‘It dulls the senses,’ he says. ‘And tonight you are going to have a sensory overload.’
I take a sip of still mineral water. ‘So where did you learn all the stuff you did to me the other day?’
‘Conversation is not allowed either.’
I smile. I’m game if it ends up the way of the other night.
A beautiful waitress passes by and he doesn’t even glance.
I raise my eyebrows. He raises his back. I smile. His smile is polite but mocking.
All kinds of dishes are placed in front of us—chicken marinated in tamarind, fiery pork with kachampuli, succulent lamb in a full-bodied black sesame seed curry, tandoori prawns laden with clarified butter and lime. Silently, I take a bite of the cubes of fried bones in an orangey-red Amritsari sauce. I follow that with fish marinated in yogurt and pungent potatoes in an old ancient Kashmiri recipe.
Sometimes I close my eyes to fully appreciate the foreign flavors. When the tiger prawns marinated in green chilies and mustard paste and cooked inside a green coconut until tender and bursting with flavors causes my eyes to water a glass of hot water is given to me. An old Indian trick. Only hot water will stop the burning. It works. What’s left on my tongue is ginger, garlic, lime, red chilies, ajwain, Indian sorrel and a silence pregnant with erotic intent.
‘Dessert?’
I shake my head. I’ve had enough.
‘Mango kulfi,’ Vann says.
When it comes, he spoons it into my mouth. Our eyes meet, lock. For the first time that night I swallow without tasting.
In the end I have to confess that none of it is poo on a plate.
‘Never dismiss an entire culture like that again,’ he says.
He has not turned on the light but the illumination from the moon turns him bronze as he pulls his shirt off. I drink in the sight of the powerful arms and shoulders, the broad chest, the taut stomach. Rising to my knees I reach and touch his stomach with my fingertips. His eyes are hooded and burning with desire. My fingers move to the waistband of his jeans. I undo the button and grasp the zip.
And then I lose my nerve and pull my hand back, but he catches the edge of my T-shirt, tugs it over my head and, swiftly and with unnerving expertise unhooks my bra. He unzips my jeans, pushes me back onto the bed and tugs the jeans off by pulling the material at the ankles. He throws them behind him and hooking two fingers on either side of my knickers, pulls them down.
‘And that is how it is done,’ I whisper throatily.
He chuckles and, turning away from me, crosses the room and opens the door to one of the built-in cupboards. I get on my elbows and watch him curiously. He brings out what looks like a wooden object. It is about nine inches long, thick on one end and pointed on the other. I sit up in alarm.
‘You’re not going to put that in me, are you?’
He laughs. ‘By the time I am finished you’re going to be wishing I had.’
‘I’m not into kinky things.’ My voice is very sharp, although I am disturbed to note that I am actually secretly turned on. ‘I’m here purely to learn how to seduce Jack.’
‘Very altruistic of you,’ he says drily. ‘This…instrument…is for a foot massage.’
I lie back down. The mattress depresses and he sits cross-legged before the soles of my feet. ‘The first few massages will be painful, but eventually you will come to crave it. In ancient times only the concubine that is chosen to spend the night with the wealthy warlord would be given a foot massage. It made all the girls long to be chosen for the night.’
He grasps my foot by the ankle and, raising it to his lips, kisses the sole. The gesture is incredibly sexual and I feel myself instantly respond. Slowly, he drags the blunt end over my feet. That’s not bad. Quite nice actually. I change my mind fast when the sharpened end meets my skin and sharp blots of pain go up my leg. I try to withdraw my leg, but he holds on tight.
‘You want to bind the man to you?’
Reluctantly I nod.
‘Then you must learn the method. If you cannot bear it yourself, how will you dispense it?’
I bite my lips and agree to go all the way.
‘Even if you beg me to stop?’
‘Even if.’
But the pain is so horrible I stop squirming and start shouting and finally beg him to stop.
He says nothing. Simply works that torture instrument until finally he stops. Relieved, I take in my first full breath. Then he grasps the other ankle.
