The Ultimate Thrill

But then, it might all have been the same. After all, Mae had sent me away before.

I took my cock out of Hazel's mouth and guided her to my balls, which she sucked with noisy enthusiasm. I didn't have to suggest a rimjob: she was entrepreneurial, and she knew how to use foreplay to negotiate the acts to come. I enjoyed her slim wet tongue for a while, let her suck me for another minute, and flipped her over, spun her around, and went down on her.

I remember her pussy - the way she'd shaved her outer labia, leaving a neatly groomed triangle above; the way her damp pink lips protruded and, sticking together, flopped over to the right; the perfume and taste of the slick womanhood that pooled at the bottom of her slit when I opened her: a clear drop escaped before I could lap it up, and I had to chase it down to her anus, where I lingered to make sure I had it all.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Fuck me!"

Still a careless bon vivant, I fucked her, cock squelching in her pussy, holding her ass in my hands for better thrust, making an arch of my back so I could suck her erect nipples, leaving finger-marks on her white neck, biting ears and lips.

Deluded that I knew something of love, I lubricated her ass and pushed in quick enough to hurt but slow enough not to hurt bad.

"Oh, fuck, yes!" She clutched the white sheet and bit the pillow as I held her shoulders and rammed her, breathing heavily. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" She reached between her legs and rubbed her clit hard. I reached around her and pulled her up to me by the tits; her back slid against my sweaty chest.

"Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!" she cried, kneading her pussy till she came with screams like a beaten girl, unable to fend off the fists and the pain.

I fell back, pulling her with me by the hair, then twisting her head, forcing her to turn over, and shoving her down onto my cock. I thrust upwards into her mouth, holding her in place by two fistfuls of hair, and listened to her wet choking as I fucked her throat till I came deep inside her. She coughed, and cum ran out her nose.

I held her in place, twitching, cock inside her, till I was soft; when I let her go she said, "You're kind of rough."

"Sorry," I said without meaning it at all.

"Whatever this adventure of yours is," she said, "If you're coming through here afterwards . . ."

"Sure," I said.

That night I dreamed of Mae, surrounded by candles and figurines, a crucifix above her bed. She was in a white gown, lying in a red pool, so pale, so still. Yet she said, without moving her body or lips, "Where were you, baby? It should have been you."

5.

The instructions Hazel had given me advised me to leave at nine o'clock. It would take about four hours to reach what was called "the facility." Two hours of that would be along Route 50; I should plan to gas up before turning off onto what would be nameless tracks for the rest of the trip. Fifteen minutes off the highway would be my last chance at cell phone reception; then I'd ascend steep slopes into piney woods till I reached the facility, which I could identify by a large brown SUV parked outside.

The trip along 50, "The Nation's Loneliest Highway," was uneventful. I counted miles after filling up at the landmark gas station and found the track, which ran through flat desert for a while. I could drive about thirty miles per hour. As the terrain rose and the trees closed in, the track became bumpy and rutted, and soon I was crawling along at not much more than a walk. I watched the mileage so as not to miss a turn, and then, a half hour on, another. The road rose and the trees became thinner, till finally I saw the brown SUV.

To say this was a "facility" was to glorify it considerably. What I saw was a run-down shack which, from the outside at least, looked uninhabitable. The roof sagged like the back of an ancient mare, and the wood of the siding was rotted. Yet I noticed that there was glass in the windows and a closed front door.

I got out of my jeep, went to the house, and opened the door. Two men in work clothes were bolting a heavy table together.

"'Bout fucking time," said one of them.

The other smiled and advanced towards me with his hand extended. "Sam," he said. He gestured towards some stacked boxes and said, "You wanna check over this shit?"

"Not the food and water," I said. "Just the other stuff."

"Okay," said Sam, picking up one of the boxes. He opened it, took out a knife, and handed it to me.

I drew it from its sheath and hefted it. "Nice."

Next was a large coil of rope, soft and white. "Good," I said.

The leather of the strop was soft and pliable. "Excellent," I said.

"Straight razor," said Sam, and handed it to me. I examined it closely. It had an ivory handle, and when I touched the edge I could tell it was dangerously sharp. "Just right."

"The whip." I handled it: it was good quality and well balanced. I nodded.

