Darkest Fantasy

Copyright 1999 Joanna de Brito
All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this
story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use
by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain
intact.

Darkest Fantasy
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)
August 1999

Part One

"What's your darkest fantasy?"

Sophie didn't respond. She looked up from her half empty
glass and stared at me as though I was mad. Worse: as though
I had just told her that I was a lesbian and wanted to take
her to bed. There was this weird combination of horror mixed
with lust that filled her face. The lust was probably my
imagination.

"Eh?"

I should have known better than to expect an intelligent
answer after three gin and tonics. I repeated the question.
I was full of eagerness and excitement: animated, alive.
"What's your darkest fantasy?" I hissed softly, lust
dripping from each word. "The one that really sends shivers
down your spine, and that you find so erotic that it
terrifies the shit out of you?"

She laughed nervously. It was an embarrassed, frightened
laugh. "What's got into you all of a sudden, Vickie? Has
Richard been depriving you or something?"

Richard is my boyfriend, my fiance. We're looking to fix a
date for a spring wedding next April or May.

"No, he has not," I dissented strongly.

Sophie and I share an apartment. As you may have gathered,
our conversations can get pretty candid. I tell her about
Richard, most things anyway, and she tells me about Dennis:
how he wants to fuck her ass but she wants none of it, all
those private little things. My current question was asking
a lot of her, however. We'd never really probed that hard
into each others inner desires, and even plied with alcohol
she was uncomfortable with it. I knew I had to offer
something first.

I moved closer, my dressing gown flapping open at the top.
Sophie, her own dressing gown draped about her, sat on the
sofa with her feet under her butt, the half empty glass
still in her hand. "Okay," I said, leaning into her, my
imagination beginning to get the better of me. "Let me tell
you mine. I've always had this fantasy of been overpowered
by a total stranger. I imagine him to be tall and dark."

"A tall dark stranger," Sophie giggled. She was still
embarrassed; I knew her. "How original!"

"He makes me do things I don't want to do; he makes me
submit to him entirely. Once he's overpowered me he strips
me naked. I'm so self-conscious; I want to hide from him but
he forces me to expose every private cranny. Then, when he
has done looking at me, he fucks me. I hate him for that; I
despise him, the greatest reason because he makes me not
only do it, but enjoy it. He makes me beg for satisfaction,
he makes me come, and that is so humiliating. Once he
finishes, he leaves and I never see him again."

I could feel my chest tightening, my body tensing. Just
describing this fantasy to another person was making me hot.
I grasped Sophie so tightly that her glass wobbled and the
gin dribbled down the outside. "Can you understand someone
feeling like that? Do you think it's weird?"

She was looking at me but I couldn't tell what she was
thinking. I could see her struggling to find suitable words.
"Yes. Well, I don't know, of course, but I'm sure lots of
people have wei... unusual fantasies."

I laughed. "You don't have to be coy, Sophie. Say it. If you
think it's weird, then say so. I shan't be offended. But I
can't help the way I am, I don't choose which dreams make my
heart race and my blood boil and which leave me cold."

I got up and returned to my seat. "I'm sorry," she said. "I
didn't mean to judge."

I decided that, despite her apology, she was being a little
too self-righteous. I just didn't believe that she never
fantasized. Maybe hers were totally different from mine, but
I was quite sure that she didn't lie there masturbating to
an image of Dennis; for one thing, he's not that kind of
bloke. There had to be something more: that's part of the
human psyche, isn't it?

"But Sophie, you must have fantasies; things you think about
when you're on your own?"

"Sure," she admitted guardedly.

"Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if you
could act out one of your fantasies; make it happen?"

She pondered for a moment. "I tend to think," she said
decidedly, "that if I were to try that, then it would turn
out to be a great disappointment. I don't think that any of
my fantasies realized could ever be as good as what's up
here," she tapped her head, "in my imagination."

"How can you know that?" I argued excitedly. "It might be
the most almighty charge that you've ever given yourself.
How would you ever know unless you tried it?"

Sophie was justifiably suspicious. "Where's this leading us,
Vickie? What are you suggesting?"

That evening, the two of us had had been watching TV,
flicking from channel to channel until we'd settled on the
old Hitchcock movie, "Strangers on a Train". In case you
haven't seen it, two strangers meet and each ends up
committing a murder for the other. The initial suspects
after a murder are always family or those with a strong
motive. The two protagonists argue that by "swapping"
murders, the one with the motive can ensure he has an
impenetrable alibi.

The film had got me thinking, not about murder or matters
illegal but about how I could act out my dark fantasy. I'd
considered the possibility of acting it out several times,
but had always hit the knotty problem of how you arrange for
a stranger to do the nasty things you want them to do, but
not do the nasty things that send you to hospital or to the
cemetery.

The film magically provided me with an answer. If there are
two of you, you can each arrange for the fantasy of the
other to come true.

I filled Sophie's glass again. "It would be a laugh," I
said.

"What about Richard? What will he say? You two are supposed
to be engaged."

"What do you mean 'supposed to be'," I demanded. "We are
engaged!"

Her head sank into her hands in mock apology. "I'm sorry,"
she grinned. "I didn't mean it to sound like that, but you
know what I mean."

"In a sense, Richard is the person that is driving this," I
began to explain.

I knew that would puzzle her. "Richard?"

"Yes, Richard. If I'm ever going to act out this fantasy,
then it has to be before the wedding. I've got married life
ahead of me and I intend to be true and faithful and all
that stuff. But if I don't let my hair down and throw
caution to the wind just once before I marry, in later life
I'm always going to look back with regret and think, what
if...? I've got to do it, Sophie. Will you help me?"

"But you're engaged. What I mean is, you've already made
your commitment. Don't you see, Vickie, it's already too
late."

"No, I don't agree. I've made a promise that I will be
faithful, I've said that I will marry Richard. It's all
future. If I have a one night stand tonight, then, as long
as it's before my wedding day, I don't see that it's any
business of anybody else, even Richard."

"He won't see it that way."

"He won't know, because you won't tell him."

Sophie and I have always managed to remain friends by not
telling anyone else our secrets. I know that whatever I say
to her, however much she may disagree with me, she will
never allow that disagreement to go any further.

"Are you sure that you know what you're doing? Sometimes,
when you act out your fantasies they have a habit of not
living up to your expectations. I would hate for you to get
hurt."

"Hurt? Why should I get hurt? You'd plan everything for me.
You will, won't you, Sophie? And I'd plan whatever it was
that you wanted. Please, tell me that you'll help me. You
will, won't you? Sophie?

I could tell that she was cool about the whole idea.
Nevertheless, I waited expectantly on her reply hoping that
my excitement would sway her. I thought that, maybe, for the
sake of our friendship, for me, she would consent to do it.

I waited and waited. What was she thinking? I wanted to
plead with her again, but knew that I had to let her think
things through.

"If I were to say 'yes'," she said at last. My heart was
pounding. She wasn't going to say 'no'. She wasn't. She
wasn't going to say 'no'. She must have seen my jubilation.

"I said 'if'," she interjected. "If I were to say 'yes', are
you promising that you'd be willing to do the same for me,
whatever my fantasy was."

"Of course."

"Even though I haven't told you what that fantasy might be."

"Name it. I'll do it."

"You promise."

"Yes." I almost screamed it. Wasn't she listening? Didn't
she understand the nature of the deal?

There was another silence. "I'm not going to bite you," I
promised.

"Suppose I were to say then, for the sake of argument, that
my fantasy is to fuck Richard. Would that make a difference?
Would you still want to go through with it?"

"Richard?" My heart missed a beat. I tried to control my
feelings. "Why would you want to fuck Richard? You've got
Dennis."

She was imperturbable. "You've got Richard. But you still
want to fuck someone else. At least I'm talking about
somebody that I know."

It was my turn to be dumbfounded. She had so easily knocked
the wind from my sails. "But he's my fiance," I whimpered.

"I know," she said. "Look, Vickie. If it's all right for you
to have a one night stand and for it not to mean anything,
then the same principle must apply to Richard and I."

I pushed my hair out of my eyes. "You saying this to spite
me."

"I'm saying it to make you see sense."

I gazed at her defiantly. I see your game, I thought. You
feel sorry for Richard. You think he's being wronged and so
you're trying to righten the wrong, to even his account.
Play that game if you want, I thought, see if I care. You're
playing right into my hands. If he does anything with you,
you little bitch, then I'll make him feel so guilty and
miserable, that he'll never finish paying my ransom.

Who was I kidding? The thought of Sophie and Richard
together was making me sick. "You are joking?" I asked
sheepishly. "Please, tell me that you're only joking."

Her face broke. "I said it because I want you to see sense.
It isn't fair on Richard." She'd been kidding. She'd been
teasing me!

Full of relief, I took her into my arms and gave her my
biggest hug and then kissed her softly on the cheek.

I think I should explain a little about Richard and myself
and about our relationship.

Richard is what I term 'a nice guy'. I've always divided men
into two types. There are the hunks, men who make your tummy
tighten and your knees wobbly. They are great lovers and
expert flatterers. They'll buy you impractical presents such
as one size black fish-gut knickers minus gusset in the
certain knowledge that you'll be longing to let them remove
them for you. They're the guys every girl dreams about
having as a boyfriend.

Then there is the soft dependable kind. He'll help you with
your shopping if you find it too heavy; bring you breakfast
in bed and listen to you when you're down. He won't force
his attentions when you have a headache or think a day at
the beach means ogling girls in skimpy bikinis. This is the
guy that every girl dreams about marrying, which is why I
said 'yes' to Richard when he proposed.

So, I hear you ask, what's my problem? I've thought about
that too. The best that I've come up with is that, in
addition to everything else, I yearn for somebody to be
strong with me. My father was the feeblest excuse of a man
that ever walked this earth. He drank and gambled and was
about as dependable as our English weather. When he was
younger, he was a hunk. That was why mum dated him.
Unfortunately she got pregnant, I came along and so she also
married him.

Big mistake! First rule of hunks: you date them; you don't
marry them.

I learned pretty quickly that he couldn't stand the sound of
crying. So if ever I wanted anything, whether it was
particularly good for me or not, I had only to feign a few
tears, make some noise, and he would immediately cave in.
Mother never protested; she was too petrified of him. Always
getting my own way made me happy, but it also made me
unhappy. I got what I wanted and yet I didn't. I could get
to watch what I wanted on TV, get the latest toy or feel
very grown up drinking a glass of sherry. But I never felt
loved or secure. I'm sure that I would have felt much
happier if, just once, he had told me that he was not giving
in to tantrums, had put me over his knee and given me six of
his best, but then cuddled me and told me how much he loved
me.

My problem, then, is that Richard is so kind, allows me to
manipulate him so easily, that sometimes I yearn for
something more. It isn't Richard's fault, that's the way
that he is. He'll never be any different. I'm not the type
of woman that thinks as she approaches matrimony: 'I can
change him'. My mother thought that about my father. It
didn't happen. Don't get me wrong, Richard will make a
wonderful husband, I love him intensely. But, unfortunately,
there is an inner need somewhere within me that he'll never
fill. And just once, I would love for that need to be
filled. I yearn to be told what to do and have no choice but
to do it.

Enough of me. I was telling you about Richard. He has this
cool job in the production department of a Manchester
newspaper. It's a long way to commute, nearly two hundred
miles. Until recently, he was working at their London plant,
but then they asked him to spend a year at their Manchester
head office helping them to adopt a new workflow process.
So, until the end of the year, he spends the week in
Manchester and drives back each weekend.

Shall I tell you what I do? Perhaps just a little. I have a
job in the city. The fancy title is that I'm a "Support
Manager" for a financial services company. What this means
is that I answer the questions of traders and income
managers who are usually so lazy that they'll rather pick up
a phone and speak to me rather than look through a help
file. On the other hand, Sophie once said that maybe it was
the pinstripe equivalent of phone sex, and that these guys
were actually bringing themselves off at the sound of me
explaining how our yield curves are implemented or whether
our market splits are cumulative or non cumulative. I don't
think so, somehow.

I don't remember how, exactly, our conversation was left
that night. The matter, however, had been decided. Although
Sophie still had deep reservations, I was as determined as
ever. My fantasy was going to fly.


                             ***


A couple of weeks went by. The idea of fulfilling my
fantasy, which had begun as a wild seed sown in a semi
drunken stupor, began to grow in my mind and heart as I
continued to nurture and water it. Each morning, I would lie
in bed pondering some difficulty in the detail of the plan,
and then proceed to work out its solution. During this time
my hand would find its way under my nightie, it would slip
under the waistband of my knickers and then seek out a spot
from where I could finger myself to the most glorious of
climaxes. I now had this most intense fantasy: the fantasy
of fulfilling fantasy. Never had I been like this before,
never had I been so absorbed, consumed with sex. I
masturbated with regularity and intensity. I found it
difficult to leave Richard alone. But with him I had to be
careful. I couldn't afford to make him suspicious.

"What's got into you?" he asked me one weekend. "Recently
you've been like a bitch in heat."

"I am a bitch in heat. It's what you do to me," I lied.
Stretching the truth was becoming easier with practice.

With all the sex, he suggested we might try things new. I
know he wants me to blow him, but I don't do that. I find it
rather squicky. Lovely guy, he's so tactful that sometimes I
miss totally whatever it is that he's asking! It's so
convenient! But he's so considerate and boring that I can
almost doze while we're doing it.

All of which leaves me to find somewhere quiet and do to
myself what pleases me best. Sometimes I pinch myself so
hard that it almost hurts. I squeeze my breasts so that
there are tears in my eyes. I bury my fingers in my cunt and
make them squelch and drip and fuel my repressed desire.
Eventually I scream out in pain, the agony of sublime
pleasure. Each time I manage to climb a little higher, to
remain a little longer in that rarified atmosphere at the
summit of ecstasy.

With each climax, my determination becomes stronger. Fantasy
is metamorphosing into conspiracy. I am now convinced that
it is going to happen, and that it is going to happen soon.

Recently, I sent off for a brochure containing details of
holiday lets in Scotland. When it arrived, I thumbed through
it, and with Sophie's help identified three strong
contenders for what I wanted: a country farmhouse that was
accessible, yet isolated, somewhere where I might be totally
alone and without help. I shivered at the thought.

We rang each of the three landlords and finally settled on a
place in North West Sutherland, right on the north west tip
of the United Kingdom. There were excellent views of the
sea, we were informed, and the price was a snip too, being
at the end of October, at the very end of the season.

All was going well. Yet as the weeks ticked by, I became
concerned about whether Sophie was going to deliver on her
part of the plan. She had to provide the key ingredient,
remember: the mysterious stranger, but so far he didn't seem
to want to be found.

We were in the kitchen one sultry August evening. We both
had the habit of being a little casual with our dress during
the hot humid evenings after work. It was a reward, I guess,
for having been made to perspire under a business suit all
day. I had got home first, had showered and had dressed in a
blue bikini top and orange shorts. I was clearing away my
curry - we cook and eat separately - when Sophie stepped out
of the bathroom wearing nothing more than a blouse and a
pair of knickers. "Why did you have to pick Scotland?" she
protested. "The very northern tip of the damn place, too.
Don't you realize how long a drive that is from London? Your
average tall dark stranger doesn't want to travel quite so
far for his bit of nookie."

I disagreed. "I don't accept that," I said, washing my
plate. "This isn't the kind of offer your average tall dark
stranger gets too often. I think this is going to be as much
of an adventure to him as it is for me. Are you sure that
you're explaining it right?"

"But that's just the point," Sophie explained. She put a
frozen lasagna into the microwave and switched it on.
"You're not giving him enough control. You've told me that
he's got to wear a condom, he must be clean, vaginal
intercourse only, no bondage, pain or third parties. You've
got so many rules and conditions that guys start wondering
about legal implications. They get scared; I'm not kidding."

