Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

‘Good,’ he said. ‘This makes my challenge easier.’

  ‘Two fifteen,’ said Sol. He transferred his phone to his left hand and grasped his cock with his right, jerking slowly. Misha canted forwards and enveloped the bud of my clit with warm, wet lips, fingers still hooked inside me. He sucked gently while his tongue swirled, bathing me in saliva. I groaned loudly, feeling as if my whole body were melting into his mouth. His juices flowed with mine and between my thighs I was a whirling mass of rising bliss.

  ‘She taste good?’ asked Sol.

  Misha didn’t reply, too intent on making me come and no longer playing the role of Sol’s bitch.

  ‘One minute left,’ said Sol. ‘Come on, bro. You can do it. Make her come.’

  Sol moved closer to us, his hand sliding faster on his cock. Tremors of nearness darted within my thighs, growing stronger. Misha flicked his tongue around my clit, his touch deft but fleeting.

  ‘No,’ I gasped, feeling my impending peak recede. ‘Harder, heavier. Please!’

  He lapped at me with sure, wet strokes, returning to the steady rhythm that was pushing me closer. I bleated, hips lifting, my breath shortening as tension bunched.

  ‘She’s gonna come,’ murmured Sol. ‘Good work. Keep at it. Any moment.’ Sol released his cock and stooped to caress my breasts, his touch slow and confident. ‘Look at her, look at that pretty little face. Come on, girl. Show us what you’re made of.’

  I whimpered, right on the verge. Misha’s curled fingers slammed harder inside me and I felt as if my cunt were drowning, lost in the sloppy mobility of his clever mouth. Sol grabbed his own cock again, pumping harder, starting to groan. ‘Eighteen seconds,’ he panted. ‘Go on, dude, you can do it. Nearly there. Fuck, you look good, babe. I’m gonna come on her when she comes. Come all over her tits, over her face. Over both of you. Ten. Nine. Ah.’

  My abdomen crunched, the brink of my orgasm pitching me forwards. I released a series of squeaky, breathless cries.

  ‘Six,’ said Sol, wanking hard and fast. ‘Five! Oh man, look at that. Beautiful.’

  Misha’s tongue pasted my clit in thick, wet stripes, the press of his buried fingers nudging the tension higher. I reached my limit and bliss held me on a plateau of impossibility.

  ‘There,’ gasped Sol. ‘She’s there.’

  Ecstasy began cascading, racking my body, taking me over. I clenched my eyes shut, dayglo stars going supernova behind my lids, my core squeezing and spilling. The grips rolled over and over, holding me in their euphoric madness before they collapsed into a sudden fall. As the tremors faded, I gazed down at Misha, stupefied by shock. He kept his head between my thighs and raised his eyes, mouth and chin glinting with my fluids.

  Next to me, Sol grunted, his noise rising to thin desperation. I turned to him, saw his hand blurred with speed. Then, despite all the vocalised aggression from earlier, Sol went rigid on a shudder and climaxed with barely a sound. His come jetted out in arcs, splashing on my belly and striping Misha’s face.

  Misha’s tongue darted out to taste the liquid on his lips; then he leaned forwards to lap the pearlised streaks on my stomach. Sol tossed his phone onto the bed and grasped the back of my chair, panting.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said. I thought I detected a note of regret in his voice, a hint of ‘what the fuck did I do that for?’

  We were silent, the three of us catching our breath. I was weak and mellow in the wake of my orgasm but keenly aware we were all separate from each other, not united as is more usual when you’ve climaxed with someone. Only two of us had climaxed so perhaps this was an imbalance typical of threesomes between strangers. In a scenario like ours, the sex was always going to be recreational rather than emotionally charged.

  Voices and laughter from elsewhere in the house heightened our strange, sudden silence. A nagging disquiet kept butting into my thoughts. Had the earlier hostility been part of sexual play? Or was it an indication of more sinister emotions? Misha’s voice echoed in my mind: She’s no lady. I wasn’t sure I liked this man who’d just brought me to a head-spinning climax.

