Thrill Seeker (16 page)

As we passed along the corridor, Den shone his torch into the dressing rooms, revealing a range of interiors as garish as children’s building blocks: pea green, daffodil yellow, electric blue. Other than that, the rooms were similar: small, windowless spaces, their walls lined with broken mirrors framed by blank bulbs and empty sockets.

Damp and mustiness permeated the air. What stories these walls could tell, I thought.

‘When did this place become empty?’ I asked.

‘Late eighties. It’s an absolute tragedy. Ours is an era of advanced philistinism.’

‘So where are we? How did you get in? Is it safe?’

‘It’s safe enough,’ he said. ‘And we have electricity in some areas and running water so more civilised than it looks.’

‘But where are we?’

‘No more questions,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll gag you again.’

He showed me a shower we could use in a large, fuchsia-pink dressing room which also contained a sturdy toilet cubicle. A harsh, chemical scent of cleaning fluids spiked the stale air. ‘I’ve spruced this room up for us,’ he said. ‘It’s not the Ritz but it’s good enough for a couple of days.’

‘A couple of days,’ I echoed in shock. ‘Come on, get serious!’

‘I’ve kidnapped you, remember?’ He raised the Maglite and shone its beam into my face. I flinched, the chain rattling as my cuffed hands jumped to shield my eyes from the glare.

‘Yeah but … a couple of days is a long time.’ I wasn’t sure if his was a genuine plan or another attempt to mess with my mind. I squinted at the light, trying to read the face behind it, but was too dazzled to make anything out. After weeks of him being my faceless fantasy, I wanted to gawp at him until every feature was etched on my mind. Whether by accident or design, Den seemed determined to deny me the chance.

‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked.

‘Um, rats,’ I said. ‘The police. Getting sacked if I don’t turn up for work on Monday.’ My temptation to add ‘you’ was silenced by my stubborn reluctance to give him the pleasure.

Den lowered the torch and grinned. In the weak, green-tinged light of the wrecked corridor, he looked monstrous;
a monster made more dangerous by his beguiling beauty. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Those are the least of your worries. Come on. I’ll show you where you’re going to be chained.’

We returned to the arena of the former stalls in the shabby auditorium. After the gloomy, below-stage corridors, the expanse was exhilarating, the hazy pearl light and richness of colour a welcome relief. My sandals rang on the concrete as we crossed the empty space while Den’s trainers barely made a sound. The chain sagged between us, occasionally scraping on the ground.

‘There,’ said Den, signalling to the far corner of the room.

By one of the pillars supporting the dress circle, a cluster of furniture and belongings made a strange, homely room, albeit one without walls. A stage set appeared to have escaped and regrouped. The surreal sight bordered on the supernatural, the half-room’s existence suggesting unlikely beings dwelled here, unseen by human eyes.

I guessed we were the unlikely, unseen beings, cooped up in this forgotten theatre while the world outside went about its business.

‘Did you set this up?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

The bed was the most prominent feature, a duvet-covered
double mattress on a low platform of wooden pallets, the sort used for moving goods on forklift trucks. An armchair draped in a red throw was angled towards nothing, and at a polished, pine dining table, two high-backed chairs awaited their guests.

‘I’m flattered,’ I said sincerely. ‘All this effort.’

As we drew closer, I noticed other objects at odds with the suggestion of familiar comforts. Objects which stirred feelings of unease and excitement. A length of chain dangled from a hook fixed to the balcony above. Each curvaceous leg of that nice pine table was looped with chains. Although they made me nervous, I understood those chains. I knew what they would be used for.

What I didn’t understand was a peculiar piece of furniture resembling a medieval stool, although not one you’d choose to sit on for comfort. It was made of deeply polished oak, the seat a bowed, narrow plank with a sturdy, carved ring at either side. The back of the chair was painfully narrow too, sloping away from the seat, and topped with another carved ring. I could imagine it once being used for tying people up in the market square so they could be pelted with rotten tomatoes.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing with both hands. My voice surprised me with its quietness.

‘A birthing stool.’

Ah, of course. Legs spread, something to grip, lean back and push.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I like you but there’s no way I’m having your baby.’

Den laughed as we crossed to the object. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t plan on keeping you here that long.’

‘It’s a gorgeous piece.’ I twisted in my cuffs to run my
fingers over the chair back, the chain clanking against varnished oak.