"Bucket," he said, slapping a galvanized bucket that sat on top of the boxes. "And there's some shit that people don't always think to ask about. Sleeping bag, cot, a tent in case you wanna get away from the Missus." He grinned. "Toilet paper, soap, pots and pans, coffee pot, camp stove, coupla plates, cups, knives and forks - everything you need for a romantic dinner for two. Another bucket. Couple oil lamps. Propane heater: it gets cold at night. C'm'ere." He led me outside and pointed at a path that led out of the clearing. "There's a stream right down there. Not much more than a trickle, but it'll do if you run short of water. There's a shovel here. You need to take a crap, dig a latrine. Sorry it ain't more luxurious."

"It's got all the comforts of home."

"When you're done, leave everything here: the knife, the tent, all the garbage. Be careful to take everything you brought with you - if you leave it, you won't never get it back."

He led me back into the shack. "It looks like shit, but it'll keep the weather out. This table okay?"

Roy was standing beside the table, tossing a crescent wrench from hand to hand.

I measured it with my eyes. "Yeah, it's good."

"Anything else? We got some basic tools - hammers, screwdrivers . . ."

"I think that's it, thanks."

"Right then. C'mon, Roy, let's get the cunt."

6.

They brought in the girl and laid her gently on the floor. Her wrists and ankles were secured with plastic restraints, the ankle restraints tied to the wrist restraints with a length of nylon cord. Her head was entirely covered by a tight-fitting black cloth hood with a removable blindfold.

"She's asleep," said Sam. "Maybe she'll have a headache when she wakes up - in a couple hours, I think. I got some Advil if you give a fuck."

"I've got some," I said.

"Ain't no scratch on her," he said. "You want to check her out?"

"No, that's okay. Where's she from?"

"Fuck me if I know. She'll give you an earful when she wakes up, but you'd be nuts to believe a fucking thing she says."

"She got a name?"

"Not that I know of. You can ask her when she wakes up, but she'll lie."

"When's the last time she ate?"

The girl groaned and stirred.

"Last night. You got anything else? 'Cause we got a long ways to go."

"I think that's it."

"Leave the meat behind with the other shit when you go, and call from the bottom of the road. If we don't hear from you in a week, we'll come up to find out who did who."

They left the shack. I watched them from the door. As they were climbing into the SUV, Roy turned, leered at me, and gave me the finger. I stood in the doorway till the SUV had bumped out of sight and I could no longer hear the engine.

I turned and surveyed the shack. It was a single room. The walls were bare lath with patches of plaster sticking to them here and there. The floor was rough wood: walking barefoot, you'd instantly get a splinter. The only furniture aside from the table was a plain wooden chair.

I looked the girl over. She was about five and a half feet tall, the same height as Mae, and slender. She was wearing a casual gray dress, loose-fitting with a belt, and casual soft leather shoes with straps. I thought she probably wasn't a street girl, or if she was, they hadn't grabbed her off the street.

I removed the blindfold. Her eyelids fluttered and closed again. The hood was of some stretchy material: I was able to roll it off her head like a sock.

My first reaction was disappointment. The girl didn't look much like Mae: She was a few years younger, her skin darker, her face rounder, her lips fuller, her black hair (which I fluffed up with my fingers) cut a little longer than shoulder length, with brown streaks dyed in.

But then I felt foolish. Had I really expected them to deliver a clone of Mae? Trouble was, I hadn't thought about my expectations at all. Mae defined beauty for me, and any departure was a flaw.

I looked at the girl again and saw that she was quite good looking, with well proportioned, symmetrical features, sensuous lips, and delicately arched eyebrows. She seemed to have taken a good bit of care with her grooming. I sat and studied her, getting used to her face. She grew on me.

She breathed deeply and shifted a little. Time was short. I stood, went over to the box of supplies Sam had left, and got the knife and rope. I removed her shoes, carefully cut off the plastic restraints, and slit her dress up the front. I cut the material along the shoulders and sleeves; the dress fell away and lay under her like a rug.

Her bra and panties were in a matching blue, the bra shaped to show some cleavage and the panties brief and sexy. I cut them off.

Her body was slender like Mae's, small breasted, and perfect in every particular. Her pussy was shaved; she had no tattoos that I could see. I bent down for a closer look at her smooth, graceful neck. I reached out, touched her below the ear, and traced a line with my fingertip from there to her collarbone. Her skin was smooth and flawless, silky to the touch.

