The Ultimate Thrill

I jerked her head up so I could see her face better. She glanced at me, and I could see hate in her eyes - hate and revulsion. I didn't have to care. I lifted her farther - my cock slipped out of her mouth - lifted her face up to within three inches of mine, and spat. My saliva hit her in the eye and rolled down her cheek.

I pushed her head down again, put my cock in her mouth . . .

And she bit me.

I yelped and dropped her head. Her teeth raked my cock as I slipped out of her. This really fucking hurt. I looked down. I could see the tooth marks about halfway up my shaft, and a little blood was oozing where she'd broken the skin.

"Motherfucker!" she said. "You fucking limp-dick fairy! Fucking turn me loose!"

Stung and furious, I lifted her head and cuffed her, flat-handed - drool splashed to the table-top.

She recovered quickly and yelled, "You're not a man! You couldn't even do your own fucking kidnapping!"

I hit her again, harder.

Her voice rose to a shriek. "Fucking coward! I bet your daddy set this up!"

I hit her again.

"Tired of you whining about getting no pussy!"

I hit her once more. My violence had made me hard again. I shoved into her mouth and fucked her savagely, two or three thrusts until I came.

I shoved her back by the shoulders - her head hit the tabletop with a thump - wheeled, and stalked out of the shack, slamming the door behind me.

I sat on the edge of the porch, working to get control of myself. The shack was quiet behind me. The sun was getting low.

"Cunt!" I growled. Where did she get off, accusing me of cowardice? I could kill her anytime I wanted!

I drew deep breaths and wondered whether I'd ever feel the love Walter had talked about. It seemed impossible: no man could love a bitch like this.

The sun was just below the treetops, night creeping into the clearing. I had to admit to myself that, infuriating as she was, I was by far the worse person. I was worse than bad. I was taking no risk here: I was like a newbie hunter shooting a penned-up tiger. If she called me a coward, wasn't that because that's how I looked to her?

This wasn't working out. I considered going in and ending it right away. But that would be cowardly. The least I could do, by way of exhibiting bravery, was face her scorn.

9.

Inside, the light was almost gone. I found the two oil lamps and lit them. There was no place to put them but on the floor, and they cast eerie shadows on the walls. The darkness above the rafters was creepy.

She hadn't moved. Her cheek rested on the table; her eyes were closed; a rivulet of blood-streaked cum had run from the corner of her mouth and made a quarter-sized pool on the table.

I found the second bucket - the one she hadn't pissed in - and emptied half of one of the gallon water jugs into it. I threw it in her face and sat in the chair again.

She opened her eyes and said "Fuck."

"My name is Samuel Bateman," I said.

"Concepción Ocampo," she said. "I go by Cindy because Concepción sounds stupid."

"I like it."

"But call me Cindy, okay?"

"Okay, Cindy. How did you become a whore?"

"How did you become a murderer?"

"I asked you first."

"Could I like lie on my back? I've been in this same position for hours."

"Okay." I approached the table. "I have to untie your hands. But understand: if you try anything, you won't succeed, and I will beat the shit out of you."

I untied the ropes that fastened her legs to the table and then her hands: she was still frogtied. I rolled her onto her back. I let her flex her arms for a minute and then tied each wrist to one of her ankles, so her knees were drawn up and her legs spread wide.

I went back to my chair.

"You don't have any pants, Samuel Bateman," she said, "and your cock is hard. You can fuck me if you want."

"I know."

"Oh, I forgot. I'm tied up and you're not, and you can do anything you like. What I meant to say is I won't mind if you fuck me."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. Aren't men always saying that women are impossible to understand?"

"Maybe. But I keep trying."

"Well, I like sex. It's been my downfall - the reason I failed out of college and my parents threw me out. If I'm going to die soon, I'd like to get in some fucking first."

Of course. It wouldn't have been my being good looking, or sexy, or nice. I was the last man in the world she wanted to fuck, but since I was the only man here, the last man in fact, she didn't mind fucking me.

"Okay, but first tell me how you became a whore."

"It's a boring story. I was always boy-crazy, but to be good at being boy-crazy, you've got to spend money. You know, new clothes, good makeup, hairdressers. My parents didn't make a lot, but they were generous with me even though I was kind of a wild kid. But then I went to college, and they had to pay for tuition and books, and they didn't have much left over for an allowance for me. So I, being shallow and materialistic . . ."

