‘Nice, eh?’ he asked teasingly.
‘Christ almighty, Carlos, I can’t believe you did that.’
His look feigned surprise. ‘What, not let you come? I told you, I will but it’ll be later –’
‘Oh do shut up. You know exactly what I mean.’
‘Oh,
that
.’ Raising my head I saw him smiling. ‘You mean you can’t believe I combined giving you a major turn on with giving some poor old boy a treat? Seemed to make sense to me.’
As we got back into the car I calmed down. Put like that, what the hell. As long as I wasn’t in the way of a BBC camera shooting a documentary about the slums of Lima, no one would know.
Apart from the fact that I was looking forward to finally getting my rocks off, I was glad to be back in the apartment. My concentration on the textiles – it was a terrific collection – was somewhat spoiled by self-consciousness about my appearance and the half-fear, half-desire that Carlos might at any moment decide to fondle me in public.
I was afraid that he was going to make me wait until after dinner before fucking me, as I’m not keen on sex on a full stomach, but although that didn’t turn out to be the case he still made me wait. Achingly, tinglingly and desperately.
It was almost six when we got back and Carlos poured us both a beer and made a toast: ‘To anticipation.’
‘That sounds good.’ I raised my glass in response. ‘We won’t have long for that though, will we?’
‘Long enough,’ he said cryptically, setting down his beer and diving into the wardrobe. ‘Why don’t you take off your skirt and top?’
The coldness of the beer sent a shiver through me, or was it desire? I stripped off quickly and efficiently, as he wasn’t watching. Remembering what he had said about chaining my choker to the wall made my sex muscles leap and my nipples stand to attention.
Carlos looked up almost absently from his box. ‘Panties.’ He mimed for me to take them off, and I stood before him in corset, choker and boots. To my excitement he took off the velvet choker and replaced it with the wide one I had worn the night before. No gloves, though; instead he produced two black leather straps and fastened them around my body and arms; one over the corset, just under my breasts, and the other around my hips, just where the corset ended.
‘I think it’s time to take you to bed,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. I almost expressed my disappointment – after all, where was the anticipation, and what about being chained to the wall? – but instead a moan escaped me as he fastened a short strip of plaited leather to one of the chains on the choker. It could only remind me of a dog lead and he almost dragged me like a wide-eyed puppy to the bedroom. Trembling with excitement I tottered on the high heels and as he pushed me down on to the bed and fastened a clip on the other end of the lead to the rail of the bedhead I could have fainted with pleasure.
‘I have to go out for a bit and, as we’ve already established, you can’t be trusted not to bring yourself off while I’m out, I’ll have to leave you like this . . . I hope you don’t mind?’
‘What do you think?’ I asked him, my voice and my look charged with meaning. He smiled, his thin lips looking almost cruel.
‘Good, because just one more thing.’
He pulled my legs apart and I thought he was going to give me another shot of anticipation. Instead he fastened a black cuff around each ankle and snapped the chains on them to the rail at the foot of the bed. Chained at neck and ankle, but with my arms tightly bound to my sides, my first thought was that if he was going out for too long I would die of desire.
‘Oh, and another,’ he added, lowering his face to mine. ‘You are comfortable, Bliss?’
I nodded.
‘Good. Can you lift your head a little?’
I thought he was checking to make sure I had enough freedom of movement on the chain. But no, he took the opportunity to slip a thick black band over my head and around my eyes.
‘Carlos, it’s a bit scary.’
Without being able to see his face, his laugh sounded satanic.
‘I suppose it is. After all, when I get back you won’t actually know it’s me, will you?’
I whimpered.
‘For all you know, I might have given the key to the old squatter we saw earlier.’
‘Carlos, please!’ My voice was anguished.
‘I offered him a feel of you, but he said no. Don’t be hurt, though. I think it was just that he was afraid that I was some kind of nut who’d slug him after he’d touched you.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I asked him if he wanted to put his finger up your cunt, and showed him how wet it was.’
My face flamed once more but Carlos found my real reaction to humiliation as he suddenly penetrated me with two fingers. Three, four times he thrust in and out as I arched my back to meet him, then he stopped as abruptly as he started.
‘
Hasta la vista
,’ he said mockingly as he left the room, and minutes later the apartment door slammed.
