Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd

Author:Kristina Lloyd
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Virgin Digital
Published: 2006-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

ILYA OBVIOUSLY HAD some wicked plan in mind; something nasty and debasing, I reckoned, to challenge my limits and stretch the tension of our game.

I found that pretty daunting because I wasn’t sure what my limits were and I didn’t think Ilya knew either.

We were playing a kind of sexual brinkmanship and the stakes were high.

Words like ‘no’ or ‘ouch, too painful’ or more likely ‘ugh, too demeaning’ counted for nothing in our deal. There was only one word to signal ‘stop that’ and it came with a heavy penalty because in the same breath it also meant ‘stop’ as in the end, finito, game over, goodbye.

If Ilya pushed too far, then he’d lose everything. So every push was a risk; a careful balancing of nudging the limits against the threat of collapse.

But I was smitten. I was ripe for exploitation. I could see how this game of ours might get seriously unbalanced.

I tried to think up a challenge Ilya would enjoy in order to put things on a more even keel. But I couldn’t. When a man likes the idea of something, he just goes for it. Women have a much tougher time, even modern, clued-up women like me. I like cheap and sleazy. I like humiliation and abuse. I like fantasies of forced sex and being made powerless. But I don’t like admitting to it.

I could think of plenty of challenges Ilya would hate. I could play the bitch: make him squirm and beg for mercy; drip candle wax on him; flog him with a belt. Or I could take his anal virginity with my vibrator.

But I’d hate it as well. I wanted Ilya to be my real man through and through. I wanted him to keep on dominating me, making me sluttish and getting me to do things I’d never done before.

Besides, I didn’t want to take the risk of him calling cuttlefish. My fear was that, if the going got tough, he’d be prepared to say it. I wasn’t.

Ilya didn’t realise it, but he had the power to make me do anything. Cuttlefish was buried deep in my body. I wasn’t going to say the word that would finish us.

I was so glad he didn’t realise it, because that’s where my power lay – in Ilya’s constant awareness that, if he went over the top, I just might crack and cry out the dreaded C-word.

The implications of what we were doing preyed on my mind, as did Ilya’s secretiveness.

I’d quizzed him about his powdery fingers and his refusal to allow me into his flat. He’d just said he’d been doing a spot of DIY when I called – real DIY, not wanking – and that his flat had been a tip and he’d just had an accident with some Polyfilla. I didn’t believe him.

But I didn’t feel in a position to demand a better explanation. While his strangeness still disturbed me, I was gradually accepting the fact that Ilya preferred to keep himself to himself and that I simply had to go along with that.

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