Authors: Kristina Lloyd
Hey Natajack32, you have seven new messages!
Back_on_beard says:
Oh, man! You fucking nailed it, Natalie – now i know why i hated that film! Sentimental dross, yes. Pisses me off when people accuse me of being a coldhearted bastard because sunsets at [read more]
Terry1234 says:
Hi … if you fancy a latte sometime say hello Terry.
DJ_str8talk says:
Hey Natalie, it was cool to meet you last week but I agree, I don’t think we’re compatible and we want different things, lol!!! Good luck with your search!
DownAsunder says:
Fucking awesome profile! Loved the beach comment. :p Other side of the world to you, alas! Have fun, laugh loudly and live largely. Cheers, Ian x
Legsman101 says:
Hello Natajack32, how are you this fine day? I hope your having a nice weekend. You seem an interesting ladie and I think we would get on even though I don’t meet your criterias. I am a fifty-seven-year-old divorcee [read more]
Cloudthunk79 says:
Hi Gorgeous, just checking we’re still on for tomorrow, 8.30pm in The Smugglers Arms. Looking forward to it. You have my number so any change of plan,
let me know. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. I’ll also give [read more]
StrictSensualSimon says: ‘
If you want to play, I’ll be your Christian Grey.’ I am a loving, sincere, financially solvent dominant. I have researched bronze-age women and I know this is natural. You are dressed in a black dress, stockings and heels. You are told [read more]
There were no new messages from Kagami. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. I skimmed through our previous conversations, reams and reams of words going back several weeks. My fingertips clicked and tapped, page up, page down, words flying on the screen. Dark, dirty, shameless words that now seemed cheap and crass, made of worn-out, porno language.
I winced to read them back but I had to check, even though I knew, that of all the idiotic things I’d told him, my address wasn’t among them. No, I hadn’t told him. He’d got my surname, though, hadn’t he? I’d given it to him when he’d offered to email a photo because he didn’t have one on his profile. ‘Cool, thanks, I’m on [email protected].’
Lovell. It’s a fairly unusual surname. He knew the town I lived so, assuming he had a modicum of internet savvy, he’d easily be able to find my address. I was ex-directory so I figured he must have paid money to get details from the electoral roll. He’d acted with intent, then, rather than been inspired to break into my home after stumbling across my details on an idle cyberstalk. And I couldn’t criticise anyone for cyberstalking because I was equally guilty. If I was flirting with a guy who’d given me his name, then sure, I’d Google him. A little extra information always helps and it’s reassuring to know they are who they say they are.
I paused over one of Kagami’s messages, scrolling slowly.
And I pin you down. Your face is streaked with tears. I can see fear in your eyes. It makes my cock so hard. That’s what I want from you: tears, fear, and finally, obedience. I adore your strength of character, your intelligence. When I break you, I know it means something. You don’t obey anyone, you don’t submit easily. That’s why I want you to myself. You’ve got something special. I want to mould you to my will, make you mine. My sweet submissive whore. It might look like I’m destroying you but I’m breaking you down to build you up, to transform you into the thing you need to be.
‘What do you want, Natalie?’ I say to you.
You shake your head and sob. Tears shimmer in your eyes. A darkness crouches in your shadows. I want you to give me that darkness but you’re scared. You don’t want to lose yourself. You won’t give it to me, so once again I have to take it from you. I’ll keep doing this until you’re surrendered, until that darkness is so vast you’re longing for me to take charge of it. You need me to help carry this beautiful burden we’ve created together.
In a way, I’m serving you. Can you see that?
I touch your cunt and you’re soaked. So swollen and sensitive. My fingers make you whimper. You know I can make you come in an instant, proving to me how much you want this. But you can’t admit you want it, your mouth won’t say the words.
That’s the problem. Your mouth. It’s filtering out the truth. It needs to loosen up, relax. That’s why I have to keep on fucking it.
I stopped reading, my heart going wild, the wetness between my thighs flowing as fast as the first time I’d read that, the second, the third.
Had he discovered where I lived when he’d written those words? Had he watched from a distance, knowing how his message had thrilled me? Because I’d told him it had. I’d even thanked him, telling him his dirty words had fuelled several solo sessions. Admitting to that hadn’t felt dangerous. None of it had felt dangerous but I could see how my behaviour might appear reckless to an outsider.