But these were my safeguards, and I was loath to let any of
them go. Sophie knew that this was a sore point; we had
discussed it several times before. She stepped up behind me
as I stood by the sink and put her arms round my waist. "You
know how I feel about this, your going off to Scotland and
all that. I don't think it's very clever. But if you're
going to go through with it, then... Look, what I'm trying
to say is that you're not going to get a second chance." A
single chime from the microwave interrupted her. The lasagna
was done. She ignored it. "It's the ultimate rollercoaster
ride. But if you keep trying to tame it, then I promise you,
at the end you'll have nothing but anticlimax."

She kissed my neck tenderly. I don't consider myself at all
bisexual, but Sophie and I have never been afraid to show
each other affection, and her kiss felt nice. The warmth of
her body was pressing into my back and butt. I responded by
pushing my ass against her mound.

"Trust me," she whispered. "No conditions. None. Apart from
those I choose to make on your behalf. If you're determined
to do this thing, then it's got to be done right."

She pulled the plastic clip of my bikini top. It relaxed and
my tits fell imperceptibly. Her slipped a hand into each of
the cups and then held the bulk of my tits in her palms,
weighing them. Unconsciously, I sucked in a breath and held
on to it waiting hopefully for whatever she would do next.

I could smell her perfume fresh from the shower, it was
familiar yet peculiarly exotic. It was intoxicating, making
me giddy and faint. She pulled me into her, her hands
holding my titties and squeezing both them and me against
herself. I could feel the nubs of her nipples pressed hard
against my back, separated from my flesh by the merest of
polyester blouses.

She whispered into my ear. The voice was low and husky. "Do
you trust me?" Her hands were now massaging my breasts,
using a thin coating of perspiration as her massage oil.
There had been many times when we had shown each other
affection, but this was beyond affection, we were now in
uncharted territory. Did I trust her? Absolutely. I said as
much.

"Then you must make no assumptions; demand no limits. I will
insist on whatever limits are necessary. I will do that on
your behalf, but I shall tell you nothing; and you will ask
me nothing. My limits may not be where you expect them to be
or indeed where you would like them to be."

I was terrified already; this was not what I had had in
mind. But I knew she was right. This was the beginning of
the biggest rollercoaster ride I had ever been upon, and,
believe me, I have tried them all. They always begin with a
long slow climb during which you are hauled up an unending
steep track, up, up, up: the ratchets are clicking
rhythmically; the ground is disappearing below; the
precipice is approaching, closer and closer it gets. Every
second that passes, the more awful becomes the anticipation,
the tighter the stomach muscles constrict, the more
terrifying the prospect of that wonderfully awsome moment of
being finally hurled into oblivion. Yet the more terrifying
the journey, the greater the buzz, the thrill, that
adrenaline charge as the ride comes to an end and you
realize that you have survived, that you're alive, and that
there is nothing better than just being alive.

A less terrifying ride must also be less exciting and come
the end, bring with it the sense of disappointment at how it
might have been. Sophie got her way. No demands, no
conditions.

Once that was settled, she seemed to take the whole thing
much more seriously. After weeks of getting nowhere, with
her demands met, it took her only five days to find "a tall
dark stranger". I deliberately call them her demands,
because, although I assented to them, I knew I had been
manipulated.

She rang me at work to tell me smugly that she had found
"the one", and now I had better start worrying.

I asked her later what she meant, but she just smiled
sweetly and refused to utter a word. She was now in charge,
directing matters, and she was enjoying doing it. I'm sure
it gave her a sexual buzz. She enjoyed teasing me. One
morning she asked me what I thought of anal sex. She knows
I've never tried it and find the idea revolting because I've
told her. She feels the same way too. So why did she ask?

Then there was the evening that she asked me how my
colleagues at work would react if they discovered naked
pictures of me on the internet.

"Why?" I asked, having a nasty feeling that I knew where
this was leading. "There are no naked pictures of me. I've
never taken any and I've certainly never allowed anyone else
to do so."

"But suppose there were," she persisted. "How would they
react? At work?"

"They'd probably jerk off. Maybe I'd find them always
looking me in the bust rather than in the eye. I'm sure
there would also be someone who would feel it their duty to
let me know about what everyone knows, because they feel so
very sorry for me. How would your colleagues react?"

Sophie became evasive. She was enjoying the power she held
over me. She was the one determining the rules for my
"encounter", which gave her the mastery and she was going to
make me squirm.

But conversations such as this were making me worried. If
she pulled off a stunt like that, allowing the stranger to
take and post indecent pictures, then, however much of a
scream it might be at the time, it would stop my career dead
in its tracks. How could any respected financial institution
promote someone whose tits had become a company logo and
whose ass was the butt of office humor?

Sophie also began bringing home a succession of men. I'm
sure there was nothing ever sexual between them, she was
still hot for Dennis, but there was always some excuse why
someone or other should have to pop in. This one came to
look over her car; that one was checking over the wiring;
another was going to look over the TV.

"There's nothing wrong with the TV," I declared.

"Haven't you noticed that the picture's been rather fuzzy
lately?" she responded, much too innocently. "Especially on
Channel 4?"

Mr. Fix-it adjusted the aerial by the minutest of amounts
for several minutes spending most of this time giving me
hard glances and displaying his manliness. Then he left. "He
was dishy," Sophie cooed, gazing out of the window after him
as he climbed into a powerful saloon car. "Didn't you think
so, Vickie?"

"He was a creep," I maintained, sitting down on the sofa. He
wasn't, but I wasn't prepared for the conversation. The TV
had been left on, and I switched over to the news.

"Just think, suppose he were the one, your 'tall dark
stranger', come to check you out."

"Why should it be him?" I asked, trying to concentrate on
the niceties of the latest diplomacy in Ireland.

"Why shouldn't it be him?" she threw the question back at
me. "It's got to be one of my friends or acquaintances. I
wouldn't ask a real stranger, now would I?"

I knew better than to bite.

"Or perhaps you think that I would," she continued. "I
suppose, you can't really be certain of anything?"

"Shut up, I trying to watch, can't you see?"

"What type of man would you prefer it to be? A master
cocksman or a sexy looking hunk?"

"Sophie! Hopefully, he'll at least be some kind of man. Do
we have to discuss this right now?"

"What it he were a creep and you absolutely couldn't stand
him? How would you feel, having to lie there as some
slimeball touches you up, as you feel his damp hands
crawling across your body...?"

"What I would prefer is if you would leave me alone," I
cried. "It's too much, Sophie. Just back off a little, can't
you? What's wrong with you? Enough."

I had upset her. I knew from the moment that I said it that
I had upset her. She blushed red, turned, left the room
quietly without saying a word, trotted upstairs and shut
herself in her room. Oh dear, Sophie was sulking. She
doesn't do it often, but when she does, it can be a real
pain.

I left her to sulk while I finished watching the news. It
would do us both good to cool off for a while. Then, I took
a deep breath and went to her. I knew that I was going to
have to eat some humble pie but it was a price worth paying.
When Sophie's sulks get properly established, you don't want
to be around. She sulks extremely audibly. I remember once
receiving a phone call during one of Sophie's extended
performances. It was from a boyfriend that I quite fancied
at the time. Sophie immediately turned the hi-fi up to full
volume. I couldn't hear a word he was saying. She wouldn't
turn it down until I hung up, when the volume immediately
returned to normal.

I knocked on her door, and, getting the expected lack of
response, pushed the door open. She was sitting sullenly on
the bed, bent forward, her hands clasped over her jeans, her
tousled dark brown hair fallen across her face.

I stepped in and sat beside her. "I'm sorry," I said. "I
didn't mean to snap."

"I want Richard," she said, pushing her hair out of her
eyes.

I wasn't with her at all. "Pardon?"

"I want Richard. You want your tall dark stranger. Well I
want Richard. I want to be fucked by him, I want to feel his
cock inside me, swollen and hard. I want to feel his need
and I want to satisfy that need, and I want him in your
bed."

I was not a little taken aback by her outburst. "I know
you're upset, Sophie..."

She stared into my eyes. Her eyes were ablaze and sparkled.
"I'm not joking, Vickie. I mean it. That is my darkest
fantasy, the one that sends shivers down my spine and
terrifies the shit out of me."

I didn't understand. She had never given me so much as an
inkling as to how she felt. She had said about sleeping with
him that first day, but that had been to punish me. She had
told that she had been joking. I had believed her. This was
a bolt from the blue. "But why? Richard is my fiance..."

"Which is why I need your help. You can't have your tall
dark stranger without me and I can't have Richard without
you."

"But I can't just go up to him and ask him to fuck you! What
would he say?"

"How would I know? You're his fiancee. Don't you know?"

"Sophie! You're not being fair! He's mine."

"This isn't about being fair. I can't help what lights my
fuse any more than you can help what lights yours. The idea
of it excites me, that's all I know. I didn't choose for it
to excite me any more than you chose for your fantasy to
excite you. Honestly, Vickie, it's you that isn't being
fair, if there's a lack of fairness around here. We both
promised that we wouldn't be judgmental."

I had to apologize again. I couldn't remember when, but I
was sure I must have promised. But that didn't make me any
happier. I shook my head slowly. It was an outward
manifestation of my inner antipathy rather than being aimed
at Sophie. She saw it, however, and lashed out angrily.

"Look, you tell me you can't ask Richard to fuck me. That's
a lot easier than what you asked me to do. I've had to ask
men, just acquaintances some of them, whether they would be
willing to drive five hundred miles and then pretend to rape
a friend of mine. Can you imagine the type of looks that got
me?"

I sighed. She was right, but still I didn't think she was
being fair in asking to sleep with my man; whatever else she
had done and was doing for me, I wasn't going to be sleeping
with Dennis. Was I? Now there was a thought. Could that be?
I pondered it for a moment before deciding that although he
was tall and dark, he didn't qualify as he wasn't a
stranger.

"Look, let me think about it," I said at last. "Maybe I'll
get used to the idea. It's just... well, you said you
couldn't help the way you felt; I can't help the way I feel
either. I can't help feeling uncomfortable about letting you
sleep with the man I intend to marry. Is that so unusual?"

She nodded. "By all means think about it. Get used to the
idea, but I'm serious, Vickie. You promised, remember. That
first day, you promised you would help me act out my fantasy
whatever it might be. I'm holding you to that promise."

Then she leant across and kissed me on the cheek. It was a
lingering kiss, long and sensual. I knew then that I was on
a loser, I knew that somehow, finally, in the end, she was
going to get her way.

Watch out, Vickie, I thought to myself. You're playing with
fire here, and you're liable to get yourself burned.

End Of Part One

Part Two

It was a difficult holiday to plan for. I told myself that I
should treat it as a normal vacation. I was going away for a
few days, I was going to have a good time, and whatever else
that Sophie was planning for me should come as a "surprise".

However I found this easier to say than to do. After all, it
wasn't a normal holiday. I was going to be attacked, I was
going to be stripped - oh, the very thought of it makes me
breathless - and I had no idea whether this was going to
occur towards the beginning of the week, at the end, or
somewhere in between. I found myself buying lots of new
underwear; imagine the humiliation of being ordered to
undress and for him to discover me in scruffy undergarments!

There were also lots of other seemingly insignificant
trifles. For instance, as I lay in the bath one evening
bringing myself to a beautiful climax I wondered whether I
should shave myself down there. How would he react if I did?
Would it turn him on, or would he think me a slut and make
me pay? Perhaps by performing degrading sluttish acts for
his pleasure? I could always tell him that Richard insisted
that I shave. But then, how would I explain my bare slit to
Richard? He had never expressed much of a preference one way
or the other: that was Richard's way. Maybe I could tell him
that it was a surprise, to show how much I had missed him?
In the end I decided to leave well alone, trimming the hair
slightly as is my custom, but not going the Full Monty.

Richard had initially been surprised that I was going away.
But, he's such a dear; it was real easy to bring him around.

"I need a break," I told him. "Haven't you noticed how
stressed I've been lately? I just need a few days by myself
to recharge my batteries and sort myself out. And since I'm
going on the Monday and coming back on the Friday, it won't
affect you at all. You'll be in Manchester the whole time,
you won't even notice that I'm gone."

"I'll expect you to bring me back a present," he joked,
pecking me on the cheek. "A decent whiskey, perhaps?"

I duly promised and he was thus appeased.

On the Friday evening preceding the holiday, shortly before
Richard arrived home from Manchester for the weekend, Sophie
lay out some papers on the coffee table for me to sign.

"I promised the stranger that I would get you to do this,"
she explained. "Just so that he has some cover legally. I'm
not sure that this agreement does have any validity in law,
but to keep him happy... He thinks it will give him some
protection if you suddenly start shouting rape after the
fact."

I reached over to pick up the contract, but Sophie caught my
hand. "No," she said, holding tightly onto my wrist. "I'm
afraid you can't actually read what you're signing."

I was aghast. "How can you expect me to sign something that
I've not read?"

"How can you expect someone to fuck you when by the nature
of the exercise you're not going to give your consent?"
Sophie retaliated. "He has to have some kind of protection.
And the reason I can't let you read the contract is because
it contains both the stranger's name and a list of things he
is and isn't allowed to do to you. If I allow you to read
it, then there's no point, is there? He won't be a stranger
and you won't be surprised. Is that what you want?"

"No," I sighed resignedly. I took the pen she was holding.
"Where do you want me to sign?"

I scrawled my name at the bottom of each of the two copies
of the contract, which Sophie then whisked away. "Now," she
said. "A few last minute instructions before Richard
arrives. The guy that I've found is clean and I trust him."

"Then I trust him too."

"Two things. First: protection. I'm assuming your pills are
up to date? They need to be because he won't be using
anything. Whoever heard of a rapist being careful?"

I nodded. "It isn't a problem. I need them for Richard,
anyway."

"I thought as much, but it's wise to check. Second, when and
wherever you meet my stranger, the first thing that he'll
say to you will be: 'Quiet bitch, if you know what's good
for you.' When he says that then you'll know that you're
dealing with my psychopath and not any local specimen."

I repeated the words. It took me two attempts to get them
out. Even in my own quiet voice they sounded so fierce and
awful. "Quiet bitch, if you know what's good for you."

God, was I really going to be able to go through with this?

"That's right," Sophie confirmed. "Now when he says that,
you must respond, 'Get out of here, you pervert.' If you say
anything else, if you get the words wrong then he'll back
off and leave you alone. Understand?"

I laughed. "Christ, this is out of a spy thriller."

"Quite," Sophie agreed. "But, we're talking major
catastrophe and ruined lives if this goes wrong. He has to
be sure that he's dealing with the right woman. Understand."

I did.

"Then tell me," she pursued. "Repeat it again. What is it
that you say?"

Obediently, I repeated my line. "Get out of here, you
pervert."

"That's it. Once you've exchanged those phrases, then you
can be sure that you're dealing with my man and you're not
the victim of an unfortunate coincidence. Likewise, he can
be certain that he's got the right woman and that he isn't
going to be in court with the flimsiest of excuses."

It sounded good to me. Sophie had been working hard. "Got
it."

"Good."

Sophie then said, rather deliberately. "Once you've said
your phrase, there's no way back. There'll be no safewords,
no notice taken of any protest, nothing. From that point
it's absolutely for real. I have laid out some rules, and
they're set out in the contract that you signed, but as we
agreed, they remain known only to me and to him. You can
look over the contract afterwards if you like, but not
before."

Hearing Sophie lay everything out so precisely and
legalistically was making me apprehensive. Was this really
what I wanted? How did I know that great though the fantasy
might be, I might absolutely hate the reality? Once the ride
began, there was to be no way off. Was that what I wanted?
Shouldn't I provide an escape route? What if every moment
turned out to be a nightmare? Torture? I sighed. Nothing
ventured; nothing gained. There was only one way I was going
to discover the answers, and that was to go on.

Additionally, I couldn't start changing the rules now; I had
gone too far. I had too much pride invested in the success
of this enterprise.

I was in a souped up state all that weekend, I snapped at
Sophie. Twice I dropped and smashed the porcelain, the
second time it was a real nice milk jug too. A couple of
times Richard put his arm round me and asked if anything
were the matter. "Oh no," I answered. "I'm just a little
preoccupied with my holiday."

"Poor soul," he said, drawing me to him and holding me in
his arms. "I think this break is going to do you a power of
good."

I surely hoped that he was right.

