‘I think you should always wear those gloves in bed.’
I’m lying with my head on Lloyd’s chest, semi-mummified in rumpled bed sheets while his leather-gloved hand strokes my sore nipples.
‘Maybe I will then. That sounded like one heck of an orgasm.’
‘It was. You’re a genius. I don’t know where you can go after this. Any stronger and my head’ll blow.’
‘Well, make the most of the afterglow, madam, because it’s your last for a while.’
I try to sit up, but my cotton cocoon prevents me. ‘You what?’
He waits for my confusion to hit its peak before deigning to reply. ‘The next challenge. No orgasms for a week.’
‘That’s a shit challenge! How’s that even … ugh, Lloyd. Why?’
He laughs, pulling me down, ruffling my hair. ‘Because I don’t think you can do it.’
‘You don’t think I can go a week without coming? It’s easy and, what’s more, it’s really boring. Come on! You can do better.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find it easy at all.’
‘What’s difficult about keeping my legs crossed and my thoughts pure for seven days?’
‘Quite a lot, I think you’ll find. There are challenges within the challenge. All will become clear.’
I crane my neck to look up at him. ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Nothing I can say to change your mind?’
‘Not a word.’
‘And what are you going to do for these seven days? Won’t your right hand be worn to the bone by Sunday?’
He shifts a little, retracting his softened cock from my bottom. ‘I don’t remember making any vow of celibacy,’ he says lightly.
I manage to sit up properly this time, bolt upright. ‘You mean you’re going to …?’
‘Why don’t you wait and see? While you’re up there, put the kettle on, eh?’
***
I know I’m a hypocrite. It’s not as if I own Lloyd. I’m not even a possessive type of person. We’ve done threesomes, we’ve done swinging, we’ve added people to the mix and then multiplied. But all of that has made us stronger – if we can get everything we need from each other, why would we ever go elsewhere?
I suppose what I find so hard is the thought of Lloyd having sex that excludes me. When he’s had other women before, I’ve watched or joined in. What if he finds he likes the novelty? What if he wants to extend the openness of our relationship still further? Would I be OK with that, if it was what he wanted?
Goddamn, he was right. This challenge is hard, and it hasn’t even started yet.
On Monday I throw myself into my work, making sure I wear my most conservative trouser suit and lowest heels. If I don’t look sexy, I won’t feel sexy. Or so I hope.
It seems to do the trick, at least until I retire to Lloyd’s apartment for the evening.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yeah, got something in the kitchen earlier. What are you watching?’
Lloyd is lounging on the sofa in his dressing gown watching some kind of CCTV footage. When I get closer and recognise the feather-patterned hotel wallpaper, I realise it’s a film we made a few months ago. Of us.
‘Sit down and watch,’ he invites, making room for me beside him.
‘Uh, I think I’ll take a shower.’
‘No, it isn’t optional. It’s compulsory. Sit down and watch or you incur a fail.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ I grump and huff, but I take my seat beside him, dodging away when he tries to put an arm around me.
‘No you don’t. Come here.’ He pats his thigh imperiously.
I discard my jacket and grudgingly allow myself into his embrace. On the television, there is the crackling of a cheap microphone and some giggling off-camera.
‘So, Sophie,’ he murmurs into my ear, ‘have you been a good girl today? No crafty hands down pants, I trust.’
‘Shut up. I’ve been working.’
‘Working the johns in the bar?’
‘No, you twat. Working in my workplace.’
‘Give us your fingers.’ He takes my hand and sniffs the fingertips. ‘Hmm, I suppose you’ll pass. Strip down to your underwear.’
I remove the black trousers and plain jersey top. I didn’t dare risk the silk camisoles this morning – the feel of silk next to my skin would not have been helpful.
When I sit back down I am wearing large cotton knickers from a Marks and Spencer multipack and a matching boring bra.
‘Very utilitarian,’ says Lloyd admiringly, capturing me in his arms again. His dressing gown is silky, slinky, against my skin.
I see myself saunter on to camera, rather more exotically garbed in a sheer black lace-edged mesh dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. It has suspenders and stockings sewn on to it. I give the camera the finger and shake my hair over my face. God, I hate cameras. I was drunk when we made this film – it was the only way I could do it. ‘Look at you,’ says Lloyd, giving my thigh a squeeze. ‘What a sexy little tramp, eh? Look how hard those nipples are.’
