The Ultimate Thrill

Copyright © 2016 by Serafina1210. This story is exclusively for Literotica: if you see it either free or for sale on any other website, it is stolen.

Ultimately, the meaning of "ultimate" is "last." "The Ultimate Fantasy" (a common title here at Lit) is the last word in fantasies. "The Ultimate Blowjob" is the blowjob to end all blowjobs. But wait! Isn't there something a bit ominous about these titles? The ultimate blowjob could be the one that kills you. The ultimate fantasy could involve someone's death. Keep this in mind when reading this dark romance, which is about things that are extreme, and best, and last.

Length:

Approximately 13,000 words (about an hour for the average reader).

Tags:

Straight sex, Oral sex, Anal sex, Bondage, Whipping, Slapping, Prostitution, Romance.

*****

1.

"It is indeed," said Walter, "but there is an experience beyond that - the ultimate thrill."

"And you have had that experience?"

"A gentleman doesn't kill and tell."

We'd been sharing tales of our exploits over brandies in the club. It was astonishing that Walter and I, clubmates for almost a decade, had never met before, because we were both libertines who had circled the globe several times in search of intense sexual experiences - visiting Caribbean and Indonesian whorehouses, picking up Italian contessas, buying Yemeni, Congolese and Thai slave girls to fuck and release, and enjoying long expensive weekends with Czech porn stars.

Our conversation had drifted towards the

outré

- how pleasurable it was to listen to the screams of a shackled and whipped submissive, the moans of a trussed and clamped slave, or the gargling of a human toilet. I had just told a story of how I'd inadvertently wounded a professional slave in Johannesburg.

"Of course I was very sorry, and I paid her handsomely; but I was surprised and disturbed how arousing it was to make love to a bleeding woman."

Whereupon Walter had shocked me with his statement about what he called "the ultimate thrill."

"Come, Walter," I said. "We've been entirely open with each other. This is not the moment to clam up."

He sipped his brandy. "We're talking about the most intense of all possible sexual acts, for both parties. The particulars of my own experience are deeply personal. It means a great deal to me that no one in the entire world shares the memory of that experience with me."

"I understand," I said, fascinated, "but tell me what you can - the impersonal parts, anyway."

"Fair enough," said Walter. "There are those, even in this civilized land, who will, for a price, supply a girl . . ."

"What kind of girl?"

"Usually a prostitute. Understand that this is not an everyday thing. The people who provide this service charge very high prices - more for their discretion than because the merchandise they deal in is rare or difficult to obtain. A person in this business can live well on a single transaction every few months."

"The risks must be very great."

"More often than not we're talking about an undocumented alien, who, being a prostitute, belongs to two of the classes of person the authorities care about least. And then, the supplier cleans up carefully, so that there's no evidence that anything untoward has taken place. No

corpus delicti

."

I tried not to think about how one might go about cleaning up such evidence.

"The police hate missing persons cases involving prostitutes and illegals." Walter waved a hand. "The files go right to the bottom of the stack."

"Okay," I said, adopting a breezy manner to cover my arousal. "You get a lowlife whore."

"Not necessarily. You give your specifications to the supplier," said Walter, "and he matches them as closely as possible - guaranteeing, of course, such basics as the girl's good health. There are limitations. A Mexican girl is easy to get on short notice. A blond Swede is simply impossible, but a blond Russian can be obtained, though it may take some time."

"An Asian girl," I said.

"Thai and Chinese are easy to get, Japanese and Korean less so."

"English speaking?"

"Ah, yes, communication is an exquisite pleasure at such a time. I paid extra for an English-speaking girl."

I crossed my legs to hide my erection. "What happens next?"

"You're given directions to an out-of-the-way place. Perhaps an abandoned airstrip in the desert, or a cabin in the deep woods. You find your way there, and the girl is brought to you, sedated, along with any implements you require. You secure her in a way that seems good to you, and when she wakes up . . . you have your experience. You can take an hour, a day, or a week about it. You call a number afterwards, and someone is sent to clean up the site."