I sat up and looked again. She had faint tan lines, but otherwise her skin was entirely unmarked: there was another difference from Mae. I decided she was beautiful. Happiness surged inside me: Raymond's people had done well.

I picked her up - she was surprisingly light - and carried her to the table, where I lay her on her back. I returned to where she'd been lying and kicked her ruined clothing to the side of the room. I picked up the knife and rope and brought them to the table.

I rolled her onto her stomach and centered her on the table, turning her head so her face was towards the chair. I tied her legs in a frogtie - legs bent at the knee and ankles bound to thighs. I like this configuration because it works equally well whether you're face up or face down. I was careful not to cut off her circulation: her toes pointed at the rafters. I spread her legs and tied her thigh bonds to the legs of the table.

I bound her wrists behind her back and sat down to wait. I checked my phone: there was no signal. I liked the feeling of being far away from everything and everyone. The girl's breathing was deep and regular.

I opened some of the food boxes. There was a good bit of ready-to-eat stuff: sandwiches, apples, packaged snacks. The rest was stuff that could easily be heated up: hot dogs and brats, cans of baked beans, hamburger already formed into patties, an easy pancake batter mix. There were gallon jugs of water, and one box contained twelve bottles of wine, some red, some white, all decent but not spectacular. A corkscrew and a stack of plastic cups had been tossed into the box.

I opened a bottle, poured myself some red, unwrapped a sandwich, sat in the chair, and watched the girl as I ate and drank.

7.

She woke a little before four. She stirred, opened her eyes, closed them, and, shortly afterwards, opened them again. She glanced at me, at the stacked boxes, at the rotting walls. She tried to move and realized she was tied. It must have registered with her that she was naked.

She looked at me again. I liked the look on her face - eyes thoughtful, mouth neither smiling nor frowning, face gradually transforming as she processed her recent memories and the information her senses were passing to her brain.

It took her only about a minute to work it out. She screamed till she was out of breath, then screamed again, struggling ineffectually against her bonds.

I stood up and went outside. I set up the camp stove, got my bag out of the Jeep, and carried it to the porch. I went to the edge of the clearing and pissed; then I sat on the porch and waited. So far the girl seemed smart. That pleased me: it would have been less pleasurable to play with a stupid girl.

It took about fifteen minutes for her screams to fade into sobs. I stood, picked up my bag, carried it inside, and set it down by the door. I sat in the chair.

She stared at me, and I thought about what she was seeing - a man in his late twenties, thin and smooth, neither ugly nor handsome, with brown hair. I was excited but relaxed and confident. This afternoon I was wearing jeans and a casual long-sleeved shirt.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

She shook her head as well as she could with her cheek pressed against the table.

"Need to use the bathroom?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry there's no bathroom here, but I'll be glad to hold a bucket for you."

She sniffled and considered her answer for a few seconds. "If you let me go outside, I promise I won't run."

Her voice was soft and breathy, and I could detect no accent. She probably wasn't an illegal alien.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm not ready to untie you. If it makes you feel any better, I don't get off watching women pee."

She watched me with alert intelligent eyes, probably wondering what did get me off.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Jasmine."

"You can call me John."

"But that's not your name."

"Of course not. Tell me about yourself."

"Are you going to tell me about yourself?"

"No."

"Then why should I?"

"Because you're tied to a table and I'm not."

"What if I don't tell you anything about me? What if I don't talk to you?"

"I'll hurt you."

"You're going to hurt me anyway."

"Yes. It's a question of how much."

She studied me with thoughtful eyes. "I'm a student," she said. "A graduate student at Berkeley."

"Uh huh. What do you study?"

"English. Older stuff, like Dickens."

"Are you from California?"

"San Jose. How long have I been gone?"

"A couple of days."

"My parents have called the cops by now. They'll be looking all over."

"Not here."

"Where's here?"

"Two hours from the nearest highway and the nearest cell tower."

She was quiet for a long while. I waited for her, not caring how soon we began to play.

Finally she said, "I really have to pee."

I stood, picked up the bucket, and went to the bottom of the table. I seized her by the ankles and pulled her until her legs were hanging over the edge. I held the bucket under her and said, "Go."

She watched me over her shoulder as her piss splashed into the bucket. I held her gaze, thinking that might reassure her.

