Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  Mr and Mrs Weinmeyer

  ‘THIS IS THE EXACT style I’ve been looking for. Classic, but quirky. Where can I find Signor Tremelli?’

  Chloe glanced up from her perch in the corner of the gallery where she was sketching the ironmongery of the newly re-opened High Line on the shadowy side of the street. She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘He’s on a conference call in the back at the moment. Can I help you?’

  The man kept his gaze on the central photograph. It was of Daniele posing in a deserted department store, taken after hours and from behind so no punter would recognise him. He was butt naked – God, that butt. Incredible in a man any age, but he was her father’s age. It was high, and tight, kept fit she reckoned by incessant fucking. You could see those thick muscles flickering under the skin when he moved, or bent or stretched, or clenched them for thrusting. You could see, in the photograph, one muscle taut and tight as he posed for her, inclining slightly awkwardly on a plinth like Michelangelo’s David, lit by a single spot, and being jostled by fully clothed mannequins.

  ‘My wife collects things, you see.’ The visitor turned now, looking at her properly. He had burning blue eyes and pale blond hair. An ageless face, but the kind of mature, suave good looks that would get him cast as a Nazi officer. The threatening smile of a modern-day Dracula. ‘Art. Photographs. Lalique vases. People.’

  Chloe remembered her manners and stood up. He was very tall. His suit was expensive but his red silk tie was very slightly loosened. He saw her staring at his undone top button. The brief curl of gold on his chest.

  ‘A tough day, and so hot.’ He held out his hand. ‘Ernst Weinmeyer.’

  ‘Chloe, er. Just Chloe.’ She shook it. Handshakes are so rare now. A real minefield between attractive strangers. His was a cold grasp, but very firm with none of the sweat-gathering linger of a letch. ‘I’m Signor Tremelli’s assistant.’

  ‘Well, Just Chloe. No surname? All alone in the world?’

  ‘Just my professional moniker. Pretentious maybe, but –’

  ‘Aren’t all the youngsters these days?’ He waved his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.

  She felt her cheeks burning red and turned back to the photograph, edging him round with her hand in the blatantly flirtatious way Daniele had taught her. ‘So you’re interested in this picture?’

  ‘I guess you’d call it homoerotic, yes? Superb technique, lighting, and very classy. It could be a Hitchcock still. But I don’t want to buy it, no.’

  Chloe went very quiet, holding in her disappointment and with it her breath. ‘You like the style, though? We hung it as a teaser, you see, to gauge reactions. The photographer is a protégée of Sophie Epsom.’

  ‘Ah yes. That figures. My wife has an Epsom. She really is outrageously erotic, isn’t she, but all class and elegance.’ His eyelids lowered a little, making his eyes glitter in the spotlights. ‘You know, we bid for that amazing image of one woman licking out another when Tremelli auctioned it at Christies, but it went for millions in the end.’

  Chloe nodded. ‘There’s still a rush on the gallery’s postcards of that image.’

  ‘This one is, I don’t know, there’s something fresher.’ Mr Weinmeyer took out a business card and waved it at Chloe’s photograph. ‘So I would like to know more about this photographer guy –’

  ‘Yes,’ Chloe said quickly, tucking her hands in the folds of her short floaty skirt. She still wasn’t used to the sticky Manhattan heat. And until that second she’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any knickers. ‘Well, she has an extensive portfolio, actually, mostly back in London, but she’s in New York for the summer –’

  ‘She? And she’s in town right now? Even better. Tell Daniele I’d like her details. I want to commission a portrait.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s fantastic! I don’t believe it!’

  He turned back to her, stroking his very smooth pale face. ‘Very excitable selling technique you have there?’

  ‘I can’t help it!’ Chloe practically drummed her teetering platform sandals. ‘Because actually that’s me! You don’t need to speak to Daniele, because I’m the photographer!’

  ‘There’s a turn-up.’ He took her hand but instead of another formal shake he lifted it up to his mouth and breathed in her skin as if it was a perfume or fine wine. ‘Now I’m excited, too.’

  The moment extended just that little bit too long. She wanted to pull away. Her palm was getting sweaty. Despite the air con she was getting hot and sticky. He would sense it, and be repulsed. But as he kissed her hand, watching her all the while, it was as if he was taming her. She stopped fidgeting and was still.