Sophie got up to see me off that Monday morning. Richard had
already left for Manchester. It struck me as strange that
Sophie was taking the trouble, as she's not normally too
good at getting up in the morning. She's much more of a late
bird. We were standing in the porch; I had put my bag in the
car and with the exception of saying a final farewell, I was
ready to leave. Sophie pulled me to her and kissed me on the
lips, "Good luck," she whispered softly in my ear.

"Thanks," I grinned, quietly cursing her for the mess she
had just made to my make-up. "And thanks for all you've done
to make this possible."

She nodded quickly. "Don't mention it," she said. "You're
doing just as much for me, aren't you?"

My grin cracked. "Yes. Of course."

This was a supposedly subtle reminder that I had still to
arrange for her to sleep with Richard. I had been ignoring
this in the hope that somehow it would go away.

"One final thing," she said. "Your mobile."

"Yes. What about it?"

"I want it. It stays here."

"Sophie!" I protested. "I've got to have my phone. What will
Richard say? He'll be trying to get hold of me!"

"I'll answer if it rings. I'll tell people that you forgot
it: an oversight. These things happen. You were in such a
hurry to get away."

"But why can't I have my phone?" I whined.

She glared at me, and, of course, I knew she was right. What
was the point of going to some remote location beyond the
reach of civilization if that civilization is always just a
few key presses away?

She took the phone with smug satisfaction and escorted me to
the car. The streetlights cast their orange glow over the
autumnal garden and the empty road. The moon was up and the
birds asleep. I opened the driver's door and was about to
get in when I turned and gave Sophie one last hug. She
patted me gently on the back. "Come on there," she
whispered. "You'd better get going if you want to miss the
traffic. Go, and have the most fabulous, spine tingling,
earth shattering time."

"I'll try," I grinned and climbed into the car. She waved me
one final kiss, which I returned and then I was off. The
adventure had begun.

I looked at the time. It was still long before daybreak. I
wanted to escape as much of the rush hour traffic as I could
and at least get beyond Birmingham before it got too busy. I
was then planning on heading north up the M6. However, as I
listened to the traffic bulletins on the radio, I kept
hearing of long tailbacks on the M6 due to carriageway
repairs, so I stuck to the M1.

Anyhow, enough of such matters. What is more important is
that it was rush hour at the other end of the day when I
finally got to the farmhouse. But what a difference! There
was hardly a car on the road, though when there was it
usually meant someone backing to the nearest passing place.
It was beautiful here; picturesque wooded glens and rugged
mountains. The scenery was so spectacular that I almost
forgot that I was exhausted having spent most of the day on
the road.

Now, my instructions were that I should find a small farm,
and from there, its farmer. He would check me in. When I
finally found the farm, two dogs met me on an unmade road
covered in sticky mud. I squelched from the car to the door
in my inappropriate heels while the dogs barked and declared
my presence to the entire glen.

As it happened, the farmer was out somewhere doing what
farmers do, and I was met by his sister who ordered away the
dogs and then went to find the keys to the 'crofthouse'.

"Would you like me to come over and show you around?" she
asked as she returned, key in hand. A teething toddler
teetered to the door with her, clinging precariously to her
skirt.

I took the key from her hand, smiling and making baby noises
at the toddler. "Oh, no," I insisted. "There's no need at
all. I shall be just fine."

Indeed I was. The farmhouse, or crofthouse, as I must now
learn to call it, was about a mile away, set about a hundred
yards off the road facing the sea. By now the sun was
beginning to go down and the sky was a glorious mixture of
orange, red and purple hues.

I took my bag from the back of the car, then, more out of
habit than necessity I locked the car. I couldn't imagine
having too many problems with thieves in as remote a place
as this. However, London habits die hard. That done, I went
to explore what was to become my home for the next five
days.

The house I had rented was a stone built cottage dating from
the 1880s or 1890s and now renovated to be a holiday home.
It was immediately obvious from the most cursory of
inspections that I was guilty of considerable under
occupation. There were two bedrooms, and, in the spacious
living room, I could, if I wanted, also turn the sofa into a
sofa bed.

"A bed for every night that I'm here," I thought idly to
myself. "And even then one to spare."

I looked round carefully, particularly noting places where
someone might be able to hide. "Must be careful," I thought.
I was beginning to toy with the idea of overpowering my tall
dark stranger and giving him some of his own medicine. "That
would give him a nasty surprise!"

I could lock him in one of the bedrooms and then tantalize
him with my body, rubbing my hands over it and teasing him.
And whenever I felt horny he would have to fuck me, a
different way every time. And for entertainment in the
evening I would do things in front of him, real sexy things,
and make him jerk off in front of me. Now that was a
thought!

I showered, then drove into the small village of Durness in
order to eat. Nothing eventful happened. From the size of
the village and the manner of those few inhabitants that I
met, this was the charm of the place. Nothing eventful ever
happened around here.

"But something eventful is going to happen this week," I
thought. "Something very eventful." Although, perhaps not
today.

Of course, I was cautious, but I wasn't expecting anything
much to happen that first day. I reasoned that Sophie was
sure to allow me time to recover from such a long journey.

The following day, however, would be a different story. I
awoke that next morning with a tight knot in my stomach.
Today was going to be the day: I felt it.

So what should I do? Should I wait around for something to
happen? Too boring. What then?

I began to rub my clit, gently at first. Perhaps if I went
for a walk, took in the local ambiance, after all, it was
his job to find me, not my job to allow myself to be found.

This wasn't comfortable. The bed sheet had come loose and
was bunched up under me. Christ! How can I masturbate if I'm
not relaxed and comfortable? I kicked the covers off the bed
and then pulled my nightdress over my head. It wouldn't take
long, just a few minutes, and then I would go and look for
breakfast. I slipped my knickers down my legs and tossed
them onto the bedroom carpet atop the pile of bed covers.
Finally, I straightened the errant sheet.

A man at the restaurant had told me the previous evening
that there was a haunted bay close by, which sounded like it
would be fun to visit. "What you're looking for when you
visit a haunted bay?" I wondered, climbing back onto the bed
and settling myself down. That was better, I was comfortable
now. I wondered how I would tell the difference between a
moaning ghost and the sound of the seals, puffins and sea
gulls that also share this rugged coastline.

I started to tickle my clit again, trying to regain lost
momentum. Perhaps if I rubbed my tits with my other hand?
Yes, that's better.

The haunted bay was also supposed to be the home of
mermaids. Perhaps this explained why the ghost was moaning;
it was with the pleasure of screwing these lustful mermaids.
I had this mental picture of dozens of them reclining on the
rocks awaiting their opportunity with the ghost of a
shipwrecked mariner.

When he was finished with one, they would all preen
themselves, push up their naked bosoms and wiggle their
tail. He would look over the crowd, and decide his mood.
Tits or ass? Blondes or brunettes? Wherever the whimsy took
him he would point: you. Me? Yes, you. She blushes and
shudders and waits for him to take her. He is rough looking,
coarse and hairy; a man of the sea accustomed to take what
he can, a man who is untamed and unrefined. His cock still
lies limp between his legs. He is expecting her to do
something to excite it, to arouse it. What can she do?

She takes his penis and places it between her breasts,
squeezing them together. "If you like," she says. "When it
gets hard, you can stick it in my ass." For it is a known
fact, that although mermaids have a tail and no vagina, they
do have an asshole. Think: if their only hole was their
mouth, they would eventually explode: for what goes in, must
come out. It is also known that while a mermaid will suck
many men, she will save her ass for someone special.

The cock between her breasts springs to life. She squeezes
it harder, pushing her boobies over it, tit fucking him.
"You want it, you want my ass, don't you?" she glows. He
moans. Or is it the sound of seals or puffins; or is it
perhaps even the sea gulls that I hear?

I crush my own tits in my hands. I want them to hurt me. I
want somehow, to feel. I'm gasping for air; gasping for him.
Where are you, my dark stranger?

The mermaid is kneeling and he is in her, he is inside her
ass and she is crying with delight. I can see his dick,
plunging in and out, she is so happy that she has made him
so hard.

He pulls from her at the last, his penis pulsating and
spurting; the come drops into the sea and forms a white foam
upon the waves. I look along the beach at the waves that
pound the shore. There is so much white foam there, mixed
upon the crashing waves: so much spunk, no wonder he moans.

I tried to refocus on my stranger, to concentrate upon my
man. What kind of man had Sophie found? I knew her well
enough to know that it would be someone strong and dominant.
She knew me well enough to know what I was after.

My breathing was quickening; my legs were sprawled apart, my
cunt an open invitation. I was wet; I wanted a quick
release; I wanted... No. It wasn't right.

I can't keep doing this, I thought. I can't keep bringing
myself off every few hours anticipating the moment that he
takes me. If I do, then, when he finally does, my sensations
will be dull and flat.

But I can't stop now, I thought. Let me just finish and then
I won't do it any more until he comes. Somewhere in my head,
a little voice tutted, and told me that I was being weak.

"What if he's outside, and jumps you as you leave?" it said.
"Those sensations will be so dull and flat after all this
masturbation. Such a shame!"

"But I can't stop now," I protested.

"You will make exactly the same excuses tonight."

"No I won't."

"You are kidding yourself. You are just procrastinating."

I took that voice and squashed it dead. No argument, no
fuss: all gone.

I imagined the things he would make me do, my stranger. He
would make me talk dirty to him; he would make me his slave.
Oh god, I was so wet, my fingers were soaked, my swollen
cunt dripping with desire.

What if he brings a cane or a tawse, and then threatens to
beat me if I don't comply with his every wish? I could
imagine him holding me over his lap, both of us naked, his
cock swollen and pressing against me, a single strong arm
pressing into the small of my back and holding me still as I
kicked and screamed.

"Get off of me, you fucking monster," I scream as his large
hand comes thudding down upon my exposed posterior. His
reaction is simply to dip his fingers into the cleft between
my flapping legs and feel my cunt. Those fingers come out
sticky and glistening with my juices. I hate him knowing
what he is doing to me: it is so humiliating. I try to pull
my arms from his grasp; I must be able to pull one of them
free. This is silly, how can he hold both of my arms with a
single hand? But he does. Struggle as I will, kick as I
will, I cannot pull either of those hands loose.

His hand thuds once more against my angry backside: again
and again and again. I wonder if he will pity me if I cry.
Something must be done to end this humiliation. I turn on my
tears; I weep and sob and beg. "Please, for god's sake, I
beg you. What do you want? I'll do it. Please, just don't
hit me any more."

He stops.

I've won. I knew it. I knew the tears must work.

But he isn't releasing me. His cock is as rigid as ever
against my tummy, it's like a spear poking into me. For that
I hate him most of all: that he can take pleasure in
humiliating me.

He talks to me firmly, calmly, never once raising his voice.
When I scream, he waits until I finish, and then continues
what he was saying.

"Discipline is a sign of love," he says. "If I didn't
discipline you, it would be as good as saying that I don't
love you."

"That's crap." I say. "You're doing it because it turns you
on."

He agrees. "Yes, it turns me on. How could I not be turned
on when your naked body flails on my lap, jerking and
twitching as I hit it; when your legs kick without regard
for modesty or for what secrets might be revealed."

"It hurts," I complain. "If you loved me then you wouldn't
hurt me."

"Discipline must hurt a little," he explains. "Unless there
is some pain there isn't any discipline."

I scream aloud as the hand of my imagined savior made
contact again, slapping hard against my buttocks and feeding
my carnal inclination.

I was almost there; I could feel my heart pounding and my
body tensing. I imagined him gripping my arms, holding me
still as he inserted his purple cock, long and swollen with
the excitement of punishing my backside. It slid into my
silky slit and came out glistening with my juices. He pushed
it deeper into me. I gasped and he reached forward and
kissed my forehead. He was stern and distant, staring firmly
into my eyes, demanding my total submission.

Oh god, please, yes, yes. It came. I came. My orgasm filled
and then washed over me, buffeting and rocking me from side
to side. I rode with the wave, rubbing my clit, feeling
desire turn into satisfaction, lust into contentment. It was
over.

I lay on the bed happily exhausted, catching my breath, a
warm glow radiating through my whole body. Life was good; it
was sweet and pleasant and I was content.

I must then have drifted to sleep, for I was awoken
suddenly. Someone was banging on the door.

I froze. There was only one person I could think that it
might be. Who else could be calling on me in this remote
place? As I had chosen the back bedroom, I tiptoed, still
unclothed, through to the front bedroom so that I might spy
on him. Nervously, I pulled the curtain back, holding it
against myself in case I should be seen.

Christ! It was him. My stranger! There was a man standing by
my front door. He was tall, dark and certainly a real hunk.
He wore a heavy jacket that did nothing to hide his
manliness. His face had craggy lines and a strong shape. I
recognized his type! This was the kind of man that could
undress a girl with his eyes, whisk her off her feet and
then crush her in his caress. Even after all my recent solo
activity, I could feel myself beginning to lubricate. Those
eyes! He was looking this way! He had only to look up and
see me and it would turn me to jelly. I would then be
powerless, fated to drop the curtain revealing my naked self
in that upper window to him. I would be impotent to do
anything but stand here exposed, defenseless and allow him
to look freely upon my body. I was sure that if, when that
happened then he would break down the door, rush up the
stairs and take my unclothed shaking body into his sturdy
arms.

He had either heard or seen me move the curtain. "Miss
Mitchell?" the stranger inquired.

I held on to the curtain, but it slipped unsteadily in my
fingers. I felt him gaze upon the rise of my breasts. He
wanted to see just those few inches more. The curtain
slipped slightly again.

"Yes?" I replied. God, was that really my voice? It was so
husky! I could almost hear my desire calling out to him.

"My sister told me that you had arrived. I called to see if
everything was all right. Is there anything you need?"

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The fantasy was consuming me; it was
taking me over. It was the farmer, my landlord! It wasn't my
stranger at all. I tightened my grip on the curtain. How
much had he seen? How much had I shown him? "Everything's
fine," I called down cheesily, forcing a smile when none was
forthcoming.

Then, after a long pause, I said: "I was just about to take
a shower." His eyes had been darting inquisitively over the
curtain. I just had to say something.

He returned my smile. "Let me know if you need anything,
anything at all. You know where we are."

I smiled woodenly and wished him a good day. He turned and I
watched him walk back down the path. His Land Rover was
parked at the far end of the drive on the road. He got in,
started the engine and drove off.

I fell back from the window and I found that I was shaking.
Christ, this thing was turning me into a nervous wreck. I
had just exposed my breasts to a total stranger! Hell! I
padded back to my room, and from there to the shower. Was I
going to be able to last the week out, I wondered? I was on
sexual tenterhooks. As I directed the shower into my pussy
it began to express need once more. No! This was too much to
bear. Hurriedly, I escaped the shower, and slipped into a
pair of French knickers and a half bra, over which I pulled
on a pair of slacks and a cotton top.

If I didn't get out and about soon, then my tall dark
stranger was going to find me an exhausted sexual wreck.
That was not the plan.

I drove into Durness and grabbed myself a MacDonalds. It
wasn't actually a MacDonalds, I couldn't find a MacDonalds,
but they sold me breakfast and a pot of tea, and they were
very hospitable.

What was I going to do with the rest of the day?

What I actually ended up doing was drive along the West
Highland Tourist Route. The traditional crofting landscapes
of that tranquil coast road calmed me down. Later, I did
some shopping. I bought a bottle of Dalwhinnie, a locally
distilled fifteen-year-old classic malt, I was reliably
informed. I also treated myself to a jar of whiskey
marmalade and a new jacket. The latter was definitely
necessary if I was to venture out of the car. I hadn't
realized just how cold it was here compared with London; it
must be at least ten degrees colder.

The day passed quickly, partly because there is so much less
daylight this far north at the end of October. Time to go
home. I was full of foreboding as I got back to the
crofthouse. My drive helped to emphasize just how isolated
this place was. If I wanted, I could shout and scream and
there was nobody to take notice. I didn't have my mobile and
the cottage didn't have a phone. As far as I could tell, the
closest human habitation was the farmer and his family at
the croft, over a mile away.

