The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2)

by Primula Bond

  ‘Yes, it’s what we want. Pop said I could ask you, tell you actually, to do whatever I want. You know he has friends in the White House?’

  I can’t look at Gustav now. I can just imagine the look of derision on his face at such rank-pulling, and in any case I’m distracted by the way Rosaria is kneeling up behind Emilia, cradling her heavy white breasts as she starts to kiss the bride’s neck.

  Gustav leans back in the creaking rocking chair. His lovely long legs are spread akimbo as if he’s relaxing on his own front porch. He winks roguishly at me. I frown back, hooking the meter onto my belt and fussing with the aperture settings on my Lumix camera. What does he want? Not to leave, obviously, otherwise he would be on his feet by now, making our excuses. Maybe he’ll think twice about escorting me to my next assignment unless it’s guaranteed to be girl-on-girl. Or girl-on-me. Surreptitiously he runs his hand over his groin and my stomach lurches with an answering leap of desire.

  But I also want to show him the way I work, no matter what clients throw at me.

  I take some shots, tiptoeing round the thick carpet close to the bed. Through my viewfinder the girls start to play with each other, stroking, kissing, squeezing, going further and pinching each other’s nipples so that they pucker to sharp points. The shutter snaps.

  Rosaria suddenly shoots out her hand and pulls me down beside them.

  ‘Emilia asked you to sit close by,’ she whispers, pushing me down on to my back, into the soft pillows. She sits on my legs. ‘And you have to do what she says.’

  Emilia leans over me and picks up the golden locket. ‘What a pretty necklace. Your rich lover give it to you? A grateful client?’ she croons, turning it this way and that. ‘I recognise the design of the initial. This is one of the top designers in the world. Paris, I think he’s based.’

  We all hear the sliding rattle of the mysterious object as she lets it fall back onto my throat.

  Rosaria runs her fingers under the chain, across my collar bone. ‘What’s that inside?’

  I shake my head, flatten my hand over the locket to hide it from their prying eyes. ‘Secret. I’m not allowed to see until he decides the time is right.’

  ‘You have to pass a series of tasks, you mean? Like in a fairy tale? Well, how about me and Rosaria here give you a new task? Very simple really. We just want to fool around for a while.’

  I try to struggle up on my elbows, but Emilia pushes me back down. She’s very strong, and very heavy. ‘Triple time, my daddy said. So. I’ve got the pictures I wanted but they’re just for me to frisk myself over when Rosaria’s not here. My future hubby will just have to keep on going to that club of his for kicks because he ain’t coming anywhere near me till the wedding night.’

  Rosaria runs her hands up my legs. ‘Cos I’ll be keeping the bride warm until then, eh, Emilia? And maybe there’ll be three in the marriage after that!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. My Rosaria ain’t going nowhere!’ Emilia giggles, taking my camera off me and putting it on the bedside table. ‘But now I want the photographer.’

  Rosaria whips off my T-shirt and jeans. So she’s succeeded where Mr Weinmeyer failed. I squeal helplessly, try to push her off, but Emilia holds my arms, smoothing back my hair, kissing me while Rosaria pulls down my knickers. Her fingers are insistent, tracing and teasing, while the other girl moves her lips across my cheek and starts to nibble at my mouth.

  The creaking of the watching rocking chair stops.

  The dual sensation of a girl’s soft lips on my mouth and another girl’s fingers wandering between my legs is electrifying. I have no time to think about it or question it. Gustav is watching this, but he’s not stopping it. Is he too good at playing the role of subservient scruffy assistant, or is this exactly what he hoped would happen when he accompanied me here today?

  Female fingers push at me, other slim fingers pinch my nipples. Emilia kisses me full on the mouth as she pushes me against her best friend. I’m sandwiched between the two.

  The rocking chair gives a little creak, and starts to move again.

  My cue to perform. Emilia responds as I tentatively kiss her back. Her lips are wet, greedy, pillowy but determined. So different from the firm, rough feel of my man’s. As she eagerly devours me she plants my hands on her breasts, pressing my fingers, inviting them to squeeze, and I do it, because I’ve gone too far now, and I want more than anything to try this, to see if it feels as good to touch as it does to have someone else touching. Her breasts look and feel big and warm and oh, so soft and her nipples poke hard into my hands and so I start to fondle her as in return she prises open my mouth with her tongue.

