Wild Riding to Dublin – A Sequel
Introduction:
A Repercussion of posting my first story
Other than that, my online readers and friends, the account of my encounter on the way to the airport was a raging success – it inflamed James (my ex) to total, raging incandescence.
He didn’t phone me, email or even publish some sort of rebuke to my story on the website itself – which I suppose surprised me (he can tend to be an underhand, crafty fucker). On the day the story went live I checked the website and found myself quite pleased with how it looked, not to mention pleased with some of the comments.
On this evening I’d been out for a few drinks with some friends and was just tidying up before going to bed when I heard the front door open and close. I panicked and grabbed a kitchen knife just as the door opened into the living area. I would’ve thought I was already at an emotional crescendo until James appeared into the room, whereupon I accelerated into a frenzy of screaming at him.
He threw a cushion from the settee at me, yelling, ‘Don’t’ over-react! You didn’t behave like that when you were supposedly gang-raped on the way to the airport!’
I flew at him, knife still flailing in my hand. He stepped behind the settee, lifting another larger cushion, using it as a shield. I may have been seething with anger but I was aware I didn’t want to damage the fabric so I dropped the knife to my side. ‘What do you mean, “supposedly”,’ I yelled back at him, ‘It happened – you saw the result. I was a sodden, fucked mess!’
In a flash he was beside me, grabbed and disarmed me, then twisted my arm up my back. The pain was agonising as his other hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. His voice was trembling with anger as he whispered, ‘You’re a fucking disgrace, either way. Have you no self-respect, publishing shit like that for anyone to read? Someone could work out who you are – who I am. You could mess up both our lives and our careers. Do you not care?’
I didn’t answer until he released his grip on my arm, then I moved a little distance away and faced him.
‘You’re getting even more paranoid,’ I spat at him. ‘There was nothing in my story that could’ve pinpointed anyone, not even the soldiers, that night…’
He laughed. ‘Fucking soldiers! Where did you get that idea from – some of that trash you read?’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Everything I wrote was true,’ I said, ‘I left hardly anything out.’
He paused, looking at me. ‘What do you mean – hardly anything?’
Yes, that stopped him in his tracks. ‘There was a bit more,’ I said. ‘In a way, quite a bit more. A sequel, if you like – you even played a minor part in it.!’ His eyes flared; I could see he didn’t know if I was just baiting him, goading him. ‘Yes, in fact you could, in principle, have my story confirmed – for you met one of those soldiers some time later,’ I added.
I could see his grip stiffen on the knife, but he still challenged me. ‘You could tell me any shit now that we’re out of one another’s life,’ he said, falling silent.
The resentment in me was rising; the awareness of his blatant trespass into my new life seared my rationality forcing me to break a confidence I had always intended to keep. I drew myself upright and thrust out my bosom in defiance.
‘You remember the bit in my story where the young soldier took my skirt and top and said he would leave them to dry at the bulkhead heater?’ James said nothing, simply glared. ‘Well, the same soldier helped me down from the back of the truck before handing them back, and in the process pressed a piece of folded-up torn brown envelope into my palm. He told me his name and said that as he was getting married soon he desperately wanted to talk to me. Just talk, he said. He looked so desperate, I nodded and said I would. I also told him that his fiancée was a lucky girl to be having someone who gave a girl as good head as he did. Yes, he was the anonymous boy that had me creaming and squirting all over his face!’
‘You’re making it all up!’
‘Not at all. You’ve met him – you’ve even been at his wedding, the one in Dundalk…’
‘What! You mean that young boy, hardly out of his teens who married the glamour-puss who looked as though she could eat him alive! What’s his name…? Dennis?’
‘Dermot is his name; he’s nearly thirty now, and as for the glamour-puss – looks can be deceiving, she was more of a glamourous church mouse.’
‘You told me that guy was referred to you through one of your private clients.’
‘That’s right, I told a porky. No, I did as he’d asked, I phoned him the following week, and I’ll just tell you, without breaking any more confidences, that I tried to help him with their relationship problems. I might add that my advice helped them a great deal – he was very grateful.’ I stretched back and drew my right hand languorously from between my legs, under my skirt, then onto my crotch and ground into it. I laughed in his face. ‘No money changed hands between us, but let’s say he spent most of his time thanking me on his knees. Anyway, you never did enjoy eating cunt.’
‘You were fucking that kid in my own home! You bastard!’ He started moving towards me, the knife raised.
I stood my ground. ‘No, my dear ex-husband,’ I scoffed, ‘the only bit of him that ever penetrated me was his tongue – which is more than you can say!’ He looked as if he was about to argue when I added, ‘You should see all the motion-activated videos I have of you tying up and riding that whore who’s married to your boss – right in our own bedroom. Now that’s something that might indeed affect your promotion prospects.’
‘Videos!’ he almost screamed. ‘Where are they? Give them to me!’
‘No. They’re mine and they make interesting viewing – I’m sure Mr George would just love to see them.’ I could see the panic in his face. ‘Yes, and you know that George would be round here in a shot if I gave him a call. You know how often he’s tried to grope me when he’s had a few – something you always dismissed as just a bit of inebriated fun. No wonder, considering you what you were doing to his wife. Yep, I reckon an invitation for an evening of erotic viewing would have him coming in his pants. Why, I reckon if I was sitting on top of him straddling his big belly with my tits bouncing up and down in front of him he mightn’t even notice what you were doing to his wife on-screen.’ I had to laugh at the look on James’ face – and that was my mistake.