When I got back, I cut the engine but left the car lights
on, shining on the cottage. I sat for almost fifteen minutes
in the car, staring at the bleak stone of the crofthouse. I
was certain that someone was in the house.

"He's got a spare key," I thought. Sophie could easily have
arranged that. "He's in there, waiting to pounce."

So what should I do? I could hardly arm myself with a weapon
such as a stick or a club. This guy wasn't a real intruder!
Neither could I drive over to the croft and call the police
to search the house for me. Whatever could I say to them if
they found him? "Don't arrest him, officer, he's only
pretending to stalk me..." What then?

Nervously, I got out of the car and walked to the house.
There was a cold wind blowing and the evening was black.
Terrified, I opened the front door. "Hello," I called out.
"Is there anybody there?" No answer.

I think it took me about an hour and a half to search that
house. I was scared shitless. I would stand outside a room,
too frightened to open the door, listening beside it for
noises inside. He must be here somewhere, I kept telling
myself. But what do I do when I find him? Do I run out of
the house screaming? Do I try to fight him? I was tempted to
leave at once and see if I could find a room in the village.

Next, I tried humming to myself, but that almost sent me
totally over the edge. The sound of my voice sounded so
eerie upon the silence. Worst was knowing that he was
listening to me. He was here somewhere: I knew it. How he
must be laughing at my fear! He would tell Sophie, of
course, he would tell her all the gory details... I stopped
humming.

By the time I had finally satisfied myself that I had been
wrong, and that I was after all totally alone, I was nothing
more than a heap of jelly. "And you thought you were real
brave doing this, didn't you, gal?" I chastised myself.
"Whereas in truth you're just another shivering yellow
belly. You're just one of those females who goes to pieces
at the sight of her own shadow. You should be so ashamed of
yourself."

I was. So much so that I made myself depressed. I was
depressed by my own fear, depressed especially by the sense
of anticlimax that he had not come and that I must repeat
the whole nerve-wracking experience again tomorrow.

And the next day turned out to be just as frustrating. A
terrifying day that frayed all of my nerve endings and ended
as it had begun: strangerless. I had been convinced that he
was going to come for me on the Tuesday, but if not Tuesday,
then it had to be Wednesday.

That evening - Wednesday it is now - safely tucked up in the
cottage, I showered and dressed. As an afterthought, I
looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and I unbuttoned my
blouse partway, checking what this did for my cleavage. For
a while I fastened and unfastened buttons, trying to decide
what he would find sexiest if he were to come for me
tonight. Finally, I decided to remove my bra and leave the
blouse totally unfastened. "He'll like that," I whispered to
myself in the mirror, testing its effect by moving to the
left and the right. "Come and get me, stranger. If you want
me, then you're going to have to take me."

I went downstairs and watched TV. My heart raced at every
noise, at the doors creaking in the wind, at the sea
crashing against the rocks or the nocturnal creatures on the
prowl. I wavered between moments when I really yearned for
him to come and put an end to my anxiety, and others when
even the idea that there might be a man lurking outside,
intent on both stripping and overpowering me, was
terrifying.

"What are you doing to yourself, Vickie?" I asked aloud.
"Why do you stay here? Is it worth this anxiety? You must be
mad, really mad. If a shrink could get hold of you now, what
a field day he would have. What reason do you have for
putting yourself through such torture? It's so irrational."

I calmed myself with a couple of glasses of Richard's
scotch. Maybe it wasn't just a couple, I didn't count. They
relaxed me, then made me woozy and finally sleepy. I fell
asleep in front of the TV and when I awoke I had a horrible
headache.

I groaned, ouch, it was morning. Holding my head in one hand
and my stomach in the other I crawled upstairs to the
bathroom where I searched out a couple of aspirin. "Too
much," I grunted at the insipid looking individual looking
back at me from the bathroom mirror. "This is not the fun
game I thought it was going to be." The person to whom I was
speaking refused to comment.

I was by now thoroughly fed up with it all. I would have
worn an old faded pair of knickers that morning, had I
brought any; an ill-fitting or torn bra, had I possessed
one; snagged hose rather than sheer stockings, had I not
left every pair that I owned at home.

I dressed sexily that morning not through any desire to be
sexy, but rather because that was the only type of under
garment that I had brought.

Sometimes, I thought philosophically, looking at the
glamorous but gaunt woman standing in my bathroom mirror
attired in just her under clothes, we become what
circumstances dictate for us rather than what we would like
ourselves to be.

She looked back and stuck her tongue out at me.

I went downstairs in my underthings and made myself two mugs
of strong black coffee and sat them side by side on the
kitchen table. I then sat morosely sipping alternately from
the two mugs. Fortunately, it seemed that I hadn't overly
over imbibed because the combination of aspirin and coffee
gradually cleared my head.

I sat there until, an hour or so later, a full bladder
impelled me to take steps to remove some of the coffee from
my system. Once I had done what was necessary, I felt much
better.

Get dressed, gal, I told myself. What are you going to put
on? A roll necked sweater and some jeans, I think. Some
blusher; red lipgloss; a little eye shadow; then I'll go
somewhere distant, the mountains. There I can think; I can
calm down. I can see things in perspective.

I grabbed my new jacket. "Cold in the mountains," I thought.
I grabbed my purse. Is there anything else that I would
need? Probably not. "Goodbye, terrible house," I thought,
closing and locking the front door. "I'm not sure that we're
still friends. You're too cold and silent."

I walked to the car, unlocked it and climbed in. "The
mountains," I said out loud. "Where the air is clear and the
mind can focus."

I started the ignition. There was a click, the offside door
opened, and someone jumped in. Did I scream? No I didn't
scream. Did I protest? I said nothing. He was in the front
passenger seat and had closed the door before I had a chance
to breathe, to even be aware of what was happening.

His hand took hold of my arm and pulled it toward him. There
was a steel bracelet in his hand and a moment later it
encircled my wrist.

End Of Part Two

Part Three

I reached for the driver's door: instinct, panic. I threw it
open. As I tried to get out, I heard the snap of metal on
metal behind me. I think I was shouting, perhaps I was
screaming, I was frightened, shocked, taken unawares.

My arm met resistance as I tried to escape, as I tried to
clamber out of that car. I saw what he had done. My wrist
was cuffed to the steering wheel. I pulled at it. The car
rocked slightly from side to side but otherwise nothing
happened. I was going nowhere without that wheel.

The stranger had not said a word. I knew who he was; I
stared at him with both hatred and fear. He was my stranger;
Sophie had sent him. He got back out and walked round the
front to my side of the car. He did it nonchalantly, calmly.
Why not? He knew that I wasn't going anywhere.

He was every bit as tall and dark as I had imagined him. As
he passed in front of me I could see that he was broad as
well as tall with a chiseled face and determined eyes that
examined me as I sat imprisoned half inside, half outside
the car.

"Let me go?" I cried, slinking back into my seat and
cowering upon it. "I've changed my mind. I don't want this."

He reached my side of the car and bent down beside me. He
was holding another pair of handcuffs and it was obvious
what he intended to do with them. "No," I cried. "I don't
want it. Go away!"

"Of course, you don't want it," he said. "But no one here is
too interested in what you want, are they?" These were the
first words that he had spoken. They sent shivers down my
spine. His voice was deep, firm and unyielding.

I moved my free arm into the car, recoiling from him, hoping
that he wouldn't be able to reach me.

"Fuck you," I cried. "I hate you, get away from me."

Days of fear and anticipation now had an outlet. I wanted to
get away from this place with its isolation and solitude. I
wanted to be home.

He didn't fight. He simply reached into the car and tickled
my unprotected stomach and when I had to stop him, couldn't
help but push his hand away; he caught mine in his and
clasped it in his cruel bracelet.

"What are you doing?" I screamed at him. "This isn't what I
asked for. There'll be hell to pay when I get back." He
fastened the other cuff to the steering wheel and walked
back to the passenger's side and got in.

Suddenly, I recalled the code phrases. He hadn't used them.
Why hadn't he used them?

"You're not supposed to be doing it like this," I wailed.
"You're supposed to say 'Quiet bitch'. You didn't say it.
You can't do anything to me unless you say your phrase and I
give you my line. You can't."

"But that's so melodramatic," he said, closing his door and
fastening his seat belt. "You know who I am and I know you."

At once, I felt terribly cold. He was abandoning Sophie's
instructions. I knew I was in trouble, the plan was falling
to pieces. I took deep breaths. In, out; in, out. Make
yourself calm, Vickie. Calm down. In, out.

"If you don't wait for me to call you a pervert," I said
icily, "then you don't have my consent and I'll have you
arrested and sent to jail."

He was unperturbed. "I don't think so. Those silly lines
were never intended to provide consent, simply to aid
identification. As I've already established who you are I
don't need them."

"Bastard."

"Let's go, shall we?"

"You intend to rape me against my will?"

He turned in his seat towards me, for a couple of beats he
just watched me, his face as firm as stone. Then he reached
over and allowed his hand to wander across my jacket and
sweater. "Can you rape someone in any other way?" he asked.

I screamed. I rocked in my seat and pulled with all my might
upon the handcuffs. "Get off me! Don't you dare touch me!
Get away! Can't you see? I've had enough. This isn't fun.
Don't you understand? Don't you care?"

He didn't answer. He sat and waited. He allowed me to scream
and shout and fight. When I tired, he reached across and
touched me again and that provoked more frenetic reaction.
Next time he stroked my cheek, then the clothes over my
chest, and each time I would scream and fight. Gradually,
however, perhaps because I was growing accustomed to his
presence or perhaps because I was growing emotionally
exhausted, I grew quieter and more thoughtful.

"Are you really going to make me? If I tell you, from my
heart, 'no', why won't you listen to me?"

He ignored everything I had just said. "Where are we going?"
he asked.

"You'd really go through with it? You'd make me do it,
simply because I signed that piece of paper? Are you really
such a monster?"

He repeated his question. "Where are we going?"

I think that was the first time I heard what he said rather
than simply knowing that he had spoken, and I was
bewildered. I think I almost spoke rationally. "You mean,
you mean, you want me to drive you somewhere. Like this?" I
shook my wrists and the cuffs jangled.

He examined quickly how each of the cuffs was fastened.
"Yes," he said finally. "I think so. I can't think of any
reason why not. Are we going someplace nice?"

Once again I pulled at the cuffs; I pulled hard with all my
strength. The car rocked as it had done before. It rocked
alarmingly; I could hear the springs of the suspension
protesting, but the steering wheel and the cuffs remained
intractable. All I was achieving was to bruise my own
wrists.

"There's no need to fight me," the stranger said calmly.
Damn, he wasn't even looking at me. He was looking out of
the window at a little fishing boat sailing on the waves.
"You'll just wear yourself out. Much better to enjoy the
ride."

The penny dropped. Sophie had told him about the
rollercoaster! What else had she told him? What else did
this guy know about me? I was horrorstruck.

He smiled and nodded. He knew that I knew. "Once you're on
the rollercoaster," he said, deliberately confirming my
suspicions. "Once the ride has started and you're on your
way up that long incline, you're already past the point of
no return. There's no going back, no stopping. You can't get
off. You can shout, you can scream, you can tear your
insides out, but come what may, you've got to stick with the
ride until the bitter end. True?"

In any other situation this guy might even appear normal.
You'd never pick him in a crowd. You'd never look over,
point and say, "Hey, look, there goes the rapist!" I liked
the smell of his cologne; I liked the cut of his clothes.
But let's not fool ourselves, eh? "True," I acknowledged
quietly.

"Therefore you have a choice; you can try to enjoy the ride,
see where it takes you, frightening though it might be; or
you can fight it every step of the way. You've simply got to
ask yourself which way is going to give you the greater
thrill. For what its worth, my opinion is that it's better
to try and enjoy it. But that's up to you."

"What are you intending to do with me?" I asked nervously.

"That's for me to find out and for you to experience," he
said.

"I'd rather you let me go."

"I know."

"I'll hate you forever."

"Perhaps."

I scowled. "But you will stick to Sophie's rules?"

"There are no rules." I swallowed awkwardly, my throat was
dry. He said it with such conviction and darkness that I had
no problem believing him, no problem at all.

"Did I hear you say that you'd like to go to the mountains?"
he asked. "Is that what I heard? I thought that was what you
said."

"What? Like this?" I protested, pulling upon the cuffs. What
if we get stopped by police?"

"Unlikely." he said. "And, around here, plenty of time to
take evasive action."

"But I can't drive like this," I squealed. "I can't reach
the gear shift!"

He smiled. "Teamwork, There are many things that can't be
done by one person, yet, with imagination, can be done by
two."

I caught the double entendre but ignored it. "Okay, then
tell me, how?"

"Just drive as you normally would. When you want to change
gear, say the gear out loud and if you depress the clutch,
I'll move the gear shift."

I couldn't do that. I threw myself at the wheel. "You'll
kill us, have you seen what the roads are like around here?"

"Quiet. We'll be fine."

I couldn't believe what he wanted me to do. "You'll kill
us," I repeated.

He didn't however. It took some getting used to at first,
especially when trying to accelerate up a hill, but, I have
to say, even if we never got much above twenty-five miles
per hour, we did a pretty good job of a pretty stupid thing.

We cut inland, crossing heather clad hills and moorlands,
passing the sad remains of old depopulated villages. He
directed me first this way, then that way along small little
used roads. As we climbed into the rugged highland
mountains, a thin layer of snow met us. It had fallen
overnight and hadn't yet thawed. It was still pretty early
for snow.

He seemed to know where he was going for the directions kept
coming without pause or doubt. As I began to wonder how far
we were travelling and whether I would have enough fuel for
the return trip, we came to our destination. A little wooden
cabin deep in the forest. The signs at the entrance
indicated that this was a holiday park belonging to the
Forestry Commission.

"Over there," he directed. "Park between those trees." I
looked where he had pointed. There were car tracks in the
snow. Someone else had also parked in this spot recently. I
followed the tracks to their end and then stopped.

"Neutral, I said, as he slipped the car out of gear. I cut
the engine.

"Handbrake."

He immediately nodded and applied it. "Well done, you see
how much is possible when you're able to trust someone."

Ignoring him, I looked round at the surroundings. The resort
seemed deserted. "Where is everyone?" I asked. "Don't they
use this place? Don't tell me you've rented a whole holiday
park!"

"Out of season," he explained, unfastening one of my cuffs
from the steering wheel. "I believe there may be one or two
occupied chalets, but that's nothing to worry your little
head about. They use the part of the park close to the
amenities. That's far enough away that I'm not averse to a
little screaming. Want to try it?"

I didn't. Perhaps if I had thought ahead a little I might
have tried it. But at that moment, after the joint
achievement of our drive he didn't seem quite so
frightening. In fact, he was rather sexy. I loved the
fragrance of his cologne mingled with that of his leather
jacket. Maybe I might enjoy this, after all. I passively
allowed him to cuff my hands to each other before
unfastening me from the steering wheel.

"Care to disembark?" he asked.

This was something I could manage even holding my purse and
with my hands cuffed together. I looked about. We were in
the middle of a forest high up on the mountain, surrounded
by pine trees. The air was cold, crisp and clear. Just as
the temperature had dropped on the journey between London
and Scotland, so it had dropped yet again in the shorter
distance between the coast and the mountain. I had on my new
jacket, but even so, that wind, it just blew straight
through me. It helped to clear my head of any final remains
of last night's hangover, however. How long ago that now
seemed!

Being Forestry Commission, the chalets had been built in
such a way that they were part of the forest and were one
with it. A small tarmaced road littered with dead pine
needles and fallen cones wound its idle way through the
trees from chalet to chalet.

The stranger walked ahead of me, not once looking back. He
obviously wasn't at all concerned that I might not follow,
that I might run away.

"You're a bit overconfident, aren't you?" I called after
him, feeling somewhat foolish and helpless with my hands
cuffed in front of me. "What makes you think I'm not going
to run away?"

He turned and gave me a vacant searching look. But his eyes
weren't angry; they smiled mockingly at me from behind his
mask. "Run?" he said, looking first at me, then over my
shoulder into the forest. "Run where?"

