Thrill Seeker: a seaside excerpt
I’m over at Justine Elyot’s blog today discussing the influence of the seaside on my writing as part of her fascinating Briterotica series.
Below is a seasidey excerpt from my forthcoming Black Lace novel, Thrill Seeker (published 9th May in the UK and on Kindle generally). This is the first excerpt I’ve revealed to the internet, so please be gentle!
Taken from Chapter Three, the scene is a flashback in which my narrator, Natalie, recalls having sex on the beach at night with Baxter Logan, the man who later betrays her.
This is our first significant introduction to Baxter Logan, and oh, how I adore him! He turned out to be one of the characters I’ve most enjoyed writing in my career to date.
Thrill Seeker is set in Saltbourne, a fictional seaside town, and tells the story of Natalie Lovell who gets into all sorts of trouble when she shares a kidnap fantasy with a stranger she meets online. But of course, it’s more complicated than that, and Baxter Logan is part of her baggage.
The derelict fishing quarter on the east beach at Saltbourne used to be my favourite place for late night, al fresco sex.
Once, Baxter and I fucked in the scoop of a broken boat, its wooden sides yellow and ravaged like an old banana. No, that’s not right. Baxter fucked me. He always fucked me. Sex wasn’t something we did together. He would act as if he were inflicting it on me and I’d let him because that’s how we rolled.
That night with Baxter was our first time at the beach. The moon was low and large, silvering the sea, and the tide was high. Waves crashed on the shore, shingle clattering in the drag. You could make out the whirs and squeals of the funfair near the west beach, a jangle of music seeping into the dark, the rides’ gaudy lights spinning, flashing and swooping by the disused pier. In contrast, the east beach around us was apocalyptically still, a halted world of rusting winches, mouldering shacks, abandoned lobster pots, rotting rope and scattered, dead boats. The old net houses, tall, gaunt sheds with steep roofs and tar-black, weatherboarded walls, loomed over the wreckage like a creepy, elongated town in a fairy tale.
The broken boat was resting on a slant. Baxter had me face-forward over the plank of a narrow seat, his fist wound in my hair. He made my spine dip, my arse lifting towards to him, and my neck ached. I gripped the edge of the boat, struggling to keep my cries down as he fucked me like a man possessed.
‘See what you make me do,’ he accused, his Dunfermline accent rolling through gritted teeth. ‘Fucking you in this nasty place, like a whore. A greedy little whore. Why d’you do it, hen? Why d’you make me fuck you like this, eh?’
The boat creaked and I feared it might break, its wood too brittle and splintered to take us. Baxter slammed relentlessly, his cock thumping at my core. He released my hair and hooked me around the waist, holding me steady as he powered on, his breath fast, his grunts spittle-moist and urgent. He was a hefty man with crude hands, his broad chest tangled with dark hair, his thighs as big as a warrior’s. He was a few pounds overweight but proportionate so the extra layer merely added to his bulk and strength. Besides, I like a man with padding.
To look at him, sturdy in a suit, hair rumpled, jaw unshaven, his tie permanently askew, you wouldn’t believe he could move with such grace and ease; wouldn’t believe how his pelvis could undulate when he lingered over a slow, cruel fuck; wouldn’t believe how fast he could move in the sack. But then to look at him, you’d never guess he was as broken as the boats around us, a big, angry, soft-hearted Scot with a weakness for women and whisky.
I loved him for a year and now I wish I’d never met him.
That night on the beach is etched in my memory as one of our high points, later to became a low because it was laced with betrayal. At the time, drunk on romance, I’d seen the desolate beauty of the fishing quarter as an environmental echo of Baxter. He was all around me, his masculinity echoing in the remnants of this coastal industry, in the coils of thick rope, the heavy chains and dark, dangerous secrets of the sea.
‘C’mere, you wee bitch,’ he urged, snatching himself from me. ‘Suck my dick. Come on, jump to it.’
He maneuvered me into place, dragging me by my hair. I complained, resisting him because it was too dark to see and the boat was grotty. I wanted to know where I was putting my hands, what I was kneeling on. Was it clean, safe? Would we break the boat and end up in a heap of matchwood? But Baxter didn’t care about niceties and he knew, at heart, neither did I.
I stumbled towards him on all fours. I was wearing cute, blue, hold-up stockings with a daisy detail on the ankle. Not so cute now. Baxter’s thighs were bound with a confusion of clothing and his cock was hard enough to cut diamonds. For a brief moment, moonlight glossed his tip, adding a pearly pink sheen to the flushed violet marbling. The veins on his shaft were thick like those ropes, flowing with blue mysteries like the sea. He gripped himself, holding steady as he aimed for my mouth, pulling me on to him.
Had anyone been watching they might have wondered if I were consenting to this. But I was, very much so. Baxter’s bossiness turned me on like nothing else. I saw his cock as him condensed, full of rage but exposed and vulnerable too. At that moment, I couldn’t differentiate between wanting the man and wanting the cock. I wanted him and it to overwhelm me. Then I could disappear into him, like disappearing into the vastness of the black, boundless night. That’s what I craved: the oblivion of dissolution, the intoxicating peace I found in the white heat, white light of lust, sweat and surrender.