I was thoroughly hooked by now. "What does this service cost?"

"For, say, an English-speaking Chinese girl?"

"Say Filipino."

"I see you're a connoisseur of Asian women. I could only guess, I'm afraid. The base price is a million, and it goes up as your requirements become more difficult to satisfy."

I was reluctant to ask the next question, but Walter spared me the trouble. "I can put you in touch with my supplier," he said.

2.

The man looked like a young venture capitalist, with a neat and obviously expensive suit, a red tie, a rehearsed smile, and a bureaucratic manner. He stirred his latte slowly. The buzz of conversation in the Starbucks covered our words.

"We ask for a fifty percent deposit," he said, "and the rest at the end of the experience. When you're finished you call a number, and then our business association is at an end." He smiled and added, "Unless you want a repeat."

"Do your clients often come back to you?"

"Not very often. Our clients are no more psychopathic than you are. They are men wealthy enough to partake of an experience that few others can - comparable to, say, riding in a spaceship. For most, once is plenty."

"Do you ever have clients who can't . . . you know,

do

it?"

"In the end, almost everyone does. You may experience some reluctance - that's only natural - but you've got to think about the risks you'd be exposing yourself to if you, say, released the subject. We handle subjects very carefully, both to ensure delivery in good condition and to limit our legal exposure. Yours will be the only face the subject sees from the beginning of the process to the end. Accordingly, your legal exposure would be greatest if the subject were in a position to talk."

"I see."

"There's more to it than that, though. You must know that a subject will say anything at all, make any promise, to persuade you to free her. One of those promises will certainly be that she won't contact the authorities. But that will be a lie. If she gets away, you will very soon find yourself talking to the police. And when that happens, we will become concerned."

"Has that ever happened?"

He smiled a frosty smile. "Once on my watch. In the end we decided that both the client and the subject were enough of a problem to require us to act. If you find yourself unable to bring things to a conclusion, it's far better to leave the subject secured and let us know. We are efficient and humane."

"Humane."

He said, "If you have any qualms, it's better not to go forward. So far this is all idle talk. We've incurred no risks; we don't even know each other's names. If you were to report this conversation to anyone, they'd very likely think it a confabulation."

I thought it odd that this man should speak of "humane" practices when he didn't care what I'd do when left alone with what he euphemistically called "the subject." Though I had no plan for that moment, I had no intention of being humane. The prospect of blood and terror excited me.

If you're thinking I was a monster, I can only say that I agree with you - I

was

a monster. Think, though: what makes a monster but his resemblance to the rest of mankind? Dracula and his ilk are monsters precisely because they are so much like the rest of us - not only in appearance, but also in the way they think and feel. The Kommandant at Auschwitz was a monster not in spite of his being a loving husband and father, but

because

of that, and because he believed he followed the same moral code as the three million he slaughtered. Had he not been a loving, moral man, we might better compare him to a lion, a wolf, or a grizzly bear - and they are not monsters.

So I will stipulate that I was a monster - but not so different from you.

"We'll go forward," I said.

He took a sip of his latte and said, "We'll set to work immediately. One of our representatives will be in touch with you about payment. We'll expect a wire transfer to a bank and account number we'll give you. It will appear to be a payment to a legitimate resort, where the records will show you were a guest and a number of employees will remember you. When we're ready, perhaps in a month or two, we'll give you a location and twenty-four hours to get there. You'll leave the balance of the payment in escrow, to be released after the experience is complete.

"We will supply all implements - weapons, handcuffs, whatever. It's safer that you not buy these yourself. A representative will be in touch about your needs. Leave these things behind when you go: we'll collect them and dispose of them safely.

"I'll need a number where you can always be reached. Do not discuss any sensitive matters on the phone, but only such things as you might talk about if planning a vacation at an exclusive resort. Do you have any questions?"

"Not right now."

"Good." He pushed a card across the table. On it was printed "Raymond Jones" with a telephone number. I handed him my card.

"Very good," he said, glancing at it. "From this moment, we are conspirators."

3.

