Traded on the Love Exchange Part 1
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Traded On The Love Exchange - Part 2 free porn video
4. Soon Kelly, Soon
I stand by my car under the bright winter stars, smoking a spliff. It is not the same cigarette I put out on Ronson’s arse but a new one, rolled by the man who stands beside his motorbike near Ronson’s trailer.
“Soon, Kelly, soon,” the man says.
Ronson is inside, probably asleep. Before that, he asked what relationship I had with Dave and why I would do something like this for him. I explained that I happened to be passing, that what has emerged from this evening is the idea of a ‘Love Exchange’, and that I am being traded on it. Ronson then asked if I would like to be traded again, and I said yes.
Cue the forwarding of my photo to a man Ronson owes drug money to, who showed up ten minutes later on a Harley that throbbed in the night like a lazy beast roused from dreams of slaughter.
This individual is called Mutant John, a large, grizzled leather and denim-clad Hell’s Angel with long grey hair, a beard, and a slab-like upper body that ought to have gone to fat by now – he is at least sixty – but for some reason hasn’t. He sounds like Lemmy from Motörhead: weirdly classless yet cool and authoritarian. His eyes are blue, his face impassive.
As Ronson stood nearby in his jeans, his face excited and aghast, Mutant John told me he was going to stalk me through the woods and then fuck me. I said that was fine.
It was agreed that to cover the evidence of his dreadful ‘crime,’ he will wear a condom and that because I am a slut who has already been fucked tonight, I will be pre-lubed. I will also be high – a corporate princess who has strayed from the path in search of extreme pleasure, who falls into the wrong hands.
As we went through the same contractual texting process as before, Ronson’s eyes shone with unshed tears.
“My poor Mistress,” he said.
But he did nothing to stop what was about to happen. Instead, Mutant John handed me the large and probably overwhelming spliff with a red Bic lighter. I picked up my handbag, strutted outside to my car, and lit the spliff.
It was as strong as I expected, and I didn’t take too much down. Instead, I plucked a bottle of poppers from my handbag and inhaled from that. The combination of drugs sped up my heart and made me very eager.
Mutant John came out of the trailer, and the light inside went off. Mutant John crossed to his monster bike, where he sparked up his own spliff as I tucked the poppers through my blouse into my bra.
“Soon, Kelly, soon,” he says again.
“I beg your pardon?” I say, in full entitled white woman mode, as if I am about to complain to a manager.
Mutant John says nothing. He has a heavy brow, and his pale blue eyes glint beneath it.
The dope kicks off a spurt of paranoia. What the fuck am I doing? That guy is huge. I suspect I can outrun him, but I won’t be able to outfight him. He will overwhelm me just by lying on me.
The poppers join in now – because him lying on me is what I want. I loved dominating Ronson, but I expected to be fucked and now I’m going to be.
Mutant John takes a step closer. His hands are by his sides, and the ember of his spliff glows near the left one like a loyal firefly.
I frown.
“How do you know my name, anyway?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
Again, my paranoia flares. Has he been watching me? Would I even have known? Perhaps Mutant John set this whole thing up! No, wait, it wasn’t Mutant John - it was someone much worse.
It was me.
I look at my spliff again. It has gone out, so I click the red Bic a few times and get it going. I shouldn’t smoke too much of this, I tell myself, and then I do – a great big lungful that seems to reveal hidden structures in the night around us, as if instead of marijuana, the stuff is made of those particles that pass through matter to give it physical form. I take my time exhaling and sometimes take little breaths to mix the drug with oxygen.
I feel gloriously adrift, and then I remember what Mutant John just said.
“How dare you watch me! I shall report you to the police.”
“The police won’t get here in time.”
I stare at him as if I don’t know what he’s on about. I can be a very good actress.
“In time for what?”
For a while, he says nothing. Then… Is that the ghost of a smile?
“Soon, Kelly, soon.”