I swallowed heavily. He had pushed the door of the chalet
open. It had not been locked. He stood there patiently,
holding the door, waiting for me to enter. Rather sheepishly
I slunk passed him into the cabin.

Inside, a log fire was crackling in the grate. Now I knew
whose car tracks I had seen in the snow. He had been here
earlier and had built the fire. The lights were already on
too, the living area being lit with soft spots that made the
room glow a warm orange.

Feeling cold, I walked quickly to the fire and stood warming
myself in front of it. Just looking at that fire made me
feel better, the sooty flames crackling softly and
benevolently, flickering slowly back and forth.

"Would you like a drink?" the stranger asked. He spoke
kindly and there was lightness now in his manner. I began to
wonder, who was he? Why was he here? Did he have a wife? A
girlfriend? I still didn't know anything of him, his name,
nothing. I wondered whether I should ask.

"Yes, please." Not yet.

He poured out a scotch for me, and nothing for himself. I
noted that the measure was a little large. He was handing it
to me when over his shoulder, I saw...

Christ! Those pictures on the wall. I paled, I know I did.
He stepped aside to allow be to see. He wanted me to look at
them. There were six photographs that hung in simple silver
frames. They were prints ten inches by eight inches and they
were all of me.

I would not have been shocked and surprised if they had been
taken in London. If they had been pictures obtained and
provided by Sophie perhaps. But no, these were all pictures
of me in Scotland. They had all been taken within the past
two or three days. There was one of me in the restaurant in
Durness eating my burger. There was one of me walking from
the car to the crofthouse that first day. These were
interesting, but not too alarming. They showed that he had
been around, that he had been watching, waiting his moment.

But it was the other pictures that had me as jelly; it was
these that were making my brain swirl and my heart thump.
For they were all of me inside the crofthouse. One was of me
downstairs, slumped upon the sofa, obviously watching TV. My
blouse was open and a single nipple was poking out. There
was one of me in the shower; it showed the top half of me
including my face and both of my breasts. I gulped. How had
he taken that? I could have sworn... yes, I am positive that
the bathroom door was closed. He could not have been there.
The other two pictures showed my in bed. In one I was
asleep, relaxed: not too bad that one. But the last one, how
can I tell you? But then, how can I not?

I am on the bed; it is that first morning: you remember?
There are no covers on the bed, neither are there any covers
on me. My legs are apart, wide apart, my hand is between
them, and I am obviously enjoying myself and in bliss.

I could not trust myself to speak. I was shocked beyond
shock. My mind still couldn't think or react and I was just
one heaving mass of raw emotion. "How?" was what I said
finally. But that was so weak that it just came out as a
kind of burdened growl.

"I broke in Monday morning," he said simply. "There is a
small window in the laundry room that can be opened from
outside. These are the highlands of Scotland, not the
suburbs of London. No one expects thieves, and so people are
more lax, they take fewer precautions. Once I was inside, it
was a simple matter to plant cameras in the living room, the
shower and in both bedrooms. I didn't know which of the two
rooms you would use, so I wired up both. Modern surveillance
cameras are small and unobtrusive. A small box sitting on
the wall the size of a light switch, how would you know that
it shouldn't be there?"

Looking at those pictures I knew that somehow or other I
would have to get them from him, the negatives too. "You've
certainly been busy," I said. "What else do you have, in the
way of photographs?"

"What else do you think I might have?" he whispered. "This
maybe?"

He handed me a print. Oh, no! I was in the upstairs front
room, and of course I was naked, holding the curtain and
looking out of the window. Although the curtain covered one
of my breasts, this was little consolation. For in the
picture you could see its twin as clearly as you could see
my neatly trimmed bush.

"I like this one," he murmured. "It came as rather a
surprise. When you decided to sleep in the back room I
wasn't expecting too much out of the front room camera."

I handed him back the print, wondering why I was doing so.
Why was I giving him back the picture? It was my picture.

He didn't want it, anyway. "Keep it," he said. "I'll give
you a full set. Sophie told me that there were no pictures
in existence of you in the nude. I felt I had to put that to
rights. Every woman should have some pictures of herself au
naturale. Something to admire with pride in later years."

"What are you going to do with them? With the negatives?" I
remembered what Sophie had suggested about colleagues at
work.

"Shall I tell you what I have already done with them?"

No! He couldn't have! I held my breath.

"Last night, I lay in bed with the photograph of you on the
bed. 'Vickie Masturbating' I've called it, and it made me
hard and erect. Vickie, I stroked myself to a beautiful come
using your picture. How does that make you feel?"

Given what I thought he was going to say, my feeling was one
of relief rather than of revulsion. In fact, the idea of him
staring at me and bringing himself off was kind of exciting.
This was more the type of erotic imagery I had been
expecting of my stranger. But I was still very much
concerned about the future of the photographs.

"But I want the negatives; the prints too, I guess. After
today you will give them either to me or to Sophie, won't
you?"

"That rather depends upon you, doesn't it?" He had changed
his tone. It was now dark and menacing again. He's begun the
game, I thought. He came closer and stared at the lump of my
breasts. I winced under the gaze and then a blush
progressively deepened. He reached out and touched me, his
hand wandering suggestively across my sweater. Instinctively
I stepped back. He finished his thought. "It depends on
whether you do as you ought."

"That's blackmail," I accused, but not resentfully. I wasn't
worried as he was now playing the part I had created for
him. It was for this that we were here.

He stepped forward. The back of his left hand stroked my
hair. "Label it if you want," he murmured, wrapping my hair
between his fingers. "You're playing with the bad boys now."

Slowly, pulling me by the hair wound round his fingers, he
drew me towards his lips. My hands were cuffed together; I
could only follow his tow. Our lips were almost touching. I
was staring into his deep brown eyes, so close that I could
barely focus.

"You're hurting me," I told him.

"No rules," he whispered. "No right. No wrong. Whatever my
whim, however I decide. Understood?"

He pulled me again. Our lips brushed against each other. He
didn't kiss, his lips never moved; it was the merest touch.

"Yes," I said, falling into those eyes. I loved it. Yes. Now
you're doing it right, I thought.

"I'm going to own you," he said. "Possess you." Those words
were so soft and intoxicating I could almost forget their
terrible content. "That is my promise. I don't care for your
consent; I don't request it and if given, I'll tread it
underfoot. Fight me, and you'll be punished. Obey me, and
you'll be given your reward. Choose as you will, but the
result is inevitable. You will do whatever I fancy, whatever
I decide. Understood?"

He began to entwine my hair in the fingers of his right
hand. He had hold of me on both sides now. Again, he pulled
my face into his. His tongue flicked out and touched the
inside of my lips.

"Yes," I said. I was drowning. Well done, Sophie. Where did
you find this guy? He's gorgeous. He's sexy, he's strong,
he's intelligent, and he's mean. He's everything I dreamed
about and more besides.

Gently, he pushed some distance between us. "Do you
masturbate often?" he asked, carefully withdrawing his
fingers from my hair.

I was at a loss for an answer. "I've watched you do it
several times since you were here," he said. "I've been
playing the peeping tom, watching you through my cameras."
He had stepped away from me. He was perhaps six feet away.
He didn't look away from my eyes but his fingers went to the
top of his jacket and as I watched, he undid the buttons. He
slipped it off and then his fingers went to the top of his
shirt.

"You are a very sexy person. It turned me on a lot to watch
you, to watch you stroking your tits and your pussy." His
shirt was undone. He pulled it out of his trousers and down
his arms. He was dark, and covered in thick black hair. He
dropped the shirt on the floor. What was he doing?

"It made me hot, hard, to see what you were doing, how you
touch yourself, to feel your need. I was watching you
through every moment. I saw every detail. I wanted to help
you. I knew that I could." He had pulled off his shoes. He
left them where they lay. Now he began unbuckling his
trousers.

"Tell me," he said. "What were you thinking about when you
were touching yourself?"

I gulped. I couldn't possibly tell him. I couldn't possibly
explain that I'd been thinking of him. Well, not exactly
him, because I didn't know him then, but my tall dark
stranger. Christ. I still didn't even know his name.

"What were you thinking about?" he repeated, pulling off his
trousers. I stared at his underpants, the outline of his
equipment bulging at the front. It was like a long snake
coiled in its basket, and as I watched I could see it
moving, uncoiling and straightening.

"Well?"

I found it awkward and embarrassing to admit to him with
words how I felt. But he was waiting. I had to say
something. "I was thinking about what was going to happen to
me here," I said under my breath. "How I would be made to
submit, how I would be forced to do things I didn't want to
do."

"That excites you? To be made to submit?"

I nodded nervously.

"You want to see my cock, don't you?"

I nodded shyly. He had turned me into a naughty schoolgirl
curious for a stolen glimpse of a male erection.

Silently I urged him on and he gratified me, hauling down
his underpants. Immediately his cock sprang out and jumped
at me. I could see the skin tightening over his balls as his
penis grew and lifted.

"It likes you very much," he whispered.

I nodded. I liked it just as much. I had been waiting a
lifetime, it seemed, for this moment, and this was the
object on which I had particularly been waiting.

He had wandered over to the kitchen and I had followed the
flex of his muscles and the bulk of his pussy grinder. "And
how does the experience, thus far, compare with your
imaginations," he called.

"It's good," I said. Taking his clothes off had put me at my
ease. I had always imagined that my stranger would strip me
first, examine my nakedness while he remained fully clothed.
Then he would undress himself in order to fuck me. But I was
sure that it was going to be much better this way. I would
be able to watch precisely what effect my body had on him.
Though most of that effect seemed to have occurred already.
I was now growing confident. "You're not as frightening as I
thought you were going to be," I said. "Which is good, very
good." He had come back in through the door. "I thought it
might be, you know, that you might be, more violent."

He had his hands behind his back. His cock was still hard
and swollen. For the first time I really noticed just how
broad the top half of him was. I wondered what this guy did
for a living. Perhaps he was a firefighter or something. "A
teacher who shouts and screams and hits his pupils has no
control," he said. "The teacher who doesn't need to do any
of those things is the one in control. Violence is crude."

He was moving closer. "I suppose so," I said.

"You want to submit and I am going to make you do it. I'm
going to make you lose all control and then I'm going to
make you mine."

I gulped nervously. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"To get control," he said, drawing his hand from behind his
back. "The teacher has to know when and how to be firm."

Fuck! This guy had a knife! A long ugly menacing knife, with
a blade about six or seven inches in length.

I screamed. It was instinct. Knives scare me silly: that he
might cut me...

End Of Part Three

Part Four

"Keep perfectly still," he said, lifting the knife towards
me. "I don't wish to hurt you."

I didn't need telling twice. I whimpered hysterically,
concentrating on the predatory metal glinting in the orange
light of the twin spots. It was pointing directly at me,
getting closer and closer. I sucked in my breath and I
couldn't let it out again, my chest muscles had seized.

"What are you doing?" I faltered, as the tip of the knife
approached and touched the wool of my sweater. Such a silly
question! But god, what's he doing now? Lazily, he was
moving the knife lower; it flicked at the belt of my jeans;
lower it went, maintaining its contact with the blue faded
denim. It came to rest at my cunt. He pressed it harder
against me. I tensed; I could feel the steel biting into the
material of my jeans, pressing against the soft flesh of my
cunt. I was simply terrified. I had no idea who this guy was
or what he was capable of. My hands tightened into little
fists; all the blood drained from my face.

"Please!" I whined. "Please, no."

He kept the knife pressed against me, an obscene substitute
phallus pressing at my gates. "Firmness and control," he
said. "You're not going to be so silly as to scream or
fight, are you Vickie?"

"No," I was begging him, really begging him. "Please, take
it away."

"I'm afraid I can't do that yet," he explained. "It has this
little job to do."

He took hold of the sleeve of my jacket. "You will keep
still, won't you Vickie. You could so easily get hurt.
Seriously, I would hate for that to happen."

I had already answered the question once, but I didn't
intend to remind him of that. I nodded. Yes I was definitely
going to keep very still.

From the cuff of my jacket, he sliced upwards towards the
shoulder. "Shame to spoil such a nice jacket," he said
sympathetically. "Especially as you've only just bought it."
He sliced open the other sleeve. "But then, you shouldn't
have worn it this morning."

He slid the knife under the shoulder of the jacket and
sliced across the top; first this side, then the other. It
was an unnerving experience, how can I describe it? I've
never known anything that compares, nor want to again. To
feel the heat of his burning concentration upon me as he
took hold of my clothing and then the sheer violence of the
attacking knife and its destructive effect. I felt confused,
contrite, humiliated at being forced to stand and allow him
to scythe the clothes from my body. All the time, meanwhile,
he kept speaking to me, telling me how sexy I was, how
pretty my legs were, my back, my arms. I could tell from the
state of his erection that he told me no lies. He spoke
calmly, clearly and authoritatively.

Why was he doing this to me? He could have asked me to
undress, he could have told me to strip. I know he could
easily have made me. I would have scowled; blushed; sworn,
but then I would have had to do it.

Instead, I stood penitent as the blade flashed back and
forth within millimeters of my skin. I heard the terrible
scream as it sheared cloth asunder. First my jacket fell in
shreds to my feet. Then my sweater was torn apart.

Only my belt was sacred. He lay the knife on the coffee
table to unclasp the buckle. I glanced at the knife, its
malicious blade lying there naked as he yanked my leather
belt through the hoops of my jeans.

"An excellent tool for discipline," he explained, flicking
the tail not too lightly in the direction of my ass. "We
can't destroy such a fine instrument." He flicked it at me
again, a little harder. I yelped which brought a broad grin
to his face. I, on the other hand, was rueful. He swapped
the belt for his knife and I stood pensive as he then knelt
at my feet scything my jeans into small swatches and then
lifted my feet out of my shoes.

This accomplished; he sat down and looked at me, his cock in
his hand. The knife was placed back on the table. "You have
a very sexy body made even sexier by some very fetching
underwear," he complimented. "Did you buy it for me?"

His hand was moving up and down over his cock, slowly,
regularly. "Yes," I murmured.

"Pardon?"

"I said 'yes'," I repeated.

"Turn round."

I swiveled round one hundred and eighty degrees to face the
fire. However, I could still sense the heat of his gaze on
my rear.

"Nice ass."

"Thank you," What else should one say?

"Stockings too. Turn round."

I swiveled to face him. He was examining my chest. I wanted
to draw my arms across my bosom but knew this to be a
mistake.

He was very turned on; I knew it because I could see the
state of his erection. He said, "I like the way that bra
pinches your nipples and makes them point up. It's very
erotic."

I looked down. Was it? I could see my tits through the sheer
black fabric and the nipples too, but I couldn't make out
which way they were pointing.

"And the way those stockings cling to your legs and make
them seem even longer than they are."

I caught my breath. He had got up. Still rubbing his cock he
approached me and with his free hand felt for one of my
nipples inside my bra. He squeezed it. Then he did so again,
harder. I gasped.

"Do you like that?" He kept his tight hold on my nipple as
he awaited my answer.

"Yes." The relief as he let go.

"Sophie told me you like your teats to be treated roughly.
Would you like me to do it some more?"

Damn Sophie. Why had she told him? But, of course, he had me
now. I could only acquiesce. "You know that I would."

"Then ask me to cut off the rest of your clothes."

I held my breath as he found my other nipple and squeezed
it. Closing my eyes and blushing red, I whispered: "Please.
Will you cut them off."

"Not good enough." His fingers squeezed tighter; not
painfully tight but enough that I couldn't ignore it.

"Pardon?" I squealed.

"That's not good enough. You've got to ask me properly."

I looked him in the eyes and spoke from the heart. "Please,
sir. I need you to use your knife to slice all my clothes
off me. Please, I want you to strip me naked and then do
whatever you want with me."

He smiled and released my nipple releasing a tidal wave of
arousal. God help me! "Good. Very good," he said, picking up
the knife from the table.

He started with my suspender belt and my stockings, then
continued by slicing off my bra and panties. He enjoyed
these most of all, slipping the blade between skin and
cloth, then snicking at the material. "Very nice, very
attractive," he said, complimenting my bare tits. "Sophie
told me they were good."

