Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to go trekking alone?’ he said, shaking the memory from his head. ‘It’s not as if you can call anyone should you run into difficulty. And you’ll need to take plenty of water.’

  ‘Careful, darling, you almost sounded as if you cared then.’

  ‘I do care, Angelika,’ he said. And although he knew he might not show it as he should, he wasn’t lying.

  Angelika was preparing herself to shower now and had wrapped herself in a robe before stepping out of her bedclothes. Although Rupert had seen her naked body more times than she could count she suddenly found herself feeling more self-conscious than usual around him. Something had shifted between them, an uncomfortable distance she could not explain.

  Rupert, a touch inebriated now, followed her into the en suite and stood behind her as she began to wash her teeth over the ornate mirrored basin with one of the state-of-the-art electric brushes. If he could just force himself to desire her again, make love to her and feel something …

  ‘What are you doing, Rupert?’ She looked at him in the mirror as he slipped the robe from her shoulders, exposing her nakedness. ‘You’re drunk!’

  ‘So what?’ he said as he ran his fingers down her arms.

  Angelika was shocked; this was the first time her husband had displayed any intimate intensions towards her in over two years. As little as a few weeks ago she would’ve welcomed such attention with open arms, and legs, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Willing his erection on, Rupert closed his eyes and thought of Raj as he parted his wife’s thighs. She did not stop him but instead watched his face carefully in the mirror as he entered her from behind, moaning in pleasure until she too closed her eyes and followed suit. After a moment he turned her around, lifting her by the buttocks into the shallow basin and she wrapped her legs around him, arching her back, releasing her long hair from her top knot as he began to kiss and nibble her small breasts, caressing her neck with his hand as he pushed himself into her, harder, building momentum, his breathing deep and shallow in time with hers.

  ‘Oh, go ... yeah … yeah …’ she found herself softly saying, her orgasm building as she watched the defined, thigh muscles working in his legs, ‘fuck me …’

  Only she wasn’t really talking to him; she was imagining her husband was Nate Simmons, that it was his body pressed against her own causing her to groan with pleasure, his lips around her nipples, her legs around his strong, taut abs …

  Pulling her down onto all fours upon the soft sheepskin rug in the en suite, Rupert held her by the waist as he slid into her from behind once more, only it wasn’t Angelika he was entering with increasing frenzy, it was Raj. It was Raj’s dark cocoa-butter skin he felt beneath his fingertips. It was the scent of Raj’s masculine sweat that he could detect lingering in the air between them. He felt Angelika’s body buckle beneath him as she came in a crescendo of short sharp bursts, her muscles contracting around him, squeezing. He was close himself now, the power of his orgasm almost paralysing him as it finally took hold.

  ‘Ahh, yeah, that’s it … you bad boy … you dirty, fucking bad boy …’

  Angelika froze, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

  ‘What was that you just said?’ She sat upright, her heartbeat refusing to slow down. Rupert was hyperventilating, beads of sweat dripping from his brow. Thinking of Raj had made him come like a train.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“You bad boy”? That’s what you just said to me … “you dirty fucking bad boy”!’’

  Rupert panicked, his post-coital euphoric rush evaporating rapidly like liquid nitrogen.

  ‘Did I? I’m sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I … I was talking to myself. I meant I’m a bad boy … I’m a dirty …’ His voice trailed off. The moment had passed and reality hit him like a wrecking ball. Angelika blinked at him as she reached for her robe and quickly covered herself up. She wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but she didn’t feel particularly good about it.

  ‘I’m taking a shower,’ she said quickly, which he rightly translated as ‘please leave immediately’.

  Rupert stood, awash with self-loathing and made to leave but turned to her at the last minute.

  ‘I’m sorry, Angelika,’ he said.

  ‘What was that?’ she called out, pretending she hadn’t heard him; she was already in the shower, washing the scent of him from her skin. She felt strongly that whatever had just taken place between them during those few minutes of spontaneous passion shouldn’t have. It had felt so wrong, so disconnected. While physically present, spiritually she had been somewhere in her mind, with someone else. And what was clearly evident was that so too, it seemed, had her husband.

  38

  The woman stepped out of the shower and began to roughly towel dry herself in haste. As usual she was running late for a lunch appointment with her ‘boyfriend’, and as usual she didn’t really give a flying fat fuck, only she sensed she’d been pushing her luck with him lately and this was enough to ensure she got a move on – not because she gave a shit about him, because she absolutely didn’t. In fact, like all of her ‘boyfriends’, she felt very little other than contempt for him; he was a pathetic, snivelling, woefully inadequate ass-clown, but she couldn’t afford to lose him, not yet anyway. As one of her most lucrative ‘boyfriends’, their long-standing ‘understanding’ had allowed her to give up her day job and purchase a bijoux apartment in Belgravia, not to mention fund her recent investment into Martin McKenzie’s latest pay-per-view ‘project’. Reason enough to be on time then, if there was any.

