Even though Chey had a hold on my soul and he was never far from my mind, I knew that if I wallowed in the dire pain of his absence it would torment me for ever. I needed my peace of mind back. It wasn’t a question of being faithful to someone who had abandoned me; that was a silly notion. It would be a way to keep a grip on my emotional sanity.
I waved to the young Dutch waitress who had been observing us from the bar’s counter with both curiosity and envy and ordered another coffee. Viggo did not want another glass of wine.
I finally answered his question.
‘I will not have sex with you, Viggo Franck. I do not have sex with men for money. Then again, I might dance for you at a time and a place of my choice. Not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but I might . . .’
‘How? When?’
‘Anyway, why should you spend money on me? I’m confident that half the women in the world would rush to your bed at a moment’s notice and never even contemplate payment, no? But it would be nice to become your friend and dance for you, Viggo Franck.’
Viggo beamed, like a little boy who’s just been granted his most heartfelt wish.
‘The gun tattoo was a whim,’ I explained. ‘I suppose I’m a creature of whims, of impulses, that Russian soul, you know . . . It’s just what I am.’
‘So?’
It now felt like a game. I could feel some of my old spark returning. I wanted to play with Viggo Franck. But my sort of game. And I could sense he was the sort of man who would enjoy sharing these sorts of games.
‘As I said, it’s not a question of money, but if you bring me just one thing, I will dance for you. In private.’
‘What?’
In my own way, I didn’t want to make it easy for him. I wanted to present him with a challenge. To test him. To check if my theories regarding his character were true. I looked outside the cafe. It was now night. All the stores in the city would be closed. I felt uncommonly warm inside, despite my bared shoulders and the thin cotton of my dress.
I provided Viggo Franck with the name of my hotel on Leidseplein and told him that at eight the next morning I would be sitting in the breakfast room, and if he was there with a gift of a piece of amber, not only would I consent to sharing my breakfast with him, but I would also, later, dance for him privately.
His eyes opened wide.
‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed.
I tut-tutted.
‘Excuse my language,’ he said with an amused smile. ‘That’s just a hell of a challenge in little more than twelve hours.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want to come cheap or make it easy, would I?’
He furtively glanced at his watch, and realised what time it already was, and it dawned on him too that all the main Amsterdam stores would now be closed.
He slowly rose from his chair, straightened the creases creeping up his tight jeans, blew me a kiss and assured me he would be there for breakfast.
‘Don’t be late,’ I reminded him.
As he walked out of the cafe, both my eyes and the waitress’s were fixed on his tiny bum, sheathed as it was by the narrow, skin-tight jeans. I didn’t think I’d ever seen such a small posterior on a woman, let alone a man.
That night I slept peacefully, with a smile on my face.
No dreams or nightmares.
Whether he spent the night crisscrossing Amsterdam in search of the amber piece or set his people to the task, I don’t know. Or even if the sought-after gift was actually found in the city, or couriered overnight from somewhere in the whole wide world where jewellers’ or antique stores were still open.
I walked down to the hotel’s breakfast room and he was sitting there at the table I’d booked.
He was wearing the same clothes as the previous day and had clearly not shaved since.
I was wearing a see-through white silk blouse, highly aware that my breasts were fully visible through it, and a long white skirt that brushed against my ankles. I felt invincible.
He rose, rushed to my side of the small round table, pulled out my chair and prompted me to sit down.
On my plate sat a crimson velvet box, circled by thin black ribbons. It could have held an engagement ring, or a watch. But it didn’t.
It was a beautiful piece of amber.
He looked up at me with a gaze of deep satisfaction.
‘Can I have this dance, Miss Luba?’
8
Dancing Across the Whole Wide World
Viggo and I quickly came to an arrangement. I had consented to a private dance for him, but I was not ready to perform just yet. Not now and certainly not here in Amsterdam.