I blushed. Sophie again. What right had Sophie to talk about
my tits? My cut my panties and these fell to the floor.
"Excellent," came his compliment. "I'm real pleased you
decided to trim it for me. Are you wet?"

He had reduced me from fully clothed woman to a quivering
nude in a matter of minutes without me being able to do a
thing about it. Yes, I was wet. God, this was my fantasy.
How did he think I would react? I nodded.

"Good," he said, sitting down once again on his chair. He
stroked the tip of his cock. "Now, pick up the remains of
your clothes and put them on the fire."

I was sure I couldn't have heard him right. "Pardon?" I
said. They may have been in tatters and unusable, but there
was something so final about committing their remains to the
fire.

"I shan't tell you again," he warned.

The knife was still in his free hand. I don't believe for a
second that he intended it as a threat, but it sure focused
my priorities. I am petrified of being cut.

Fuck, I only just thought. Damn her, Sophie told him that.
The bitch told him. She told him how much I hate knives. I
bent down and collected what had been my clothes into a
pile.

"Not all at once," he said softly. "Feed it, watch as the
flames consume the cloth. Allow yourself time to think, to
worry."

I tossed a handful of cloth into the flames. The fire licked
round and then sprang up. The little bundle of cloth fell
apart, blackened and burned, and then finally disintegrated.

We watched together, quietly and contemplatively. As the
fire died down, I threw on the next portion. Three more
times I fed it and each time it waited, teased and then
reduced my clothing to nothing.

We watched for a good five minutes after the last was gone.
I sensed that he was waiting for something. "The shoes too,"
he said when I inquired.

I knew better than to disobey. The knife was still on the
table. I picked up my shoes and tossed them onto the fire
too.

"Very good," he said.

This time he didn't wait to see the plastic blister and
melt. He got up and disappeared into the kitchen for a few
moments, quickly returning with a white plastic pot, pint
size on which there was a lid.

"Now, how would you like to suck my cock?" he asked, placing
the pot on the coffee table next to the knife.

"I don't do that," I said flatly, looking suspiciously at
the pot. "It's dirty, repulsive."

"But I like to have my cock sucked," he responded.

I threw him a blistering look. Behind me, my shoes were now
ablaze.

"It's all a matter of attitude," he said, "It's not so hard
if you approach it right." He picked up the pot and opened
it. Inside there was a thick white sticky liquid.

"Tell me" he asked, holding out the pot for me to examine.
"What do you think this is?"

"How would I know?" I scowled, totally ignoring his
offering. He placed it in front of me on the coffee table,
then sat back down on the sofa. His cock was no longer as
hard as it had been a couple of minutes before. It lay
languidly upon his upper thigh.

He said: "I want you to grab hold of some of that stuff in
your hands and rub it onto my cock and my balls."

"And if I don't?"

He pointed towards the wall with its set of six photographs.
"One of those will end up in a place where you'd rather it
didn't."

"Bastard!"

"It's your choice."

I sighed, dipping one of my cuffed hands into the pot. What
choice? The liquid it contained was disgusting; it was cold,
wet and sticky. It looked like the result of some bizarre
fund raising event in which a whole football team has just
jerked off for charity. On the other hand, it smelled like
yogurt. Indeed I'm sure that it was yogurt. I sat on the
parquet floor in front of him, and rubbed it into the thick
length of his cock. It was an uncomfortable task to be
forced to perform. I am not an innocent by any means. I have
handled a fair handful of cocks in my time. But it's always
been as part of a loving encounter; this was so impersonal,
so medical. He, presumably, felt differently. As soon as I
began, his tool thickened and hardened at my touch.

"That's nice, extremely nice. Now pull the foreskin back,
Vickie," he instructed. "You must get it everywhere, behind
the foreskin too, inside, outside, make sure you rub it well
in."

"You're enjoying this," I protested. He couldn't very well
deny it. I held the evidence in my hands, solid and turgid
and erect.

Denial was not, though, on his mind. "That's why you're
here," he agreed, as he lay sprawled across the sofa,
relaxing to the touch of my fingers. "That's your purpose,
Vickie. Teamwork, remember. We work as a team to ensure I
have a good time. Rub it into my balls too. You mustn't
forget my balls. Massage it well in."

I didn't forget his balls. I cupped them in my palms and
worked the yogurt into his skin. I kept going for several
minutes knowing this had as much to do with providing him
with a nice climax as it did with getting yogurt onto his
cock. My hands were now covered in the thick white stuff and
I sensed that that climax wasn't too far away.

But, it seemed; I hadn't fully understood the plan. He
lifted my hands from his erection.

"Now, a slight change of position required." He unfastened
my cuffs and then refastened them with my hands behind my
back.

"I'm sure, you can guess what comes next," he said. "I want
every bit of yogurt licked from my cock. That includes what
you have wiped on my legs and belly as well as what hides in
the folds of my foreskin."

I shook my head slowly. "I told you. I don't suck cock."

"Let's try this again. Are you going to make me get nasty?
eh?" He took the knife from the table and gently took the
weight of one of my breasts with the face of its blade. The
blade was actually facing away from my body so I suppose I
was safe, but it set my phobias soaring. The cold steel
against my warm breast was mind numbing.

"What was that you said?" he hissed, keeping the icy steel
under my titty.

I gulped. "Whatever you say," I muttered.

"That's better," he nodded, taking away the knife. "So, if
you prefer, if it helps, forget that it's my cock. You like
yogurt, don't you?"

"It's okay," I said guardedly.

"That's all that matters. Just think about the yogurt.
You're not going to taste anything unusual or unpleasant.
It's just yogurt."

I glared suspiciously. He laughed. "It isn't going to bite
you," he said.

I was unhappy about doing it but didn't see that I had much
of a choice. I bent into the space between his legs. That
cock seemed even longer, even thicker this close up. "Start
wherever you like," he said. "Just get used to it first."

I took an initial tentative lick down at the stem. I think
it may even have been from off his belly. I just skimmed a
little off the top of the yogurt, making sure my tongue came
nowhere near him or his tool.

"That's good," he encouraged, taking hold of my nipples and
using them to pull me gently forward. "Keep going."

I did. I kept licking, progressively getting more
adventurous. At first, I cleared the area around the stem.
Then, finding that not too irksome, I began to stray further
and further up the length of his cock. He used my nipples as
a way of telling how well I was doing. When I pleased him,
he played with them, building up my excitement. Once when I
nipped him, he pinched me hard and I shrieked in protest.
When I got lazy, so did he. I learned quickly that to get
what I wanted, I would have to give him what he wanted.

None of which was as bad as I had built up in my mind. I'm
sure the yogurt helped in masking any strange smell or
taste. I licked away; long sensuous licks by now in which I
scooped up this strange white coating, swallowed it, and
then received bountifully the reward of a pleasuring of my
teats.

I was proud of my work. His cock had grown mean and angry
due to my attention. The skin was drawn back and the cock
meat itself was exposed, covered in globules of yogurt.

"Now," he said. "Remember that you need to get right under
the foreskin to lick up the yogurt there."

I was beginning to enjoy myself. Whoever would have thought
that sucking cock could be so easy and pleasant.

"Take it right into your mouth," he instructed. "Gorge
yourself. Don't be frightened by it, it's not going to hurt
you."

I could still taste the sweet stickiness of the yogurt
although I had by now removed virtually all of it. Rather
than being coated in it, the yogurt now merely lubricated
the outside of his cock and helped with the sucking.

At that point a horrible foreboding began to grow inside me:
he was going to come soon. I could feel him tense as his
climax got closer. I felt it in my mouth, if you know what I
mean. And I tensed too. What was I to do? Although I had
imagined otherwise, sucking had not been unpleasant, but I
couldn't take his jism in my mouth. I just couldn't.

He stopped me, pulling his cock from my mouth. What now? He
had dipped a finger into the pot and it was covered with a
dollop of yogurt. "Put this in your mouth," he commanded,
holding out his finger towards me. "Swill it around but
don't swallow. It will help disguise the taste."

I accepted his offer gratefully. "When it comes," he said,
pushing his hard penis back into the comfort of my mouth.
"Mix it and the yogurt together and then swallow. It's not
as bad as you fear. Trust me."

I held that yogurt within my mouth as I sucked him again. It
only took a few strong sucks upon that groaning organ to
make him begin to shoot. As he did so, he lost some of his
unflagging control in the frenzy of coming. He thrust his
dick deep into my mouth, holding my head in his hands and
pulling it onto his cock. It hit the back of my throat at
the end of his strokes and I gagged. For a moment there was
panic in my eyes. I couldn't handle it. He was impaling me
upon his cock, and I was helpless, way beyond my limits.
That moment was ethereal, magic. This was why I was here.
This was why I had come to Scotland to be with him rather
than being at home with Richard in London. I had come to be
his plaything, his sexual toy. I was here to be used and
nothing more. How can I describe it? It was horrible and yet
it was also exquisite.

I felt him spasm. Oh God! He was going to come. I tried to
slurp the yogurt around my mouth, anxiously waiting for his
jism to fountain forth.

I felt the first spurt, then the second, and then the third
fire out of his cock and splatter against the roof of my
mouth. God, this was incredible. I could feel every nuance
of his orgasm, the quivering of his cock as it was about to
erupt and the retraction a moment later. It was me that was
making his cock do this, my mouth and tongue that were
responsible for his come. And I still hadn't the faintest
idea who he was.

But the yogurt idea wasn't working. Or maybe it was, maybe
it was just that I didn't understand what was supposed to
happen. I could taste the individual flavors of the yogurt
and his come in my mouth; the amalgam was still only partly
mixed. His cock though, was the cocktail stirrer, blending
them into one.

I sucked it, I savored it and then I swallowed.

Ten minutes passed, the first couple in silence. They were
frustrating minutes because I had been juicing nicely. His
hands on my breasts had got me hot and sexy and I was high
and flying. But now that he had come, he had simply left me,
abandoned me to cold turkey. With my hands cuffed behind my
back I could do nothing to placate my aching breasts and
although I squeezed my legs together, this brought only
limited relief. He was amused by my predicament.

"You are angry with me because I haven't given you an
orgasm?" There was a smile glinting within his eyes. The
bastard, he was enjoying watching me squirm. Literally, I
mean, he had me squirming, pressing my legs together.

"No," I said proudly. I wasn't going to humiliate myself by
admitting how worked up I was.

"Good," he said, getting up. The smile was now in his words.
He was teasing me. "I will make you a drink to clean out
your mouth."

Damn him. Damn, damn, damn! The aching within my body was
pleading for succor. I was so let down, so frustrated. He
handed me a coke laced with vodka to wash the strange
flavors from my mouth. Thankfully, he unlocked my hands
first and it was with considerable relief that I was able to
rub my wrists and stretch my arms.

What self control it took to keep my hands out of my pussy.
It was only that he was there, watching me that goaded my
pride and gave me strength.

It was a strange, peculiar interlude, this, in which we
reverted to being strangers. Once I had finished my drink,
he asked me whether I was enjoying my vacation. What a
question! Very politely I told him that I was, that I had
found the locals very friendly and their country
breathtaking. Nothing too cordial, I was still annoyed at
him.

He told me that the air force had used this area for
practice during the second world war. On Loch Eriboll, for
instance, the deepest of the sea lochs hereabouts, there is
an island that was used as a stand-in for the battleship
Terpitz.

"How fascinating," I lied.

"You should visit the Tourist Information Centre," he
suggested, handing me a sandwich.

The sandwich was wrapped in cellophane and carried a price
tag from a Durness grocery store. It cost one pound and
seventy-five pence since you're interested. I ripped it open
and tucked in hungrily.

"You can take a shower, if you like," he said. "Before we
get back to work."

                             ***


Lunch break over, he took me upstairs to a small basic room
with plain bottle green curtains, pine furniture and a
double bed. The covers had already been pulled off the bed
and folded into a neat pile behind the door. Only a white
sheet covered the mattress. He pushed me onto the bed. "Lie
back," he commanded.

It seemed that my relative freedom was to be short lived. He
held up the two pairs of cuffs and shook them gently from
side to side. They jangled fatalistically. Obediently, I
offered my arms for him to imprison.

"To the headboard, this time," he said, snapping shut a
bracelet round my wrist. I knew better than to argue. In
fact, I suspect that it was more that I didn't want to
argue, I wanted him to be in control and the cuffs empowered
him. He pulled my arms above me and snapped the other
bracelet of the cuffs to the bed's headboard.

"Excellent," he said, gazing upon my bare quivering breasts.
My large pink nipples hardened and grew from being noticed.
He planted a soft kiss on the bone of my chest, mid way
between them.

"Now," he said, climbing off the bed. "You get your reward
for good behavior." He was heading for the door.

I had showered, relaxed and now I was nicely warm with a
pleasant aching in my pussy. That had not gone away. I
didn't want him to leave me. I heard his bare feet upon the
wooden steps as he first descended and then returned
sporting the pot of yogurt. What now? His fingers
disappeared into the pot and then reappeared trailing its
contents in a steady stream. This rivulet fell and splashed
around my pussy. "God," I thought, suddenly finding four
from a pair of twos, he's going to lick me out.

He placed the yogurt pot onto the small cabinet in front of
a blue lamp alongside the bed. "So if this is your darkest
fantasy," he asked, slowly spreading the splattered yogurt
onto my pussy hair. "What is it that you have to arrange for
Sophie?"

I sucked in my breath. Having his hand on my mound was
driving me crazy. He was massaging me steadily with the tips
of his fingers. The same way that my shampooist massages the
shampoo into the hair on my head: that's also quite nice but
this was in a different galaxy. How could he expect me to
talk if he was going to continue doing that?

"I don't know," I puffed. "Sophie and I haven't really
discussed it yet."

"No? That's not what she told me."

"What did she tell you?" The warning bells were ringing and
I knew that this was a bad question, but he was distracting
me and it slipped out.

"She told me that you had agreed for her to sleep with
Richard. He's your fiance, yes?"

"I haven't agreed to anything."

He was pushing the yogurt down towards my clitoris, and then
further inside. He was pushing as far as he could reach. I
couldn't believe how far in he was pushing it. Surely he
wasn't going to lick there!

"No? So what did you say?"

He slapped some more yogurt on me. What did I say? I
couldn't be bothered to think. "I don't remember."

"That's a convenient memory, you've got. She told me that
she hoped to get her chance today or tomorrow while you're
away."

That was impossible. "Richard isn't there," I said with
confidence. "He's in Manchester."

He pulled my legs wide apart. I saw his eyes searching,
scrutinizing my open cunt. His hands released my ankles and
my legs remained passively where they had been placed. I
squirmed under the heat of his burning gaze and let out a
few quick breaths. Never had I known myself to be this naked
and vulnerable; never had my skin been so sensitive to a
man's touch. Rather than soothing, the skin where he was
rubbing the yogurt was on fire. He wiped it around each side
of my slit and then into the area between my cunt and my
anus. God! How could I concentrate on conversation while he
was doing such things?

"You're wrong," he said. "Richard came home yesterday." Very
deliberately the stranger placed a large dollop of yogurt on
my clit. "Strange, that. Him coming home while you're away.
Doesn't it make you wonder what may be going on between
those two?"

Try as I might, I couldn't think of any reason why Richard
would have come home early. However, I also didn't
understand why the stranger was trying to incite me to
jealousy. He was stirring such nice feelings in my lower
parts and then souring them with his talk.

"Do you think Richard will fuck Sophie?" he asked, quite
nonchalantly, rubbing the stuff around another lap of my
clit.

I glared at him and held my tongue. Not only was I angry,
but also this question was deliberately provocative. Why was
he spoiling things? What was his motive?

I ignored him. Although, having said that, I have to admit
that it's very hard to totally ignore someone who's got his
or her hand inside your genitals, especially when that
person decides to use that situation to their advantage by
squeezing hard where flesh is tender.

"Ouch!" I cried.

"I was talking to you," he pursued. "Do you think they will
fuck?"