When she was done, I repositioned her on the table, took the bucket outside, and emptied it at the edge of the clearing. I left it on the porch, went back in, and sat.

"Where did they grab you?"

"You don't know?"

"No. They couldn't tell me."

"Who are they?"

"The guys who delivered you here."

She waited a few seconds, thinking. "It was night. I was on my way home from the library . . ."

"The Dane Library?"

"Yeah. I cut through like this park?"

"Yeah."

"And these two men grabbed me and put a hood over my head."

"I hope they didn't rough you up too much."

"They tossed me in this van and gave me a shot, and I don't remember much else till I woke up here."

"Tell me about your studies. You study Victorian literature?"

"Victorian? Yeah, like Dickens."

"Who else?"

"Um, like Faulkner? Milton? Old stuff."

I stood up with a sigh and fetched the whip, which lay coiled on one of the boxes. Standing about two feet from the table as she stared with frightened eyes, I raised the whip and brought it down hard across her back. I liked the feeling of not having to restrain myself.

She screamed, and I waited for her to stop.

"Not Dane Library, but Doe Library," I said, and struck her again.

She screamed again.

"You know fuck-all about English literature," I said, and struck her a third time.

"No, no, no!" she sobbed, and writhed as much as her bonds would allow.

"And you don't know anything about Berkeley." I struck her one more time.

She screeched and then sobbed, "I'm sorry. Don't hit me again."

She was beautiful when she cried, and the red stripes across her back filled me with warm pleasure.

"Let's start over," I said. "You're not a student, but a whore. What's your name?"

"Cindy. Don't hit me - that's true. My work name is Jasmine."

"Where are you from, Cindy?"

"Oak . . . Oakland."

"What kind of whore are you? Streetwalker?"

"Escort. Mostly outcall."

"Use drugs?"

"Some pot. A little meth."

"Needle?"

"Pipe. Just sometimes with friends, or a john."

"Parents?"

"They live in Oakland. I talk to them every day. They're gonna be missing me."

I hit her with the whip, and she screamed.

"I'm going to punish you every time you lie," I said.

"They threw me out when I was nineteen. They live in L.A. now."

"Why did they throw you out?"

"I was like out of control. I got arrested a few times - for like underage and hooking. I failed out of college. They couldn't handle it anymore."

"They don't give a fuck where you are, and no one else is looking for you either."

"No." She looked miserable; she was tearing up again. I felt sorry for her. Even that tiny prick of emotion, combined with the knowledge of where we were going, nearly overwhelmed me, and I got up abruptly and went outside so she couldn't see my face.

8.

"Why me?" she asked.

"I wanted a Filipino girl. Actually I wanted Visayan, but I didn't think they'd know what I was talking about. I guess you were the first one they spotted."

"Why Visayan?"

"Why not?"

"You could have just hired me. I can do like whipping and stuff, you know. Lots of girls can. You didn't have to bring me up here."

"I like the solitude."

"Look - John. It doesn't feel right to call you by a name that isn't yours."

"You can call me Kevin if you like."

"Is that your name?"

"No." I was enjoying myself.

"If you . . . if you let me live, you can do anything you want. Anything in the world."

"I can do anything I want anyway."

I grinned at her, and she turned her head away. I let her cry for a little while, then took my shoes off. I stood to take off my pants and underwear and sat to put my shoes back on because of the rough floor. I was hard and had been almost since she'd woken up.

I loosened the ropes securing her legs to the table so I could pull her forward. It was a risk to put my cock in her mouth, but I thought she probably wouldn't bite me, knowing the punishment would be severe.

With my left hand I lifted her head by the hair. I slapped her cheek with my right, and she opened her mouth. I pushed into her deep, holding her with one hand under her chin and one behind her head.

I could tell she'd done this a lot - she gagged wetly but didn't puke, even though I thrust as deep as I could trying to hit her gag reflex.

I pulled out of her and said, "You're a natural born cocksucker."

"Fuck you," she said, and I pushed into her and fucked her roughly, joyful with the knowledge that I didn't have to care whether she was happy or unhappy, turned on or disgusted. Underneath all my roughness and my need to inflict pain, I'd always cared. Even with whores I'd always made sure they were okay with the kind of sex I wanted. Now I was liberated, and my arousal soared and swooped inside me as it had never done before.