The Business of Pleasure (7 page)

‘Mmm,’ she heard him say, then there was a click and a flash of light, and she knew he had photographed her, all shiny and sweaty and streaked, her thighs clammy with his semen. She wondered if the picture would go up on the website, and the idea excited her, a tiny pulse of lustful shame awakening her tired sex.

Then Bryant’s hands were on her shoulders and he was pulling down the polo neck to kiss the soft flesh there, stroking the fabric where his teeth had snagged it, whispering into her ear.

‘Good girl … well done … you are spectacular. You will take the job, won’t you?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Charlotte let her head loll back against Bryant’s smooth cheek, losing herself in the momentary intimacy.

‘Marvellous.’ He began to untie her, releasing her wrists first, then holding on to her waist when she was able to step back from the tree. She found that she needed the support; her legs were watery and her body stiff as a broom handle. Bryant continued to hold her while she stretched and flexed and shook out pins and needles until she was able to stand again, still naked from the waist down with the bra cups underneath her breasts and the black top, rumpled and soaked now, above them.

Charlotte looked about for her skirt but Bryant chuckled and shook his head.

‘No, Charlotte,’ he said, then he put the tights about her neck and knotted them into a form of collar and leash. ‘You stay like that – it suits you so well. Come on. I’ll take you back to the car.’

Yanking on the nylon, he began to pull Charlotte forward across the leaf-carpet of the woodland, like a man taking his dog for ramble. She could not remember how far away the car was, and she hoped upon hope that Bryant had marked the route they had taken. Despite the raw heat of her backside, it really was getting cold now. Her nipples were like pebbles of ice and the spunk on her thighs had chilled almost to dryness by the time the long march of shame was over and the car came into welcome view.

Without releasing her neck, Bryant opened the car door and ushered her in.

‘My clothes,’ she said haltingly.

‘You don’t need those yet,’ he told her. ‘Sit down and get your seat belt on.’

Charlotte sat gingerly down, the leather seat feeling at first wondrously cool and soothing against her angry switch marks. She pulled the seat belt across her exposed ribs and stomach, clicking it smartly so that the bottom part of it lay atop her nude upper thighs and the diagonal part cut between her breasts, parting them in a way that drew emphasis towards the goose-bumpy mounds.

Bryant leaned over and loosened the tights around her neck, leaving them swinging like a noose, but then he attached the other end to her wrists, wrapping it round and round until they were secured in her lap.

‘I want your legs spread wide,’ he told her. ‘Keep them apart. That’s it.’

Charlotte opened her thighs until her knee backs hinged over each front corner of the leather seat. Her tethered hands were forced to rest on her mons, fingers framing her gaping labia, close enough to reach in and touch her clit.

‘Very nice,’ approved Bryant, who climbed in beside her and started up the engine. ‘You must be hungry. It must be time to eat, I think.’

‘Where? How?’ Charlotte craned her neck towards him in wonder and consternation, but he simply smiled and pulled out of the lay-by on to the dark forest track.

Charlotte was grateful for the quiet, unlit country roads, although she continually dreaded the possibility of a coachload of tourists pulling out in front of them. But it didn’t happen, and eventually they reached a village where Bryant parked up in a secluded corner and prepared to get out of the car.

‘What are you doing?’ flapped Charlotte.

‘Stay there,’ he said with a reassuring wink. ‘I won’t be long.’

He wasn’t long, but for Charlotte his absence may as well have been a geological age. Although the parking spot was at the far end of the village, and overlooked only by a sombre church tower, concealing her from the cottages beyond, she imagined the sudden arrival of a gaggle of old ladies, or bellringers, or choral singers. How on earth would they react, she wondered, unsure of whether to giggle or be aghast at the idea.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to find out, for Bryant soon returned with takeaway cartons of Chinese food.

‘Let’s find a private place to eat these,’ he suggested, hitting the road once more until they came to another lay-by, shrouded by overhanging trees, far off the beaten track. Bryant switched on the light and the radio, feeding Charlotte chicken chow mein while the evening news chuntered on in the background.

‘You really are hungry, aren’t you?’ he said, impressed at her appetite. ‘This is what I call eating out. Don’t you?’

‘Nnrgh,’ said Charlotte, mouth full of noodles, feeling very small and helpless and well-tended-to.

‘Have you had enough? Are you sure?’ Bryant stroked her forehead and wiped the remainder of the sauce away with a pristine handkerchief. ‘Shall we just sit here and relax for a little while. The others will be here soon.’

‘The others?’ Charlotte tried to sit up straight, but her bottom was sticking to the leather now and it hurt.

‘I thought you were a local girl,’ tutted Bryant.

‘I … am.’ She tried to hide her mystification.

