Thrill Seeker Read Online Free

oiled hands moved across my back and I remembered I had a body. For too long, I’d been living in my head and heart, all choked up.
    With slow expertise, my life-saver stroked and kneaded, rubbed this way and that, told me my shoulders were full of tension. My skin hummed under her fingers, my nerve-endings drawing in sensation, synapses firing. She pressed and pummeled, making me wince in pain, but I liked it. I grew loose and floppy. When she smoothed her hands down the sides of my body, she skimmed the bulge of my flattened breasts. For the first time in months, I felt that old stirring in my groin. I imagined her continuing, rolling me over and paying as much attention to my front as my back. I wanted her healing hands everywhere. I barely knew this woman but it wasn’t her I wanted, just her touch. The touch of anyone who cared enough to give me pleasure.
    I left the treatment rooms a different person. Nothing had happened, no funny business. But I’d re-established aconnection with my own body. I’d remembered the simple joys of physicality, of skin on skin, of silencing the chattering mind and taking pleasure in touch. Maybe I started to give off a different vibe after that, I don’t know. But a few weeks later, no major effort required, I was dating Grant, a guy who reminded me sex can be life-alteringly glorious and that getting off was no bad thing either.
    On our first night, Grant blindfolded me, fixed my wrists and ankles to all corners of his bed, told me to relax and enjoy. I swear, I felt like paying him afterwards. He had massage oils, velvet gloves, warm breath, clever hands and, it seemed, all the time in the world.
    ‘What’s that? Ah, ah, what is it?’ I kept saying, frustrated by my sightlessness.
    ‘Doesn’t matter, just enjoy,’ he cooed.
    ‘Tell me, oh God. I don’t think I can cope.’
    He laughed merrily.
    At one point, I was pulling on the ropes, begging him to tell me what he’d done. He’d been kissing my shoulders, my breasts and then, from nowhere, one of my nipples was enveloped in a blanket of heat. It wasn’t a fiery, intense heat but a deeply comforting heat. My nipple glowed, the warmth radiating into the tissue of my breast. Then it happened to my other nipple, and I was lost.
    ‘Please tell me what that is.’
    He chuckled.
    ‘Please,’ I cried. ‘I have to know. What are you doing?’
    He’d capitulated on that one, telling me there was a glass of hot water by the bed. He’d been filling his mouth with the liquid then sliding his lips around each nipple. ‘And that’s all I’m telling you,’ he said. ‘No more questions. You’ll spoil it for yourself.’
    I have to confess, after his explanation the sensation wasn’t as wild. Grant was right, I shouldn’t have asked. But gradually, I relaxed, allowing him to stimulate me inside and out. He didn’t seem to care about his own pleasure – getting his kicks, instead, from mine. To be honest, that aspect did get weird after a few dates. Soon, I was aching for him to lose control, to be so overwhelmed with lust he’d grab my hair, pin me to the kitchen counter and bang me six ways till Sunday. But no, ‘Just lie back, Natalie, enjoy.’
    When he came, he barely made a sound. Sex was a polite, luxurious affair. I started to feel bad for wanting it badder. Harder, nastier, dirtier. Unfurling inside me was a craving for unfathomable, dark satisfactions. The nicer Grant was, the stronger my hunger for something other, for a sexual passion capable of dismantling me. Soon, I was wanting to re-live the lust that Alistair Fitch, with his sharp eye for vulnerability and his predatory guile, had drawn from me all those years ago in his cluttered, blue music studio. But this time, I wanted to seek my own pleasures, to taste them without dread, shame and confusion.
    Was I kinkier than most people? Quite possibly. But ultimately I figured Grant had control issues and anyway, if I was kinkier than most, I simply needed to