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