‘Then you should know that this is a very popular spot after dark, Charlotte.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes.’ Bryant laughed, genuinely surprised. ‘It’s quite well documented.’

‘I … look, I don’t do this kind of thing … at home. It’s just been fantasies up to now. I’ve had boyfriends, but it’s all been pretty … normal. Except in my head.’

‘Conventional on the outside, shameless on the inside,’ said Bryant. ‘Oh look. Visitors.’

A car pulled up at the far end of the lay-by and four young men, strapping farmer types, shambled out on to the gravel.

‘Up to you, Charlotte,’ whispered Bryant – the words she never wanted to hear. ‘I can start the engine now and take you home. Or you can give them a little show. Which one?’

Big moon faces were looming behind the toughened glass, squinting and peering. Charlotte looked down at her bisected breasts, at her still-parted thighs, at her tied hands. She looked abandoned and hot, especially viewing herself through their eyes. A lust object. Her pussy clenched and she shut her eyes for a few moments before opening them again, her decision made.

The evening passed in a blur of headlamps and greedy eyes, strumming fingers and her own neck tossing from side to side as she made herself come for the entertainment of the local yokels, once by her own hand, twice by Bryant’s.

She would never forget her final view as Bryant turned the key in the ignition, causing the spectators to scatter. Their faces, red and parched with lust as their fat fists tugged on their pricks, and at the end of the row, the red, lustful face of Jim Bennett, his froggy eyes bulging from his head.

No need to write that letter of resignation then, she thought, as Bryant’s Bentley carried her effortlessly away from it all, towards a future that held infinite lascivious promise.

I
T’S ALMOST EMBARRASSING TO
admit that this is my favourite fantasy. It is so commonplace, after all, and something plenty of women do every day and every night. If only I wasn’t such a freak, I’d have done it myself long ago. But I can’t bring myself to do it – I can’t get past the thought that he might be contaminated. Any amount of fungus might be blooming beneath his perfect skin. His broad chest could be full of deadly spores. I might put my lips up to his be kissed, only to find the sweetish stench of decay wafting from his mouth. Ulcers, sores, nail infections – all might hide inside a fashionable suit.

I sound mad, I know. I’m quite aware that my scruples aren’t normal. Not everyone wears surgical gloves to leave the house; not everyone flinches if a person comes within half a foot of them; not everyone has a weekly spend of £150 on household detergents. And other people have sex. They touch each other. They give each other pleasure. I have not had an orgasm other than by my deeply-disinfected vibrator in five years – not since Gerry left, citing irreconcilable differences. He said I should be cryogenically frozen because nobody would be able to tell the difference. He said I could cosy up to a bottle of bleach if that’s what I wanted.

It wasn’t what I wanted though. I don’t want to be this way. I want to feel a touch again, without fifty images of rotting flesh flashing before my eyes. That is why I dialled the Number. I suppose they are used to people asking for all kinds of perverted, disgusting stuff, but all I wanted was to pick up an attractive man in a bar and take him to bed. So simple, so dull in a way. But it would – perhaps – change my life.

I received an email a week later, inviting me to London to choose a suitable candidate and to witness the many, many tests I had stipulated in my initial contact. The address I arrived at was in Harley Street, at the back of a large private practice. I was shown to a rather nicely furnished waiting room, where I was introduced to a gentleman in a suit. At least, I say I was introduced – he did not give me his name. He simply said, ‘Mrs Davies – I’m delighted to meet you. I’m from the Number.’ Then he held out a hand, which I waved away as usual.

‘You must excuse me,’ I said. ‘This is all … a bit like a dream.’

‘I’m sure it must be,’ he said, with a friendly chuckle. He had kind eyes, which was a relief. ‘Your request was a very interesting one. We have had nothing like it before.’

‘No, well, I know I’m a freak,’ I said with a high-pitched laugh that did nothing to convince him that there was anything funny about it.

‘Not a freak, Mrs Davies,’ he said gallantly. ‘We all have aspects that diverge from the norm. I assure you, I am probably substantially less normal than you are.’

‘Oh, do call me Naomi.’

He indicated one of the chintz armchairs, but I did not want to sit down. This was a medical establishment after all. Who knows how many germ-ridden posteriors had brushed those floral cushions?

‘Our candidates should be here very shortly,’ the Number man said to break the awkward silence. ‘We have three – you choose your favourite, obviously. Then we may proceed with the tests.’

‘Ah.’ At that moment, the door opened again, and the receptionist showed in three men, all mouth-wateringly handsome and very, very clean-looking. I turned to the Number man, suppressing an almost irresistible urge to giggle.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘may I introduce Naomi to you. She is going to choose one of you to perform the scenario she has outlined to us.’

