Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  ‘It’s cute,’ said Misha. ‘Very sweet.’

  Sweet enough, I noticed, for Misha to have a raging hard-on. And, oh boy, that got my interest because I was somewhat shocked to notice that my polite, squarely dressed Russian friend was evidently hung like a horse. He lay propped on his elbow, making no attempt to conceal his arousal. In his jeans, his cock was a visible bar, its erect angle fitting neatly into the creases of his crotch, as if having a boner were such a frequent occurrence the denim had faded and shaped itself to fit.

  I couldn’t let the moment pass. I didn’t know where I was going with it but I nodded at Misha’s groin and said, ‘Well, someone’s enjoying the spectacle.’

  He laughed crisply. ‘Actually, the most arousing part was watching you watching them.’

  Guh. Busted. My face burned.

  ‘What do you like about it?’ Misha shifted on his hip. ‘Watching? Or the thought of being watched?’ His features hardened, and his grey eyes settled on me. His upper lip lifted in a tiny smirk, and his gaze dropped to my breasts before returning to my face. I thought I caught a flicker of nastiness there. I felt as if he’d just put me in a different category of woman, and so I put him in a different category of men, the one marked ‘potential misogynist; approach with caution’.

  ‘Being watched.’ My voice wavered, far less confident than intended.

  Misha smiled as if he’d just won a private bet.

  ‘Well,’ said Sol, in a how-interesting tone. He tipped the beer bottle to his lips; then, hand around the base, rested the bottle on the kilim rug, looking from Misha to me and back.

  Nothing happened. No one spoke or moved. Colours span around us, sliding over frozen faces. We were Manet’s painting, Le déjeuner sur l’herbe. I’d made myself metaphorically naked for them, but no one seemed willing to pick up the baton. I guess none of us knew what to do. If you don’t recognise the situation, how can you know the rules? I had no plan.

  The prospect of a threesome was knocking around in my brain, sure, but it was a hazy, distant fantasy that had been lurking there for years. Me and two guys; two strong, muscular bodies working in harmony with my own dips and curves; me getting double of what I liked.

  I used to discuss trying a ménage with Jonathan who declared he was willing to give it a whirl as a special treat for me. As I approached thirty-four, we went as far as emailing a guy on Craigslist who then sent a photo of himself wearing a white towelling bathrobe on a holiday balcony, an azure sea in the background. Jonathan got cold feet at that point, and offered to buy me a bottle of l’Heure Bleue for my birthday instead. I agreed, figuring perfume lasts longer than sex.

  My only plan with Sol and Misha, if thinking two seconds ahead can constitute a plan, was to throw something out there and see what happened. Primarily, I wanted Sol – in me, on me, over me. But if he was going to play it cool, then the well-endowed Russian was worth investigating. I just had to hope I didn’t embarrass him and lose a regular customer. But then you wouldn’t call him a big spender, so no great loss.

  Drawing a deep breath of courage, I said, ‘So, what’s a girl got to do to get laid around here?’

  Sol looked at me steadily while drinking from the bottle. Misha smirked, glancing from me to Sol. Eyes still fixed on me, Sol set down his beer, smiling. A dusky purple light crossed his face, casting his eyes in deep shadow.

  ‘You just gotta say “please”,’ he drawled.

  I laughed. Damn, he was a bastard, the kind of guy I’d have gone nuts for in my younger days.

  ‘Please,’ I said briskly, before adding, on a surge of reckless daring, ‘both of you.’

  And it really was that simple. After a terrifying, uncertain pause when I feared I was about to be slut-shamed to high heaven, Sol addressed Misha and said, ‘Well, I’m game.’

  Misha shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’

  They seemed so casual and at ease that I had to wonder if I hadn’t mistakenly invited them to a hand of bridge, rather than a three-way. I looked from one man to the other. ‘Heck,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Me neither but it’s all good.’ Sol pushed himself up from his relaxed sprawl, laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms as if warming up.

  ‘Isn’t it great to be modern?’ I said, wondering how we move forwards from here. ‘Um, I should maybe mention that …’ I leaned forwards, lowering my voice in an exaggerated play of secrecy, and beckoned them closer. They hunkered towards me, Sol grinning, Misha frowning. ‘I like things on the kinky side,’ I said. ‘Nothing heavy, and if it’s not your thing, that’s fine. I just thought …’

  ‘I know no other way,’ said Misha, sitting straight.

