Mindgasm - A Bad Boy Romance With A Twist (Mind Games Book 3)

by Gabi Moore

  They’re always a little shocked, the first time they see it. Usually, it’s the biggest they’ve had, and they play cute and coy for a while but when they actually see it, when the full heft of it’s in their little hands and they realize what they’re really in for, oh they change their tune pretty quickly.

  It’s usually some lame Tarzan and Jane fantasy that lures most of them out here. They all love the idea of the wild guy ravaging them, of a fun, exotic tryst with a native in a far off land. But once they’re actually pinned down and yelping, sweat beads on their little faces and my fat cock jammed in to the hilt …well, nothing is sweeter than watching that cocky confidence melt as they realize that I won’t be going easy on them.

  “No seriously, that actually looks a little too big…” she tells me, and there’s that look. There it is, right there. Her eyes go big again and she stops smiling, instantly nervous. My dick swells at the thought of the little animal noises she’s about to make, and how she’s going to take it, whether it’s too big or not.

  “Get on your knees,” I say.

  Chapter 2 - Penelope

  People say “goody two shoes” like it’s an insult. Like being good is …bad. How does that make any sense? It’s never made sense to me, personally. So, these days, when someone tells me how righteous and high minded I am, I take it as a compliment. How can you be too right?

  Dylan understood that instantly about me, and that’s how I knew all at once that he was the man for me. Other women are quick to tear girls like me down. I’ve experienced it first hand: they tell me I’m too young, that I don’t know anything and that I’m crazy for jumping into marriage so quickly. But maybe it’s too scary for them to admit that actually, they’d love to be me. They’d love to be so certain about their futures. If something is right and you know you want it, why wait?

  “Babe, do you think I’ll need the malaria card in my hand luggage or can I just pack it away in the big bag?”

  Obviously, I already knew the answer to this question. I had Googled it just seconds before. But it’s good to give your man as many opportunities, every day, to lead you. It can be just small things, but why wait till marriage to start developing those foundations?

  “Bring it with you in your hand luggage,” he said, without raising his eyes to look at me.

  Dylan Moore. My living proof that prayers can be answered, and that when you’re the person you’re supposed to be, you’ll naturally attract the people who are supposed to be in your life. That’s just natural law. I know that girls my age are all about the hot guys, but I see deeper than that. Dylan is slightly out of shape, but so what? He doesn’t look like a celebrity, but all those guys that do? The girls who go for them can come and cry to me later about how well that worked out for them. I bet all the six packs and tattoos are going to be real helpful once he knocks you up and you realize he can’t support you and wants to run for the hills.

  Loving Christians ought to look beneath the surface. To be compassionate. There are sadly too few people in this world who can do that. Anyway, Dylan. He was clean shaven and employed and knew exactly what he wanted from a future wife. He had drive, like me. He had got down on one knee at my parents’ home a few Sundays back, and told me how he had wanted to make me his wife since the day he laid eyes on me. Dad said yes. It’s true, we hadn’t known each other for that long at that point, but he didn’t want me going off to Africa without having “nailed it down”.

  Nailed it down. Nailed like Jesus on the cross. Did you know that “nailed” can sometimes be used as a vulgar sexual slang? As in, he nailed her. Disgusting. Did you know, also, that some historians believe that at the time Jesus was crucified, it may have been the custom to tie the victim to the cross, and not only nail them. With ropes, or possibly thin strips of leather, so that they didn’t slide and move around, and stayed still enough up there to properly receive their punishment.

  Anyway, where was I? I sometimes go off on tangents like that, it’s a bit weird. All growing up my youth leaders told me I was blessed with quite an imagination. But to be honest, it doesn’t feel like a blessing most of the time. Sometimes, I can’t stop my thoughts from just …running away with me.

  “Earth to babe? Hello?”

  Dylan was snapping his fingers in front of my face. It was a thing he did, a joke really, but I had a hard time when he did stuff like that.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I was just thinking about something…”

  “I was asking you where you put those locks I gave you.”