I stiffen. How am I going to get through this? I could pretend to be a film censor, who watches skin flick after skin flick all day long and has become desensitised to it. But desensitisation can’t happen just like that, so I abandon the idea. Perhaps I could just keep my eyes unfocused, or slightly to the right of the action.
I try it, but it’ll be tough to sustain for longer than five minutes.
The only other option is to concentrate on fooling around with Lloyd – but where will that get me? Up arousal creek without an orgasm, that’s where.
Lloyd pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing my neck while the TV-me bends over and shows the split nutmeg of her – my – whoever’s – pussy to the room.
‘You were wet,’ whispers Lloyd. ‘Tight, hard nipples – oh!’ He touches mine, which are prodding the M&S cotton with some force. ‘Are you cold, Sophie?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘The opposite? Aw. All lubed up and nowhere to come.’
TV-him is in shot now. He drags TV-me over to the bed and we start making out. It occurs to me that I don’t know what happens in this film. I can’t remember. I am glued to the sight of his lips on mine. Kissing is so sexy; I could watch montages of kissing scenes all day. When his tongue slides in, I squirm on Lloyd’s lap.
He mirrors his TV-self, tipping my head back and giving me his most thorough attentions, all the time keeping one eye on the screen. I hadn’t realised that the challenge would involve touching, or any form of intimacy. Suddenly, I am flooded with the realisation of exactly how difficult this is going to be.
Especially when the flood of realisation is accompanied by a different kind of flood, in my knickers.
Lloyd kisses like a bandit, all plunder and bravura confidence, taking what he wants because he wants it. I’ve always found that hotter than hot, and I’m not about to stop.
He breaks off when TV-us stop writhing. TV-him has got me over his lap. There’s no way I can watch this without the prickle of heat between my legs turning full forest fire.
‘Oh, you’re going to get spanked,’ he crows. ‘Just the way you need it. Look at that little white arse – it won’t be that colour for long. That dress doesn’t even cover it. Tut.’
I’ve never watched myself get spanked before and I’m fascinated. Part of me wishes I could see my face, but a bigger part is relieved that I can’t. I’m pretty sure I’d screw an already sketchy collection of features into nightmare configurations.
‘What am I getting spanked for?’
‘Duh. For having a little white arse.’
He tightens his grip on me. TV-him raises his arm and brings his hand down hard. The sound is lovely. I never hear it properly when I’m on the receiving end; maybe it’s muffled by my own mind working overtime on sensation analysis. But on TV, it comes across beautifully, a sharp, crisp percussion.
Of course, it’s interesting to see my bottom under the palm, the way it flattens and then springs back into shape, the way it blushes pink, then pinker, then red, then redder. But what I really can’t take my eyes off is Lloyd. His face, his intent focus, the set of his jaw, the determination. Christ, that’s sexy. Sexier than the strong arm rising and falling, sexier than the hand printing its emblem onto my heating skin. His missionary zeal makes my hairs stand on end.
‘I think you’re enjoying this.’ His voice cuts in to my reverie.
I take the breath. Hadn’t realised I needed to.
‘Do you wish you were her?’
‘I am her.’
‘Do you wish you were in her position?’
‘No. Today I like watching. And besides, what’s the point of a spanking today? A spanking without sex. It’s like a birthday with no presents.’
TV-him stays his hand. TV-my bottom is cherry red. He rubs it considerately, saying words I can’t quite catch, low croons of post-spanking pre-sex seduction.
I’m saying something, fussing – I think I’m refusing to show my face on camera. He gives me one more smack to my bottom, then shrugs and says, audibly, ‘OK then, if you insist.’
He kneels up on the bed and I, with my back to the camera, lower my head to his cock. He holds my shoulders while I suck, throwing his head right back so his Adam’s apple juts out.
I like watching his breathing quicken and his neck flush. I like watching my head bob up and down while my spanked bum jiggles with the effort I’m putting in.
Back on the sofa, the flesh-and-blood Lloyd moves the hand that has been resting flat on my stomach down, gliding over the cotton knickers until he reaches my crotch.
‘Oh, these are damp,’ he says. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Can we watch something else? Antiques Roadshow, perhaps.’
