‘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 t
o 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.
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