I lick my finger, put the spliff out and tuck it into my blouse pocket with the Bic. Then I take another hit of poppers, and as chemical heat rushes through me, I feel myself open completely to the night. I gasp and pant in the chill December air as I feel the stars watch me and wonder where the moon is.
Mutant John is suddenly by my side. I can smell him – leather, smoke, and the meaty scent of a big man’s body.
“Why do you keep saying that?” I say, tucking the poppers back in my blouse.
“You’d better start running, pretty girl.”
“Why?”
“Because I am going to take your clothes off, one by one, and then I am going to fuck you.”
“N-no!”
My handbag slides off my shoulder and is suddenly in his hand. Outraged, I stand up straight with my breasts out – and he grips my shoulders, spins me around and snatches off my jacket. I back away from him. My jacket and bag hang in his huge hands like tiny baubles. Everything of mine feels like it’s his, from my car to my body.
He holds my jacket to his face and inhales. When he looks up, he is smiling.
“Soon, Kelly, soon.”
I back away slowly, as if keeping quiet will hide me from him even as he watches me go. He turns away suddenly, carrying my things back to his bike. It’s got panniers and he folds my jacket, slides it in and puts the bag in after it. Clicking the pannier shut, he swings his long legs over the saddle and the bike roars to life as its headlamp floods everything with dazzling white light. The thing seems to leap at me, and I turn and run into the woods.
Blinking to get the glare out of my eyes, I blunder through the wood with zero grace. It would be hard enough in trainers, let alone these boots. There is no path I can make out, and branches slap at my face. I hold out my hands to push them away as the bike snarls up behind me. Soon I can see my own shadow. Will he run me over?
Is that what he really wants?
I have no control over this situation now. Whatever we have agreed could just as easily be un-agreed according to his whim. Or, I suppose, mine, but he is the one on a monster machine that sees no barrier in everything currently smacking me in the face and legs as I stumble on.
Scared now, I realise this is the thrill – that I am too often in control, in environments I don’t like to stray from. Yet, what is the point of that? Better to be here, stalked through the woods like Red Riding Hood, my blood ablaze with fear and wonder, my mind lit up with drugs, and my body eager for extreme gratification.
The bike cuts left, and I veer away from it through the trees onto a path. The bike follows, chugging behind me as I run. I should get back among the trees – I am making it too easy for him, but perhaps that is what I want. The bike revs, the light swings – and then there is only darkness and silence.
I don’t look back and keep running as best I can – an odd trotting motion that enables balance on these heels. Such motion would be hard enough on a flat surface and sober, and I am fully aware that only luck has prevented me from twisting my ankle.
The path curves around. I follow it deeper into the wood, and soon all sounds of pursuit cease. Has he given up? Disappointment is a thud in my chest.
I stop and peer around.
In the soft luminescence of starlight, the indifferent trees surround me and cold wind whispers among them. The dense silence of the English countryside is a blanket of solitude. The only thing I can hear is my panting breath and thudding heart and the rustle of the wood as it goes about its ancient, mysterious business.
I start to walk again, placing my feet carefully down. Time does that peculiar thing it gets up to in the strange hours of the night, passing in odd, twisty ways that confuse and beguile. I should not smoke anymore, in case it gives my location away, or gets me so high I fall over, but I spark up the spliff again nonetheless. It charges around my racing system, making everything seem giddy with possibility.
“Soon, Kelly, soon.”
I scream in terrified shock, so hard and pure that I drop the spliff and run again. I can’t see Mutant John, but his voice sounded close. Can he become invisible? Is the fucker a werewolf?
Ridiculously, the path simply ends. Should I go back or risk making my way through the trees –?
I am seized so hard and tight that the pressure is total, and it doesn’t even occur to me to struggle. Large hands probe the front of my skirt, and then suddenly, I’m not wearing it anymore, the wind cool against my stockinged thighs. I’m pushed to my knees as legs longer and more powerful than mine grip them together so I cannot move. A huge male weight presses down as those same monster paws undo my blouse buttons with unnerving delicacy.
Then I’m alone again, kneeling on the soft, damp leaves amid the smell of wet soil in nothing but my underwear.