I devoted a good bit of time to thinking about what equipment I'd want when the time came. Even then I realized that it would have been easier to decide what I wanted to

do

and let my choice of activities dictate the equipment. But I was reluctant to plan out my activities in detail, fearing that to rob the event of its spontaneity through an excess of planning would also rob it of much of its meaning and joy.

Walter thought I was insane. "If you don't plan thoroughly," he said, "you won't do it. It's difficult enough with a plan; without one, you'll put it off and put it off till it's too late."

"What makes it so difficult?" I was genuinely curious: I'd never been one to faint at the sight of blood.

"The difficulty of it," he said, "is actually much of a piece with the pleasure. Beforehand you think to yourself, 'Well, it's just a whore; who cares?' But when you see her in the flesh, you understand that

she

cares exactly as much as you would, if you were in her position. No matter how low and vulgar she is, she has her friends and family, her joys and sorrows, her desires, her plans. You're taking all that."

"I get it."

"You

think

you get it, but you don't really, until you're alone with her, and you're absolutely committed. You have to do it: you have no choice. Then you

get

it with perfect clarity."

"Okay."

"There's another thing. Nothing in the world produces a more intimate bond than the activities you'll be engaging in together. You may understand this in part because of your experiences with BDSM and the kind of bond you form with a sub. But imagine all that happening without the sub's consent and without limits - everything carried through to its logical conclusion."

I was sitting forward, excited, my glass of port forgotten on the table between us. Leaning back casually, legs crossed, he paused as if unsure he wanted to say what he had in mind.

But then he straightened and said, "You will believe you're in love."

"Was that your experience?"

"Yes. And I still believe it. In fact, I still

am

in love, and I know that no love in my life will ever match the power of what I felt then, and still feel."

"That must have made it difficult."

"And necessary. Only knowing how it would end made that love possible. Without it, she would have been just a whore, exactly like every other whore I've fucked and forgotten. That is the importance of planning."

"I know how I'm going to end it."

He smiled. "That's a start. But knowing

when

is just as important. May I make a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"Wait till you're sure you're in love. It may take a day or a week. But when you know you want to spend the rest of your life with her, when the thought of life without her is unbearable and the idea of harming her in any way is unthinkable - that's the time to do it."

About two weeks after I'd had my talk with Raymond, I received a call from a man who called himself Sam. "I got to get your shit together for this vacation of yours," he said. "The one you talked to Ray about."

"Okay," I said.

"So what do you need?"

"We never talked about food," I said.

"We'll leave you with a week's worth of food and water for two, and something to cook on - you know, like a camp stove, or something that's right for the place. Are you like gluten free, vegetarian, shit like that?"

"I have a mild aversion to broccoli."

I heard a pencil scratching. "Okay, right. What else do you need?"

"A table," I said, "something solid like butcher block, five feet long, three feet wide, three feet high, and able to bear at least a hundred fifty pounds of weight."

"Right," he said. "No problem."

"Fifty feet of half-inch silk rope."

"Check."

"A four-foot single-strand whip."

"Yeah."

"A good-quality hunting knife with a four-inch carbon steel blade."

"Good choice."

"A straight razor."

He was silent as he made the note.

"A leather strop."

The pencil scratched.

"And a bucket."

4.

Raymond called again three weeks and two days later, on a soft July evening.

"We have a subject," he said. "Are you ready to go?"

"I'm ready." I had packed seven changes of clothing and seven cell phone power banks, since I'd been warned that electricity might not be available.

"You're booked tomorrow night at a resort outside Carson City, Nevada." He read off the name and address. "Fly into Reno and rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle with a GPS. You'll find the place easily enough."

"Then what?"

"Further instructions will be given to you there."

I booked a first-class seat on a morning flight to Reno and ordered a Jeep Compass to be waiting for me.

The eight-hour flight seemed endless. I read some, but found it hard to concentrate. I didn't want more to drink than a glass of wine with lunch.