In that second of letting my guard down, he was on me. Both arms were gripped behind my back as he dragged me over to the kitchen area. He grabbed the roll of cling film I had been sealing a few dishes with and bound my wrists together, then he taped them similarly to the door handle. I could move and walk – I even kicked at him, fruitlessly – but my range was limited to the arc of the door. He was almost frothing at the mouth and he wanted the videos. I refused.
Knife pointed straight at me, he approached; the knife scared me – I knew that in the heat of the moment mistakes can happen. We all know what crimes of passion are.
‘Tell me where the videos are and I’ll forget all about it.’ His voice sounded faux-reasonable, but I just shook my head. He reached behind my waist, ripped the zip of my skirt down, then thrust it down round my ankles. So much for trying to kick him now, I was hobbled. He stood close to me, so close I thought he was going to kiss me – then I felt the chill of the big blade flat on my groin. He asked me again.
For a moment I almost told him, but my bloody-mindedness held sway and I shook my head again. He looked down and sliced once, then moved and sliced again. He pulled the thong remnants from between my legs. He swung round, opened the fridge and returned with an aerosol of instant cream that I kept for emergencies. The freezing foam stung my recently shaven pudenda and I squirmed and screamed threats at him. Producing his mobile phone he stood back and took a photograph. ‘I’ll title it “Loves having her creamy cunt eaten” when I post it online.’
That was enough. ‘No, no,’ I cried, surrendering, ‘let’s settle this – the videos are on SD cards in a little plastic box under the grate of the bedroom fireplace.’ He bounded up the stairs and was back down in minutes with them in his hand. All urgency was gone now – he was gloating.
‘Well, now that’s sorted out, I think it’s time I taught you a lesson,’ he said, slicing my wrists free from the door handle, then pulling me over to the granite-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. I struggled to walk with my tight skirt now down round my high heels and while I was concentrating on staying upright he secured my wrists to the kitchen taps. I was aware of him bending down behind me, then suddenly the constriction around my ankles was freed. I glanced down, he’d ripped through my fucking skirt!
I started to try to kick at him back and sideways, till he warned me, ‘Keep that up and I’ll tape your legs so wide apart you’ll think you’re doing the fucking splits!’ His hands flew around from behind me, grabbed the lapels of my blouse and ripped the garment apart. Little white buttons flew everywhere. I felt the blade on my shoulders and I froze. Snick, snick and he slashed my bra off.
He spoke intimately into my ear, I could feel his body against me. ‘In your story you said you hoped I was missing milking your big firm tits – well, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it?’ He grabbed my breasts and pulled them forward, at the same time kicking my legs apart. ‘Bend over. I want to make sure your arsehole is well cleaned out after milk-bottle cock filled it,’ he said, laughing. My cheek was now pressing against the granite worktop, my arms stretched out along the stone towards the taps. He had bodily pulled me by the waist backwards till both halves of my body were at right angles to one another. He kicked my legs further apart again. I could feel him fumbling behind me, then I felt his cock semi-erect against my inner thigh – but I felt no threat. Familiarity breeds contempt.
When I saw him grab the washing-up liquid bottle I knew what he planned to do. I felt the viscous liquid squirt over my private parts – ass and vagina – then something that wasn’t his dick was pushed into my anus. ‘I’m sure you really miss the demise of the milkman,’ he said, ‘milk-bottles are hard to come by these days and the supermarket plastic containers are no substitute!’ I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking what he’d shoved up there, I knew he’d be keen for me to know. ‘That big pepper-mill your mother gave us comes in handy, though, doesn’t it?’ He laughed as he added, ‘She’s got one similar, hasn’t she? Probably uses it regularly to bring herself off ever since your dad passed away.’
That was it, I lost it. I kicked wildly, trying to stab his feet and legs with my heels but it was all grist to his mill. As I fought I could feel his cock swelling, especially when I caught him on the ankle with a heel and he began to beat me viciously with his hand. Suddenly, I felt the plug pulled from my ass; my hips were lifted, and his cock slipped up me amid a slime of Fairy liquid.
As he rode me he concentrated on pulling my breasts in the fashion I’d often seen farmers milking cows’ teats as a young girl – indeed, thinking of that now I’m not sure there wasn’t some paedophiliac grooming subtext there on at least a couple of occasions – but there was nothing erotic about this. ‘Yes,’ he growled as he was closing in on ejaculating, ‘in future, you’ll certainly remember this last time I fucking milked you; I know I will.’ Then he emptied his balls into me.
Still bound, I was left hanging as described as he readied himself for leaving. Apart from a burst of random swearing at him I didn’t say too much – apart from my skirt and blouse being destroyed it wasn’t unlike many of the rows towards the end of our marriage. I could handle that sort of behaviour.
To compound the outrage and to allow him to exit without me pursuing him too easily, he removed my high heels and smashed a wine glass into fragments on the tiles between us.
‘Careful where you step now. I’ll leave your shoes at the door.’
At that he turned and left. But the one thing you didn’t consider, James, is that I have several copies of those digital video clips stored in different locations in the Cloud – so, don’t even think about posting that photo of me anywhere. George would be the first person I would contact.