I expect him to say ‘Soon, Kelly, soon,’ again, but there’s no point – the words echo around my head as loudly as if he were shouting them.
Panting with shock and with the fear getting more real and exhilarating, I turn on the spot to see if I can glimpse Mutant John, but he has once again blended with the woodland like some denim-clad wizard. I absolutely should not have any more poppers, so I absolutely do, tugging the bottle from inside my bra and taking hit after hit until the wood spins around me and I feel like I could fit a tree inside me; I am so ready.
But nothing comes for me, so I tuck the bottle away and slink on, my balance fucked and my heels threatening to cripple me with every step. I do not care. I am rich with sensuous abandon and crazed with erotic possibility.
I no longer feel like I am in the dark. I feel like part of it, and part of the wood as human animals are supposed to be – one with the landscape and its mad, lush fertility. I no longer care if Mutant John wears a condom or not. I feel, with a certainty that defies reason, that I could get pregnant – that I want to get pregnant.
I pant with desire and fear…
No, not fear anymore, terror – not just of Mutant John, but of everything – a pure stab of existential awareness as if the universe itself has just fingered me. How tiny I am, and how glorious! The woods seem smaller now, or perhaps I have grown, absorbing energy and mass from this wild new reality.
Soon I am at the periphery of the wood, which has enlarged in my imagination to become a forest, vast and implacable, like the great vaulted tree-realm of ancient England. Yet I have reached the end of it and yearn to go on.
Dimly, I realise I do not recognise the field below. It stretches down towards a hollow of greater darkness that seems to hold a light, although it might be my fevered imagination. I stand there, my body glowing in its skimpy garments, hot with everything.
Where is Mutant John? Have I lost him? Should I go back into the trees?
And then I feel him beside me, like an oak that has assumed human form. I should run, but I cannot.
“Now Kelly, now,” he whispers.
5. A Twisted Journey
He takes me standing up, pressed against the thick trunk of a tree whose bark rubs my front as I’m fucked. His legs are longer, so my own weight presses me down onto his cock, which is big. To begin with, it hurts, but as he works me harder, I get used to it, and then I start to enjoy it.
Mutant John has stuck to the script and used a condom and also brought his own lube, which helps. He roots through my bra, grabs the poppers, then gets himself even higher, and me too. Soon he pushes me to my knees. My panties, stockings and boots are… I don’t know where they are. I am in nothing but my bra now, and I feel the damp earth soak my knees, a cool counterpoint to the frenzied, heating copulation going on above.
Mutant John wants to get himself right in on every thrust so I accommodate his thick root, and I scream when he does this, which he likes. I then try not to scream, as it encourages him and causes me fresh pain, but each time he does it, I can’t help myself.
He cannot stop fucking me. He will gather me up so I am kneeling, wrap his arms around me, and inhale the smell of my hair. He will kiss my neck and grip my breasts, and all the time he is pumping, pumping, pumping. I, who had sought to fuck the world not long ago, find myself increasingly overwhelmed – but still, he does not stop.
He ignores Big Clit, and I wonder about that, but don’t mind too much. This fucking is as much to do with power as eroticism, so I kneel there and take it, and then I lie there and take it.
I feel the dirt rub into my back and wonder distantly what sort of state my hair is in. Little black bobs thrive in artificial environments, which this is the opposite of. I don’t think Mutant John cares, though.
And neither do I. I was fucked earlier at Candygirls, and it was nowhere near as incredible as this. Often I think about becoming one with the landscape, getting really muddy and really messy, but for some reason, never get around to it. Now, however, I am flipped onto my front and ground into the dirt. Big Clit twitches against the soil, the unrelenting penetration affecting it as much as friction against sweet, damp soil.
I think of Ronson seeing his Mistress like this – how she is humiliated and used on the ground, her fine clothes gone along with her power and authority. She is merely a hole now, a sex object to be enjoyed by a brute man who uses her intimacy to masturbate with and has no thought for her pleasure.