  ‘My card, Just Chloe.’ He let go of her hand. ‘Give me a call when you’ve checked your diary and you can come to our apartment and meet Mrs Weinmeyer. I want this portrait as the centre piece for her birthday party next month. Will Signor Tremelli let you off the leash so we can have you all to ourselves for a day or so?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Chloe smiled, flicking the card between her fingers like a poker player as she walked him to the gallery door and let in a blast of hot summer air. ‘He’ll do anything I ask him.’

  ‘So, Daniele, it’s all arranged. My first commission. How about that!’

  She watched him switch off the gallery lights and lock the door.

  ‘Weinmeyer is rich, all right. And well connected. If he likes it your work will be seen by everyone who’s anyone –’

  Chloe perched on the edge of the gallery desk and wrapped one long bare leg over the other. ‘So why are you marching about looking like thunder?’

  He came up and took hold of her. She leaned into him, pushing her big breasts against his shirt and rubbing them across the cotton the way he liked it. The breasts she kept hidden under loose tops and had only ever unwrapped for him. His mouth opened slightly as her nipples pricked hard through the soft fabric.

  ‘I just wish it wasn’t him, of all people. He eats women for breakfast, Chloe.’

  She jerked away from him. ‘This is a commission, for God’s sake, not a casting couch. My chance to earn some money, get myself on the map! I’m not a kid, Danny. He’s posing for me, not the other way round. I’m in total control –’

  Daniele slammed her down on the desk, his Italian eyes blazing. The blow buzzed through her bones, weakening her knees with dark excitement. His breath was hot on her face. ‘You’re a talented photographer, Chloe, and this is your big break, but you don’t know the half of it! Christ, you’ve never even fucked another man!’

  ‘What’s fucking got to do with it? Stop making it out to be something sordid. This is a job, that’s all. My job. My business.’ She tried to shake him off, but his fingers dug into her skin through the thin shirt and he pushed his knee between her legs to open them up, so that her pussy was grinding against it.

  ‘Fucking’s got everything to do with it. You just wait and see.’ Daniele laughed roughly. ‘And it is my business, cara. Weinmeyer would never have seen your work if it wasn’t for me.’

  She was breathing hard now, but the fury was still shafting through her body, making it spark with a toxic, angry heat. ‘So, you want me to thank you now?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ He whipped her glasses off and put them on the desk beside her. She couldn’t move. He had her pinned down. He pushed her little skirt up her legs. Those she never kept hidden. They were sensationally long, like a dancer’s, and made people look at her twice, but still she covered her breasts and even liked to keep her glasses on most of the time.

  The chiffon stroked her thighs softly as she gave in, weakening as usual. He grabbed his cock out of his trousers and thrust it up inside her with no messing, fucking her across the hard desk so that her head banged on the aluminium surface and her long blonde hair trailed to the floor.

  Outside, the city rushed as people came down off the High Line and its flowers and attractions, and walked or drove or taxied home. The night gathered speed.

  A few feet away from the street, Ch
loe’s first ever lover fucked her as if it was the last time. She came explosively, digging her nails into him as she screamed his name, but although she loved him for breaking her in, she knew she was on the threshold of a whole lot more.

  And as if he could read her mind, Daniele whispered, ‘Just wait until you meet Mrs Weinmeyer.’

  Daniele’s words of warning hissed in Chloe’s ears as she stood on the top step of the enormous mansion on the Upper East Side two days later, but they soon evaporated. Mrs Weinmeyer was a pussy cat. They both were. In fact Mr and Mrs Weinmeyer reminded her of Si and Am, the evil cats in Lady and the Tramp – cool, polished, slanted blue eyes, blond – but apparently totally charming.

  She’d heard that princesses lived up this way, and this house was certainly fit for one. The front door swung silently open into a huge hallway as soon as she rang the bell. No butler or housekeeper. Just Mrs Weinmeyer, standing at the top of the stairs in a fuchsia pink, diaphanous halter-neck dress.

  ‘Just Chloe, as my husband calls you. How lovely. Welcome!’