‘No way, it’s just getting to the good part.’ He slides his fingers inside my knicker elastic, planting them firmly inside my pussy lips.
That’s where they stay for the rest of the tape.
TV-Lloyd removes my mouth from his cock while it’s still hard and lets me hide my face in the duvet, presenting my thighs, bum and cunt to the viewer instead. He gives the invisible audience a guided tour of these, spreading lips and cheeks, pointing out little crevices and areas of interest. Chief among these is my vagina, which he then pushes some fingers inside, coating them in juices, which he smears over my thighs.
‘What do you think?’ Lloyd whispers into my ear.
‘The lighting could be better.’
‘No, what do you think is going to happen to her?’
‘Shall we make a bet?’
‘I think you’d win. Come on. What?’
‘Well, at an outside guess, I’d say you stick your cock inside her.’
‘Inside her what?’
‘Ah. Good point. I seem to remember a sore pussy the next day, so …’
‘Well, look, you win.’
TV-him has inserted his cock into the correct orifice. I feel like a winner. I also feel like an enormously sexually frustrated person, watching the way he bangs into me. Because of my self-imposed restriction on shots of my face, all we get to see is Lloyd’s back view, but the way his gluteal muscles tense and flex is a sight I feel privileged to behold.
I start circling my hips, very subtly, hoping he won’t register my sly efforts to press my clit into his resting fingers. It occurs to me that I could sneak an orgasm without him knowing it – would that be possible? If he doesn’t know about it, do I have to declare it?
But that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the challenge. After all, there’s nothing to stop me hiding away in the toilets at work and seeing to myself. He’d never know. All the same, the daring naughtiness of doing it right under his nose appeals to me. So I work the hips in infinitesimal rotation, increasing the clitoral pressure in tiny degrees.
‘You want to come, don’t you?’ he says, just as his TV incarnation collapses on my back.
‘No,’ I say, but my breath is all weird and catchy.
‘You’re such a liar. I know what you’re doing. Well, you can come if you want. Be my guest. I’ll finger you if you like. But it just means a fail.’
‘You think you’re such an evil mastermind, don’t you? This is nothing.’ I try to wriggle away from the hand planted in my pants, but I can’t.
‘I’ll have to up the ante then.’ He starts kissing me again in that full-blooded Lloyd way. I try harder to elude him but it’s useless. My pulse is hammering, my blood raging around my body in a race to get to my cunt. I start to feel light-headed and desperate.
When he breaks the kiss, I gasp as if I’ve just run a marathon.
He takes pity on me, removes his hand.
‘You passed that one. OK. Well done. But I’m not finished. Not by a long way.’
***
I have to spend the next day at work without any underwear.
In the morning, Lloyd lays out my silkiest shirt, my shortest, tightest skirt, a pair of lace-topped hold-ups and nothing else.
‘What’s this?’ I frown, emerging from the shower to find the clothes I’d brought back in the wardrobe.
‘Second challenge within a challenge. Spend all day commando.’
‘Ha. Won’t be the first time.’ I pick up the blouse and let it sigh over my skin.
‘No. But it’s the first time you’ve done it with no expectation of an orgasm in your near future.’
He’s right. And it does make a difference.
Feeling a gentle draught waft up my skirt and bathe my nether regions is bliss when I’m anticipating a good shag over the desk in due course. When I know nothing like that is likely to happen, it’s torture.
I can’t cross the lobby floor without a barrage of lustful looks – mainly people trying to get a glimpse of the stocking tops that peek from the hem of the miniskirt. My jacket covers the worst indiscretions of my nipples, but I can still feel them, fizzing away against the silk, sending urgent messages to my pussy.
In the bar, a former ‘gentleman friend’ spies me and stops me to chat about inconsequential things. While he talks about his promotion, one of his hands slides down my back and onto my arse, rubbing it.
‘Hey, I’m working,’ I warn him. ‘And not available like that, not today.’
‘But I miss you, Sophie,’ he mourns. ‘And that tiny skirt … don’t you want it?’
‘No. Sorry. But great news about the promotion.’
‘Whoever he is, I’m jealous.’
The man’s voice follows me across the bar and into the kitchens, where I try to escape, only to face the porters licking their chops as they look me up and down.
In the back yard, I find Lloyd smoking a cigarette.
‘Ah,’ he says, smirking. ‘Comfort break?’