He suggested London, where he lived, describing to me the underground swimming-pool grotto he had at his mansion there. It sounded wonderfully decadent to me and appealed to my imagination; the first thing that sprang to mind was that I could be a mermaid, and I was already thinking what I might wear and what music would be right for the performance.
As he spoke, he looked like a wide-eyed little boy describing his toys. I agreed, although I reminded him, ‘No funny business. I will just be dancing, so I don’t want you to get any ideas, okay?’ He nodded. I was fearful at the thought, but a little voice inside my head was also whispering that I would eventually have sex with Viggo. I refused to spend my life alone, dreaming of a man I could not have, and who clearly didn’t want me any longer. For surely, Chey would have found me, fought for me – at least let me know where in the world he was – if he truly loved me. And anyway, even though I had become tired of the live sex shows, I had not lost my adventurous spirit, and it would be too much of a temptation not to taste a man half the women in the world were fantasising about. But I would take my time and make him clear it was my decision and not his.
We flew to London that afternoon.
Throughout the journey, Viggo was gallant, attentive and witty and his eyes never strayed from me.
His Buick was waiting for us in the short-term car park at Heathrow. He drove into the city like a man possessed, eager to show off his house – or perhaps eager to show me off to his friends.
It was situated in a leafy area just minutes from Hampstead Heath and the immense mansion was a garden of delights as he eagerly walked me through its features like a male Alice in a rock ’n’ roll wonderland. The first thing I noticed was how much Viggo was attached to objects – the place was a treasure trove of sculptures, paintings and prints, and even rare first editions that seemed too fragile to handle, let alone read. First he showed me to the guest room that would be mine as long as I wanted to stay there, he informed me. It was a vast bedroom, with its walls alternately painted black and white and dotted with small prints that I guessed were all originals, mostly impressionists and many of the sea in every shade of blue and green under the sun, pointillist, discreet, hypnotic. I felt certain Debussy had seen many of these images before he wrote ‘La Mer’ and had found inspiration in their palette. There was also an en-suite bathroom, with a deliriously gothic bathtub, all metal claws and twisted limbs, and a modern shower cubicle with sleek glass and shining metal.
I only had the clothes I had taken to Amsterdam, which I dispersed through the immensity of the deep glass-fronted sliding-doored closet. If I stayed here longer, I would have to retrieve some of the wardrobe I kept back in New Orleans, as well as buy myself some new outfits in London.
Viggo returned to fetch me a couple of hours later and guided me down a circular staircase to the underground areas of the mansion. And there it was: his grotto, the emerald shimmers of the pool’s water as its zigzagging stream bisected the low-ceilinged subterranean cavern, like the breath of an invisible sea god. Here again, on every side of the pool were pieces of art, mostly modern, large and small, bizarre and incongruous.
‘It’s enchanting,’ I said. ‘But even this girl can’t dance on water.’
‘Look,’ Viggo said, and pointed to the far end of the room where the waters of the pool emerged like a cascade from an artfully constructed h
ill of small, shiny rocks.
My stage. A large, rectangular black stone slab. Like a sacrificial altar.
When I saw the pool and the platform, I knew that this dance for Viggo would be the healing balm that I needed to restore my equilibrium. Here, where the water would wash over me like a baptism, cleansing my body of sins - both known and unknown. It would be ritualistic. Pagan. I would be the priest presiding over my own ceremony. I would peel away all the layers, tear off the skin, and I would return to the old Luba in one swift, sharp shock.
I danced for him the following evening. A dance of undulating desire, of pale flesh and shocking pink, a private offering like the first one I had long ago performed for Chey.
I was wanton and raw, more than I had ever been, as I ensured that Viggo Franck would want me like he had never wanted a woman before, my body, my intimacy, but this time the power would be all mine. As the music circled me and my slow, deliberate movements to its rhythm, I could see on his face, his eyes transfixed by my earthly presence, how much he yearned to possess me, add me to his collection. But I danced on, smiling inside. This would be my new domain, the underground lair of Viggo’s mermaid. When the music stopped, we were both holding our breath, facing each other, electrified.