  Behind me Rosaria rubs herself and her breasts against my back, and to make sure she’s fully participating here she pushes one long slender finger up me. I clamp my legs together, trying to hide what she’s doing, but that just traps her inside me all the more tightly and despite my shame I feel my body clenching tight to hold her finger there as ripples of dark excitement make me moan and tremble.

  Creak, thump, goes the chair in the corner. Creak. A long pause. Creak.

  Watch me, Gustav. Watch me!

  Emilia pulls away from me as her friend gets to work. Her big mouth is wet with my saliva as she grins, and then she starts to wriggle about, fondling her own breasts, dancing in front of me, offering her nipples to me to kiss. I resist for a moment, crane my head to catch what Gustav is seeing or thinking. All I can make out is one biker boot, lifting rhythmically, and I think I can hear the soft whir of my other camera’s shutter.

  ‘Hey, eyes this way, missie. My daddy’s paying you to pleasure me.’

  Rosaria explodes into throaty laughter. ‘You wanna bet? He’d have a heart attack if he knew what we were doing up here with the pretty English girl!’

  These spoilt little madams have lived their lives getting exactly what they want, and they have obviously been experimenting on each other for years. As Emilia’s tongue flicks over my nipple I wonder what kind of sex life she and hubby will have. Does he already know that Rosaria will always be a part of it?

  What would Polly say? Nothing like this ever happened in Devon.

  As I sink into a kind of reverie beneath the weight of the girls’ bare bodies, I realise that they are turning their attentions away from me. Rosaria, her finger still inside, sways about on top of me but thrusts her velvety brown breasts at Emilia.

  ‘Go on, cutie, you wanna know how to do it? Suck me.’ Emilia croons. The chair has stopped rocking.

  Rosaria pushes Emilia at me, her white breast squashing up against my face, and I feel the nub in my teeth as I start to suck. Emilia squirms against me and her friend speeds up the thrust of her finger inside me, and I suck harder, wrap my arms round Emilia and pull her closer, and we’re a trio of writhing, excited female bodies and all at once the tiny sensations knit together. My body contracts round Rosaria’s finger and I come, falling onto the broderie anglaise pillows with Emilia on top of me, wriggling against me and screeching in frustration because I’ve got there first.

  I struggle weakly. I can’t breathe. I’ve got not one but two hefty girls lying on top of me, continuing their work on each other, Rosaria crooning in Spanish as she gets the bride to the climax on time.

  When finally they roll away, they practically kick me off the bed. I fall obediently to the floor, hitch my jeans up my damp legs, leave my knickers goodness knows where in the tangle of cushions and toys and writhing girls. It’s time to face the music.

  The white painted chair is rocking silently, but it’s unoccupied. Gustav has gone.

  ‘I was upstairs being fingered by his precious daughter and you were busy networking with Daddy Robinson?’

  I refuse to sit down when I finally get back to the apartment. In a Yellow Cab. I snatch the glass of wine Gustav hands me and pace up and down in front of the window. Manhattan is dark and smug down there, laughing at me.

  ‘Actually I was doing no such thing. I remained totally in character.’ Gustav pu
lls off the leather jacket. ‘You are a big girl, as you never tire of telling me. You were in pretty safe, if greedy, hands. And the more those lesbian wenches wound you up, the harder I was getting, believe me.’

  Dirty excitement kicks in my gut. ‘You liked what you saw, master? You didn’t get jealous of those game gals groping me like that?’

  ‘My darling girl. I was so into it I was on the point of stage-directing it myself. Mon dieu. That was one hell of a sexy floor show. I even took the liberty of taking some tasteful shots of my own, since you weren’t using your camera.’ Gustav waggles a new memory stick. ‘But then I heard Pa Robinson stamping up the stairs with his stopwatch to check we weren’t going over our allotted time, so I had to head him off at the pass before he discovered what his little princess really gets up to in there.’