‘I need to get away from all the lechery. It’s starting to do my head in.’
‘Well, if you must dress like a whore …’ He stubs out the cigarette, grinning, and reaches out for me.
I hang back, suspicious of his motives.
‘C’mon, Soph. I was just wondering if you’d come out here to relieve some … urges.’
‘Yeah, because I find the food bins are an ideal environment for self-pleasure.’
He catches me, winds me in. ‘Any port in a storm,’ he whispers. His hands are all over me, instantly, under the jacket, feeling their way up my thigh.
‘Lloyd!’
‘I just need to make sure you’re not cheating.’
He drops to a crouch, nudges up my skirt and peers into the darkness. His nose nuzzles my thighs as he takes a deep inhalation.
‘For fuck’s sake, Lloyd! Anyone could come out.’
Half laughing, half mortified, I try to push him away, but he clings to my thighs, keeping his face close to my private parts.
‘God, so wet,’ he says, his words warming my sex. ‘Dripping. And your clit is huge. You really want it. Poor Sophie. But you aren’t going to get it.’
A rustle and a cough come from the direction of the kitchen doors. Someone has seen us and ducked inside again.
‘You bastard,’ I hiss, managing to dislodge him this time.
He loses his balance and falls backwards, onto a stray potato peeling. He stands up and brushes the seat of his good suit trousers, looking wounded. ‘These had better not need dry cleaning,’ he moans. ‘If they do … oh yes. Good idea. I’m definitely going with that one.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll see.’ And he stalks off back to the kitchen door, leaving me to wonder who it was that saw Lloyd sniffing my crotch in the bin yard.
The rest of the day is accordingly uncomfortable. My clit feels like a lead weight, dragging me down wherever I go. I want to squirm and scratch when I’m seated. When I stand, I want to squish my thighs together hard.
But somehow I make it through.
It’s a relief to get back to my own flat, minus Lloyd, and even more of a relief to put on my sensible, matronly underwear the next day.
Despite the growing undertow of frustration nagging at my nethers, I stay professional, even with Lloyd, who continually hints at some dark future event every time our paths cross.
Finally, I corner him in an ill-lit corner of the cocktail lounge. ‘Go on then.’
‘What?’ He looks up from the menu he is annotating.
‘What’s today’s challenge? Hit me.’
‘That’s exactly it.’
‘You can’t. I mean, you can’t mean … you aren’t going to spank me?’
‘What else would I mean?’
‘You can’t. I don’t consent to it.’
He shrugs. ‘Fail then.’
‘No, I only fail if I have an orgasm. This is different.’
‘Excuse me.’ He looks up, eyes wide, arms folded. ‘I think I set the terms, don’t I?’
‘It doesn’t give you carte blanche to do exactly what you want.’
‘No, Sophie, because if it did, you’d be moving in with me. Tonight.’
This is where I have to back down. ‘Just give me time,’ I mutter.
‘That’s what I’m doing. So. Tonight. My place. Your arse, my lap. OK?’
‘Fine. That’s … fine.’
He nods, dismissing me.
The rest of the day passes very slowly. Time to think, time to think. The thing is, he could give me the rest of my life to think. I’d still get nowhere. I’m paralysed, deep down. Paralysed and inadequate. Perhaps I should let him go. Could I let him go?
When it comes down to it, this is the only way I can make a decision – to have it made for me, or brought down to a test or lottery of chance.
Lloyd knows this, but he doesn’t know why.
I don’t want to talk about why.
***
The spanking is given on the pretext that I ruined his suit trousers by pushing him over in the yard.
It’s long and expertly sensual and administered to my bare bottom in my favourite position – draped over his lap. It has the obvious hoped-for consequence of making me insanely horny, which he, of course, relishes.
‘There’s a correlation between the heat on your bottom and the wetness in your cunt, isn’t there?’ he says, running his hand over my throbbing skin.
‘Very scientific.’ I try to push up my bottom, to lure his hand between my soaked lips. I get nowhere.
‘Tut tut.’ He accompanies his clicking disapproval with two light smacks. ‘You know the rules. Now, I think you can stay like that while I watch this DVD. Just like that, over my knee, and I’ll rub some lotion into you. Would you like that?’
‘Nooo,’ I moan, though normally I would love it.