But eventually it is over. I am bathed in a film of perspiration, but strangely alive. All my nerve endings are so sensitive that when he takes my tender, throbbing big toe in his mouth and sucks it the pleasure is so intense my back becomes a tightly drawn bow, and I simply don’t want it to stop. Ever.
He makes short work of getting out of his jeans and briefs, unrolls a condom on his erection and crawls on top of me.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Tingly and silky all over, but mostly just relieved.’
He laughs softly. ‘That’s what l like to see: a damp and glowing but precocious woman.’ He bends down and kisses one breast peak. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘This one is called the Flying Dragon—you probably know it as the missionary position.’ He puts his hands under my knees and lifts them until the soles of my feet are flat on the mattress. That opens my pussy. I raise my thighs, eager for him to plunge into me. He lays the palms of his hands on either side of me.
‘Two deep, eight shallow. Enter softly,’ he says, and feeds his hard flesh slowly into me until he is buried deep inside. I suck at him with my muscles, trying to pull him even deeper into me. ‘Withdraw hard,’ he says, and pulls out so suddenly, I yell. He thrusts from the hips, the rhythm relentless.
Two deep, eight shallow, enter softly, withdraw hard. Together we delve deeper and deeper into a place I have never been to, but desperately want to explore. It is dark and throbbing and warm, and wild with ecstasy.
I feel large but gentle hands on my body. I am eased to my knees, brought to my elbows, face down, ass up high. My thighs are parted. ‘This position is called the Tiger’s Walk. Not every woman can enjoy this—the thrusts are deep.’
And indeed they are—the first plunge is so deep it feels as though he will come out of my throat. But I like it. I love the feeling of being so filled up, so stretched. I can feel his dick wading thickly through my juices. Again and again he hammers into me, with a definite but different rhythm from the last position. Five short, eight deep. When my own syrupy liquids start running down my thighs, he stops and turns me over.
He lifts my legs until my knees touch my breasts and my lower back and buttocks are raised in the air. He presses down hard, almost ferociously on my body, and enters me violently. I thought his shaft had entered me deeply before but with this position he reaches my deepest core. I gasp with shock, and before I know it my entire body is contracting with long spasms, the kind that I imagine women in labor have to endure. I give in to it, and a wave takes me over a crest and beyond. I am flying alone, even with him there, always alone. But it is beautiful where I go.
When the eruptions settle down, I find him looking down at me.
‘You’re sweet.’
‘You never came,’ I accuse.
‘I have a fantasy, Sugar. Ever since I saw you I wanted to come in your mouth.’
‘I’m not sure I’m all that good at giving head.’
‘There’s no secret to a good blow job. Simply suck it as if you want to suck it dry. Pump it to death.’
He removes the condom. I get between his legs and fit my lips around his rock-hard cock. Above me he sighs. I take his advice and suck like my life depends on it. I look up at him and he is watching me, his eyes glazed and unreadable. His hands are on either side of my head. As I watch him his expression changes into a snarl, his head goes back and he spurts into my mouth.
It never crosses my mind to move my head back or spit out the semen. I swallow. It’s only p
rotein. And I like protein. For a moment I am shocked at my own behavior. I am normally so fastidious and yet, after I have swallowed it all, I lick his steaming cock as if it is a lollipop. I lick it until it is clean of every last drop of cum.
‘Your mouth is so warm and sweet, I wish I could fall asleep with my cock in your mouth,’ he says.
Instantly, I take the semi-hard meat back into my mouth, but he pulls me upwards so his dick slips out with a slapping sound, and brings me up to his face.
‘My heart just skipped a beat,’ he says.
‘That’s funny, so did mine.’
We smile at each other. His lips touch my eyelids. It is tender and intimate. I sigh with pleasure. He tightens his hold on my arm and I tremble. A craving stirs in my veins. This man is mine. What the hell is that thought all about? It brings me up short. It is like a bucket of cold water in my face. Jack is mine. Not him.