  He swaggers into the bedroom. I hear the wardrobe opening and closing. He’ll be turning himself back into Gustav Levi. Dragon, not dogsbody.

  I sink down onto my favourite spot on the wide windowsill overlooking Central Park. The place where I stood watching the fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

  ‘How did you stop the daddy bursting in on us?’

  ‘I pushed him downstairs to show him some of the initial respectable shots on my camera, then got him to help me lug your kit out to the car. Forgot we had a new one. So then had the task of explaining how a young photographer could afford such a thumping great Hummer.’ Gustav pokes his head round the door. His black silky hair is ruffled where he has been pulling off the ragged jumper, and the belt is hanging off his jeans. ‘All the while hoping he wouldn’t hear all that snickering and moaning from his daughter’s bedroom.’

  ‘He hasn’t a clue about his little precious? I bet his wife does. I bet she was getting suspicious about why Emilia didn’t have a boyfriend, and persuaded Poppa to choose a groom for her. Arranged marriage, New York style.’ I bite my finger, cross my legs suggestively, swing my foot up and down. ‘You didn’t speak to the hunky brothers, then?’

  Gustav goes still, leans up against the doorway. Honestly, he’s like a hound on the scent. ‘No. Just a brief chat with Robinson Senior. I could have dished the dirt on several of his political running mates, but who am I? Just the photographer’s assistant! Then I decided to teach you a lesson and leave you there.’

  ‘Well, they collared me in the hall to pay me and then when Pops was out of the way they offered me another commission.’ I examine my nails. ‘They want me to go to their club and take some informal shots of the groom and his mates at the start of their stag day. It’s downtown somewhere. A branch of some establishment in London where men go to get away from their women. The Club Crème.’

  Gustav is in front of me before the cackle is out of my mouth. Something glitters in the air. He catches my gesticulating wrist and snaps the silver chain around it.

  ‘I know exactly where it is. Getting a gig there would be a massive coup. You would make a name for yourself simply by stepping inside. It’s the second home to every swinging dick in this town. It’s so select, elite, hand-picked, Miss Folkes, that I, and even Ernst Weinmeyer, are members. Pa Robinson, too.’

  ‘So he’s not such a good, clean-living family guy after all, and nor is the groom, even though both deluded fools think Princess Emilia is pure as the driven snow?’ I chortle, remembering Miss Robinson’s insistent, powerful hands on me. ‘Talk about double standards!’

  ‘But you females will always run rings round us guys in the end. And what about the mother? What do you think she gets up to in her parlour when the menfolk are out hunting and gathering!’ Gustav slaps his leg as he laughs with me. ‘Even so, it’s a good thing I was in disguise today at Chateau Robinson. Our paths will be crossing again over a business deal sometime, I’m sure.’ He saunters away from me, letting the silver chain follow him as he chooses where to fix it. ‘As for the Club commission, you’ll have to turn that one down, cara. It’s men only.’

  I notice that he has rearranged the sofas around the suspended fire, which is burning briskly. The mercury has dropped to below freezing since we set out this afternoon.

  ‘What you mean is that female partners aren’t allowed in to spoil their men’s fun,’ I murmur, letting the chain go slack and sinking down onto some oversize cushions. I rake my fingers through my hair, lifting it away from my scalp. ‘But all the staff at the club are women, right?’

  ‘I should have been there to explain to those Robinson boys why this won’t happen,’ Gustav snaps back. He halts on the other side of the room, beneath my self-portrait. He turns his head so that I can just see the angular planes of his noble profile. ‘That club, to use an old-fashioned phrase, is a den of iniquity. It’s swimming with booze, narcotics, gambling, loose ladies of the night. And testosterone. Although fetishes such as domination and punishment are banned, which is why I agreed to join. They like their sex straightforward, even if they sometimes multiply the participants. You’d be out of your depth.’

  ‘You know an awful lot about it, Gustav. Care to tell me what exactly you have participated in when you’ve been down the dastardly Club Crème?’

  ‘Sure you won’t be jealous? Because it involves women. Lots of them.’