His lotioned fingers torment me for the entire duration of the film until, by bedtime, my cunt is twitching in bemusement, wondering when the hell the cock is turning up.
Not tonight, Josephine. Not for a few nights yet.
Day four involves a butt plug. On day five I’m tied to the bed and tickled with feather dusters until I scream.
But what really worries me is day six.
On day six, he does nothing at all.
I wake up in his bed on day seven insouciant and breezy.
‘Almost there,’ I crow, ignoring my morning fog of lust and jumping out of bed.
‘Almost,’ says Lloyd, watching me from the bed. ‘Not quite.’
‘What have you got planned? I can’t believe you didn’t try anything on yesterday. You must have some kind of massive finale prepared.’
‘You know me too well.’ He’s quiet for a moment, watching me scoop my shower things out of my overnight bag. He’s told me thousands of times I should keep some on his shelf, but I’ve never got round to it. ‘I’ve invited some friends round for dinner.’
I stand straight, watching his face for a moment. ‘Oh?’
‘Close friends.’
‘Who?’
‘Rachael and O, from the club.’
‘For dinner?’
‘Yeah. It’s our day off. Thought they could come round in the afternoon and hang out.’
‘And by hang out, you mean …?’
‘You’ll see.’
His smile is not reassuring.
In the shower, I daren’t even apply the gel to my pubic area, I’m so scared of turning myself on. I wash my hair for what seems like hours, digging my fingers into my scalp, then pulling them back when I realise that the sensation is too sensual. I lather up my arms and stomach and legs and back and leave the rest to the suds. Some of them slide over my breasts and bottom and dissolve in my crotch, but it’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t touch them.
Goose bumps pucker my skin when I get out and I quickly scrub myself dry and wrap my treacherous body in its bathrobe. When I dress, I put on the only pair of jeans I own and a shapeless jumper. Pure thoughts, pure thoughts.
At the farmers’ market, looking for things to cook for our guests, I try to draw Lloyd out on the subject of his plans, but he distracts me with vegetables and artisan cheeses and slaps on the rump until I give up. I think he likes my jeans.
All the same, I have a sick, anxious feeling about it.
It doesn’t help that every single thing at the market makes me think about sex. Ripe fruits, firm cucumbers, rich scents and luxurious textures. I want to smear the berries all over me. I want Lloyd to turn me into an Eton mess.
The urgent tug at my crotch continues when we get back to the flat and start chopping and preparing. My fingers stained with juice, the sharp blade slicing and dicing, Lloyd skinning the fish with such practised skill that I want to stop what I’m doing and just watch those hands at work. It’s a symphony of sensuality, and I want the crescendo. Except I can’t have it. My night can’t end with a bang or a whimper. Just a head of steam that might well burn me.
‘What’s for dessert?’ I ask, slicing the last potato for the dauphinoise.
Lloyd indicates the large variety of fruits we bought at the market. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘No, I mean –’
‘I know what you mean. Let’s just call it Bombe Surprise.’
‘No, let’s not. What can I actually expect?’
He reprises his exaggerated Clouseau accent and disappears into the bathroom, waggling a finger at me in what he must think is a Gallic style. Twat.
‘What shall I wear?’ I call after him, desperate for a clue.
‘Nothing,’ he shouts through the door.
Seriously? Nothing?
I put the ingredients together, cover them with foil and slide them into the oven.
I wander into the bedroom and look at the dress I brought for the occasion. Lloyd can’t expect me to sit at the table eating in the nude. What if I spill hot sauce on myself? He’s just joking. I put on the dress and a pair of stockings and make a start on my make-up.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Lloyd emerges from the bathroom in a towel, hair wetly tousled.
‘Duh! Getting ready. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.’
‘You’re wearing clothes.’
‘Yes.’ I hold the mascara wand steady, half an inch from my eyelashes. ‘And?’
‘I told you. Unnecessary.’
He strides around the room, gathering shirt and trousers from the wardrobe, socks and pants from the drawer.
‘Unnecessary? Maybe in the Stone Age, but I’m no cavewoman.’
‘Ah, but you are.’ He locates his deodorant stick and applies it with a will. ‘You are a cavewoman. And I’m Captain Caveman.’
‘You aren’t hairy enough. Besides, I always hated Captain Caveman. Can’t you be Dick Dastardly instead?’