  Some moments later, Sol said, ‘So, you don’t like coke?’

  I laughed. ‘Nah. I’ll have a Kir Royale, thanks.’

  We all laughed, half exhausted but, it seemed, becoming more relaxed.

  ‘We cool, man?’ Sol asked Misha, his palm raised.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Misha, as if surprised by the question. He mirrored Sol’s hand, meeting him with a sluggish high five.

  Afterwards, the mood between us continued to lighten. Sol released me from the chair and we spent another couple of hours on the bed, fucking, sucking and exploring each others’ bodies. We played with some of my kit but the point was sensation rather than powerplay. We didn’t revisit the dynamic of earlier. Instead we were pleasant, considerate and relatively tender.

  Cautious. Mistrustful.

  Despite drinking a lot of the Belvedere and a handful of beers I’d brought along, we stayed in that zone of cold faux-sobriety, as you sometimes do when you’ve been drinking steadily for hours. We stopped when Sol declared himself whacked. ‘Holy fuck, it’s been a long week,’ he said. ‘You mind if we all bed down here tonight? Seems a shame to break up the party.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You’re both welcome to stay. Misha?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’d prefer to stay a while longer.’

  For the third time that night, Sol sat by the tiny leaded window, pushed the hinge wide, and gingerly placed a cigarette to his bust lip. From the bed, there was little to see of the outside world except an ink-black sky pricked with stars. I watched him through a haze of vodka and tiredness as he lit the cigarette, his hand cupped to the flame.

  A warm golden flare tinted his skin and he inhaled deeply, head tipped back as he held his lungs at capacity. He sank at a low angle in the stiff-backed chair, one leg out-thrust, his damp cock curling on his pubes. I smelled nicotine and fresh air as he released a stream of blue-grey smoke into the night. A film of sweat gleamed on his torso, silvered by starlight. His dark body hair glinted with pale, bright threads.

  In the distance, an owl hooted, reminding me how far I was from the mean streets of Saltbourne.

  Gazing out into the dark, Sol appeared tranquil and relaxed, as if solitude were his preference. The night was startlingly quiet and fragile. When he inhaled, I could hear the crackle of cigarette paper as the edges burned.

  I wonder how long it will be before I experience such peace again.

  Part 2

  Thursday 3rd July

  The paramedics arrived first, calm, kind and efficient as they humped kit from their van and set to work on Misha, despite the apparent futility of doing so. We were ushered away, questions unanswered. ‘Who found him?’ ‘Will he be OK?’ ‘Wasn’t the poolhouse out of order?’

  Half-dressed people clustered in the grounds, some distraught, others baffled, while Rose and her friends talked to the emergency services. I wondered whether to inform them that the dead man had spent the night in my bed along with some other guy I barely knew, but the fact seemed irrelevant.

  When I learned the police wouldn’t arrive for some time, and that the medics wanted people to stay put till then, I slipped away. I needed to dress and urgently talk to Sol. Surely the commotion had woken him?

  It seemed to have done, but only just. In my earlier haste, I’d left the door of my turret room open. Sol sat naked on the bed edge, knees splayed, his head in one hand, fingers clawed into his dark, tousled hair. He looked up as I entered, giving me a pained, hung-over smile. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw rough with stubble, and damn – inappropriate, I know – he looked beautiful: exhausted and bold, as if he’d been to hell and back for unknown, heroic purposes.

  ‘They found Misha dead in the pool,’ I said.

  That roused him. He stiffened, eyes alert. ‘Say again?’

  ‘Ambulance is here,’ I said. ‘Police are on their way. I saw him lying there. He’s … he’s dead.’
>
  Sol stood. He had an early-morning semi that I couldn’t help but notice. He glanced around the room, searching wildly. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, back to the wall as he stepped into them, going commando. ‘Holy fuck, he’s dead? You sure?’ he asked, buttoning up. His stomach was practically flat, jeans resting low on his hips, hair on his belly trailing down in a line.

  ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘Please. There’s nothing you can do.’