"But pretty smart," I said.

"Yeah. The most common remark on my report cards was that I didn't apply myself. I decided to find a part-time job. It didn't take me long to figure out that working for an escort service would get me full-time pay for part-time hours. So I could party twice as much. It doesn't sound like a very good reason to like sell your body."

"I guess there are worse. Supporting a habit, you know . . ."

"My claim to success in life. I'm not a heroin addict." She sniffed.

"You've brought happiness to a lot of people," I said.

"They say," she said with brittle cheerfulness, "that you shouldn't become a whore unless you can find something good in any man. I could always do that, you know, so there was never a guy I felt like I just couldn't get with. Some guy had lots of pimples, but he had a nice clean body; another guy looked like a bulldog, but he had flowers for me every time. Everybody's got their upside."

"Except for me."

"Well, you are planning to kill me, so there's that. But otherwise, you're kind of nice. You've got a confidence, like you know who you are. Do you always fuck so rough?"

"I adapt to the occasion."

"I think if we met at like a party, I'd be into you. Course, now you know I'm a whore, so you wouldn't be into me."

"I like whores. I've been to like half the world's whorehouses."

"You like to fuck whores. That's different from liking them."

I got up and went to the foot of the table. I pulled her towards me till her bottom was at the edge and rubbed my cock in her pussy. It was amazing how much she turned me on. Her slit was wet, and that was amazing too, under the circumstances. I slid into her easily, and she was warm, wet, and snug. I held onto her ankles as I fucked her.

"That feels so fucking good," she sighed. Her pussy made wet noises and her little breasts jiggled. She breathed through her mouth, staring into the rafters.

I fucked her harder, holding her ankles up high.

"Oooh," she whined. "Are you going to fuck my ass?"

"Yeah," I said. "Later."

"So there's gonna be a later."

With that I came.

10.

"I'm sorry," I said, pulling on my pants. "I came too soon."

"You're a very strange man."

"How so?"

"Here you are planning to kill me - "

"You keep saying that. I've never said it."

"But it's obvious. And you're all worried about whether I get an orgasm."

"I like it when women come."

"I like to come. Sometimes I get like, you know, my whole body is as sensitive as my clit, and you can touch me anywhere and set me off."

"Sounds nice."

"I was like that, just now. Did you see my nips? They felt like they got really big."

"Yeah. You've got pretty nipples."

We were silent for a long time. Outside, the night was black.

Finally she said, "It's getting cold."

I got the heater going, and the little shack warmed up quickly.

I rummaged in the boxes and came up with another sandwich. I poured myself some more wine.

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

"I don't see a lot of point in eating."

"Some wine?"

"You got a straw?"

"I could sit you up."

"Okay."

I sat her up. "Lean forward a little so you don't lose your balance," I said. I held a cup for her so she could drink.

"Thanks," she said.

"Just let me know when you want a sip."

We sat for a while. I drank, admired her body, and helped her to some wine a few times. Finally she said, "Have you ever killed anybody before?"

"No. Have you?"

"No." She hesitated, and then said, "You never told me why you wanted a Visayan girl."

I didn't answer. Somehow the memory was more painful now than it had been yesterday.

"I think you can count on me not to blab," she said.

"You're too smart, you know that? You're making me like talking to you too much."

"Like Scheherazade."

"You don't know that Faulkner wasn't a Victorian, but you know Scheherazade?"

"Mom read me a lot of the Arabian Nights when I was a kid. I loved Scheherazade - the original survivor."

I felt a tightness in my throat.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm not trying to play you. Tell me about you and Visayan girls."

Of course she was trying to play me, but it didn't matter: what would happen would happen.

"It was three years ago in Manila," I said. "Have you figured out that I'm one of the idle rich?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"My parents died in a plane crash when I was twenty-one, and left me like half a billion dollars. I was a party animal, like you, and suddenly I found I had endless wealth to party on. As soon as I got out of college, I hooked up with some like-minded friends, and we went all over the world, fucking every kind of girl in every possible way.

