The Sex Slave's Final Punishment (BDSM Erotica) (7 page)

I make a swift decision. “Sure. Call her.
I’ve been driving all day and I need to shower and stuff.” I’m sure
I smell ripe, though Rick is too polite to say so. “Do you have an
address? I can go find the place myself.”

“Sure.” Rick seems eager again.

He sketches some directions involving turning
this way, and that way, and looking out for landmarks like ‘the old
red barn’ and ‘the broken scarecrow’ on the back of a magazine. I’m
beginning to feel more and more like Dorothy stepping out of
Kansas.

“You got it?” he asks me, concerned.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. After all, I found
Kelowna, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“See you later.” I take the magazine and
straighten my hair. I’m in a simple red blouse which I wear over a
comfortable pair of jeans. I’m dressed to drive long distance, not
to impress guys.

Outside, the rain is screaming down as if the
sky hasn’t opened since the days of Noah. I don’t have an umbrella.
The magazine with the directions is too precious to use as a shade,
and so I bolt to my car, very glad for the fact that I parked it
curbside.

I drive off, putting my windscreen wipers on
max, and even that is not enough to confer visibility of more than
ten meters. I have my headlights on too. For once, I’m glad I’m in
a small town and there isn’t a lot of traffic for me to contend
with.

I’m good at following directions, and so I
drive very slowly. It’s a bitch to peer through the rain. The
houses and buildings look washed and semi-translucent, like someone
has splashed a grey coat of paint all over them. The road is a
winding mess.

I don’t know exactly how I wound up at this
junction, but I think I’m lost. I stop the car in the middle of the
road, aware than any moment, a blaring truck could crash into me
from behind. But somehow, I don’t think there are many blaring
trucks out here.

A weather-beaten signboard is lighted in
front of my car by my headlamps. It has an arrow pointing upwards,
and it says ‘PINE’S LOOKOUT’.

I’ll be damned.

It’s kismet.

I know I should be trawling out of this
tangle of roads to head for Rick’s mother’s home. Possibly to a
comfortable bed and a warm shower and some good, old-fashioned Key
Lime pie. But the words ‘PINE’S LOOKOUT’ is calling impossibly to
me, like some sort of siren. I’m a sixteen-year-old fan again in LA
for the first time – in an open top bus, peering at the homes of
celebrities in Beverly Hills.

David Kinney used to live in LA when he was
still working there, and we kind of camped outside his modest
Hollywood Hills house, hoping for a glimpse. Which, of course, we
never got.

I should wait till tomorrow morning, really.
I should wait till it’s bright and dry and cheery and more
conducive to snooping.

I step on my gas pedal.

The car starts its cranking way up Pine’s
Lookout.

Somehow, I think, even then . . . I wanted to
be burned.