  He buckled his belt. ‘I need to see what’s happening.’

  ‘Nothing’s happening. They’re trying to resuscitate him but … People are hanging around, just waiting. Everyone’s sort of numb and shocked.’

  He punched his arms into his T-shirt and shook out his hair, although it barely moved.

  ‘When did he leave the room?’ he asked. ‘Any idea? Did you see him? Hear him?’

  ‘No, you?’

  ‘Nothing, no.’

  He sat on the bed, fastening his big, battered trainers.

  ‘I think they’re trying to keep people in the garden till the cops arrive,’ I said. ‘Don’t stay down there.’

  ‘I’ll be back in ten.’

  I twisted in flustered half-circles. ‘OK,’ I said, trying to reassure myself. ‘I’m going to get dressed and tidy the room. They might want to question us.’

  ‘Why? What about?’

  The harsh, demanding tone got to me and I snapped. ‘Because we were the last people to fuck him!’

  Sol stabbed his fingers into his hair. ‘OK, I need to think.’

  I seized my knickers from the floor and tossed them into the en suite. Sol grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checked it, and stuffed it in his front pocket.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Let’s stay calm, eh?’ He edged past me, snatched his cigarettes from the window ledge and made for the bedroom door. But he doubled back before he left, returning to me. His dark brown hair stood in a skew-whiff quiff and his tennis injury hung like an obscene berry on his lip. He gave me a brief kiss on the cheek, his hand on my hip. He smelled of sleep and his bristled jaw scratched. We hadn’t kissed during sex because of his wound. I wondered if we ever would.

  ‘You cool about last night, Cha Cha?’ he asked, poised to dart off.

  The perfunctory concern pleased me: smart enough to be respectful but smart enough to know I didn’t need sweet-talking. He had, however, clearly forgotten my name.

  ‘Cha Cha?’

  He grinned then winced. Carefully, he dabbed his lip, checking for blood. ‘You got that whole…’ He gave my body a cursory glance, making a brisk hourglass shape with one hand. ‘Whole retro thing going on.’

  ‘The name’s Lana.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Liar.’

  He began heading out of the room again, striding with loose, easy athleticism. At the door, he halted and turned to me. ‘I’m Sol, by the way.’

  ‘Yeah, I remembered.’

  Alone, I didn’t know where to begin. The room was a tip. I figured for starters I should flush the condoms. Ordinarily, I’d bin them but if there was a chance of the room being examined, then I wanted rid. I picked up a dry rubber, then another, clammy and pendulous. I recalled being young and naive, when sex was a one-condom affair, structured around his orgasm. During my marriage, with neither of us wanting children, I’d gone from pill to coil, but now I was back on the open market, so to speak, I was becoming reacquainted with rubbers. Most men worth their salt threw them around like bad confetti. We’d fuck, do something else, fuck again, stop. Ejaculation wasn’t the centrepiece because sex was more sophisticated than foreplay then penetration. Kinkier too. Infinitely kinkier, as the items littering the bedroom floor testified.

  In the en suite, I flushed the rubbers and dropped a few empty foils in the pedal bin. Immediately I thought better of it, retrieved the wrappers and put them in my make-up bag. No one would check there. The bathroom was compact and shiny: shower over a clawfoot tub, washbasin and toilet, but with the same twee aesthetic of the bedroom. Scalloped soap dish, gilt fittings, knotted bows on the tiles: that kind of thing. The towels were draped neatly over a ladder of gold rails, all apart from one, which lay crumpled in a corner.

  I was puzzled. I hadn’t dumped a towel there. I wouldn’t do that. I’m a neat freak. I bent to retrieve it, a worn, coral-pink bath sheet, fishing among memories of the previous night. Had one of the men gone for a post-coital freshen-up? I couldn’t remember either of them doing so but the sex was such a blur of bodies and vodka it could easily have happened. No biggie. I was about to drape the towel over the bath edge when I caught its smell. Chlorine.