‘Yeah, OK. And you can be Penelope Pitstop. Naked Penelope Pitstop.’
I give him a look while he buttons his trousers and loops his belt through them. ‘I don’t remember that scene in Wacky Races.’
‘I must have daydreamed it. Get that dress off. Chop chop.’ He claps his hands then returns to buttoning his cuffs.
‘But why?’ I complain. ‘Why must I be naked?’
‘Because I said so.’
‘It is only Rachael and O coming tonight? Nobody else?’
‘Just me and you. Though you might not be coming.’
‘Hur hur.’
‘But if my calculations work, you will be.’ He sprays cologne beneath his chin, grinning demonically.
‘OK.’ I take off the dress. ‘Will that do?’
‘And the rest,’ he says. ‘No knickers required.’
‘I wish you’d mentioned this before,’ I grumble. ‘I’d have gone to the beauty salon, or done a spray tan or something.’
‘You’re perfect as you are,’ he says, gliding dangerously near and running a hand down my spine.
‘I’m far from it. But thanks.’ I struggle out of my knickers and pull a face at my somewhat untended pubic triangle. No doubt O and Rachael will be porn-star smooth. But, then again, I’m not a porn star. So why should I care?
I return to the dressing table and my mascara while he stands behind me, putting stuff in his hair. I wonder if any other couple has ever prepared for an evening out like this? Him all spiffy and suave in his expensive shirt, her butt naked in full maquillage?
Our reflections in the mirror give me that dreaded flush of lust. Tonight is going to be difficult. I wish I knew how difficult.
I wait for them in the living room while Lloyd answers the door. I am discreetly arranged on the sofa so that my legs are crossed and my arms folded over my breasts, but all the same, I can’t help feeling a little … what’s the word …?
‘Oh, Sophie, you’re naked!’ trills Rachael, bursting in with a bouquet of bright orange and yellow flowers.
That’s the one.
‘It’s the new black, apparently,’ I say, taking the flowers from her and going to put them in water.
Lloyd joins me with two bottles of wine that O has handed over and uncorks the red to let it breathe.
‘I feel really weird,’ I mutter to him. ‘Really really weird.’
‘Good,’ he says, beaming. ‘Just put those in the sink and come and sit down. I want to get this show on the road.’
On opposite ends of the sofa, O and Rachael sit, chatting, both looking a million dollars in skimpy dresses and strappy shoes. They were obviously given a dress code too.
My assumption had been that I would be made to watch while Lloyd romped with the two submissive stunners, but my own nudity has thrown me and I no longer know what to expect.
On the one hand, it would have been enormously difficult to watch Lloyd fuck two other women with no chance of being asked to join in.
On the other, it’s what I was prepared for. And now it isn’t going to happen.
‘Sit between them,’ Lloyd suggests. At least, it’s phrased as a suggestion, but I don’t think it really is. He watches us for a moment while we all look up at him.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reviving from a trance-like few seconds. ‘I just don’t think my sofa has ever looked quite so sexy. Anyway. I thought we could start with cocktails. I’m going to do a little trick I used to sometimes show off with in my mixology days. I’m going to make you each a personalised cocktail.’
‘Ooh.’ O and Rachael are impressed, though I’ve seen him do this a hundred times.
‘Starting with you, O, I think you’re a sophisticate who would go for something stylish and classic, not too sweet, perhaps a little citrusy – am I right? And you’d go for lighter spirits rather than dark. The drink’s appearance is important to you. Tell me if I’m wildly off base.’
‘No, no, you’re not.’
‘OK, then. It’s a classic, but never a cliché. I’m going to make you a Cosmopolitan.’
‘Lovely! I’m just in the mood for one.’
‘Great. Now, Rachael … you’re adventurous and well travelled with a taste for the exotic. You like new flavours and experiences. I’m going to give you something with a horrible name but a great kick – a Monkey Gland.’
‘What the hell’s a Monkey Gland?’
‘Gin, Pernod, orange juice, grenadine.’
‘Yummy. Go for it.’
‘As for Sophie, well, I know what she likes.’
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I warn him. It’s an oft-repeated gag in our relationship.
He beats me to it. ‘Sloe Comfortable Screw!’ he shouts in triumph, hastening to the kitchen. ‘Against the wall,’ he adds from over his shoulder.
