Thrill Seeker (35 page)

‘Oh man, I’m gonna come,’ said Liam.

‘Yes,’ said Baxter with an exultant growl.

I slammed down harder and Liam came, stuttering out a twisted roar. He withdrew quickly, leaving Baxter in the driving seat, so to speak. Moments later, Baxter snatched himself free. He snapped off his rubber, moving with frenzied urgency.

‘On your knees,’ he barked. ‘I’m gonna explode all over your face.’

I scrambled to obey as Baxter stood on the futon, rising above me, tall and magnificent, wanking furiously. I opened my mouth, aching to taste his come after so long without. He uttered grunts of desperate need then, with roar that sounded like the darkness made audible, like tar and coalmines and
black, bitter secrets, he came, scattering pearls on my face and splashing salt on my tongue.

He stood, legs apart, panting for breath. The hairs on his upper thighs were damp with sweat. I smeared his stickiness into my mouth, wanting to consume him. With a dramatic grunt, Baxter fell to his knees, his weight slamming into the mattress. He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, and dragged me close. He kissed me hard, tasting himself on my tongue before he flung himself onto the bed, laughing again. ‘Ah, hen,’ he said. ‘I’m a broken man. What have you done to me?’

Liam laughed as well. ‘I can’t feel my knees,’ he said.

‘I can’t feel my anything,’ I added.

The three of us lay in a tangle of sticky, sweaty recuperation, the fireworks outside banging like mortar bombs and dripping colour into the room.

‘I think Saltbourne’s being shelled,’ said Baxter. ‘About fucking time and all.’

After a while, he poured us a round of whiskies and Liam skinned up. We talked with lazy companionability, the noises fading outside as the hour grew late. Rory came to join us, seeking comfort after the fireworks. On cautious white paws, she crept into the room, tail swaying warily. On the floor lay the brown leather bridle, its rich lustre and brass attachments gleaming in the colour-smudged dimness. Curious, Rory nuzzled at the tangle of straps, flinching from each tiny touch.

‘Look,’ said Baxter. ‘Even the fucking cat’s a pervert.’

We laughed, beyond happy. I wasn’t sure about the harness. I’d need to disassociate the object from Den to be comfortable wearing it. Liam said he’d help. I was surprised he’d taken the bridle from the theatre. Later, he’d said he couldn’t bear the thought of his work being sold to such a
tosser. Ever principled, Liam said he’d refund Den the money. Better still, he was going to remove the strap embossed with NIL and replace with a plain piece of leather, help make the piece mine again. After all, it was designed for me. A shame to let that go to waste.

Outside, a late, lonely firework exploded. Liam sat up with a stoned version of decisiveness. ‘I’m going to head off,’ he said. ‘I think you two have a lot of catching up to do.’

‘Aye, we certainly have.’ Baxter beamed at me, brushing a wisp of hair from my face.

Rory wandered off as Liam dressed. ‘You mind if I leave my crowbar here?’ he said. ‘Don’t fancy walking home with that.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And will you lock the door when you leave? My keys are on top of the telly.’

‘No worries,’ Liam replied, and I knew that he, like me, was remembering the night of the storm. I hadn’t yet told him it was Den who’d broken in but I would do soon, although I suspected he knew already.

When he was dressed, Liam knelt on the futon to print a goodbye peck on my lips. He gave Baxter a stiff smile, holding out a polite hand.

Baxter, unfazed by the contrast of his own nudity against Liam’s propriety, dragged his new friend into a manly hug, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Excellent night,’ said Baxter. ‘Excellent to have met you, laddie.’

We listened to Liam’s footsteps on the stairs, heard the lock click then my keys clatter on the doormat as Liam posted them through the letterbox.

I said, ‘I’m not giving him up for you.’

‘I’m no asking you to,’ Baxter replied. ‘Although the other fella can take a hike.’

‘Yeah, I think he’ll have got that message.’

For a moment or two, we let the silence of the house settle around us as it had done on so many nights in the past. Nothing stirred outside, the sky beyond the window black and peaceful. Baxter and I were the only people in the world.

I swirled a hand over his torso, fingers drifting through his crisp, dark chest hair. ‘Now what?’ I asked.

Baxter rolled onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. He gazed at me, tracing a finger across my lips, smiling.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m going to fuck the lights out of you.’

