his forearm, he slashed at the emptiness. A blood-chilling whistle rushed from the cane. Den gave a contented smile, admiring the implement.

He looked at me, searching my face for a reaction. Through a fog of submission, I gazed back. In the theatre’s pale, hazy light, it seemed no one existed but me and this strange, savagely beautiful man. And me, I wasn’t even sure I existed. I was becoming remote, fading from myself as if I might be turning into one of the ruined building’s many ghosts.

‘Because in here,’ said Den, ‘no one can hear you scream.’

I dreamed I was trapped in the theatre. Alone below-stage, I wandered down crumbling corridors like a videogame avatar, unable to find an exit. I reached dead ends, climbed stairs that led to nothing, opened doors to reveal barricades of brick. Over and over I tried to escape, my attempts thwarted at every turn.