  ‘Always happy to dabble,’ said Sol.

  ‘I’m a bisexual switch,’ said Misha, his stern, matter-offact tone suggesting he was accustomed to presenting his sexuality to others. ‘However, I prefer to bottom and I have strong masochistic tendencies, assuming the dynamic is correct.’

  Sol smiled broadly, a touch nervous I thought. ‘Heteroflexible,’ he said, using a word I’d never heard spoken before. ‘Been, ah, exploring my dom side recently. It’s where I seem to be at.’

  ‘Submissive,’ I said. ‘Bondage and mild pain only. A few humiliation fantasies. Spanking. That kind of stuff. Nothing traumatic.’

  Sol nodded thoughtfully as if absorbing the information and then pointed to his bust lip. ‘Listen, don’t take it personally, guys, but do you mind if we don’t kiss?’

  I laughed. ‘Prostitute’s prerogative.’

  He feigned offence. ‘You calling me a whore?’

  In low voices, we discussed a few more practicalities, our negotiation of boundaries doubling as a vehicle for flirtation and verbal foreplay. Our agreed safeword was Cinderella. I wondered how close we’d get to using it. By the time we stood, my skin was flushed with anticipation, the wetness between my thighs spiked by a fierce, insistent pulse.

  We swayed a companionable path to the manor house, sniggering and whispering like naughty schoolkids. The dark lawn was illuminated by Chinese lanterns, ropes of LED lights, and gaseous yellow flames dancing in fire bowls. The tipis rose against the black sky like two witches’ hats, poles crossing at their peaks, the canvas glowing in soft amber tones. The night felt magical. Everything seemed so easy, as if we were floating through life. I walked between the two men, my arms hooked in theirs, tottering on the grass in my impractically high sandals. I told them how, since separating from Jonathan, I’d built a small vintage and military-issue handcuff collection, primarily from picking up items online.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Sol. ‘Do you have any flaws?’

  I laughed. ‘You got a couple of spare days?’

  ‘If you own gear like that,’ said Sol, ‘I can overlook anything. Hell, you don’t even need to know how to clean and cook.’

  ‘And your flaws are?’ I asked. ‘Apart from unabashed chauvinism?’

  ‘You got a couple of spare lives?’ he replied. ‘No, let’s not go there. So you’ve brought some of these fancy cuffs with you this weekend?’

  ‘Certainly have. German Clejusos. Among the heaviest and thickest in the world.’

  Sol whistled through his teeth. ‘Well I never,’ he murmured. ‘And you say your divorce has just come through?’

  We laughed as we crossed a small, lamp-lit car park, feet crunching on gravel, to enter a rear door in the west wing.

  ‘Give me metal over leather any day of the week,’ said Sol. ‘I can’t wait to see these beauties.’

  ‘They’re incredible,’ I said. ‘They weigh over three pounds.’

  My interest in the cuffs is related to sex, of course, but the objects fascinate in their own right. You’d think there might not be much variation in the design of an object comprising two linked hoops but there is. A lot of factors need to be taken into account so they suit both the jailer and the jailed, the cop and the robber. The perfect handcuffs should restrain without injuring but be easy and efficien
t to use. They’re wonderfully contradictory, often elegantly simple and suggestive of grim, thrilling stories. They capture my imagination and I frequently find it hard to resist a purchase. I’d brought along the Clejuso 15s because I adore the weight of them pulling on my wrists. I’d also figured their USP – heaviest cuffs ever manufactured – might be a good talking point were I to meet someone who shared my kinky proclivities. I appeared to have struck gold with Sol.

  Indoors, we dithered. ‘Which way?’ I asked.

  ‘Man, this place is huge,’ said Sol.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Misha, flicking a wall switch. Fake candles in sconces lit our path down an oak-panelled corridor and up a gloomy flight of stairs. We emerged on a floor with glinting crystal chandeliers, laughing when we realised the door we’d closed behind us was camouflaged in wainscoting and crimson flock to match the walls.