  I stare at him. Heat coils between my legs and I run my hands down my thighs to touch myself. I’m repelled, yet somehow intrigued, by the thought of my Gustav losing control with someone else, with a group of people, maybe. Preferably people with no names. No faces. Grainy images rather like the films in Baker Street play through my mind, but there aren’t whips or masks involved here. Just bodies. Plural. If there’s more than one, he can’t get attached, and so the jealousy is less keen.

  ‘The men. They go there expecting certain – services. They pay astronomical subscriptions to get high-class service, total discretion and total freedom.’

  I kneel up on the cushions, reach for the bottle of wine and tip it into my glass.

  ‘I’m not talking about men in general. I want to hear about you. Go on. My imagination is running riot, so go ahead and shock me.’

  He runs his finger along the photograph frame, still looking sideways out of the window.

  ‘You remember the exhibition in my London gallery the first time you came there? The sepia images of the French prostitutes waiting to be chosen by their punters?’

  ‘Vividly. They were beautiful, and sad, and you said one of them looked like me, and her name was Rapunzel, just like the Rossetti painting you have above your bed in Mayfair.’ I sink back on the cushions, swilling the wine around my mouth. ‘So you picked just one? A favourite?’

  ‘Never the same one twice. Danger of attachment.’ He smiles over at me, and the mischievous heat from his eyes matches the intensifying heat inside me. ‘The Club in its eccentric way aims to protect matrimony, not destroy it!’

  ‘So did you go along to their orgies when you were married?’

  ‘Before, and during. Not after.’ The smile fades.

  ‘Will you go while we’re together?’

  ‘Oh, Serena. I only spent time there back in the day because I was nominated and it’s an incredibly prestigious membership. When I was later specifically invited, I took part a handful of times to obliterate what was going on at home. There was nothing worth saving there, believe me. But now? Why would I go out for gourmet burger when I can have fillet steak at home?’

  I kick my feet at him with a snort of satisfaction and arrange myself more decorously on the cushions.

  He crosses his arms, well into the subject now. ‘And do you remember those other images I had exhibited at the London gallery, the terracotta and black paintings from the lupanare walls in Pompeii? The figures looked as if they were dancing or praying at first but in fact they were whores and punters in a brothel going at it like there was no tomorrow? There was a man taking a slender girl from behind? An elegant woman straddling her client?’

  Gustav bites back a really evil grin.

  I giggle and wriggle on the pile of Moroccan cushio
ns. These have come from the chalet in Lugano. The only objects I allowed in here, because they have no Margot connection. ‘I remember. So horny. The man with a thumping erection. That girl giving her punter a blowjob. You telling me all that happened to you? You saying the Club Crème is like the lupanare?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Except instead of those stone shelves they do run to luxurious beds and couches and bar stools. And instead of a hot, dusty brothel the punters are shown into sumptuous bedrooms, libraries or the bar. But if you think of those pictures, and superimpose my face on any of those lovers, any position, any combination of participants you can think of, then you’ll get the gist.’ He shakes his head. ‘But my darling girl, you’ll never know for sure what goes on there, because you’re not going.’

  I hurl one of the cushions across the room at him, and he catches it easily in one hand.

  ‘You want a fight, you’ve got one, lover!’ I growl at him. ‘Because I am doing this whether you like it or not. It would zoom me straight to the top of the charts if I got this commission right. And then you’d be proud of me.’

  He runs his hand over the black beard peppering his chin and cheeks that he hasn’t had time to shave. ‘I am proud of you anyway, Serena. But I would never forgive myself if I let you go into that place.’

  I drain my glass. ‘You’re just making it sound more intriguing, Gustav.’

  ‘What I’ve sketched out for you is just the initiation ceremony for the younger members. No wonder there’s a waiting list as long as your arm!’ He laughs out loud now. ‘Imagine being surrounded by beautiful women who are employed to meet your every whim. A cross between a housekeeper and a hooker.’

  I lift my hair up with my hands, turn myself this way and that coquettishly. ‘Won’t I cut the mustard, master?’

  Gustav hitches down his jeans and wraps the chain several times round his own waist. I watch the delicate silver strands snag on the hair on his stomach, the angle of his hips. The beautiful bulge pushing out in front.