‘Lloyd’s funny, isn’t he?’ says Rachael indulgently.
‘Funny peculiar,’ I reply.
‘No, he’s a sweetie. I love the relationship you have. I envy you sometimes.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s so in love with you. And you’re so in love with him.’
‘Do you really think so?’
O weighs in. ‘Well, I don’t know you as well as Rachael does, but I’d certainly say so.’
‘When you work together every day, you have to get on with each other,’ I say, but I’m talking to myself. I don’t know why I have this need to play it down, to make it seem less than it is. The feeling that I don’t deserve him – getting louder and clearer each day – makes its unwelcome presence felt in my consciousness. Hello, old friend.
Lloyd returns with the drinks, plus what looks like a Whiskey Sour for him, and takes a seat in the armchair. Again, he can do little more than look at the three of us, lined up like the three submissive monkeys.
A sip of his drink galvanises him.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘We’ve discussed this beforehand, O, Rachael and I. I think it’s time for the appetiser.’
Appetiser? I don’t know what they mean, but they certainly do.
O and Rachael rise from the sofa and pull me up by my hands.
O sits back down in the middle and beckons me down on to her lap. I sit between her thighs, leaning back on her chest, her large pearls bumping against my shoulder blades. Her hands, heavily beringed, move around my front to cup my breasts.
‘Spread your legs, dear,’ she whispers into my ear.
I look up at Lloyd, who is entranced, running one fingertip round and round the rim of his glass. My naked thighs splay until my legs hang outside O’s stockinged knees, spreading my pussy wide.
O caresses my breasts and it feels reassuring, gentle.
‘That’s the girl,’ she croons. ‘Nice and wide. Lovely pert nipples here.’
She kisses my neck. She smells glorious, one of those old-school Parisian fragrances that were banned for being too close to the smell of sex.
Lloyd can’t seriously expect me to …
Rachael kneels down in front of us and skims perfectly manicured nails along the insides of my thighs.
‘Oh.’ I can’t help the little exhalation of helpless, fearful desire.
When her tongue curls inside my lips, her feminine touch and knowledge is so acute that I gush into her. O, holding on to me for dear life, begins to nip at my neck. Rachael really knows how this is done. She might lack Lloyd’s muscularity and firmness of purpose, but every lick hits home, deadly accurate, while my clit grows and my juices run ever thicker.
My body trembles, moving out of my control.
Lloyd’s face is almost too hard to look at. The expression of utter intensity frightens me. I shut my eyes, feel O’s rings snag at my nipples, Rachael’s nails dig into my skin. I try to take myself away from physical reality, find a place where I am not aroused, not exposed, not being eaten out by a beautiful woman while my lover watches. But the place can’t be found, the reality can’t be denied.
I begin to squirm and surge on O’s lap, trying to escape Rachael’s tyrannical attentions.
‘It’s no use, darling,’ whispers O. ‘If Rachael doesn’t make you come, we’re going to swap places. And believe me, I have never left a woman unsatisfied.’
‘It … isn’t … fair,’ I pant, and then I have to give in.
The orgasm is huge and tears me into pieces. I kick and wail until I fear for the women’s safety, my eyes tight shut, my hands flapping, my bare body undulating all over O.
When I come to, I find Lloyd standing over us, smiling down, his eyes all shiny.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ I say, my voice coming out as a harsh whisper.
‘No, but it was amazing.’
He holds out his hands. I swing my legs off O’s lap and let him hold me, too weak and shivery to knee him in the groin as I rightly should.
‘Failure never looked better.’ He kisses the words into my ear, then addresses our guests. ‘Wonderful work. Truly wonderful. You are artists of erotica.’
They go back to sipping cocktails, still as immaculate as they were when they entered the room. It’s just me that’s a big old sex mess.
‘Can I get dressed now?’
‘No.’
‘But …’
‘The night is young. And the fish is cooked. I’ll go and sort it out while you do the wine, yeah?’
He leaves me, naked and streaked with sweat and come, to entertain our guests and set the table.
‘Thanks,’ I say to them. It seems polite.
‘Pleasure,’ they chorus, not inaccurately.
I don’t spill any hot sauce on my naked flesh, but I am extremely careful to make sure each mouthful is securely pronged on my fork first. As we eat, we chatter about the club, about Mal and Dr Lassiter, about the hotel, about things I could discuss with perfect unselfconsciousness if only I was clothed.