"I'd been at this for like two years when I hit Manila. I had planned to meet a friend there and stay a month, because Manila is supposed to be this sexual paradise, but the friend couldn't make it, and I was on my own. I was lonely. I made the rounds of the city's brothels, taking the choicest of some of the world's most beautiful women, but the sex didn't do much to relieve my melancholy.

"Then, a week after I got there, I met a whore who went by the name of Mae. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, with glossy dark hair done in a long braid that hung down past her waist, delicate ivory skin, lovely little breasts with tiny dark nipples, and features whose perfection I cannot even begin to describe."

"As pretty as me?" asked Cindy.

"Almost as pretty as you. The price the owner named for her was astronomical, but it wasn't much for me, and I happily paid for a night with her.

"When I got her alone, I turned on a light so I could examine her more closely. Now I noticed scars here and there on her body, but especially concentrated on her bottom, her breasts, and her mound, which she kept shaved as if to display her injuries. Some of the scars were long welts, like from a whip, some were thin, like cuts, and others were round - probably cigarette burns.

"I asked her where they had come from. She told me, in a matter of fact way, as if reminiscing about her school days, that she was a Visayan woman from a village in Mindanao. Some six years earlier, she had been captured by a rogue patrol of Moro rebels, who had kept her with them in their camp for two months, gang raping her, beating her daily, and torturing her for fun. When they'd finally had enough of her they threw her out, dressed in rags and without a peso. She was too ashamed to go home to her village, and instead made her way to Manila, begging along the roadways and selling her body to raise money for boat fare.

"In Manila she went to work in a cheap brothel, but soon she developed a reputation as one of the most accomplished whores in the city. She worked her way up the hierarchy of Manila prostitutes until she was at the very pinnacle of her profession.

"With a fingertip I traced a long welt that crossed her back and asked, 'Did the Moros give you all these scars?'

"'Many of them,' she said. 'But a great many men get excited when they see my scars, and for a price I allow them to add to the collection.'

"I was also excited by her scars and purchased the right to add one more. I soon realized that she was a masochist with a bottomless appetite for pain. I purchased all her time for the next three weeks, and we lived as lovers for that time. She taught me about bondage and flogging, and all kinds of ways to inflict pain. I was a good student, and I even managed to innovate, though I didn't manage to do anything so sadistic that she objected to it.

"Two days before I was scheduled to leave, I begged Mae to come back to the States and marry me.

"'You know that's impossible,' she said.

"I asked her why.

"'Because,' she said, 'I am dead. You can't marry a dead woman.'

"'That doesn't make any sense,' I said. 'You're warm, your heart is beating . . .'

"'And my soul is gone.'

"'No!' I protested. 'You're capable of love - I know you are - and if you can love, you have a soul.'

"She touched my lips with a slender finger. 'Do you know why I'm a masochist?'

"'Because the Moro tortured you.'

"'They took away my ability to feel anything but pain. You have given me more pain than any other man since then. If I were capable of love, I would love you for that.'

"'Come home with me, and I'll give you a lifetime of love and exquisite pain.'

"I pleaded with her, but she was completely immoveable. She insisted over and over that the Moro had killed her soul, and she was just waiting for her body to catch up.

"Towards morning I gave it up and resigned myself to the prospect of going home alone. She said, 'Do you really love me?'

"I said, 'You know I do. More than myself.'

"'Then do one thing for me before you return to your country.'

"'Anything.'

"She took a lacquered box from a shelf above the bed and sat cross legged beside me. I sat up and faced her. She opened the box and took out a straight razor with an ebony handle.

"She held it out to me. 'Cut my throat,' she said.

"For a few seconds I couldn't speak for the shock of what she'd said.

"Finally I whispered, 'No.'

"'You said you loved me,' she said. 'You said you'd do anything for me. For three weeks now I've given you your heart's desire. Now you must give me mine." She opened the razor, took my hand, pressed the handle into it, and said, 'Cut deep. I promise to die silently so no one will hear. You will clean yourself in the shower, as you always do, and you will go. You know the authorities here. By the time anyone gets around to doing anything about a dead whore, you'll be safe at home.'

"I dropped the razor on the bed, stood up, and started to pull on my clothes.

"'Please,' she said with a quiet dignity that tore at my heart.

"I finished dressing, took a last look at her tear-streaked face, and returned to my hotel. I never saw her again."