Perform! I actually laughed out loud. This had to be the crowning bizarre moment in a life full of them. They smiled warmly back at me, sizing me up, not that I minded. I’m a good-looking woman, still a long way off middle age, a trim size ten with long legs and unblemished skin. I wondered if they would look so pleasant and forthcoming if I was one of those slobby tracksuited types I see passing my window every day with their dirty-faced children. I supposed they were being paid for this … so they probably would.

‘Well, Naomi, the choice is yours. I’ll leave you to your decision.’

The Number man shrank back in his armchair, picking up a copy of
Horse and Hound
and flicking through it.

‘What are your names then?’ I asked bravely, trying to maintain a calm demeanour in the face of raging nerves and excitement. Was I really going to end up in bed with one of these dreamboats? Perhaps I should have asked for two … would that cost me extra though? This service was not coming cheap as it was.

‘I’m Liam,’ said the broadest one, a clean-cut, farmboy type in properly-pressed jeans and a plaid shirt. ‘I’m studying vet science.’

‘Oh, a vet. How lovely.’ I shuddered inwardly. Diseased animals – even worse than diseased humans. I flicked my eyes along the row to the next chap, a tall slight blond with a long nose.

‘My name’s Kai. I work as a chauffeur – paying my way through college.’

‘A chauffeur! That’s rather … unusual these days.’

‘It’s a limousine hire company. I drive hen parties around town.’

‘Oh, gosh, rather you than me.’ All those heifers in themed outfits vomiting champagne all over the upholstery. Ugh.

My final candidate was an elegantly-suited black man with glasses.

‘I’m Justus,’ he said. ‘I recently qualified as a lawyer.’

Oh, now this sounded hopeful.

‘What kind of law do you specialise in?’ I asked, dreading that he might say criminal or family.

‘Intellectual property,’ he told me. Perfect! His only contact would be with clever people with enough money to pay him to fight their cases. He seemed by far the safest bet, and the most confident of the three to boot. He might well know his way around a woman’s body, whereas the wet-behind-the-ears youth of the other two did not inspire such hopes.

‘Intellectual property.’ I repeated the phrase, rolling it around my tongue, eyeing his snow-white starchy collar and the way his gold signet ring gleamed in contrast to his matt skin.

‘Are you a lawyer yourself?’ he asked politely, perhaps a little confused by the way I was relishing his career choice.

‘Me?’ I laughed. ‘Oh no, not a lawyer. Though I have used them before. Not your type though – the divorce type.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a formal nod.

‘Don’t be. If I was still with him … Justus, I’d like to pick you. If you’re absolutely sure … I mean, if you don’t fancy me, please walk away, but …’

‘I’m delighted,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to walk away! Just a moment.’ He fished in his pocket and brought out something I recognised only too well. Surgical gloves. After slipping them on, he held out a hand to me. I was captivated – it was such a strong and emotional feeling, it was almost like love. To think that a man could be so considerate … it was new to me.

The Number man had discreetly dismissed the other two, and now the three of us were alone, to get to the bare bones of the matter – the necessity for tests.

I watched through glass as Justus underwent a battery of examinations and swabs and needle pricks. I was impressed that he was willing to do all this for … OK, for money. Not for me. All the same, I thought, many men might have just shrugged halfway through the taxing afternoon and flitted off to find a normal girl and a bar job. Justus gave up every part of him, from epidermis to saliva to blood, just so that I could have this one shot at an ordinary life, with uncomplaining stoicism. This was a man, I thought. A real man.

‘We will have the results in a week,’ the lab technician told us.

‘A week,’ nodded Number man. ‘Very well. Naomi, we will be in touch. Be prepared.’

I laughed, a little miserably. I was always prepared.

I had a text the next week to say that all the results were clear, and I should wait for further instructions. Wait. Waiting is a thing I do well, walled up in my disinfected gleam-white haven. I see ordinary life through the screen of my television and I yearn for it, for the careless kisses and rough embraces I watch in the soap operas. I was watching one such soap opera – an omnibus edition – on the fateful Sunday afternoon. My telephone bleeped and I knew it was them. I never get text messages from anyone else.

I took it off the table and fumbled with the buttons, taking far too much time to call the message on to the screen in my anxiety.

‘Hotel Luxe Noir, seven o’clock,’ it stated. ‘Introduce yourself at Reception.’

And that was it. No more than that. I had four hours to get ready and get into London. The journey would take an hour, so I should allow two, I supposed, even on a quiet Sunday.