"I don't know," I howled. My answer was hurt and terse. I
was ruing my stinging pussy.

"Never mind," he consoled, rubbing where he had just
attacked. "They tell me that yogurt is very soothing. This
will make it feel better."

My arms ached too.

"Sophie is an attractive woman," he added.

"Yes," I mumbled. I wasn't prepared to be pinched again.

"She's got smaller breasts than you," I felt him
scrutinizing my nakedness and immediately my juices ran and
conjoined with the yogurt in my pussy. "On the other hand, I
love her ass, and she has the tightest pussy."

He put his finger up inside mine and began stirring the
yogurt around. "Do you think he will enjoy doing it to her?"

I gasped: that finger! "He wouldn't... I couldn't say."

"She'll enjoy doing it to him."

"Oh." I bit my lip. I could taste the blood oozing inside my
mouth from the cut.

"She's attracted to Richard. She told me so herself."

I wanted to deny it, to tell myself that it wasn't true, but
how could I? I remembered how she had told me that her
darkest fantasy was to fuck him. She wanted to fuck my
Richard. My voice was hoarse. "What did she say?"

"She told me that often she has to change her panties after
she's been in his company because he makes her so wet."

I pulled my head off the bed, straining against the cuffs to
get a better look at him. "I don't believe you," I cried.
"Sophie would never have told you that."

Ahhh! His tongue had just darted into me, flicking round my
clitty, scooping off a little of the white stuff.
"Delicious," he murmured.

"Oh god. I do so hate you," I groaned, falling back onto the
bed. But God, that was good! I stared heavenwards, my eyes
watering. He was teasing; the stranger was teasing. I told
myself that time after time. Sophie wouldn't do anything
with Richard until I gave her the green light.

His head appeared momentarily from between my legs; his face
was smeared with yogurt. "Sophie told me that the two of you
have come close a couple of times. True?"

I blushed.

"I think she would be happy for things to go a little
further," he said. "Know what I mean?"

My blush deepened. I remembered being in the kitchen with
her that time. She had unfastened my bikini top and her
hands were massaging my nipples. Her mound was rubbing
against my ass and her breasts pressing hard into my back.
She had turned me round to plant her kiss on my mouth. "Come
to bed," her eyes had been saying.

"That doesn't mean she's after Richard," I blurted. "Sophie
knows that he's already taken."

"Hmm. You seem very sure. How can you be so certain when
you're up here with me and she's down there with him?"

"Because I trust them both. Have you never heard of trust?"
The stranger disappeared between my legs. I heard slurping
as he sucked hard on my love tunnel. If only my hands were
free, my breasts were crying for some attention. I wanted so
much to caress them. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore
their pain.

"You'd trust a mountain lion with the gazelle? They're alone
in the house with no need for you ever to know. I would
rather trust human nature." I clung on to him with my legs,
my thighs clasping his head to me, pushing his face into my
cunt. Maybe he would suffocate, the bastard, that would
serve him right.

"You're fishing."

He pulled my thighs apart and clambered out of my cunt and
on top of me. Please, I thought. What are you doing? Finish
me! Please finish what you started.

"Maybe. It must be tempting for them both. I guess he sees
her quite often in informal dress, if you know what I mean?"

"You're trying to make me jealous." My cunt was now
screaming as loudly as my breasts. I closed my legs,
pressing them together, trying to make something happen.

"Perhaps."

"It won't work. I'm not the jealous type," I lied, wriggling
my ass as I tried to bring myself off. I just couldn't get
enough friction.

"That's sad. Very sad."

"Why's that?"

"Because the opposite of jealousy is indifference."

"I'm not indifferent either." But I was frustrated. As my
excitement waned it left me irritable and disappointed.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

He bent down and picked something from the floor. At first I
couldn't see what it was. "Look what I found," he said,
holding it up. It was a phone, a mobile phone. "Recognize
it," he asked.

"Is it mine?" The knot had returned to my stomach filling
the vacuum so recently vacated by arousal. Although it
looked like my phone, I couldn't understand how or why he
would have my mobile. Sophie had promised to answer my
calls. She couldn't do that if the phone was here.

"Sure it's yours," he said. "Nice phone. You seem to have
forgotten it when you left London."

"I left it with Sophie."

"Did you now? Well, it's here now. Nothing's where it should
be, is it? Richard's in London, the phone is here: whatever
next. Shall we see if there are any messages?"

I didn't understand. Why did he have my phone? I couldn't
understand why Sophie would have given it to him. It was the
fact that I didn't understand that was worrying me. What was
this all about?

There were several calls. One from my mother, a couple from
friends, the rest from Richard. He couldn't understand why I
wasn't answering my phone. Was I okay?

The stranger was most impressed. He sat down on the bed
beside me. "We should call him, don't you think? Let him
know how you are?"

For a moment I didn't understand the significance of what he
was suggesting, but as soon as I did I went into a blind
panic. "No," I cried. I couldn't permit him to call Richard!
Richard would never understand. It would spoil everything. I
just couldn't allow this man to ruin my life in this way!

"What's his number?" he asked.

"I don't remember," I lied. My mind was racing and yet it
could find no thoughts. He couldn't phone Richard, he just
couldn't. The only chink of light I could perceive was the
vague certainty that Sophie must have put something about
this in the contract, I knew she would. I had faith in her.
I told him so. "Please, this isn't part of the arrangement."

He rebuked me gently. "No rules," he reminded me. "That was
the arrangement."

"But that was for sexual stuff. I didn't mean for you to
ruin my life!"

"This is sexual. Haven't you heard of phone sex? We're going
to have some phone sex: with Richard. What's his number?"

I was panicking. I couldn't let him ruin my relationship
with Richard. I couldn't believe what this man was doing to
me. My arms ached; I felt such a fool, totally visible to
him, my breasts and cunt on display like I was in a
butcher's window.

I groaned. He was going through my purse, through my address
book. He was searching for Richard's number. How could I
stop him? I knew I had to but still I couldn't think. My
brain was paralyzed.

"Never mind, I've found it," he said, tapping in the
numbers. I prayed. I prayed to all the gods of the disparate
religions I knew. "Please don't answer," I prayed. "Please
don't be there," I prayed. "Please be switched off."

I held my breath and then discovered the terrible certainty
that there can be no god. I heard the tone of a phone
ringing.

End Of Part Four

Part Five

"Richard Ellis," came the familiar sound of my fiance's voice.

I struggled against my cuffs, shaking from side to side. This was
no longer a vain attempt to free myself, it was sheer hysteria.
"Richard," I wailed from within my intestines. "Put the phone
down. You don't want to know; you don't want to hear."

My stranger began talking, firm and determined. "You don't know
me," he said easily. "But I'm in Scotland with Vickie."

There was the briefest of pauses at the other end. "With Vickie?"

The stranger winked at me. I was fighting back tears; I was angry,
confused and afraid. I couldn't bear to be here, to listen to the
rebuke I knew I deserved.

"Yes, she's right here beside me," said the stranger. He ran his
free hand across my tummy, downward, brushing my mound and then
grasping my thigh. His touch was overloading my senses; I had no
idea whether my gasp was because I wanted him off or because I
wanted him more.

"This is just a quick call to let you know things are okay," he
told Richard. "Vickie apologizes for not being able to return your
calls but she's been a little tied up and hasn't been able to get
to a phone." I couldn't react to the awful pun; this moment was
far too tragic. "Ah. No," the stranger said. "I think she might be
able to talk. Let me put her through to you."

Put Richard through? To me? But what would I say? He pushed the
mouthpiece in the direction of my chin. My mind was blank. Didn't
he know that my mind had stopped working? No, please. I didn't
know what I was going to say. What could I say?

"Hello, Richard," I said. I was conscious that I was blushing. The
stranger placed one of his hands on my breasts. It was still so
sensitive that it responded immediately, my titty swelling
outwards to greet his palm.

"Vickie," Richard said anxiously. "What's going on? Who is that
man? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Richard," I stuttered, eyes closed. Now he was kissing
my other breast. He was intent on distracting me and he was
succeeding. My body arched up to meet his teasing lips. "Really
I'm okay, there's no need to worry."

"You didn't return my calls."

"I lost my phone," I lied. My legs parted as the stranger slipped
a hand between them. They then closed over his hand, my muscles
squeezing it tight against the lips of my pussy. "I've only just
got it back."

The stranger interrupted. "Why don't you tell him what's really
going on here, Vickie? I really thing you should."

Richard now became even more concerned, I heard it in the
intonation of my name: "Vickie?"

The stranger didn't even allow me breath room. He continued
relentlessly with his demolition derby on my future happiness.
"Why don't you tell Richard what we're doing, Vickie?" He rubbed
his hand softly against my cunt. "I think, for instance, he would
be very interested to know what you're wearing."

I wanted to answer, to say something but emotion suddenly surged
over me and overwhelmed me. I was listening to the destruction of
my life, my love. It was happening so fast that I didn't even have
the chance to think how I could stop it. What was worst was that I
was so totally preoccupied by the promise of an orgasm that I was
contributing towards that destruction. Was I sane? What should I
do?

"Perhaps I should tell you, fill you in, Richard, since Vickie is
a little overtaken by emotion momentarily. I'm here because Vickie
had this fantasy, dream - I'm not sure what to call it - I know
she wants to keep it a secret, so I'm not going to give away any
details. But at the moment she's rehearsing for her big day. Isn't
that so, Vickie?"

I heard Richard as I'd never heard him before. His voice was hard
and brittle from down the phone. "Vickie, Who is this guy? Talk to
me or I'm calling the police."

"No," I cried. "You can't; you mustn't." Suddenly inspiration.
"Richard. This is Scotland. Surely you're not so surprised?"

"I don't understand."

"Think, Richard. This is Scotland. What are we planning to do next
year?"

The stranger interjected. "Vickie, aren't you going to tell the
man what you're wearing?"

I couldn't understand his determination to torture me. Whatever
had I done to deserve this?

"Oh, Scotland!" Richard exclaimed. Scotland is famous for weddings
because of its lenient marriage laws. Couples have been rushing
here for almost two hundred and fifty years to declare their
undying love and be married.

The stranger hit the mute button on the phone. He kissed me gently
on the lips, pushing his tongue into my opening mouth, his finger
still controlling my cunt. "Well done," he congratulated.

"You bastard!" I sobbed. "There was no need! It was only a bit of
fun! Why are you trying to destroy everything?"

"Because I need you to fear me, Vickie. Not just pretend fear, but
real deep-down fright. And when we get there, then I'm going to
fuck you."

"You're a monster. You're mad!"

"All I'm doing is what you asked me to do. No more; no less. No
rules, remember: that was the agreement. You signed up for a bumpy
ride, a rollercoaster, you know you did."

He released the mute button on the phone. "You still there,
Richard?"

There was a pause, then Richard's grave voice crackled on the
line. "Yes. I'm still here."

"Sorry about this," my stranger lied. "Vickie's had to disappear
again. She's been called away. Can she call you back in about an
hour or so?"

I felt sick. Why was I here? I felt so disloyal. Here I was lying
to Richard and he had done absolutely nothing to hurt me. On the
other hand, I had done bugger all else. I felt truly ashamed of
myself. "I'm sorry," my heart was thumping. "I love you, Richard.
I really do."

They signed off and the stranger put down the phone.

"Have I done enough," he asked, running his hand from my cunt,
across my mound and then over my stomach. It circled around the
edge of my breasts this time without touching either of them and
then it traced a line up to my neck. "Do you fear me?"

He dunked his fingers back into the yogurt pot. What now? My heart
was beating so fast.

"Do you fear me like you fear the elements. So benign..."

His yogurt loaded hand hovered above my face, over my mouth. I
could sense him calculating where it should fall. It dripped onto
my lips, a couple of drops at first, which lengthened into a
steady trickle. With one finger he brushed the small puddle along
my parched lips. I could taste the yogurt in my mouth but I kept
totally still, allowing him, so gently, to rub it into me with the
tip of his forefinger.

"...and yet so malevolent. For there is a power in the waves, a
strength in the windstorm, there are forces heaving within the
innards of the earth that if not given due honor will catch us
insignificant beasts within their cruel claw and crush us under
their weight."

I listened mesmerized to his words and the rhythmic beat of his
voice while he finished applying the yogurt to my burning lips.
Once he was done, he pushed his finger into my mouth and left it
there while I sucked him clean.

"Do you fear gravity?" he whispered. I was the gazelle, staring
with transfixed frightened eyes into the gaze of his mountain
lion. Slowly, I shook my head.

"I thought not. Yet you wouldn't dream of walking off the top of a
tall building. Fear is not the same as terror. Fear involves
knowing your limitations and living within them."

He leaned over me, and I stared up into his lion-like face: really
searching and mapping his tanned strong face. I would never forget
it: never. He bent lower, his lips finding mine, a sweet kiss
lubricated by sourness. His tongue flicked across my lips and into
my mouth. I couldn't be certain whether he was pushing yogurt into
my mouth or sucking it into his own. The fluids all kind of mixed
and merged within our mouths.

"Do you fear me?" he whispered.

Yes, I shouted inwardly. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of
uttering the word upon my lips, nevertheless, he perceived it from
my eyes. I knew him now to be capable of anything and everything.
For sure he was going to fuck me; he was going to stick his tool
into my slippery pitcher and he was going to fuck me. This in
itself merited my fear. How many men would have grabbed the chance
to act out this part? Most I think would leave the idea in their
fantasies. And then to ring Richard... Oh yes, I was fearful; this
man would punish me if I failed to please him.

The stranger began rubbing yogurt onto his cock. I watched it
swinging between his legs, up and down, while his balls hung loose
and crinkled. It was hardening again, and increasingly so as he
rubbed his rod to an ever longer length with the lubrication of
the white stickiness.

"Ask me to fuck you." he said.

I stared at him defiantly, remaining silent; knowing absolutely
that this token resistance was futile.

"Beg me."

"No."

"Do you think Richard will appreciate a set of your photographs?"

"No."

"Or perhaps I should ring him again. The truth, this time. Shall I
tell him the truth?"

"No, please..."

"I still have your belt; the belt from your jeans. First, maybe I
should lay it across your ass, thwack you until you are truly
repentant, and then we can ring Richard together."

"You're not serious. You're playing."

"Am I? Are you sure? Test me or beg me. Your choice."

He waited. Now I truly knew what he had been talking about. Now I
knew fear. What I had felt before, what I had imagined to be fear,
it had been but a pale shadow. As I stared into those bottomless
black eyes, I knew true fear. I wasn't afraid of him, I wasn't
terrified or frightened. But I felt fear. I knew that this wasn't
the game I'd invented, that he was in deadly earnest. I knew that
unless I spoke, begged him to do it to me, pleaded with him to
fuck me, that he would thrash me with my belt and that he would
enjoy it too, and then he would ruin my life. He would tell
Richard and it would be over between him and me.

I didn't hate him for it or despise him; any more than you hate
gravity as you stand looking over a cliff face, knowing that if
you jump that it will kill you.

That's just the way things are. You can jump or you can do the
sensible thing and step back. He was a monster of my creation; and
my name was Frankenstein. I'm sure in real life that he's kind,
thoughtful and considerate. I'm sure he is a perfect gentleman. It
was me who had designed this game and had turned him into a
sinister menace. So how could I now hate him? But I was petrified
of what he might do.

My heart was racing and the blood surged in my veins. My nipples
grew tall and drew taut. Goose bumps made corn circles all round
each of my areolas. I felt sick and tense about my stomach. I
couldn't believe what I was about to do, and not because I wanted
to, because it was fun, but because I had to.

"Please," I murmured, feeling myself blush. "Fuck me."

"Louder."

"Please," I repeated. "I want you to fuck me. Will you do it?"

My chest had constricted so tight that I was without breath. Hard
as I tried, the words were no louder than before.

"Again."

I now was so aroused it was unbearable. "Fuck me, damn it. Christ,
don't just stand there. Do it..."

"Keep it up."