  ‘I discovered this route earlier,’ said Misha, checking his watch. ‘Excuse me.’

  For a brief, hopeful moment, I thought he was about to chicken out but instead he said, ‘I need to return to my room and then I will join you in your room in due course.’

  ‘OK, cool,’ I replied. ‘West tower, turret room. The highest one.’

  He took the opposite direction to us, leaving Sol and I to walk together down a grand, red-carpeted corridor hung with gilt-framed paintings depicting chinless wonders from centuries past. I was pleased to be alone with Sol.

  ‘Fuck, marry or kill?’ he said, indicating a portrait of a chap in a tricorn hat.

  ‘He’s already dead,’ I laughed.

  ‘That’s marriage for you,’ he replied. ‘How about him? Fuck, suck or push over a cliff?’

  The mood between us was light and friendly. I thought how wonderful it was that we could all be so open and straightforward about wanting to have sex together. The lack of shyness, shame or game-playing meant we’d carved out a space for pleasure. We are three people, I mused, who know how to enjoy ourselves.

  We took the spiral staircase to my turret room, me first, Sol behind with three empty wine glasses in one hand.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ began Sol.

  I yelped as he swiped my arse with a swift, upward strike.

  ‘Just checking out the goods,’ he continued.

  He landed a couple more smacks on my flesh, all perfect, sharp blows, despite coming from his left hand. Every hit made me squeal.

  Inside the room, I handed him the Clejusos, leaving the door to the room half open for Misha. Sol bounced each thick, steel cuff in his cupped palms, the connecting length of chain drooping between them.

  ‘Phewee,’ he said. ‘A real work of art.’

  The cuffs were beautifully curved, the thickest part shaped like a comma, the hinged section a relatively narrow, elegant band. In the hazy lamplight, the nickel-plating gleamed, the curvature catching a tiny, convex reflection of the bed that looked too small for three people.

  ‘Slip of a creature like you,’ said Sol. ‘Hell, these are going to pop your arms from your sockets, no?’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I’ll take that as my warning.’

  I stepped closer and placed a hand on his hip. ‘So can I trust you with the key?’ I asked.

  He turned to me, his hip swaying towards mine, and said, ‘I think we should wait for your friend, don’t you?’

  The implication that I was being disrespectful to Misha embarrassed me, although I noted Sol’s body language belied his words.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I stepped back, taking the cuffs from him. ‘But he’s not a friend. I don’t know him well at all.’

  ‘Soon will do, I guess,’ replied Sol.

  I crossed the room and set the cuffs down on the dressing table, half wishing it was just me and Sol for the night.

  ‘Damn, I wish I could place him,’ he murmured. ‘His face is so familiar.’

  I took the key from my purse and lay it alongside the cuffs, ready for use. Then I poured three Belvedere vodkas into the wine glasses.

  ‘So, do you go to fetish nights?’ asked Sol. He strode towards the low, diamond-paned window, bending to squint at the darkness outside. ‘Swingers’ parties, that kind of thing?’

  Without asking, he opened one of the windows, fixing the metal arm to a notch. I’d kept the windows closed during the day, to prevent insects getting in the room. Flying things bother me. They’re like loss of control in material form. Laughter and music floated in from the gardens on the far side of the house. The cooler, fresher air was welcome.

  ‘Swinging? Not really my cup of tea,’ I said, handing him his drink. ‘Maybe I’ll try a club one day. Generally speaking, I prefer more intimate scenarios.’ I raised my glass. ‘You know, like this one.’

  We clinked rims, grinning.

  ‘So you do this a lot?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, no,’ I replied. ‘Not as often as I’d like. I don’t meet the right kind of people. It’s not that easy.’

  ‘That’s why you should go to clubs and parties,’ he said. ‘Put yourself about a bit.’

  I moved away from him, slipped off my sandals and lay on the bed. ‘Or I could just stay home and eat my own arm,’ I replied. ‘Sounds preferable.’

  ‘What about Misha?’ he asked. ‘Is he on the BDSM scene?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I sipped my drink and placed my glass on the bedside table. ‘Like I say, I don’t really know him.’ I propped myself up against a mound of pillows, wishing he would join me without me having to ask. ‘He just drinks at my bar once a week. Why the interest? Do you go to fetish clubs? Or do you want to?’