‘Isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s Victorian Gothic revival. I got it from Community Crafts in Saltbourne. As soon as I spotted it, I saw its potential to be used for nefarious purposes.’

Liam’s workshop was at Community Crafts. The thought of that made my head spin. Everything seemed wrong all of a sudden, too out of synch with reality. Weird to think that Den had visited Community Crafts but no reason why he shouldn’t or wouldn’t if he were in the area. The venture Liam was part of had a good reputation. But the reminder of everyday reality threw me. What was I doing here? Where was the rest of the world? Was it daylight outside? My phone was in my bag. I had no idea of the time.

‘We’ll sleep here tonight, OK?’ Den gestured towards the raised mattress.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You didn’t put little chocolates on the pillows, though.’

Den smiled, unclipping the chain from his belt loop. In silence, he unbuckled my cuffs, briskly checked my wrists for marks, then walked away to deposit the cuffs on the large table. I stood, small and uncertain in the midst of so much space. Den took a seat in the red-draped armchair and rested one ankle on his opposite knee, hands on the chair arms, grand yet casual. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said. ‘Let me look at you.’

Oh Hell. These shifts of direction were unsettling.

‘Now?’ I said, stalling for time.

‘Now,’ he said.

My heart thumped. I wished I could ask the same of him then I could feast my eyes on that honed, muscular body I’d only so far seen in an arty photograph. Stupid
D/S dynamic! I also wished he would undress me himself, hands instead of eyes on my body. Physical intimacy was much easier than being on display. Taking a deep breath, I kicked off my sandals and quickly unbuttoned my shirt. I placed my top on the birthing stool and unfastened my bra with my back turned him. Silly to feel awkward about being naked when he’d already shagged me stupid. But I did feel awkward.

‘Slower, slower,’ he said. ‘It’s not a race. Turn around. Show me your tits.’

I swallowed my nerves. Still in my skirt, I turned, shoulders back to give myself some oomph. He gaze dropped brazenly from my face to my breasts. Had he been expecting me to do a coquettish strip-tease? I hoped not.
Cosmo
would recommend a move like that, and everyone knows theirs are the daftest sex tips in the world. Besides, I was too shy to be coquettish, and my role in this was not the seductress.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now touch yourself.’

I repressed a sigh and cupped my breasts. I massaged and thumbed my nipples, making them erect. I felt porny and false. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t touch myself this way to get off. Someone else touching my breasts, awesome. Me touching them myself, not much doing, I’m afraid.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now keep undressing.’

All that remained was my skirt. My knickers were in his van. I unzipped, stepped out of the skirt and draped it on the stool. I faced him, half-raised my arms in a self-conscious flappy way then tapped my hands against my thighs.

‘Step forward,’ he said.

I did, feeling brutally naked.

‘Stop there.’ From a few feet away in his chair, he examined me, pale blue eyes moving with deliberate assessment. I
swear, the tracks of his gaze practically had my skin colouring where they roamed.

He nodded as if satisfied then gave a bossy flick of one finger. ‘Turn around.’

I might have been up for sale in a cattle market. His cool evaluation appalled and aroused. I turned for him, cringing. The concrete floor was cold and scruffy underfoot. I stared at a panel of flock wallpaper several yards ahead while he, presumably, stared at my arse. Perhaps the absence of people in the theatre affected me, as did an awareness this place had once buzzed with excitement, the corridors thronging with men and women in furs and monocles. Eyes other than Den’s seemed to leer at my naked body, hundreds of hidden eyes running over breasts, thighs, buttocks and pubes, drinking me in. I felt humiliated, objectified and diminished. And I loved every awful minute of that.

The armchair creaked. Den’s trainers snagged on the floor’s crumbled surface. I kept perfectly still, focusing on the flock fleur-de-lys as he approached. My breath gave a hitch as his hand trailed across my buttocks, the flimsiest of touches. He circled me, his hand continuing to drift across my belly. His fingertips painted goosebumps, sending messages of arousal deeper into my flesh. I barely breathed, let alone groaned. A pulse fluttered in my neck, while in my groin a heavy beat boomed in fat, liquid throbs.