  My heart sank. I had hidden them far away, somewhere he wouldn’t find them.

  “I don’t know, babe, I couldn’t find them. I’ll just go with my bags as they are, no need for locks.”

  Shoot. This was getting to be a nasty habit. Lying.

  “Couldn’t find them? How can that even be possible? Come on, let’s find them quickly, we have a few minutes before we leave.”

  “Babe, I’ve looked, can we just forget about the locks?”

  He shot me a stern look. His eyebrows were pale and wispy, but you sure could make them out when he frowned.

  “I’m not sure I like your tone, Babe. Can you acknowledge that I’m trying to look out for your safety here, and that you’re willfully making that difficult?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Instantly. Apologizing was another habit I was getting into these days. I was just stressed. This missionary trip was the biggest, scariest thing I had ever done in my 19 years, was it really my fault if I was a little emotional at times?

  I walked up to him and draped my arms round his neck.

  “I know you’re just trying to keep me safe. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged and carried on zipping up my overstuffed luggage. I didn’t really want to leave him on a sour note. Six months was a long time to be away from one another. Of course, we would manage it no problem, I just didn’t want to leave things on a bad note.

  “Anyway, I looked it up, and the crime statistics are actually not as bad as you would guess…” I said, tossing my hair.

  “You looked it up?”

  “Yup. I was actually surprised. I think Malawi has this reputation or something, but it’s really not so bad…”

  “So that means you can just lose the locks I bought specifically for you?”

  My arms felt awkward around his neck.

  “No, of course I’m not saying that. But whatever, it’s just clothing in there, and what are the chances someone tries to steal something out of my bag? They’re just people after all. And if someone was desperate enough to do that, to steal, then let them just have it, right?”

  His eyebrows were still tight. But as he looked down on me, his face softened and then he kissed my head.

  “Babe, that’s very sweet and all, but these people can be dangerous. I don’t think you quite understand that.”

  “You don’t have to call them ‘these people’ like that.”

  His eyebrows tightened again. Something kicked at the pit of my stomach. To hell with the locks, though. Why always this obsession with locking things up, anyway? Lock it down. Didn’t the lord say he would take care of us? I suddenly had a sickening thought. What if he looked for the locks and found them, and realized that I had hidden them? It was a good hiding place …but would it hold for six months? I pushed the thought away.

  He slammed my bag down from the bed and onto the floor, and it landed with a thump. My plane left in a few hours. For six months, I’d be joining the mission there and helping an impoverished village rebuild their community garden. And, naturally, spreading the word of the Lord. But that would be the easy part.

  “Look, I can see there’s no reasoning with you. You’re headstrong, and I’ve always accepted that in you. I know that you need to get out there, to see things. I understand. I needed to do the same when I was your age. Just promise me that if anything, and I mean anything comes up, you’ll be on the next plane out of there. Can you at least manage to do that?” he said, and stare
d at me hard.

  I felt the pang in my gut again. It’s true what they say. When you know, you know. And I knew that Dylan was the man for me. No question. But sweet Lord was it a challenge for me sometimes. Dylan kept me accountable. He never let good be good enough – he always wanted more from me. And I respected that. But at times like these I felt …I don’t know.

  “I’m sorry, babe. I know you’re just looking out for me.”

  We closed up the house, piled my luggage into the car and set off. The parents would meet us there to see us off, and I had everything. Plenty of suitable clothing, mosquito repellant, a dictionary, toiletries, my bible, and a photo of Dylan. He had made me take out the razors and the fashion magazines, but he was right, there really wasn’t room for those.

  Somewhere under a floorboard in our basement hid two still-wrapped pairs of mini travel locks with keys, both in magenta and baby blue flowers. It was a lie, technically, but maybe I was allowed just a little rebellion? At the end of the day, he was wrong. “These people” were just people, and I didn’t have to be worried about being robbed or killed or …worse. That was just racist. Even I could see that.