In Kagami’s fantasy, I was ashamed, shy, unable to claim what I wanted, meaning his role was to force me. In my fantasies the dynamic was much the same, whereas in reality I was perfectly able to claim my desire. I was glad Kagami – Den – understood the paradox. Once, a guy I was chatting to online had said I sounded more dom than sub, as if kinking for submission equated to being passive. That relationship didn’t go far.
When I’d started online dating, doubt and inhibition made me cautious. But I soon realised the people out there were as ordinary as I was. This wasn’t, as the myth would have it, a world of conmen, psychos, stalkers and adulterers. Nor were these people lonely, sad or desperate. Like me, they were simply looking for love, or maybe a couple of beers and a jump, and they were using modern communications to do so. It beat the olden days where your dating pool was the local village or your workplace.
So if someone had my surname, that was no great shakes.
The last time I’d Googled myself, curious as to what was out there, I’d found my employer’s website with my contact details, my twitter account, a letter I’d once written to
The Independent
, a page where I’d sponsored a friend running in
the London Marathon, some dubious genealogy links and far too many photos on Facebook of me and various friends engaged in drunken exploits. Mark Zuckerberg claims privacy’s no longer the norm, but he would say that, wouldn’t he? Nowadays, I’m always adjusting my Facebook settings to keep nosey parkers out. But if I worried about these issues too much, I’d never do anything online. Nor would I walk down the street for fear some deranged thug were lying in wait to show me that a miniscule percentage of humanity can make us question what it means to be human.
But privacy and safety aren’t the same issue. While I might not be comfortable with my virtual self scattering inerasable traces across the ether, I’d never felt the exposure left me vulnerable to anyone but spammers. I wasn’t a child. And when millions of people were equally exposed, who cared about my few, boring details?
Well, Kagami did, obviously. I had nothing concrete on him. He called himself Den but I’d no proof that was his real name. His email address was [email protected]. He’d told me he lived north of London, that he worked in the Arts, had an interest in physical theatre and dance, liked to keep fit, age thirty-six, height 6'2", athletic build. I didn’t know if any of that was true but with online dating, these details matter less than the sense you get of someone in their messages. And I liked his messages. He seemed intelligent, kinky, respectful, interesting, and had that all-important GSOH.
I didn’t have a picture of his face, though. He’d dodged that one, sending instead a beautifully lit, arty, black and white shot where his torso was bared but his face was masked. And damn he had a great body, his head shaved as if hair might detract from the streamlined form on display. I
rarely chat to people who won’t show their face but, oh, I am evidently shallow and lecherous, too easily dazzled by a man captured in a twist of dance, his ripped body full of energy and masculine poise.
I was immediately suspicious. Where was the holiday snap, the wedding-guest photo he’d cropped to hide his ex, the lop-shouldered self-portrait from a phone camera? Was he trying to impress me with a portfolio photo? Keep his distance? Was it even him?
I’d scrutinised the picture for clues to the person depicted but found little. Against a grey backdrop, barefoot and dressed in black joggers, he was lunging sideways, one arm drawn back. I stared, loving what I saw. Elegant yet aggressive, he was a classical sculpture brought to life, a sheen of sweat suggesting a fluid quality as if alabaster were streaming over sub-structures of bone and muscle. Light and shadow played across his skin, joining in this monochrome dance. On his taut upper arm, a black tattoo of a circle sporting three horns or flames removed some of the image’s implicit anonymity.
Most striking of all was his head, the shaved dome of his skull sweeping round into a beaked Venetian mask, brightly jewelled but ominous. He was a freakish bird from a malevolent carnival, the phallic threat of his hooked proboscis creating, in my mind, a cloaked creature who haunted alleyways at night, stalking his prey.
The mask affected me. Without it, he might have been too clean and wholesome. But that grotesque edge gave him a darker charm, appealing to the side of me that thrills to a hint of threat.
Of course, I kept this to myself. I wrote back, thanking him and hiding my attraction with a cheeky dismissal. ‘What is this?
Eyes Wide Shut
?’
Later, I wrote: ‘So do I get to see your face?’
‘All in good time,’ he replied.