There was only one thing to do: I burst out laughing and jumped naked into the cool water, to douse the fire.
As I swum to the side and exited the pool, Viggo was waiting for me, holding out a large white towel.
‘Even mermaids need to dry themselves,’ he said, smiling broadly.
‘Oh no, they don’t,’ I said. ‘They have lackeys to do the task.’
‘I’ve never been called a lackey before,’ Viggo said, and approached me, wrapping me up in the fluffy material as it absorbed the water still dripping from my shoulders and across my skin. As I didn’t object, he began to rub the material against me, first my back, then my hair and then, impudently, my arse. ‘But I think I could definitely enjoy being one,’ he concluded.
We ate together later in his large, modern kitchen. The food had been supplied by a famous restaurateur. It was exquisite. Viggo was funny, bombarding me with anecdotes and striking stories about the excesses of the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, teaching me how to slurp oysters and to taste vintage wine properly. Behind the rock-star monster was a good man. Only bad men knew how to play my chords, but perhaps that was a good thing for the moment. I could relax and reinvent myself with Viggo.
He was a connoisseur of beauty, he told me, and he wanted me to stay. I would have the run of the house, could even help him out when necessary with the dreary minutiae of everyday life that his managers and agents were not involved in. A personal assistant, a companion, a muse. The rest was up to me. If I wished to dance again, he would welcome it but there would be no obligation to do so again on my part.
I was now an associate Holy Criminal. I was even put on the payroll, no doubt as a tax deduction as I saw the eyes of his accountant light up when I was introduced to him to arrange the formalities. And I was not even required to dance onstage with the band.
I spent most of the following two days in the pool area, naked, sprawling, wet, in a state of blissful innocence. Viggo would join me in the room, sharing small talk while watching me with undisguised avidity. I suggested he join me in the water, which he did, but only after I observed the arduous operation during which he had to slide out of his eternally skin-tight jeans while trying to retain a modicum of dignity.
He had a lovely cock. Thin, straight, long.
He dived into the pool. I sauntered towards his point of entry and playfully held his head down under the water when he tried to break through, keeping his eyes and his mouth level with my smooth cunt.
I let go and he burst through, spitting water, feigning anger. I just laughed again. His cock, I could feel, was already rock hard, brushing against my thigh. My feet stiffened and I prepared to push him away, but to my surprise the touch of his penis against my leg gave me a thrill and I realised that Viggo had genuinely grown on me. This would not be a relationship like the one that I’d had with Lucian, which had felt more like a business arrangement. No, I would make love to Viggo Franck and enjoy it.
That night, I walked to his room on the top floor and joined him in his outrageously large bed. It was not a bed in which you should sleep alone. I hadn’t been with a man since my last dance in Amsterdam, and all the recurring thoughts of Chey were forming a knot of pain in my heart. A pain that I wanted rid of, even if it hurt to have it removed, like a rotten tooth. I wanted to rid myself of the memory of bad fucks I’d had since Chey, and it might have been a cliché but the only way I could think to do it was to fuck the pain away. The sexy musician with all his kindness and his contradictions and his tight trousers was just what the doctor ordered.
‘Well hello, darling,’ he said when I crawled across the covers to lay down beside him. ‘Couldn’t resist me after all, eh?’
Coming from any other man his easy confidence might have seemed like arrogance, but Viggo was so humorous that even his boasts seemed self-deprecating and endeared me to him more.
I laughed, and leaned forward and kissed him.
It was all the invitation that he needed.
He was as confident in his lovemaking as he seemed, on the surface at least, in every other part of his life. His mouth was soft and he kissed languorously, as though we had all the time in the world and he intended to make use of all of it.
I propped myself up on my shoulder so that I could run my hand over his body, but he pushed me back down on the bed again.