  Sol laughed as if this were a silly idea. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. My gimp suit’s at the dry cleaner’s.’

  Footsteps approached on the spiralling wooden staircase. Misha peered tentatively around the half-open door.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Come on in. Close the door.’

  He gave a curt nod and stepped inside, closing the door carefully. He wore his wire-framed glasses, his face now reassuringly familiar. Sol clicked into a different mode. He set his vodka on the bedside table with mine and leaned over me as if Misha’s arrival were his cue to start. He smiled, fingers encircling my ankle. A shiver ran through me and I returned the smile. His tennis injury hung on his lip like a dangerous, tropical bud, his thick, dark hair catching curls of muted lamplight, and revealing a deep auburn tint.

  ‘So, Lana Greenwood,’ he murmured.

  ‘So, Sol Miller.’

  Misha watched from a short distance as Sol ran a strong hand up my bare shins to my raised knee. Spanning his thumb and forefinger wide, he began sliding down my thigh with exquisite slowness. My heartbeat quickened.

  ‘What are we going to do with you tonight, I wonder?’ said Sol. His warm hand nudged at the hem of my skirt, the blue fabric wrinkling like waves over his darkly haired wrist. I flexed my spine, pleasure rolling through my body, and smiled in encouragement.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I breathed. ‘What do you suggest?’

  Misha, his eyes still on us, unbuttoned his shirt.

  ‘You say you like to be watched, huh?’ continued Sol. His eyes were hidden in the shadows of his brows, and my nerves fluttered. Despite the sociability and humour, he had a remoteness to him, a suggestion of self-protection.

  ‘It’s only a small desire.’ My voice had a gravelly catch. ‘Not necessarily something I want to pursue right now. Or ever, to be honest.’ I laughed quietly, hearing my own anxiety in the sound. ‘Anyway, there’s only two of you.’

  He grinned. ‘We could call for reinforcements.’ His thumb ticked against the narrow bone of my inner thigh, back and forth. Inches away, concealed by sheer fabric, my clit throbbed, my arousal opening me out.

  ‘Two’s plenty, thanks,’ I replied.

  He smiled, nodding. ‘Your call.’

  With a maddeningly light caress, he ran his thumb over the plump crotch of my briefs. Inside my underwear, the repercuss
ions of his touch prickled along individual strands of hair, shimmered in skin cells and slunk through my wetness, luxurious and wanton. I groaned and tilted my hips, searching for more.

  A few feet away, Misha continued undressing as if alone, hanging his shirt in the closet before sitting on the dressing table chair to remove footwear and jeans. He placed his shoes inside the closet and then hung his jeans and boxers over another hanger. Moving in, are you? I thought. Finally, he removed his glasses, closed the arms, and placed them on the bedside table. Naked, he stood to face us, wrapping his fingers around a cock whose hard, upright magnificence proved my earlier assessment to be accurate.

  Well, this was turning out to be quite a night.

  Under the hem of my dress, Sol’s thumb continued rubbing at my dampening briefs. I looked beyond Sol to Misha, basking in the joy of being attended to by one man while viewing another. Misha was athletically slender, his skin as pale as porcelain. His small pink nipples were encircled by wisps of light brown hair, each tip pierced by a silver ring threaded with a tiny ball. His fist shunted on his huge, ruddy erection, his posture bold and open, his expression slack. He didn’t appear to have a scrap of reticence or self-consciousness about being the first to get naked.

  In contrast, Sol and I were measuring the situation, taking cues from each other in a tentative build-up. Misha’s fixed, confident stance caused a flurry of doubts to scramble my mind. I fought a wave of rising panic. I’d thought we were all singing from the same hymn sheet, but perhaps not. Something in Misha’s attitude troubled me: implicitly demanding, infantile, as if he were entitled to his own satisfaction, his needs taking priority over that of others. A taker, I suspected, not a giver.

  Sol leaned his thumb harder into my underwear, making my flesh squish and mould around the pressure. I groaned heavily, his gentle half-explorations making me want him so much.

  ‘She’s very wet.’ Sol turned to look up at Misha. ‘I can feel her pussy soaking through her panties.’