Time seemed to stand still. I could have sworn Carlos was gone for hours, but he had told me we had a dinner reservation for nine. Bitterly I regretted agreeing to anticipation. How did I know he hadn’t decided to prolong my anticipation by going to dinner alone . . . or even worse with someone else? Or that he wouldn’t come back with that someone else and let him or her loose on me as I lay bound and helpless?
Still, as long as it wasn’t the old squatter; if it was a friend, or a girlfriend I might not mind. But then if he didn’t take the blindfold off, how would I know? I tortured myself with the possibilities of what was to come, and tortured myself even more by imagining that after all he would do what he did last night and come back and put me to bed without allowing me release.
Finally the apartment door opened. I called out but got no answer. Minutes passed then he – or someone – came in the room.
‘Carlos?’ I began. A hand crushed my mouth and I froze. I thought it was his, but in any event took the hand as a warning not to speak. It moved away from my mouth when satisfied that I was silent and moved to my nipples. First one, then the other, were gently stroked then pulled harder until they must have been an inch long. Then the hand started stroking my mons, taking my hairs in between its fingers, and pressing down hard enough to start my clitoris fluttering. It moved again and caressed my clit, gently then harder, but it seemed to sense my nearness and stopped and instead the fingers slipped in and out of me again. Still I couldn’t be sure it was Carlos. I couldn’t smell his cologne but then, had he worn it this morning, or was that just put on for work the day before? I consoled myself that at least it didn’t smell like a dirty old man.
Suddenly my ankles were unclipped from the bedpost and a body, warm, muscular and covered with fine hairs, pressed against me. Sure now it was him I raised my legs to wind them round his back, but he put them over his shoulders and clipped the ankle cuffs together. A cock pressed against my slit and entered me without difficulty and I pushed against it. It filled me wholly, satisfyingly, and having spent more than twenty-four hours waiting for it I knew that even if it wasn’t him I didn’t care. The choker tightened round my neck as I thrust up to meet him and he thrust even more violently inside me. I strained against my bonds, wanting my finger on my clit, but as we pushed even more furiously against each other I felt a finger on it, no, not a finger, because suddenly it was making a noise and my muscles heaved and crashed like the walls of Jericho tumbling down as the combination of the cock and the vibrator brought me to the best orgasm I had ever had in my life.
Of course I had to get away from Lima. Sitting in the guesthouse in Cuzco, I explained it in a postcard.
Kip, you bastard, you did it on purpose. You knew I’d get addicted to him, and I bet you’ve been rubbing your scarred lily-white little hands together in glee at the thought of me bound and gagged. Well I’ve escaped after a mere four days, and I don’t mean the Houdini style of escape, out of the black bag and chains, I just got on a plane and left. Love, Bliss.
PS: Escaped, my arse, I’m meeting him in Chile in a few weeks’ time.
I had to go. I’d only meant to stay in Lima for two nights and after the third I got Carlos to book me on to a plane out. After all, I’d come to South America to see the sights: what was the point of being blindfold? And instead of trekking bravely through the cloud forest I had been happily and helplessly tottering around Lima in four-inch heels. But as I explained to Kip, I only managed to tear myself away from him because we’d be meeting later. After a dose of sightseeing and intrepid adventuring I’d be more than ready to submit to Carlos’s chains.
I’d arrived in Cuzco early the previous morning and had spent the day rambling around the pretty town, trying to get my breath. It was at a high altitude and the guidebooks advised a few days’ acclimatisation was necessary before starting off on the Inca Trail. Carlos had been right: there were plenty of indigenous Indians in traditional dress here, though when I say that I mean the women. Traditional dress for the men seemed to consist of jeans and bomber jackets. All the women were selling something, and though I guessed that I’d end up with at least one alpaca sweater, so far I’d restricted myself to a woven braid for my wrist. When I pulled it tight it reminded me of Carlos.
I turned to the next postcard. The guesthouse had an ideal set-up for chilling out, with its rooms arranged around a central hall with a glass roof, and furnished with sofas for lounging around on. Already I’d struck up conversations with a German couple and two English girls, though this afternoon everyone was obviously out sightseeing.
Dear Rachel, I bet you’re kicking yourself. . .
‘G’day! Do you mind if I join you?’