I thought about the Johannesburg slave. She hadn't been all that upset when the whip had cut her; she had scars to show that it had happened before. The main consideration was that she now had to miss a couple of days of work. When she arranged beforehand for a client to break her skin, she added the two days' lost income to the price she charged. My willingness to pay that extra amount, and tip her handsomely too, made it all okay.

Still, I'd gotten off not only on the sight of what was, after all, not much more than a minor cut, but also on the lack of consent. I put out of my mind what she made very plain - that she was perfectly happy to be cut for money - and held onto the fact that she had not agreed to it beforehand.

Now the lack of consent was more than an illusion. Somewhere in this land, a girl had been seized, her plans interrupted, and was being brought to me. Wherever our rendezvous would take place, she had no wish to be there; in fact, she'd know soon enough that she'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

And the girl would be Filipino. I'd last been in the Philippines the year before. The brothel where I'd found Mae two years earlier was gone. I went to another nearby and asked the madam about it. She remembered the establishment and its owner, but she didn't remember any of the girls.

"My girls are all beautiful," she said.

"Is one of them named Mae?"

"Sorry, no Mae here, but I got girls just as beautiful."

"Have you heard of a whore named Mae? Know where she's gone?"

"They come and go, you know. Maybe she's gone back home."

I had no more luck elsewhere, but I found a girl who looked a little like Mae in a whorehouse in Malate. She was sweet, and glad to be whipped, but she didn't have Mae's insatiable appetite for pain. I believed that was what I missed about Mae: that, her bottomless melancholy, and her self-destructive impulses.

I was wrong, though: those weren't the things I missed about her. Not even close.

It was about a forty-minute drive from the airport to Carson City, and another half hour to the resort, which was well hidden along Route 50.

A pretty young woman showed me to what they called a cabin, but was in fact a well-appointed two-bedroom house.

"It would be a good idea to come to dinner in the restaurant tonight - get yourself seen," she said. "If anyone asks about you while you're away, some of us will say we've seen you around. Other people will think they've seen you too, even though they haven't." She handed me a sealed envelope. "Here are instructions for tomorrow."

Her smile was warm and open: I wondered how much she knew about the kind of vacation she was facilitating.

"Thanks," I said, and passed her a discreetly wadded up fifty - which I know is out of line, but is never refused and can occasionally open the door to some late-night entertainment.

She twinkled at me and said, "My name's Hazel. Let me know if you need anything at all."

"I'll be hard at work dreaming up things to need," I said.

She treated me to a musical laugh and left. It was about three in the afternoon - still a long way to dinner. I showered, walked around the resort compound getting my bearings, and followed a nature trail through a surreal desert landscape.

Cocktails, dinner, coffee in the lounge: I made idle conversation with the business executives, judges, doctors, and legislators and kept an eye on Hazel as she drifted around playing hostess.

By ten thirty she was naked in my bed, sucking my cock. She was, as I'd learned while we were sharing champagne from the bottle that now stood empty on the nightstand, a medical student at the University of Nevada Reno. She worked here full time in the summer and part time during the academic year.

"It's been an incredible job," she said. "The tips alone have saved me from having to take out student loans."

"And I suppose you get something extra for tending to the occasional guest who is here on mysterious business."

She became somber. "A lot, actually, but only two or three times a year. I think probably most of the pay is for not knowing what you're up to."

"Do you have theories?"

"I vacillate between survivalist training and secret meetings with space aliens."

"It's the space aliens, of course," I said, and reached for her.

I remember everything about Hazel. Not because she was extraordinary, but because of her position in my life - the last time sex seemed so casual, so simple. She was slender, with light brown hair and a pale complexion that set off her red lips. She wasn't a whore. Whoredom is a state of mind. If you think you are one, then you are; if not, then you're not. Hazel was a girl who liked to party, and she didn't waste any time worrying about the way her biggest tips came from patrons for whom partying meant fucking a pretty med student.

If I'd found Mae on that return trip to Manila, it might all have been different. I might not have been in bed with Hazel, who wasn't a whore. I might not have been on the point of launching into the Nevada desert to take delivery of a Filipino girl who'd never done me any harm, whom I didn't even know.