A heartbeat passed, a gentle pause, then he sprang up. I squealed as he straddled my hips, pinning me beneath his glorious thighs. He raised my wrists, gripping tight, and shoved my arms against the pillows. His hair tumbled over his forehead, his grin triumphant.

I squirmed beneath him, laughing hard. ‘Try,’ I said.

And he did and he does, over and over. And I burn more brightly than ever.

Enormous thanks to Gillian Green, my editor, for encouraging me to explore more deeply and involving me in decisions about my supremely handsome book cover. To Emily Yau for speed and efficiency. And to all at Black Lace for reviving the imprint with such enthusiasm and style.

To Alison Tyler because it’s high time I thanked you for constant support and for being an ever-present reminder of the importance of integrity.

To my friends, especially Alice, Anne and Lorelei, for understanding when I can’t come out to play. To Jackie for accompanying me on my first trip to Hastings, and to Mike for my second trip. Who knew I would corrupt the town so? And to Anna because last time, I never got to thank you for being my village bike.

To Peter for, um, technical assistance (and the pig).

To Mum and Matt in France for not minding that I turned up as a holiday guest then wrote each day until it was time to start drinking wine (which, admittedly, is quite early in France). And to Mum, especially, for being proud of what I do.

And to Ewan, light of my life, for reading version one on train station platforms, for inspiration, being awesome, and for all the love, across the years.

In 2012, Black Lace and
The Daily Mail’s YOU
magazine ran a short story competition, the prize being publication by
Black Lace.
I was privileged to be on the judging panel along with bestselling Black Lace author, Portia Da Costa, and our editor, Gillian Green.

We received over two hundred and fifty submissions. Many entrants told us they were inspired to put pen to paper for the first time, or dig out stories previously abandoned. The enthusiasm for the competition, not to mention the high standard of stories we received, makes me genuinely excited about the future of erotica. As judges, ours was a difficult task but, after whittling the entries down to a shortlist of thirteen, we chose ‘Forbidden’ by S. M. Taylor as our winner.

When I first read ‘Forbidden’, I got goosebumps. S. M. Taylor’s voice immediately felt fresh, her exploration of conflicts in British-Asian culture giving the story an extra heft. I’m looking at my hard copy of the piece as I write this introduction. Scrawled in the margins are my pencilled notes and at the end, a simple, enthusiastic, ‘Yes!’. As Portia said, ‘Forbidden’ has the ‘it factor’, that indefinable something which makes a story glow.

‘Forbidden’ tells of a young Muslim woman, Sofina, and
her secret love affair with a tattooed, Cockney boxer, Patrick. Sofina and Patrick have a sizzlingly hot encounter in a derelict yard in Brick Lane, the heart of London’s Bangladeshi community, and an area long-famed for its bustling markets. The scenario is as far away from aspirational erotica featuring long-fingered billionaires as you could possibly get!

Followers of my work will know I’m partial to mean-looking men, urban decay, and sex scenes that play with danger and dubious consent. These themes feature in my second novel,
Asking for Trouble
, in many of my short stories, and once again in
Thrill Seeker.
S. M. Taylor’s story includes these elements and so, inevitably, it pushed a lot of my buttons. However, my judging criteria weren’t based solely on what a story could do for me!

In ‘Forbidden’, the sex is raw and brutal while the story-telling is anything but. S. M. Taylor demonstrates a sophisticated use of theme-building, perspective shifts, erotic tension and pacing. Sofina and Patrick are well-defined, realistic, likeable characters. Their dialogue is top-notch: witty, tender, passionate, sexy and natural, drawing the reader into their intimacy and bringing their connection alive to us. We’re made to care about this couple, meaning, as readers, we’re emotionally involved in the unfolding of their clandestine lust in that tatty, East End yard. And when the heart’s involved, the groin is seldom far behind.

And there’s the bigger story. Sofina and Patrick are in love, but Sofina’s family would disapprove of the relationship. The stakes are high and so is the tension. S. M. Taylor neatly encapsulates how the couple’s feelings and the difficulties they face are embodied in the sex: ‘Somehow, the ferocity of the way he fucked her made their love stronger. It was tangible. It was real. It hurt.’