  We drove in silence and merged with the highway traffic. I could tell something was up by the way he was a little rougher with the gear shift than he needed to be, and his body language seemed just a little too closed. Poor Dylan. I knew how hard it was for him. His wild fiancé getting ideas and running around to strange countries. I tried to force myself to think of how difficult it must really be for him, and then my irritation with him dissolved.

  I extended a cautious hand to rest on his leg. Nothing crazy, just there on his knee. He angrily brushed it off. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

  “Have you completely forgotten the discussion we had last night, Penelope?” he said, his voice cold.

  Ok, I have a confession. The night before, seeing as it was the last night we’d see each other for a while, and seeing as I’d be going away for so long, and seeing as we were already getting married anyway, just as soon as I returned, I figured it wouldn’t hurt that much to …well, you know. In this day and age, it might be hard for most people to believe, but, well …I’ve never seen it before. Him, I mean. His manhood. I didn’t want to do anything with it, just see it. It would be something we’d have to get used to as a married couple anyway, so what was the big deal?

  But last night, it was, apparently, a big deal. He had hissed at me and slapped my hand away, and my stupid grin fell right from my face, and my whole body burned up with shame. I really can be an idiot sometimes. I told him I was sorry, and that I’d take it back, but he was real mad. He said he thought I knew better than that. That just because I was going on some big fancy holiday that now I wanted to behave like a slut. Well, he hadn’t used that word. He was too much of a gentleman. But what can I say …my imagination gets the better of me.

  I pulled my hand away from his knee and tucked it in my lap. I stared out the window, blinking back a single, stinging tear. Nevermind. Things would get easier, once we were married. I had on my favorite dress, the white and grey paisley one, with comfy shoes and freshly washed, freshly cut hair. Shorter than was ideal, sure, but as I caught sight of myself in the rear view mirror, dusty blond hair falling in swashes at my shoulders, I squinted my eyes and imagined myself as a fashion model, jet setting off to a lingerie shoot. My name would be Bianca and I’d have a Russian mobster as my boyfriend and captor…

  We’d be there in less than 20 minutes. My hand luggage sat on the floor at my feet. With one hand, I absentmindedly played with the ceramic rabbit pin Dylan had given me for our one-month anniversary. I rolled its cool curves over my fingers again and again.

  I’ve always loved rabbits.

  Chapter 3 - Viktor

  I’ve always loved rabbits. There’s something just so beautiful about their eyes. They’re so wet and round, but somehow hidden in amongst this dry, fluffy pelt. Human eyes are never this wet. Never this round. A rabbit’s eyes, though, are always these neat, juicy little globes. Even when they’re dead.

  The worst fucking thing in this world is to be squeamish. I don’t care who you are, you are never too good for a little pain, a little hard work, a little disappointment. We all die. We all shit and cry and fuck and we all are born and we all die. Anyone who figures themselves somehow above that all can kiss my ass.

  That’s what all of this comes down to, really. Having grit. Having the balls and the guts and the fucking self-respect to live with just an ounce of responsibility, of self-awareness. All the years I’ve lived in this place and that’s the only conclusion I have for you: civilization is one giant, all-encompassing pillow. Just a big old cushion so that the people living on it never have to feel the rock of reality under their bare asses, never have to actually feel the world around them.

  And the cushion is soft and they’re soft, so soft that when they see me, they just about shit themselves. They’re squeamish. I’m too dirty. Too weird. Too sexual. Too extreme. Too much. You know what dirt and blood and guts are? You know what rough hands and sinewy arms and tanned skin actually are? They’re real. They’re fucking real.

  And now here I am, and there’s the rabbit, lying limp and lifeless in front of me, and this is real too. This is why I’m here. A rabbit’s eyes are clean and honest and glassy, even after it’s quit struggling, even after the kick has gone from its legs and its little heart stops fluttering in its chest. After it’s dead. A rabbit is never squeamish. They’re not full of bullshit, at the very least.