The accent was obviously Australian, which was fine by me. Even finer was the sight that met my eyes when I looked up.
Tall, probably six two, three? Broad and, while not rippling with muscle gym-style, a real sportsman’s body. Combat shorts and T-shirt, both khaki. Skin tanned, face big and square. And short hair as blond as a peroxide bottle can get it. I found myself forgetting about Carlos, even about Gabriel Byrne, and denying that I’d ever had a thing for dark men.
‘I’ve got a few to do too,’ he said sympathetically, waving his own clutch of cards. ‘Fantastic here, eh? We only got in this morning from Lima.’
‘I only got here myself yesterday,’ I confessed. ‘Not that I’ve done much in the last two days, just a bit of walking around town, acclimatising.’
‘You’ll be doing the Inca Trail though, won’t you?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I haven’t booked up with anyone yet.’
‘Oh, we’re not going in a group, I can’t stand being organised. This is the last chance to go alone, you know.’
‘Do I know? Let me tell you . . .’
And I explained my solo predicament, looking into his quite stunningly blue eyes as I did so, thinking that once I had a tan and the sun had lightened my hair a bit we could pass for brother and sister, but then did I want to think of him as a brother? What a lovely golden couple we would make.
While he was sympathising with my predicament another oversized crop-haired clone, though more mouse than blond, came out of one of the rooms and flopped down on the sofa next to him.
‘Hey, Red, thought I heard your voice. Got the beers?’ He smiled at me and held out his hand. He didn’t compare with his friend as far as looks were concerned, but his attraction was in his deep, slightly rough, sexy voice. ‘Robbie. How’s it going?’
‘Great, Robbie. I’m Bliss.’ I looked at his friend and raised my eyebrows. ‘And you’re . . . Red?’
He laughed. ‘No, not Red, Rad. I guess it’s the accent.’
‘Hmm. Not much of a difference the way you say them, but I think I prefer Red. If it’s all the same to you.’
‘No worries. My name’s Magnus Radberg, but I’m not keen on Magnus.’
‘Swedish?’
‘Three generations back.’
‘You know Magnus means big in Latin . . . yeah, of course you do, schoolteachers must have bored the pants off you with that one.’
‘Too right.’ He laughed. He turned to Robbie apologetically. ‘You won’t believe this, mate, but I started looking at postcards and forgot about the beer. This altitude must be affecting my brain. I’ll go back.’
Robbie shook his head. ‘Jeez, mate, this trip’s not going to run on water. I’ll go. I suppose if you’re doing the dutiful postcard thing I’d better get some as well.’
He went out and Red and I went back to our cards, though my mind wasn’t on them as attentively as it had been.
We stopped writing when Robbie returned with three big bottles of Cusquena, the local beer. Red told me I could get my round later on at the English pub, so after downing the beer I went to have a shower. As I’d already discovered the hot – sorry, make that warm – water only appeared at erratic intervals, and the German guy had said that five o’clock was a good time. I hoped so, as I’d already had two cold showers since I arrived in Peru, though God knows the way I kept bumping into stunning men it was probably just as well.
I have to admit that I got pissed in the English pub. Well, it was happy hour, and pisco sours are a lot more alcoholic than I had thought judging from the one I had as an aperitif in the posh seafood restaurant in Miraflores. The trouble is, once you launch into a series of five of anything made from a large measure of spirits, getting pissed is fairly inevitable.
But I’m not a quitter and managed a couple of beers with dinner, where we had a great time, getting mixed up in a multinational group of fellow backpackers. It set the tone for the next few days, though apart from the booze and the laughs we managed to do the local sightseeing and explored the valley, which was breathtaking. Finally when Robbie was on one of his daily trips to the internet café – he was a real line freak – Red and I spent the afternoon in my room.
The S&M crowd use the expression ‘vanilla sex’ to describe normal straight sex. I suddenly found out why. Fucking Red was really nice, or as he would say, rilly, rilly nice, but after Carlos it lacked a bit of edge, a bit of spice. I tried not to make comparisons, though, and did enjoy taking charge myself, which after being totally helpless and passive was great. I rode him every way I knew how, with the holdups having him almost creaming his combats before he even got inside me – girlies in black stockings being, frankly, rare on the backpacker circuit.