Something snapped inside me. I was speaking as I had never spoken
before and have never spoken since. Restraint was gone and my
spirit sang. Whatever animal impulse it was that he had released
was now untamable. "Haven't you ever had a woman proposition you
before, you fucker? I want to be fucked hard. I want you in me and
I want it so much I can't stand it. God. Please, just ram your
hard cock into me. Fuck ME!"

My eyes were closed, the words just streaming out. I had started
and the more I pleaded and begged the more the asking was doing it
for me. It was so humiliating, yet also so blood curdling.

He slammed my legs apart and jumped into the space between them.
"Enjoy it or hate it," he informed me. "You're not going to be
able to stop it."

Christ. I didn't want to stop it. I was along for the ride.

He stuck his yogurt-coated cock at my golden gate and then pushed
it inside. My cunt tube grew to accommodate and then immediately
relaxed, shrinking around him. "Not too fast," I murmured. "I've
waited a long time for this."

"No rules," he warned. "You wanted to be fucked; you're going to
be fucked anyhow or anyway I decide." He had yet more yogurt and
was rubbing it into my blonde hair.

"I'll stink," I complained, panting hard as I tried to make him go
faster.

"Correct." He kissed me hard and I could feel from the way he held
me and kissed me, in his searching tongue and his hands biting
into my upper arms, bruising them, in all these I tasted his
intensity and passion.

I wrapped my legs about him, using the strength in my thighs to
hold his body and his cock deep inside me, while with my stomach I
pushed myself up and onto him.

Please don't come, I thought. Not yet. Please don't come too soon.
It's all so perfect; we must finish it right. His cock was filling
me, fulfilling me, pumping into me and drawing out feminine juices
mingled with white from the coating on his cock. These were
dripping along the crack between my cheeks and soaking the sheet.
"If there is a maid, what will she think?" I wondered
extraneously. "We've made such mess." But in truth this was of no
concern, it was simply a passing thought. All that occupied me was
the feeling of him holding me, possessing me, and enjoying my
greatest of rides.

He bit down into my breast, allowing his teeth to grip yet not to
bite. I felt my nipple in his mouth, erect and hard at the
prompting of his tongue. "Don't stop," I moaned.

"Tell me again that you want it."

"I want it. I want to be fucked so much. I want you to make me
come. Please, fill my aching cunt with your seed. Make me hot. Do
it: make me come."

He quickened his speed, pumping faster and pushing deeper. His
strokes were long and furious, his full length pulling out before
driving back: plummeting into me and making me shudder under him.

"That's so nice; so beautiful," I cried, feeling myself
approaching the edge.

He lifted his torso from mine and squeezed his hand between us. I
felt his hand as it moved towards my cunt and then touch the point
when our sexes were joined. "What are you doing?" I murmured.
"Please don't stop. Don't stop anything."

"I've no intention of stopping. I'm pushing you over," he growled.
I looked into his face and read there the need and his arousal. I
understood from the swollen veins bulging on his forehead and the
open nostrils that he wasn't so very far behind me. He wanted to
be sure that I got my climax first.

I tensed under his finger. It was touching my clit, stroking and
befriending it. Standing behind that finger was the fury and the
steel of his erection, motionless within me as it waited for the
signal to resume.

The movement of his finger on my clit was deceptively slow. It
teased rather than pushed me forward. Inside me I could feel a
huge cauldron of desire and emotion building in intensity, boiling
away within me. My clitty was twitching near to bursting.

"Please," I said, begging with my eyes and pulling his hand from
inside me. "That's enough. Do it now. Do it properly. I'm ready.
I'm coming."

I felt this unuttered scream of relief escape from within him as
he began to move once more, his self-control tested but not
broken. I clung on to the rails of the headboard; pulling hard
against my chains as the dam burst and my orgasm broke.

It was what he had been waiting for. He drew back the safety,
pulled his trigger and then shot his load into me. "Jesus. Sweet
Jesus," I groaned, as he pounded me over and over with his high
duty hammer drill.

Was that the sound of my breathing? Or was it the sound of his?
The rasps of lungs drinking oxygen played a wild duet. He was
ramming his spewing cock into my hole, filling me with seed, with
semen and with satisfaction. And I was sucking in air like a long
distance runner, again and again, as my climax rushed upon and
over me.

Finally, I sank into the pillow and into the bed, drained, warm,
contented. He lay exhausted upon me, his weight pressing down upon
me; his cock embedded within me.

"Thank you," I sighed.

We did it again, twice more. My stranger uncuffed me and allowed
me to show him my gratitude. He told me that I must kiss every
inch of his body and when I had done that, he took me doggy style.
That time I came twice. Afterwards, we slept awhile, me in his
arms. Finally, we did it in the shower with the hot water
cascading over us and the steam misting my sight. First, I soaped
him down and then he returned the favor. Of course, we both used
plenty of soap and found some pretty interesting ways to lather
ourselves. I rubbed my foaming titties against his chest, kissing
his firm shoulders. We slithered against each other for a while;
penis gliding against pussy and tummy against tummy until the
grappling degenerated into shagging.

After that I slept again. When I woke he was dressed and sitting
on the bed looking at me. He had on his coat and by the bedroom
door was a bag.

"I have to go," he said. It took me a moment to grasp what he had
just said, that he was leaving, and even then my initial reaction
was a selfish one.

"But how do I get back," I cried in alarm, sitting up. "I've got
no clothes. You can't leave me like this."

He kissed me gently on the cheek. It was a gentle modest kiss
considering what we had just shared.

"How do I get back to Durness?" I pursued. "You've destroyed my
clothes."

He smiled. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Your car is
outside. I've placed a packet in the trunk. It contains all the
photographs that I took, including the negatives. Treat it as a
present, from me to you. Don't destroy them. Promise me. Remember
what I told you. Every young woman should have some pictures of
herself in the nude, especially when she's as pretty and sexy as
you. The body doesn't last forever, remember that." He reflected
for a moment. "Perhaps you could try driving at night?"

"In the nude?"

"Not my problem," he grinned moving towards the stairs. "Oh. That
wasn't quite true, what I just said. About the photos I mean. I
haven't given them all to you, not quite all. I've kept one or two
as a keepsake, but I promise, I'll be discreet.

I picked up a blanket from the pile of bedclothes by the door. I
wrapped it round myself and followed him downstairs, stopping him
as he was about to go outside. "Please," I pleaded. "What's your
name? At least tell me your first name."

He put a single finger to his lips; he kissed it softly and then
planted the kiss gently on my lips, mouthing the word "Goodbye".
As I began to protest, he opened the door, slipped through it and
was gone.

I rushed across to the window and watched him walk down the road.
There was a distinct swagger to his step as he walked. "I guess I
had something to do with that," I thought abstractly. I watched
him for a couple of minutes as he wound along with the road,
disappeared behind the trees and was gone. And then I watched for
several more minutes, not quite able to believe that it was all
over and that my stranger was history.

He had left me, and yet had he ever really been mine? He had
entered my life; enjoyed my body: for what? why? Had he done it as
a favor to Sophie or because domination was his kink? What was I
to him? A stupid slut? A hot ticket? A free fuck? I didn't have an
inkling.

Neither did I know whether he was good or bad, whether he has a
mother or likes sugar in his tea. I didn't know whether he has a
temper or a wandering eye. He was as much a nebulous caricature
now as he was before I met him. Now I could put a face to the
outline, I knew his accent and the smell of his cologne. But his
name was the same as it had always been: 'stranger'. And he would
never have another.

I turned, dropped down upon a chair, my face in my hands as I
tried to make sense of all the broken pieces.

                                ***

Sophie answered the door. She caught me by surprise because there
were packed bags in the hall and she was wearing her coat.

"What's happening?" I asked. "Are you going away?"

"Just for a while," she said, retreating awkwardly into the hall.
"Just for a couple of days. I think it's for the best. We can talk
later."

There was something the matter with her. She was edgy and nervous
and she wouldn't look at me.

"What's the matter, Sophie? What's happened?"

She had now bent down over one of her bags and was fiddling fairly
aimlessly with its locks. She was breathless and she wouldn't
answer me.

"Sophie? Don't you want to know what happened?"

Then I saw him. Richard was standing at the back of the hall in
the shadow, his face as black as thunder. I looked back and forth
between Sophie and Richard.

"Richard?"

"Come in," he said tersely. "The living room, I think. We need
words." He held the door of the living room for me to enter. He
was making me nervous. I didn't recognize him as being my fiance
at all; this man was so cold and detached.

"What's happened? What's going on?" I demanded with agitation.

"That's what I want to know," he said. Perturbed, I stepped down
the hall and into the living room.

"I'm sorry," Sophie murmured from behind me. She was outside in
the hall; I just caught her words before Richard shut the door.

She had told him! My mind leaped to the obvious conclusion with a
sickening dread.

"Sit down," he said.

Obediently, I sat in one of the two armchairs, taking the cushion
that rested there and clasping it firmly on my lap. Time stood
still.

"I can explain," I pleaded, digging my fingernails deep into the
cushion.

"Oh, you can explain!" he mocked, sitting astride the arm of the
other armchair. "Tell me, what is it that you can explain?"

I was so full of dread. How much had Sophie told him? How much did
he know? Better to ask. "Where do you want me to begin? How much
has Sophie told you?"

"Why the phone call, Vickie?" he asked. "Did you really think I
wouldn't ask questions?"

"That was nothing to do with me. I didn't even give him your
number."

He shook his head sadly. "I don't understand. I thought I knew
you. I thought we were close. But now it seems that I don't know
you at all."

"Richard!" I begged. "Please. I can explain."

"So you've already said. But what is it that you're going to
explain? That while I work, you're incapable of keeping your legs
closed."

"That isn't fair!"

"It certainly isn't. I thought I meant something, that I was
something special to you."

"You are. Really."

"Love is in the actions, Vickie; not in the words. You don't show
your love for somebody by sleeping with someone else."

I was aching inside. I wanted so much for him to take me in his
arms and fondle my hair or to brush my forehead with the honey of
his lips. I wanted him so much still to love me. "Please Richard.
It didn't mean anything."

"Didn't mean anything, eh? If it meant nothing, then you wouldn't
have done it."

"I know, I made a mistake. Richard, listen to me. I'm sorry. Can't
you forgive me one mistake?"

To say that Richard was angry would be an understatement. He was
livid. But it was a calm controlled anger. It was there in his
voice, but he hadn't raised it; it was there in his body language,
but he wasn't gesticulating or pacing the room.

How angry he is, so irate, yet in that anger I see so much pain,
so much hurt that I could easily weep. Emotions churn deep within
me.

I recalled the words of the stranger, that jealousy and
indifference are opposites. Oh bitter sweet irony that, how glad I
am to feel his pain.

"Please, Richard," I beg, soft words that reach out and caress his
beautiful skin. "Please..."

He struggles. My man is struggling. I reach out to him again and
he stares at me accusingly. I feel his suffering and his ache.
"But why?" he pleads.

Why? What a question. Did I really know its answer? Not really,
but for Richard, I must do my best. I speak softly, intensely,
earnestly.

"Richard, Don't think I haven't been asking myself the same
question. All the way down the motorway I've been wondering: 'Are
you happy now? Does it make you feel better?' I'm not going to lie
to you, Richard. I enjoyed it. I have no regrets, none at all. I
can't say otherwise." His face was a storm cloud and he was no
longer looking at me. "Richard, please try to understand. I can't
change what I am. I am the product of an unhappy marriage. My
father emotionally brutalized my mother over the years. I carry
that baggage with me. What happened in Scotland doesn't affect the
way I feel about you. I love you and I want you so much, I want to
be your wife but marriage scares me; I can't help it. This, I
think... I don't know, I think Scotland was a way of preventing
myself from having to think about marriage and weddings and other
scary thoughts. I put reality on hold and fled into my fantasies."

"Vickie, if you're not ready for marriage, then it's better to
wait. There's no hurry."

No. He wasn't going to throw this back into my court! "I don't
want to wait. I told you, I've been doing a lot of thinking on the
motorway. I said I had no regrets. That's true, I have none. But
that's behind me. It's a finished chapter. I know what I want now
and for the future and it doesn't involve dark strangers or
anybody else. I want you, Richard. Just you."

"Yet in all this you didn't once think about me." It was a
statement, not a question.

"I'm sorry."

"Or think perhaps how I might feel; or even deign to talk to me
about how you were feeling."

"Richard..."

"You just went ahead in the most selfish fashion."

"Can you forgive me?"

"I don't know. Honestly, Vickie, at this moment... first let's
talk about Sophie."

"Sophie?"

"Yes Sophie. Tell me about what you are going to be doing for her.
Sophie and I, isn't it?"

Damn! Why did she have to tell him about that? Damn her! No wonder
Sophie wouldn't look at me! She was too ashamed.

He was seething with anger. "How dare you agree sexual favors on
my behalf!" he demanded. "What right do you think you have?"

"It wasn't like that," I cried. "I backed myself into a corner..."

"So what happens now? Sophie's done her part for you. You owe her.
How are you planning to organize her fantasy? How are you going to
do it, Vickie?"

My expression fell. "I don't know."

"Perhaps you would like me to go to her now, seduce her and then
take her upstairs? Is that what you want? Do you want me to fuck
her?"

"No!" I didn't want that at all.

"Why not? It would pay off your "debt"."

"Please Richard! I don't want you to do that. I'll speak to
Sophie..."

He sighed. "That won't be necessary. I've already spoken with her
and we've reached an agreement.

"An agreement?"

"That's right. That's why you saw her leaving. We had words."

"It wasn't her fault."

"So I discovered. For the time being, the nature of that agreement
will remain between Sophie and myself. Understand? Suffice to say
that I won't be sleeping with her."

"Oh."

"Now, having sorted out your mess, I want you to come over here
and ask me to punish you."

Punish me? What did he mean? There was no smile, no twinkle in his
eye. Then it came to me: he wanted to play! I smiled inside,
addressing him in a very small little girl voice. "Richard. I've
been very bad, can you forgive me? What would you like me to do?"

"I'm not joking, Vickie." He spoke seriously, somberly. I had been
wrong. He didn't want to play. This was making me nervous.

Try again Vickie! I got up, stepped across to where he was sitting
and took hold of his arm. Taking my cue from his somber tone, I
said quietly, my eyes downcast. "I'm sorry, Richard. If you think
I need correcting, then I bow to your judgement and I'll accept
whatever punishment you decide."

This, it seemed, was the attitude that he required. He nodded
quietly then took a lock of my hair and fondled it within his
fingers. "I don't want to lose you, Vickie. I don't. I love you
too much. I can't stand by and ignore games that jeopardize our
relationship."

"I understand."

He shook his head. "No. It's me that understands."

"You do?"

"I hope so. I've been trying to understand, anyway. Were you
serious that you would abide by my judgement?"

I nodded shakily. There was a flush on my face.

"Then go upstairs, I want you to take off your clothes, all of
them, and wait on the bed for me. You've let us both down, Vickie,
not just yourself. That's not something I can ignore. I value our
relationship too much. I value you too much."

"Yes, Richard."

I got up to find that my legs had turned to jelly. He was so
different, so dominant. What had I done to him? "By the way," he
said.

"Yes, Richard."

"I'm not planning on being lenient. If you feel that I have no
right to punish you, physically..."

I gulped. Dare I do it? Dare I give myself to him? I had to.
"Richard, you have every right. You are my future husband."

Having sown the seed, I turned and shut the door. "Yes!" I cried
jubilantly, punching the air. Sophie, it seemed, had gone. Her
bags were no longer in the hall. I ran upstairs, threw off my
clothes and sat waiting on the bed.

What was he going to do? What kind of punishment did he have in
mind? I was shivering with fear and excitement.

I waited anxiously, five, ten minutes until he came, stern, firm
and strict. He sat down and I lay obediently across his lap
feeling the cold air on my bare behind. He didn't say a word; and
neither did I. With his left hand he fixed me to his lap and with
his right he spanked my ass until it was red and blotchy and my
eyes were emptied of tears.

Then, finally, he lifted me; held me; kissed me; caressed me;
reassured me; and, best of all: he loved me.

Thank you, dearest Richard. For now I know what I didn't before.
You are the chimera of my darkest fantasy.

The End

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