  I picked up the pipe and brought it to my lips, slowly. No need to rush. I opened my chest to it, and the hot smoke went into me, into my lungs, and even before I’d exhaled my head was spinning. I blew out two plumes through my nostrils, and the smoke rolled over my naked chest. The eddies and curls seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world blinkered out and then back in again, this time in full color, two realities superimposed over each other like a 3D movie without the glasses. I closed my eyes and sighed. This was some good shit.

  The rabbit. I looked at it and it looked at me. Wet eyes, dry fur. A little blood crusted on the gash at its head. A piece of grass stuck in one of its grey cat paws. When Mama Tembi learned that I was all the way out here in the boondocks, not only living in the shack I built but eating the local wildlife to survive, she had given me a stern talking to. There was room in Mama Tembi’s mind for a shaman figure, I guess. Enough space in her worldview for a wild man and enough space in these dark forests to accommodate even the most dangerous of ideas. Even if I was eating rabbits. Even if I was a “white man”.

  The others, though? Fuck ‘em. In fact, I’d take it all as a compliment. Let me threaten them. Let me freak them out. We could all use a reminder from time to time …a reminder of what’s real.

  Ok, here’s my confession: I actually hate rabbits. I hate how wiry and tough their little bodies are, and hate the sound their skin makes when you tear it off, and I hate the smell, holy fuck do I hate the smell. Rabbits are like a miracle to catch and then once you do, you wonder whether the few mouthfuls of dark meat are really worth it. The meat always tastes dark, too, like you can still taste the fight in it. They’re wild, like me, so they’re a little …intense. Their flavor is earthy and a little bloody. Raw tasting, no matter how much you cook them.

  Let me describe my cabin to you, so you can really understand just how big of a deal it is to deal with this thing, even though its carcass is so tiny. It’s one room, essentially. There’s only me here, so why bother dividing it into separate rooms for separate functions? I have nothing to hide, especially not from myself, so the bathroom and the kitchen and the bedroom and the store room and the rabbit killing room are all essentially one. It’s all just “living”. A living room.

  I have a loosely quilted mattress in the corner and when its colder I have a rabbit pelt blanket. But these days I prefer the floor. No cushions. My cooker is in the other corner. That was the first thing I built. As with everything
else in this place, I did it with my bare hands. I still go into town and get paraffin on occasion, although I’m wondering if I do it just to chat to Mama Tembi and keep up with the gossip. You never know who might come in handy one day, although god knows I’m not the world’s most sociable guy, as you can imagine.

  Above the cooker are my two pots, although I only really ever need the one. I keep my knives under the cooker. Hidden in an easy access latch is my rifle, and I keep the axe in the same place. There was a time that I had a few bits and pieces on a shelf in the third corner, but in my second year here, I had gradually lost them all. I didn’t need photos of fucking people I didn’t want to see. I didn’t need a clock. I didn’t need a decorative box to keep my herbs in. And after all of that went, the shelves themselves seemed kind of pointless, so I got rid of them too, except for one, and they went to fire wood, and I could taste the wood in the meat of the rabbit I cooked on that fire.

  It might not be much. I imagine Mama Tembi raising her eyebrows at it, and basically every other human being, if they’ve been raised in the “Western world” at least, but again: fuck ‘em. All that matters to me now is what’s real. Me. This rough cabin I built with my bare hands. And the rabbit.

  I put down the pipe and cracked my neck, once to one side, once to the other. The tendons and meat inside me …the same tendons and meat inside the rabbit. All the same. One thing, two different forms. I hate killing. But that is only one part of me. The other, darker part of me …well, let’s say you need a particular mindset to kill and then skin a rabbit. To do it properly, at least.

  First, take a rabbit’s body in your hands, your bare hands, as though it’s the relaxed arm of a lover. Stroke its fur down, and remember that this rabbit had secrets, had a life and hopes and dreams, like you. Like you will have had, after you’re dead as well. Feel its meat under the fur. Touch it gently, like you love it. You have to love it. You’re an alchemist: you’re going to turn rabbit into food, and later, turn food into you. Its muscles are your muscles. See this. Really see it.