Then Lloyd clears away the plates and orders me onto the table.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Get on the table.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
He doesn’t wait for my answer, elbowing his way into the kitchen, and I presume he doesn’t hear my yell of ‘I don’t know!’ because he is too busy clattering about with the dishwasher.
‘I think you’re dessert.’ O enlightens me with a sly smile.
‘But we bought fruit and cream … oh …’
‘Fruity,’ giggles Rachael. ‘Very fruity. If you ever get bored with Lloyd, can I have him?’
Bored with Lloyd. Could that happen? I ponder this as I climb aboard the table with its snowy-for-now cloth. I move the candles in the centre to the end, blowing them out. I don’t know if Lloyd was planning on a spot of wax play, but on the other hand, I’ve no plans to burn the hotel down.
‘What do you think, girls? On my back?’
‘I guess so,’ says Rachael. O merely shrugs.
They sip their wine and watch me lay myself on the smooth linen, legs together, hands crossed over my breasts like a statue atop a medieval tomb.
‘I did something a bit like this,’ O remarks. ‘At one of His Lordship’s house parties. Were you there, Rachael? The Roman orgy?’
‘Oh yes, I was. I was a slave girl. Not as much fun as I thought it would be, actually – I spent most of the evening refilling wine glasses.’
‘At least you weren’t the vomitorium attendant,’ I remark.
While we are contemplating this fate, Lloyd returns to the room, bearing a vast platter of soft fruits and a pitcher of double cream.
Without stopping for any kind of explanation, he tips the fruit in a chilly avalanche all over my body then pours the cream on top.
I yelp and shiver and try to elude the thick stream, but all that happens is I crush a number of berries into the tablecloth, which will probably never recover.
‘Dig in,’ says Lloyd, discarding the jug with a flourish.
Giggling, Rachael kneels up on her chair and snags a strawberry from my stomach. I watch her eat, her nose dotted with cream. She looks luscious and sexy. O, ever decorous, uses her fingers to pick up a raspberry, which she then places delicately on one nipple and licks off with her tongue.
Lloyd joins in, looming over me, elbows on the table, burying his face deep into the delta of my thighs, forcing them apart. Fruits tumble in, cream drips down between my lips and coats my clit. Lloyd feeds avidly and greedily while the female diners are more delicate, hovering around my breasts and belly, careful not to smear cream on their lovely dresses.
He pushes fruits up inside me with his fingers then retrieves them with his tongue. Melon and mango combine with my own taste of honey, giving Lloyd the ultimate in dining experiences.
Daintier lips and teeth tackle my nipples, licking puréed passion fruit and cream off them. For a long time, I can hear nothing but laboured breathing, low ‘mmm’s of orgiastic delight, the smacking of lips while the three of them partake of me.
Lloyd drizzles my cunt with a raspberry coulis, licks it off but doesn’t stop when it’s all gone, his tongue continuing to work my clit with long, slow strokes.
O and Rachael stand back, all the fruit having gone now.
‘If I come …’ I manage to blurt.
‘Hmm?’ Lloyd speaks into my spread split lips.
‘Would that be …?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he mutters. ‘We’ll call tonight one fail.’
I let go of my tension, forget about incurring the third and final fail, and hook my ankles around his neck. In a welter of mess and cream and fruit stains, I allow a ragged orgasm to take hold of me.
It turns out to be only the second of many.
Over the course of the evening, O and Rachael fuck me with candles and vibrators while Lloyd watches, cock in hand, mixing his seed with the remnants of dessert that cover my breasts.
When they finally leave and we stagger to bed, leaving the clearing up until morning, I can barely keep my eyes open or my legs upright.
‘So, Sophie,’ he whispers, cradling me in the darkness while the kitchen staff haul barrels and crates about in the yard below. ‘Two fails now.’
‘That wasn’t fair. Nobody could have succeeded with that one.’
‘It was perfectly fair. And I was very kind to only count the first orgasm. If I’d decided to carry on, you’d be packing your bags tomorrow morning.’
‘Why do you want that so much?’
‘Oh, Sophie, why do you think?’
But I’m too tired to formulate thoughts and I slide into dreamland, sideways, away from the questions that won’t stop asking themselves.