  Their arrangement was pretty straightforward; he was older, married, loaded and liked to be dominated. She was comparatively younger, single, enjoyed administering pain and humiliation and relieving him of a large chunk of his salary for the privilege. As well as the most generous, this particular ‘boyfriend’ was also the most subservient, pathetically grateful to be punished for the smallest of imagined slights. And she did so enjoy his pain and suffering. There was, however, one downside to this agreement and it manifested itself in the form of an obsessional intolerance towards bad punctuality. The man went completely crazy if ever she was late to a ‘date’, and in a spectacular moment of complete role reversal would tear her a new arsehole if she was even as little as five minutes overdue. It pissed her off but she was wise enough to suck it up and make sure it didn’t happen too often. She had a good number going with this particular piece of shit and didn’t want to jeopardise it. After all, it beat working for a living.

  She began to dress herself from the assortment of attire on the bed starting with his favourite Agent Provocateur stockings, followed by some French lace ouvert knickers, a waist-cinching corset and a skin-tight leather Alaïa dress that accentuated her dangerous curves. It was Thursday, Doggie day, where he liked to fashion a diamond studded collar while she dragged him around the bedroom on a leather leash before strapping him into a harness and whipping his naked behind senseless. She particularly enjoyed the part where she got to make him eat Pedigree Chum from a plastic pet bowl as he crawled around the floor like the pathetic turd he was. She stepped into her 8-inch studded Louboutins and reminded herself to walk through as much of the city’s grime on her way to meet him; it gave her such sublime pleasure watching him licking the shit off her red soles with his tongue. Occasionally, weather-permitting, they would take a trip out to the countryside together afterwards to some infamous beauty spots, admire the great outdoors before indulging in a little dogging. They would alternate between being the voyeurs and putting on a show for other doggers, depending on what mood grabbed them. Personally she preferred the former. Voyeurism was her bag, although she could be anything you wanted if the price was right; dominant, submissive, as deviant as you were prepared to go; a good all-rounder, she like to think. Still, she enjoyed Thursdays; her ‘boyfriend’s’ particular preferences allowing her to release any pent-up aggression she had accumulated during the week.

  She ope
ned the door to her closet of tricks, which contained all manner of devices and fetish gear, and reached for the 12-inch rubber dildo he liked her to use on him so forcefully. The man really was a sexual degenerate, as well as a respected private medical practitioner to the exceptionally rich and famous. The contrast always made her smile; if only his patients knew what their hero surgeon’s sexual perversions were when he cut them open, they’d probably have a heart attack right there on the operating table. Still, it took all sorts.

  Applying blood-red lipstick and spritzing herself with his favourite perfume – Rive Gauche, a somewhat old-fashioned smell that apparently reminded him of his grandmother – and mindful of the time, she grabbed her black, studded, Jimmy Choo shoulder bag and made to leave, only her eye caught the laptop that was open on the dressing table and she hesitated. Just a little sneaky peek …

  She threw her handbag down onto the bed and went over to it. Clicking on the screen she inputted her unique pin code and smiled as the action came into view.

  ‘Well, hello my little friends, and how are we all today?’

  Admittedly she was finding the antics on Pleasure Island utterly addictive. Watching it had become something of a guilty pleasure, money well spent as far as she was concerned. This was her kind of show, a soap opera for voyeuristic sadists, one in which the actors had no idea they were performing for the cameras and where she also had a say in the storyline. After a hard day’s spanking and administering humiliation, she had enjoyed nothing more than coming home, switching her computer on and catching up on the events unfolding on the island. She had been particularly pleased with Billie-Jo’s storyline. The masseur seduction scene had been her idea and McKenzie had executed it with great aplomb, hiring in a professional to get the job done. The feeling of control it had given her to watch the action unfold had been enough to bring her to an earth-shuddering orgasm; the sex itself was largely immaterial, it was the feeling of the power she had over a bunch of complete strangers that really flicked her switch.

  Now she was keen to see what could happen next between Angelika Deyton and Nate Simmons and had been busy thinking of various scenarios that would potentially push them together. She wondered what the rest of the Super Eight might be concocting, rightly sensing there was competition between them as to who could push things the furthest, whose ideas would make it to the final cut and get the almighty McKenzie’s seal of approval.

  Playing with other people’s lives was such fun. It was only a pity she couldn’t throw on some PJs, order in pizza and spend the afternoon tuned in. Listening in on a conversation that Mia and Angelika were having about Rupert while simultaneously watching Nate Simmons use the bathroom – he was certainly blessed in every department – she wondered which of the other club members were watching and checked the bottom left corner of the screen to see who was currently on-line. Inadvertently she dropped the lipstick she’d been holding. That couldn’t be right, she thought, frowning. Her phone suddenly beeped, startling her. It was her ‘boyfriend’ demanding to know where she was.

  ‘Chill the fuck out, arsehole,’ she muttered, her eyes transfixed on the bottom left of the screen. It was clearly a mistake. McKenzie had given their private exclusive little club the moniker it had for obvious reasons – there was just eight of them. In which case, she wondered – a feeling of unease suddenly settling upon her tightly encased stomach – how come it now said: ‘users: 112,478’?