Like I say, I was wary. I can understand why someone might not want their picture on their profile. They might be shy, uncomfortable with online dating, or have a need to protect their privacy. But once you start chatting to someone, they send their picture. Den could be married, ugly or scarred. Or it might not be him at all and I was messaging an ageing, pot-bellied pervert tossing off in a bedsit in Birmingham. But something told me it was him, and if he removed his mask, he’d have a face I wanted to look at, eyes I wanted to swim in, lips I wanted to kiss. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and kept writing to him, caught up with the magic and the mystery.
I liked him, this man without a face.
But now he’d entered my home, uninvited, and liking him seemed a stupid move.
I needed more on him. I wanted to check his profile. I hadn’t looked at it much since we’d started chatting. When you check someone’s profile, they can see on their home page that you’ve visited. Check someone out too often, and you might look stalkerish. Plenty of times I’d resisted the urge to revisit Kagami’s profile. I couldn’t remember everything he’d written. How had he answered the questions everyone gets asked? What were his drinking habits, his star sign? I remembered he was 6'2" but his BMI? Did it matter?
I toyed with the idea of not visiting his page, thinking my wisest option would be to cut all contact, don’t even hint at being interested or disturbed. Quit this nonsense before it’s too late. But I didn’t want to quit. I would rise to his challenge and show him I understood his game.
My cursor hovered over his avatar, a cartoonish shadow
of a man in a Stetson, the default for guys who don’t upload a photo. I decided to check his profile one last time. I’d take a screen grab for future reference. I was edgy again. I felt as if I was being watched. I hadn’t put the radio on, wanting instead to stay alert to unusual sounds.
His profile took ages to load. Was this the right thing to do? When the page finally filled my screen, my blood ran cold.
This user no longer has a profile.
What was once there was gone. He’d deleted himself.
The blankness appalled me. I stared at it, willing it to be untrue.
This user no longer has a profile
.
Instead, a bland, blue corporate screen. He’d vanished without a trace.
Crazy, illogical, but I felt as if he’d escaped. He was a spirit now made flesh, a manifestation with weight and purpose. Who was he? Where was he? I didn’t know. I just knew he was out there somewhere, released from the internet and on the loose.
The derelict fishing quarter on the east beach at Saltbourne used to be my favourite place for late night, al fresco sex.
Once, Baxter and I fucked in the scoop of a broken boat, its wooden sides yellow and ravaged like an old banana. No, that’s not right. Baxter fucked me. He always fucked me. Sex wasn’t something we did together. He would act as if he were inflicting it on me and I’d let him because that’s how we rolled.
That night with Baxter was our first time at the beach. The moon was low and large, silvering the sea, and the tide was high. Waves crashed on the shore, shingle clattering in the drag. You could make out the whirs and squeals of the funfair near the west beach, a jangle of music seeping into the dark, the rides’ gaudy lights spinning, flashing and swooping by the disused pier. In contrast, the east beach around us was apocalyptically still, a halted world of rusting winches, mouldering shacks, abandoned lobster pots, rotting rope and scattered, dead boats. The old net houses, tall, gaunt sheds with steep roofs and tar-black, weatherboarded walls, loomed over the wreckage like a creepy, elongated town in a fairy tale.
The broken boat was resting on a slant. Baxter had me face-forward over the plank of a narrow seat, his fist wound in my hair. He made my spine dip, my arse lifting towards to him, and my neck ached. I gripped the edge of the boat, struggling to keep my cries down as he fucked me like a man possessed.
‘See what you make me do,’ he accused, his Dunfermline accent rolling through gritted teeth. ‘Fucking you in this nasty place, like a whore. A greedy little whore. Why d’you do it, hen? Why d’you make me fuck you like this, eh?’
The boat creaked and I feared it might break, its wood too brittle and splintered to take us. Baxter slammed relentlessly, his cock thumping at my core. He released my hair and hooked me around the waist, holding me steady as he powered on, his breath fast, his grunts spittle-moist and urgent. He was a hefty man with crude hands, his broad chest tangled with dark hair, his thighs as big as a warrior’s. He was a few pounds overweight but proportionate so the extra layer merely added to his bulk and strength. Besides, I like a man with padding.