Cindy said, "Can I have some more wine?"

"Sure," I said, and held the cup for her.

"Let me just drink it all," she said, and I held the cup to her lips till it was empty.

"You did wrong," she said.

"I know."

"You should have killed her."

"I understand that now. But at the time, I couldn't bring myself to destroy something I loved so much."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"And that's how you're going to kill me. What Mae wanted you to do."

"Yes."

She sat silent for a while, face hidden in shadows. "Can I see it? I mean the razor you're going to use?"

I fetched it from its box and brought it to her. I held it in my palm so she could see it.

"Open it," she said. "Let me see the blade."

I opened it. "It's very sharp," I said, "and I've got a strop to make it sharper. It'll only hurt a little, and you'll pass out within a minute or so. I've studied how to do it properly."

"Hold it against my skin," she said. "I want to feel it."

I touched her thigh with the flat of the blade.

"My neck," she said.

I didn't want to do this, but it seemed indecent to refuse. I held the flat of the blade against her neck, towards the front, where I intended to sever the carotid artery.

"Why not do it now?" she said. "Do it now." She shut her eyes tight and lifted her chin.

The idea was appalling. In the soft light from the oil lamps, her throat was too beautiful: the thought of a wound gaping there, blood spraying out, was unbearable.

"No," I said, and closed the blade. "I'm not ready."

Her chin dropped to her chest, and she drew gasping breaths through her mouth for a minute.

When she was calmer, I said, "It's time to sleep."

"It's still cold."

I undid the frogtie so she could straighten her legs, and tied her ankles and thighs together. I tied her wrists to the thigh bonds, opened the sleeping bag on the floor, and laid her in it. I undressed, crawled in beside her, keeping the knife ready beside me, and fell asleep.

11.

I lingered in the sleeping bag, enjoying the sensation of Cindy's body next to mine, until the morning sun was warming the shack.

Cindy was still asleep. She looked peaceful, though the skin of one cheek was an angry pink. I got up, figured out how to make coffee on the camp stove, and dug a latrine a few feet beyond the edge of the clearing. I went inside to fetch some toilet paper. She had woken up, and her eyes followed me as I came and went. I pissed and took a shit in the latrine, cleaned up, and poured two cups of coffee, which I carried inside.

"I'm going to untie you for a little while, so you can use the latrine and have some coffee," I said. "You understand that if you run, I will catch you, and I'll punish you painfully." She nodded.

I went with her to the latrine and stood nearby, holding the knife at my side till she was done. Back at the shack I poured water over her hands so she could wash; then we sat together on the porch, drinking coffee.

"Do you know when you're going to do it?" she asked.

"No."

"How long do you have this place for?"

"A week."

"I like it here. It makes a nice campground."

"Yeah." I couldn't look at her now without imagining her carved up and bled out, so I tried not to. But she was brave, intelligent, and beautiful, and it was impossible not to look.

"I went back to look for Mae," I said. "Last year. I spent a week in Manila, asking after her in all the brothels, but I never found her, or even anybody who remembered her."

"Us whores get forgotten fast," said Cindy. "That's why these friends of yours deal in us. We're disposable."

"I haven't been able to forget her, though. I've thought about her every day."

"What would you have done if you'd found her?"

"I would have begged her again to marry me, and if she wouldn't, and she still wanted me to, I would have killed her."

"You were going to give her a choice. But you're not giving me a choice."

"Shh!" A rustle came from just beyond the clearing, near the track, and I could see brush moving.

I picked up the knife and said, "Whoever the fuck you are, come out."

Hazel stepped out of the brush, looking sheepish.

"What are you doing here, Hazel?" I asked.

"I was curious. I looked at your directions, copied them, and put the original in a new envelope. Are you going to tell?"

I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Here was Hazel worrying about me telling on her when the real danger was that I would kill her. It would be completely unavoidable if Cindy bolted, as I expected her to do any second. I calculated quickly. If Cindy blurted out that she was being held captive and ran for it, I'd kill Hazel first; then I'd run down Cindy, put her back on the table, and punish her. That way I wouldn't have to alter the original plan. Sam and Roy might think it odd to find two bodies instead of one, but I was sure they'd be understanding about it.