  She was silhouetted by the light from the huge arched window behind her. The strong sun was like a back light, shafting straight through the voile fabric of her dress and rendering it see-through. Chloe could see that Mrs Weinmeyer’s incredibly slim thighs were slightly parted and flickering with impatient muscles as she rotated her foot in its gold Laboutin sandal. As she lifted her leg to take a step down the stairs, the dress floated open at the top of her legs, briefly showing the corner, the curve, of one plump sex lip.

  ‘Stop!’

  Chloe dropped her equipment on the floor in front of her and hoisted her camera out of her bag.

  ‘Why, honey, what’s wrong?’ Mrs Weinmeyer halted as instructed, one knee cocked in front of the other, her slim arms stretching to each banister. Her face was in shadow, but as she adjusted the exposure Chloe could see through the viewfinder her subject’s fuchsia painted lips part slightly in surprise, showing perfect white teeth.

  Her finger felt slippery on the shutter. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry if that sounded rude – fuck, I shouldn’t have said fuck – but Mrs Weinmeyer, please could you hold it there, because I think I’ve got my Grace Kelly shot!’

  Mrs Weinmeyer shrugged one pale shoulder, looked over it, deep into Chloe’s lens, twisted this way and that, then continued smoothly down the stairs.

  ‘Darling, come with me. There will be many other shots, I can assure you. Just follow me round, and you can tell me where you want me.’

  The house was all old European grandeur on the lower floors, but without the fuss.

  Chloe followed her from room to room, watching the way Mrs Weinmeyer’s buttocks twitched under the fuchsia silk as she walked ahead. The way her little bottom caught the material between her cheeks, then softly released it again. Every so often she would take a shot as she paused casually by a sofa, a fireplace, a mirror.

  ‘So, Chloe, where do you want me?’

  Mrs Weinmeyer watched as Chloe paced the huge wood-panelled drawing room and opened the French windows to let the natural, but shaded, north light flood in.

  ‘Here. I’d like to try something fairly formal, classic, you know? Just your face and shoulders, Mrs Weinmeyer, looking out from these shadows into the garden.’

  Mrs Weinmeyer did as she was told and leaned dreamily in the doorway, resting her head on one up-stretched arm. Chloe busied herself outside, setting up her tripod, making sure no direct sunlight fell on her subject. Then she looked up. The light was perfect, and she started to shoot. Mrs Weinmeyer kept her eyes focussed just past Chloe’s ear as if she was staring out to sea, her pink lips parted, her pale limbs totally still.

  There was only the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, making the silk shiver over her skin. And the sweat trickling down Chloe’s back as she worked in the New York heat.

  Mr Weinmeyer appeared through another doorway, speaking on a mobile phone.

  ‘Christ, isn’t she just gorgeous, Chloe?’

  Without apologising for getting in the way, he clicked shut the phone and walked up behind his wife and slipped his hand through the slit in the dress where it fell open across her thigh.

  ‘You should feel how soft her skin is. How warm. Just up here, you know? Just where it meets and gets all damp, and divides into that lovely pussy.’

  ‘Want to feel it, Chloe?’ Mrs Weinmeyer purred.

  ‘Just hold it like that.’

  Chloe grew hotter and stickier and jammed the camera against her nose to keep shooting. They were a pair of consummate performers. As his hand went into her dress, Mrs Weinmeyer’s head fell back on his shoulder in its business suit, her eyes fluttering closed, her lips parting wider. He wrinkled open the dress with his other hand, gathering the folds on her hip so as to expose her pussy totally. Like all New Yorkers, she was perfectly Hollywood waxed.

  Chloe’s own pussy felt like it was going to cook inside the too-smart tailored shorts she’d put on for this commission. And she hated wearing knickers. The pussy bow blouse was already sticking to her armpits, but it wasn’t just the summer sunshine making her hot. It was this debonair couple in front of her, he with his clean fingernails and snow-white cuffs looking cool as if he was about to address a board meeting, yet stroking his wife’s gleaming white pussy, running one finger slowly up and down the red crack peeping between the lips, the inner fire blazing briefly pink as he tickled it open to show Chloe and her camera, before it closed softly shut again.

  Mrs Weinmeyer’s tongue mirrored his finger, flickering over her mouth.