He is just teaching me…things. I am going to recreate everything I am doing with him with Jack. And it will be so much better and greater because I love Jack. I pull away from him, disengage my body from his, and plonk myself on the pillow next to him.
‘If Yehonala was a virgin, who taught her?’ My voice sounds cool.
‘In Yehonala’s time sex was seen as an art and the climax of human emotions. To achieve the right sexual alchemy meant years of dedication, application and energy. Before she could enter the bedchamber and lie on the red silk sheets of the Emperor, she knew she had to become master of her craft.’
‘The craft of sex.’
‘Yes. There were women in Yehonala’s time who could take a pistachio nut and an egg yolk into their mouth, and spit out chewed nut and a whole yolk. Today stone eggs are used as a cheap sexual trick. In her time they were placed inside the body and used as a point of resistance against which the vaginal and pelvic floor muscles could be strengthened and trained in conjunction with a series of complicated exercises. An adept could massage a man’s penis in opposing directions. Yehonala would have been taught other closely guarded secrets that are only revealed to the Emperor’s concubines and she would have practiced on skillfully crafted, bronze prostheses of male organs.’
‘Where did you learn all this stuff?’
There is a pause. ‘Mostly in India and China. And some things in a monastery in Tibet. I’ve got some books I’ve asked a friend to send over. They’ll be here in the next couple of days. You can study them, if you want.’
‘Thanks.’
There is something else I want from him. ‘So: your family worked for Blake’s?’
Instantly I sense it, the imperceptible stiffening. The pitch of his voice shifts to non-committal and elusive. ‘Yes.’
‘And you all grew up together?’
‘Mmnnn.’
I turn on my side and face him. ‘What was life like?’
He sighs. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Why wouldn’t I want to know about a world peopled by royalty, tycoons, celebrities, high society parties and fancy lives?’
He looks at me with a despairing expression. ‘You watch the Kardashians, don’t you?’
‘Of course. The best show on TV ever. Now, tell me about the Barringtons and don’t leave anything important out,’ I demand.
‘It was a jewel-encrusted cage,’ he says abruptly.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it was. Marcus, Blake and Quinn lived in magnificent palaces stuffed with the furniture of Louis XV, the paneling of Bourbon kings, priceless paintings, Gobelin tapestries, and ate from Sèvres porcelain set on golden server plates stamped with the family crest. More than thirty people worked in the house as butler, head housekeeper, chef, footmen, maids, nurses, chauffeurs and at least another sixty were employed on the farm, stable and gardens.
‘The children ate sitting straight-backed, eyes ahead and mostly silent with footmen in livery and spotlessly white gloves standing behind their chairs. The food was of the highest quality and prepared by a renowned French chef. Thousands was spent on fish alone, but their menu never varied. Mondays was fish, Tuesday was fowl, Wednesday was meat, Thursday was back to fish and so forth. Everything was controlled, from when they awakened to when they went to bed, what they ate, how they dressed, what they did. Every hour had to be accounted for. It was a very strict upbringing.
‘All the Fabergé eggs, all the gilt and the gold did not make life less stiflingly immaculate or incessantly boring. The simple fact was their childhood was one of physical luxury combined with personal neglect. It was designed to make one emotionally ill, but unable to express the trauma as nobody would understand. Blake once told me his only friends were his horses.’
I stare at him with surprise. ‘Why? Did they have no friends then?’
‘Very few, and even those they met only occasionally. Eventually they understood they were different from everybody else. It is very difficult to trust anyone when you know that almost every person that befriends you is motivated by self-enrichment.’
I immediately think of that day when Lana told Blake her father wanted money, and there had been not even the least trace of surprise in him. In fact, he had expected it. Still, I wanted to hear about their parties.
‘Did they not have fantastic lawn parties full of beautifully dressed people then?’
‘Of course. The Barringtons, like all the other families, tried to outdo each other in the lavishness of their parties. I remember gardeners used to carry cherry trees around the dining table so guests could pick the fruit themselves.’