  39

  ‘Aren’t you worried about getting caught?’ Billie-Jo stood opposite him in the sea, the water waist height, the sun and light breeze causing her big nipples to harden like diamonds beneath her gold-and-silver Agent Provocateur Mazzy bikini. ‘What if we’re seen?’

  ‘Isn’t that part of the buzz?’ He grinned at her. ‘Anyways, why the fuck should I be worried? I’m not the one who’s married.’

  ‘Yeah, but you came here with Mia, as her … I dunno, what would you call it, squeeze? Date? Grandson impersonator?’

  ‘Cheeky little fucker you, aren’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Mia’s all right. She’s been pretty good to me really, I s’pose. Helped introduce me to some influential people, you know, producers and stuff, guys who’ve worked with some big names, people like Pink Floyd and Led Zep and those dudes. I can’t say that stepping out with her hasn’t helped my profile either. She might not have had a tune out in years but man, the paps still gotta thing for her.’

  ‘Led Zep? Never heard of them,’ she said dismissively, ‘and for that you have to fuck her in return, right?’ She swished her long, blonde hair back from her face in dramatic fashion. ‘Must be like eating out your nan’s pussy. Eww.’

  She pulled a face and Joshua laughed again. She was so crass, and so damn sexy with it. He kinda liked it. Billie-Jo was all front, literally, yet he sensed there was more going on underneath the bravado. Still, at least you always knew where you were with a girl like that. He hated all that second-guessing bullshit most chicks played. This one was nothing if not direct. It made a refreshing change.

  ‘I’d rather eat out your pussy.’ He raised his eyebrows at her, his dirty, blond hair hanging just below his shoulders, giving him the look of a young, fairer Jim Morrison. ‘Anyway, a boy gotta do whatta boy gotta do, you know what I’m saying?’

  She did. Exactly.

  ‘Your cast is getting wet,’ she said.

  ‘The only thing I give a shit about getting wet is your pussy,’ he retorted.

  ‘Ha, dream on,’ she said. ‘Anyway, like you said, I’m the married one.’

  ‘So what you doing here then, sugar tits?’ he replied cockily, ‘checking out the view?’

  Billie-Jo snorted. She did so love an arrogant man, one who presented her with a challenge; she thrived on it.

  ‘I’m asking myself the very same question,’ she replied facetiously, placing a hand on her hip. Actually she knew very well why she had agreed to meet JJ down by the beach at such an early hour and why she had stomped round the cabana that morning creating as much of a din as possible; she wanted Nate to know that she was off somewhere; she wanted him to search for her and ideally find her, catch her alone with JJ. It was a test. If he came looking for her then she knew all was not lost and that he did really love her.

  At the end of the day that’s all Billie-Jo had ever really wanted; to be loved. She knew deep down that life had hardened her, making it almost impossible for her to obtain true intimacy with anyone. She trusted no one, not even her own mother. In her experience, both sexes were out to get her in one way or another; men to use her for sex and women because men wanted to use her for sex. She couldn’t win but she sure as shit was gonna put up a damned good fight.

  Billie-Jo was of the school of thought that you had to leave someone before they left you; first sign of trouble and she was out the door and into the arms of the next awaiting car crash. It had been a diabolical pattern all her life but the alternative – giving herself to someone fully, loving someone unconditionally – was far scarier. Einstein she may not have been, but she was far more emotionally intelligent than she cared to let on. She understood that in order to have a successful relationship with a man, with anyone, she would need the balls to tear down her barriers and learn to love herself. After all, if she didn’t love herself, then no other fucker was going to. And that was the bit she struggled with most. When you’d been treated as if you were a worthless piece of meat since you were a kid, it was difficult not to believe it in the end.

  Nate felt sorry for her but she sensed he did not love her. How could he? She hadn’t exactly made it easy for him. They wanted different things; him to settle into obscurity, become a nobody and her polar opposite. He’d experienced fame and it had left him with a bitter aftertaste. For her it had been like nectar on her tongue; it had made her come alive, feel special for the first time in her life, the attention giving her flaccid self-esteem a permanent hard-on. Was it so wrong to want to be adored, to be admired by others, celebrated and imitated? People were always sa
ying how fame and money doesn’t make you happy. Like, who the fuck were they kidding? Did Kim Kardashian have a miserable face when papped on board her husband’s yacht? Did she fuck.

  Nate Simmons was the closest Billie-Jo had ever been to a man – hell, to anyone really – and yet she knew relatively little about what really made him tick. He had been kind to her, though. He’d never given her a slap like some of the others had; never unashamedly engaged in all that roasting and prostitute-shagging that many footballers were want to do, humiliating their wives and girlfriends in the process. On the contrary he’d been respectful, placid even, tolerant of her often-destructive behaviour, supportive while she’d been starting out in the glamour game, even encouraged her. Their marriage had been sedate and relatively drama-free – and yet, she felt ashamed to admit, largely boring as fuck because of it. Unless she was in an intense state of emotional agony or a crazy euphoric high then Billie-Jo wasn’t feeling anything at all. She didn’t do middle ground. Nate was just too good for her, and she was just too good at being bad.