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