‘First, my turn,’ he said playfully. ‘I think Luba the dancer needs to have a turn at staying still for a while. Or do you need me to make you stay there?’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘Close your eyes,’ he said, ‘and I’ll show you.’
I followed his instruction, but within a few moments I heard the squeak of his bedside drawer rolling open and curiosity got the better of me. My lids fluttered open and I sneaked a look at him.
‘Tut-tut,’ he chided. ‘I see I’m going to have to take care of that too.’
I snapped my eyes shut again.
‘Better,’ he said, obviously watching me. ‘But I think I’d like to make sure you stay that way.’
His tone was light and playful. Viggo clearly planned to demonstrate what I imagined was a vast repertoire of bedroom skills and I was only too happy to let him.
‘Have you been blindfolded before?’ he asked.
‘Never.’ I’d done a lot of things with Chey, but surprisingly not this.
I realised that I was holding my breath in eager anticipation. My mind was active and usually when I was in bed with someone new I spent at least some of the time glancing at my surroundings and thinking about one thing or another. What to do next, or whether I liked or disliked my bed partner’s taste in furniture. But lying on my back in Viggo’s bed with my eyes closed, my senses were partially cut off and I was tuned in to his every sound, his every move. He hadn’t restrained me, but I lay still to humour him and now I was utterly aware of the sensation in every part of my body.
‘Hmm. I think you like that idea,’ he added. I couldn’t see him but was certain that I could feel his gaze locked on me and watching each infinitesimal response as my muscles clenched and unclenched, patiently waiting for his touch.
When the silk scarves touched my skin I gasped. They were cool and deliciously soft, and with my eyes closed and totally unaware of what he was trailing along my legs and torso, and then over my breasts, I felt as though I was being brushed by the lapping of an isolated wave.
‘Do you like that?’ he asked, softly.
‘Oh yes,’ I said.
I was unaccustomed to talking during sex and I had already made up my mind not to beg for it, if that was what he was aiming for, but by the time he had run the fabric over my now stiff nipples and then down across my pussy and over my thighs and down my legs, I was ready
to do anything that Viggo Franck asked of me.
He wrapped the silky material around each of my ankles and my wrists and tied the ends to the head and foot of the bed so that I could move just enough to reduce any discomfort but was trapped in a starfish-like position and entirely subject to his every whim. Then he lifted my head gently and secured another piece of cloth around my eyes so that I couldn’t see even if I wanted to.
The drawer creaked open again.
By now I could feel my clit swelling and my pussy becoming embarrassingly wet. I wanted to plead with him to just abandon the foreplay and fuck me there and then, but I forced myself not to. No matter how aroused I was, I had my pride, and I didn’t want Viggo to think that he was some kind of sex god with the ability to make me swoon with the lightest caress.
The cover on the bed shifted slightly as Viggo laid down whatever he had taken out of his drawer of tricks.
One by one he teased me with sensations until my nerve endings had been worked into such a state that the slightest touch made me writhe and buck, desperate to feel more.
First, soft, tickling strokes over my inner thighs, my swollen and damp pussy and then around my nipples in soft, delicate circles. He was brushing me with a feather, I think. Then, the sweeping of something warm and velveteen, like a fur glove. Then something sharp but not painfully so, like the blade of a blunt knife that he traced firmly over the most sensitive parts of me as I moaned and strained on the restraints, not to escape but out of an intense desire to feel more.
‘Please,’ I said at last, ‘fuck me.’
‘Not yet,’ he whispered into my ear, following his words with the caress of his tongue and the flow of his breath hot against my skin.
He trailed his tongue all the way across my neck and then down to my chest, taking each of my nipples into this mouth and sucking on them and biting them until they were painfully hard, and I murmured in the agony of arousal mixed with frustration. He licked down my torso and then around the border of my pussy just a torturous inch from my clit. I bucked against the ties, pulling until the headboard thumped in an attempt to get closer to his mouth, but he had tied me expertly and my struggling was in vain.
Eighty Days Amber (Eight Days) Page 16