Den kept his head low as if following the path of his hands. His head was beautifully shaped, a perfect dome shaded by stubble, curving inwards to meet a sun-kissed neck scattered with tiny hairs the razor blade had missed. I longed to lick him there. His hand scooted lower, fingers gliding into the neat fluff of my pubes. He stood before me, rubbing gently at my mound.

An exhalation left me, a soft whistle like that from a coffee bag being punctured. My legs almost buckled. I willed his fingers to move lower, but no. They kept on stroking through my hair, teasing the skin beneath. My mind grew dumb, fixed on nothing but the need for his fingers where I wanted them.

When he finally touched me, I groaned but it was a cheat’s touch. His fingers skimmed the frill of my labia, denying me the firm penetration I craved. He brought his sloping, scar-roughened face close to mine. ‘Are you ready for some pain?’ he asked.

My heart skipped a beat but I nodded, my horniness convincing me I was ready for anything he cared to dole out.

‘Good girl.’

I watched him hoik a holdall onto the table and unzip. The jaws of the bag gaped, revealing an assortment of kit, too jumbled for me to identify anything much. Jeez, did I want this? I glimpsed leather, metal, rope, cables, fabric and who knew what else; a pervert’s paradise, packed away in an innocuous travel bag.

My heart wouldn’t stop racing. I’d never done anything so hardcore before. Baxter would overpower me without all this rigmarole. Nonetheless, the dark secrets in Den’s bag fascinated, the allure of their mystery and taboo urging on my desire. I was keen to know if I might enjoy being hurt and disciplined but I was scared too in case I hated it or got injured. Jumping in at the deep end might not be the ideal way to experiment but then when had I ever been cautious in this? I hoped Den knew what he was doing.

He took the leather cuffs from the table. ‘Hands in front,’ he said.

I gave him my wrists, fists bunched together. ‘Don’t hurt me too much.’ My voice was throaty and frail.

Without a word, Den buckled the cuffs then joined them together with clips and a short length of chain. Again, the sensation of bonds being fixed around my wrists took me closer to the place I like to be; a place not simply of arousal but of submission.

‘I’m not used to heavy pain,’ I added.

‘This way,’ he replied, acting as if he hadn’t heard.

He led me towards the spot where the chain dangled from the balcony. He raised my coupled wrists, holding the chain above us with his other hand.

Despite my desire, I panicked. ‘No, wait!’

My body did its own thing, cowering, crunching, trying to withdraw. The edge of the cuffs dug into my hands as I retreated. Den held firm, refusing to let me go. His determination to hold on made me even more afraid. My arms kept trying to pull back from him. My feet did a stupid little dance as if I were standing on hot sand.

‘No, please! I can’t, I can’t.’ My voice echoed across the space.

Den released the hanging chain and gave a reprimanding tug on the links between my wrists. ‘You’re going to take it,’ he spat. ‘You’re going to shut the fuck up and take it.’

Beneath his hunched black brows, his eyes were slits of blue ice, the tendons in his neck as taut as wires. I looked down, ashamed of my fear, wanting to accept this despite my instinct to recoil. A hefty knot in the crotch of Den’s jeans did nothing to placate me. Supposing he got carried away on a crazy rush of lust? Supposing he didn’t know when to stop?

‘It’s too much,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’

He took a step closer and this time I didn’t draw back. The chain slackened and I tried to relax my arms. Resisting him hurt my shoulders.

‘What do you want, Natalie? What’s the problem?’ His voice was soft and charming, a parody of seduction. ‘Are you afraid of enjoying this too much? Of having to face yourself afterwards, knowing what you like?’

I shook my head. I didn’t know what I was afraid of.

Den took another step closer, drawing me to him, his hand warm on my naked buttocks. We stood like that, pressing lightly against each other. His erection bulged against the back of my chained hands. I rubbed then wriggled inside my cuffs to find him more fully with my fingers. Seeking cock was familiar territory. I stroked his shaft, my thumb and forefinger spanning the ridge behind the denim. His hardness thrilled, tempting me to go along with his plan so I could get a piece of that inside me.

He nuzzled at my ear, his breath warm on my skin. ‘Greedy little whore,’ he said.

I whimpered because he made me feel that was true. I wanted him in my hand, wanted the naked weight of his cock in my fist, and most of all, I wanted that solidity driving inside me. He caressed my arse cheeks and we stayed like that a while. I grew calmer, hornier, more pliant.