I spent two hours in front of my mirror, scrubbing my skin and taking my cosmetics out of their tightly-sealed containers to apply them. I had no idea what to wear – I supposed I ought to look sexy – so I put on the slinky black dress I had not worn since Gerry’s office Christmas party of 2002. That was my last night out, I think. It still looked brand new, and luckily I had chosen a classic cut and design, so it had not dated. Perfume. I should wear perfume, though I had a deep suspicion of scents, which I always suspected of being designed to mask the smell of rot. I was committed to appearing as normal as possible, though, so I took a deep breath and spritzed on a citrus thing from Jo Malone that my mother had given me for my birthday.

Before my mascara had dried, the taxi was at the door and I had no option but to grab my handbag and my cushion, shin on my surgical gloves and set off on my adventure.

All the way to London, I sat on my cushion and twisted my latex-covered hands in my lap. Every five minutes I had the urge to take out my phone and make a cancellation by text. All that money though – all the things I had sold on eBay to pay the fee. No. I was going to be brave.

I was much too early, arriving at the hotel with forty-five minutes to spare, so I took myself for a wander through the nearby park. Late-afternoon strollers, skaters, families hauling picnic baskets, lovers – normal people – passed me by and I felt the air on my skin, late-summer warmth and the scent of the flowers, which was a little too ripe and too rich, for they were past their bloom now. They were dying.

I felt giddy and had to leave the gardens, to catch my breath on the pavement, looking at the chalk art on the slabs. The hotel across the road looked reassuringly glitzy and pristine. I would go in now. I had only ten minutes before seven.

‘Ah, you need to go to the Oyster Bar,’ the receptionist told me with a smile. ‘They are waiting for you there.’

The Oyster Bar had a small cordon in front of the door and a notice ‘Closed for cleaning – will re-open at 8 p.m.’ I crossed the barrier and opened the door, looking in and frowning. The place didn’t look closed. There were people – about a dozen of them – lounging at the bar or in the booths. I caught sight of Number man, who smiled and raised his hand, beckoning me over to his booth.

I put my cushion on the cobalt-blue leather and sat down, my chest too jagged to force words from.

‘Don’t panic, Naomi,’ he said gently. ‘All these people are hired by me. They are all clean. And the bar was comprehensively blitzed before you arrived. It is as germ-free as your own home. We wanted to give you the illusion of a busy bar, so that you could have the experience of being picked up. The way you explained to us. We thought a bar empty of all but you and Justus would not give the right ambience. Do you understand? Is that all right?’

I let out a long breath, letting my chest rise and fall for a moment.

‘I see. Oh. That’s good.’

‘I’ve got you a drink,’ he said, pushing over a sealed bottle. ‘It’s a cocktail – it’s been in this bottle since it was mixed. And there’s a straw.’ He handed over a prepackaged straw in its paper sleeve.

‘You are very thoughtful,’ I told him, taking off my gloves and unwrapping the straw. I trusted him. I trusted that the room and the surfaces were clean. My hands came out to play, feeling the polished table top and the smooth cool glass of the bottle.

‘I’m going now,’ he told me. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

I wanted to reach out after him, to ask him not to leave me, but he didn’t give me a backward glance. Alone in the bar, feeling prickly and self-conscious, I concentrated hard on my cocktail. What was it? A Harvey Wallbanger, I thought, orangey but with a deeper note at the back. When I next looked up, it was to see Justus, leaning one sexily negligent elbow on the bar, eyeing me up with unmistakable interest. I pricked the bubbles of nervous laughter rising in my chest and gave him my coolest, levellest look back before flicking my eyes tactically sideways, the way I used to. I used to do this! I used to do it well! Perhaps, I mused excitedly, it really was like riding a bicycle, and everything would be smooth and frictionless, all the way to the afterglow.

I stole a quick glance back. Oh, he looked good. He looked better than good, all suited and booted, with gold-framed spectacles seeming to magnify the look of naked want in his dark, dark eyes. The flash of his teeth showed that I had been caught in the act of ogling and I riveted my eyes to the cocktail, wondering if the heat in my cheeks was giving me away. Seconds later, a rich, amused voice in my ear, closer than I would normally like, asked me if I was waiting for someone.

I resisted the strong temptation to duck away and put a hand over my ear. Justus was clean. He was tested. And his breath smelled minty-fresh.

‘No … I … um … I’m staying here alone. Just having a drink before dinner.’

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Oh …’ I had no idea how to play this. My riding a bike analogy had failed. Should I appear reluctant, and make him work for the grand finale? Should I be easy? After all, I didn’t have to fret about him respecting me in the morning.

He made the decision for me, sliding on to the banquette beside me, putting his mineral water down on the table. He was close enough to smell and I took a lungful of the waves that radiated from him. None of them were reminiscent of decay and whatever cologne he was wearing was very light and fresh. Soap and mint and something piney – so reassuringly inorganic that I let him ease closer, close enough for his cuff to brush my bare wrist. That suit was brand new; it only lacked the tags. It had that brand new suit scent.