He might snap her slender neck for fun if he can be bothered. If not, then he will discard her in the dirt with the rest of the filth. He will piss on her, and kick her away, and leave her crying in the dark.
Big Clit is fuller now, and I am finding my own rhythm amid the cataclysm that is sex with Mutant John. I wonder about the nature of his mutation. He appears human, albeit abnormally large. Perhaps it is to do with the nature of his sex, which is so overwhelming, brutal, and thorough as to engage an entirely new way of being.
He does not speak – his communication is by touch. I am gripped and manipulated – bent over and pressed against trees, earth, leaves… I expect him to hit me, but he doesn’t. The focus of his violence is penetration, which is total and unrelenting.
I do not know how long we have been fucking – already it seems longer than normal. Half-an-hour? An hour? He has incredible stamina for a man his age and size.
He is not even naked – he extends from his denim/leather outfit like the stamen of some hairy flower. His beard is wiry but softer on my skin than stubble, and it tickles when he holds me close. His breath is smoky-sweet, and his hair smells of natural oils.
I find myself standing and bending over to touch my toes, the better for him to get deep inside me again. He puts on more lube, holds the poppers under my nose, and as the sweet rush charges around me and makes me want to do anything; he slides the head of his cock into me again. I wait for him to thrust hard again, but he does not. Instead, he leaves it there, then moves it a little deeper, and pulls out slightly, then pushes deeper still, until I start to coo in the night as I look out of the wood and imagine someone down there looking up with an infra-red telescope right into my wide and sex-crazed eyes.
Mutant John pulls out of me. There is a thud, then silence, and stillness.
For a moment, I stand, bent over, my intimacy offered to the cool night air. Is this a new part of the game?
When I turn, I see him on his back, limbs splayed at an odd angle as if he has been switched off.
“John?”
It seems astonishing that something that powerful can simply stop, and a distant screaming in my addled mind lets me know that all is not well. I stumble over to him.
“John! Mutant John!”
I shake him, but he does not move. His eyes are partially open. I cannot feel his breath.
First Aid – remember First Aid!
But I did that course years ago, spent most of the time flirting with a woman I eventually went home with, and later came to learn that the resuscitation guidelines change every year as if to keep you on your toes.
Christ. Where is his fucking pulse? I realise how cold I am now the fucking has stopped and that my fingers are going numb. Is the best place to check a pulse the wrist or the neck? I press both and feel nothing.
Is he dead?
I straighten his limbs, then fold my hands together and do CPR on his chest – one, two, three, four…
On I go, and on, and I will keep going until he wakes up or I pass out. I keep thinking I hear him breathe, but it is me forcing air in and out of his lungs as I shove down.
He groans.
“John!” I scream.
You shouldn’t hit people in situations like this or shout LIVE as you do, but I am not in my right mind, so I do it and he groans again. I grab his denim lapels and shake him with a strength that astonishes me. His eyes flicker in the dark and he makes a strange noise.
“Where is my fucking phone?” I shout.
He can’t speak, so I try to find his phone but, of course, he must have stashed it on his bike, wherever that is. How suddenly our high-tech civilised veneer can be whipped away. I don’t even know where my panties are.
His wavering hand points at his chest; his heart has given out. He was probably on Viagra and overdid the poppers. Dammit! I should have said something, but I was meant to be the victim, not his mum.
I stare into the wood, but clouds have gathered and it is darker now. I cannot see the bike, but a small crumpled pile nearby turns out to be my gaff panties, so I pull those on and stand up.
I’ve got no idea where I am. I could try and find Ronson’s place, but how close is that, and what if Ronson doesn’t wake up? The bike is hidden in the woods with my handbag, so I can’t even get anywhere in the car.
Think Kelly, think.
The priority is to get Mutant John to a hospital. Peering down the sloping field, I am certain there is a light there. Calculating that it will be easier to reach it than to try and find either Mutant John’s bike or Ronson, I clamber through peripheral trees and set off down the hill at a run.
To be continued...
Aeryn
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