  ‘I think we should leave it there? I can see you both – this is a private moment.’

  Chloe started to pack up her equipment.

  ‘Why so coy, Chloe?’ Mr Weinmeyer stepped out onto the terrace, leaving his wife to stroke herself. ‘Your photograph back there in the gallery was one of the horniest things I’ve seen!’

  ‘True.’ Chloe remembered that this was a job. She was the professional. He was the client. ‘But this commission was for portraits of Mrs Weinmeyer. I can do erotic ones for you separately, if you like.’

  He smiled, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never taken my subjects – er – interacting with each other so intimately before.’

  ‘So cute, isn’t she, with those stern secretary glasses and all that wild gypsy unbrushed hair. Just like your fraulein cousins. So innocent.’ Mrs Weinmeyer joined her husband on the terrace and wound her arms round his waist. Her dress was still open, the silk shifting across her thighs, catching in her pussy crack, attracted perhaps by the wetness there.

  And then, in unison, they said, ‘Come back tomorrow night, Chloe. Just one more session.’

  ‘These proofs are sensational. Weren’t they pleased?’

  Daniele leaned over her shoulder as Chloe sat on the floor of his apartment above the gallery, working on her laptop. She’d kicked off her shorts and was cross-legged in just her knickers.

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Christ, Chloe! What’s he doing to her? They touched each other up in front of you?’

  He took the mouse from her and zoomed in on the image of Mr Weinmeyer’s hand slipping inside Mrs Weinmeyer’s dress. He kept zooming until there were only his long, clean, white fingers, prizing his wife open like a shell, and the pinky red folds inside her snatch, glistening with excitement.

  Chloe and Daniele stared in silence. Then Chloe turned the image to monochrome: monochrome fingers, monochrome pussy lips, then bleeding in just a wisp of fuchsia silk snapping at the edge, echoing the glints of living pink in Mrs Weinmeyer’s invaded cunt.

  ‘Like those Bailey photographs of all those vaginas – you could go a long way with these. God, it made me horny just walking round his exhibition in London and now, signorina, it’s making me horny just looking at the way Mr Weinmeyer is touching Mrs Weinmeyer. See? He’s doing this –’

  Daniele snaked his hand between Chloe’s legs, and she wriggled, tried to bat him
off, but when he hooked his finger into her knickers and stroked her crack open, the desire that had been sizzling all day burst into life. She moaned and gave in, and leant back against him, opening her thighs and tipping herself upwards, an invitation for him to go further, more fingers, deeper, harder, scraping mercilessly against her clit, making her feel and sound all wet, until she couldn’t bear it any longer and she sighed, ‘Oh God, I’ve been keeping it in all day. Watching those two, all over each other. The way they move round each other like they’re waltzing. Oh, fuck it, just do me, Daniele!’

  So like the proverbial Italian Stallion her boss lay her down on the floor of his apartment – he liked unforgiving surfaces – and fucked her, good and hard.

  ‘Watch out for Mrs Weinmeyer tomorrow night, cara, that’s all I’m saying.’

  The front door of the mansion swung open soundlessly again, but this time there was no Mrs Weinmeyer on the stairs. Just moonlight streaming in, and her disembodied voice purring from the entry phone. ‘Take the lift, honey. Up, up, up to the penthouse.’

  So she did, and when she got there the lift expelled her into a kind of a kind of plate glass box perched on the roof of the mansion, furnished inside with cool dark wood and white leather and outside with a plunge pool, lush tropical greenery and panoramic views over Central Park. Mellow saxophone music twined through the shadows.

  ‘We thought we’d make the shots more edgy tonight. You know? More light and shade. What do they say? Chiaroscuro?’

  Chloe turned from the window which had drawn her like a magnet, and saw Mr and Mrs Weinmeyer sitting side by side on a huge teak day bed strewn with soft white cushions. They sat there elegantly enough, champagne glasses in their hands, illuminated by accurately angled pin points of light, but he was naked except for a pair of white boxers and she was in a tiny white negligee.

  Chloe held her camera up like a shield. ‘Edgy,’ she croaked. ‘Right.’

  ‘And we thought mainly monochrome? Just like Madonna’s book?’