In good erotic fiction, the sex has to matter. A story which describes two people merrily making out, with no consequences to their interaction, isn’t enough. Here, the sex matters because this young couple’s love matters, both on a personal and on a wider, cultural level. Patrick is a fighter in the ring. With Sofina, he must face a different fight if their love is to survive. This is a story about Sofina and Patrick; it is Romeo and Juliet with the battle lines drawn on contemporary ground. It’s a story about the changing landscape in multicultural Britain and, crucially for our genre, it’s also beautifully, boldly erotic.

I can’t wait to read more of S. M. Taylor’s work. I hope you enjoy ‘Forbidden’ as much as I did. If you want to know more about S. M. Taylor, please stop by the Black Lace website
www.blacklace.co.uk
to read my interview with this exciting, talented, new writer.

Kristina Lloyd, May 2013

The silver kitten-heel sandals lifted away from her bare feet and clicked back again like finger cymbals against the pavement. She adjusted the red silk dupatta covering her hennaed hair, which was freshly oiled and jasmine-scented, and plaited down to her waist. The scarf cascaded over the matching shalwar kameez, and Sofina smiled at her flowing reflection in the shop window.

The outfit was handmade in Pakistan by a renowned tailor, a gift to herself for all her hard work, and bought with the first pay cheque that she had earned in her new job. Her mother would say that the silk was too clingy and the heels were too high and she would get a reputation as being ‘that sort of girl’, and who would marry her then?

But this outfit was not for her family, nor in readiness for some stranger who was ‘a nice boy’. It was for her, Sofina.

She stopped at a market stall piled high with ethnic fruit and vegetables. She stood still for a while, regarding the array of produce and, then here and there, Sofina reached out her French-manicured hands to touch and squeeze the offerings. After a brief exchange with the trader in a patois of Urdu and
English, she purchased a lush bunch of coriander, a handful each of red and green chilli peppers and a couple of very ripe brown figs.

As Sofina paid for the contents of the brown paper parcel, her mobile phone rang.

She moved away from the busy stall and, trapping the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she juggled it with trying to manage the contents of her overflowing shoulder bag.

‘Fatima!’ she said excitedly. ‘Listen. You are now talking to Sofina Khan, ACA. A very proud and very relieved, newly qualified chartered accountant!’

Across the street, leaning against a wall papered with tattered posters and painted with graffiti tags, a tall, muscular man watched the young woman weave in and out of the crowd, smiling and laughing as she talked on the phone. He sported a black eye and a buzz cut and wore a grey hooded sweatshirt rolled up to the elbows to reveal sleeves of black tattoos.

From a distance, he watched how the delicate silk outfit caressed the contours of her shapely figure – outlining the fulsome bust, bottom and thighs. As she got closer, he saw how the black kohl eyeliner enhanced her chocolate-brown eyes and the ruby-red lipstick her full lips. She passed him and he noticed the way the shiny thick plait swung at her bottom like a pendulum as she walked. He also heard the chinking of the rows of heavy Indian gold bracelets adorning her wrists.

‘And why is it that the first word is “congratulations” and the second is “husband”?’ Sofina laughed. ‘Fatima, I’m twenty-three years of age, hardly a spinster.’

The man shadowed her from across the street, hands dug deep into his jeans pockets, gradually moving through the
crowd and looking about, to the left and right and behind, as he followed her.

He loved the way she moved. She sashayed. With every step, her large bust bouncing, the broad hips swaying and each ample buttock rising and falling. He felt his cock stiffen. This woman was fucking perfection, he thought.

Sofina continued with her conversation, unaware of the eyes upon her or the sexual attention that she elicited.

‘No, sorry, Fatima, I can’t now. I’ve – err – I’ve got a dental appointment. I’ll call you later. OK? Bye.’

She ended the conversation quickly and dropped the phone into her bag, which she swung by her side as now she almost skipped along the path.

Sofina made her way out of Brick Lane market, leaving the spiced air of the Bangladeshi restaurants and the buzz of the crowd behind her. She turned left into a road lined with old warehouse buildings and then, after about a hundred yards, she turned right into a backstreet marked ‘Private’.

Suddenly she felt a sharp tug at the back of her head and a feeling of being reeled in backwards. Her plait was being coiled around the man’s fist and in seconds the back of her head was cradled in his arms.