This is more like it. ‘Who were the guests?’
‘It was a heady mix of the rich and the rarefied, artist and royalty, beauty and brains, Indian maharajas and smarmy politicians. They came to sample every imaginable pleasure. It was an amazing sight, people dressed in all their jewels and grandest most opulent dresses streaming up the stairs from the ballroom. But what I remember most is how dark and gloomy it always was, after all the glamorous people were gone and the chandeliers had been switched off. It was a suffocating existence. A place to escape.’
Twenty-one
Thursday, after I leave Vann’s flat, turns out to be the most boring day of my life. From the moment my alarm jerks me from sleep I go through the entire day like a zombie and I am almost joyfully thankful when my head hits the pillow—the day is over. When I wake up on Friday it is with sheer excitement. I have so much adrenalin rushing in my veins I run to work, rush through my chores, leave work early, bathe, dress, and am out of my flat like a bat out of hell.
On the platform, I glance impatiently at the board showing that a train will arrive in four minutes. On the train my toe taps. Out of the Tube station, a girl beggar pleads for loose change. I hurriedly slip my hand into my front jeans pocket, grasp a few coins and, without looking at what I am giving away, drop them into the jacket she has spread on the ground in front of her.
When I arrive at the entrance to his building my hands shake as I look for the keys he gave me Thursday morning. I let myself into his flat, close the door, and stand for a moment at the threshold. The entire place is flooded with evening sun, and silent. There is not even Smith around. Then I hear a noise from upstairs. I look up. The door is shut. He is working. My instructions are simple. If you come in and I am working, don’t disturb. Never come upstairs.
Without Vann’s presence, the scrupulously clean flat is still and strange. I go into the living room and find a book and a note. The book is called Notes From the Bedchamber. I pick the note up.
It arrived. See you soon. x
I smile at the little kiss. I take the book, curl up on the big black leather sofa and open it. Soon I am giggling aloud. It is full of flowers descriptions and sex positions. A penis is a jade stalk, a pussy is described as a jade portal, jade chamber, red pearl, but the one that gets me really giggling is when it is referred to as a fragrant mouse.
I hear the upstairs door open and instead of looking up I carry on reading. Soon master and cat are stand
ing next to me. I don’t look up. The sofa beside me shifts. A man’s hand comes into my vision. He starts unbuttoning my blouse.
‘Do you want to put your jade stalk into my fragrant mouse?’ I ask, barely able to keep the laughter out of my voice.
‘Desperately,’ he says and we both laugh.
‘Do you want to go out?’
I shake my head. The truth is, ever since I discovered sex, all I want to do is have sex all the time. Even right now with two buttons undone it feels like unfinished business.
‘OK, I’ll go get in the shower and you can start preparing some food.’
‘I can’t cook.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Right. What do you plan to feed Jack when he comes home from work?’
I frown. I never thought about that. In my dreams we never did anything as mundane as cooking or eating.
‘I’ll have my shower and we’ll cook something together. It’s time you learned.’
I smile. ‘Good thinking, Batman.’
He nods, pushes himself off the sofa and leaves in the direction of the bedroom. Smith fixes his eyes on me and yawns from the sofa opposite. I button my blouse and turn my eyes back to reading about mounting turtles, mating cicadas and jumping monkeys.
We cook chicken with rice. The rice is a boil in the bag variety so that will be really easy for me to replicate, but the chicken is another matter. It is some kind of Moroccan recipe with a whole load of ingredients. But I realize that cooking is actually fun. Vann is great company and it is a laugh.
When the food is nearly ready we lay the table and Vann lights some candles. The food is delicious.
‘Have you sold lots of paintings?’
‘I’ve never sold a painting.’
‘Not a single one?’
He shakes his head. ‘No.’
I frown. ‘Well, don’t you think you should start thinking about doing something else if nobody wants to buy your paintings?’
‘I’ve never tried to sell my paintings.’
‘Why?’
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