  I sniffed closer. Yes, definitely chlorine. How peculiar. Where had that come from? Misha hadn’t returned from his swim so how could his towel be here? Was it even his? The colour was the same as the others in the bathroom, orangey-pink like factory-farmed, over-dyed salmon.

  I pondered what to do: air the towel or add it straight to the laundry? Did guests have access to spare towels if they ran out? Should I have brought my own? Then I thought, no, this is not what I should be dwelling on.

  Why was a damp, chlorine-scented towel here? Had Misha returned then headed downstairs again? Perhaps he was an insomniac. Or had someone else snuck into the room to return it? No, too crazy. Someone must have been at the pool with Misha. Sol. Sol must have been with him, the two men leaving me in peace as they continued socialising, or maybe fucking, outside.

  But if Sol had been with Misha, why was Misha dead?

  I admit, I panicked. I was bothered about the police crawling over the room, asking questions about what the three of us had done together. I like to think I’m old and wise enough to be immune from sexual shame but the prospect of the authorities prying into my private life in a quest for answers appalled me. Rationally speaking, I had nothing to feel guilty about. We hadn’t broken any laws or caused any damage. But ours wasn’t regular behaviour so I was eager to keep the encounter under wraps. I needed rid of the towel. Correction: I needed rid of all evidence. Flushing condoms wasn’t enough.

  So I took the damp bath sheet, laid it on the bedroom floor, and placed all the equipment we’d used in the centre. My hands began to tremble as the reality of my situation kicked in. The sound of sirens and of people moving on the floors below made me fear someone would come galloping up the stairs of the tower any second. What would I do? There’s nowhere to run in a turret room. You can only fly or fall. I drew the corners of the towel together and twisted them to form a bundle. No, no good. It would come undone. Keep calm, Lana. Don’t panic. Think.

  I grabbed the polka-dot scarf from the contents and used it to secure the towel, making an enormous Dick-Whittington knapsack. Metal clanked against metal as I stood, cupping the lumpy package. The Clejuso handcuffs weighed a ton. I glanced about for somewhere to stash the item but figured the outcome would be worse if I was rumbled for having concealed something that could be construed as evidence.

  I dressed quickly in a denim skirt and pastel-striped sun top, whisked a brush through my hair, cleaned my teeth and flicked on some lippy and mascara. Awkward in sandals and clutching the handrail, I clomped down the spiral staircase with my bundle and then along the west wing corridor to the room my friend, Nicki, was sharing with her partner, Ian. They’d been looking out for me since the start of the weekend, aware I’d arrived on my own and might appreciate the support. Plus, they were a broad-minded couple, which was going to help immensely.

  Nicki was making coffee in a cafetiere. Ian was showering. Their room, larger than mine, was tidy and fresh, sunlight glossing the frame of a chintzy four-poster bed. The open windows gave on to a view of the gravel driveway sweeping around the striped lawns to the front of the house. As I moved deeper into the room, I saw blue flashing lights winking in the morning’s glare. The bright day, with its intimations of hope and joy, didn’t suit the dark events unfolding.

  Nicki didn’t bat an eyelid when
I asked if she’d store some bondage gear. I gave a brief rundown of the story, omitting the detail about the damp towel. Her main concern was for my emotional and psychological welfare. She understood my fear that the police, often mistrustful of non-mainstream sexualities, might get twitchy if they knew they were dealing with the death of a man whose proclivities were on the kinky side. And we agreed if the tabloids got hold of a story like this they’d be all over us, spewing out their judgemental adjectives: sick, twisted, perverse. I didn’t want to be part of that narrative.

  ‘I don’t see why they’d want to search the room though,’ said Nicki. ‘He died in the pool, didn’t he? Just a tragic accident from the sounds of it. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Tears burned my eyes because I felt as if I had.

  ‘Hey, c’mere. Give us a hug.’ Nicki stepped towards me, arms outstretched.

  I stepped back in alarm, my hand raised. ‘Don’t, Nick. Please.’ I blinked rapidly and dashed away a single tear. ‘If anyone’s kind to me, I don’t think I could … I just need to hold it together here. Sorry. Don’t be nice to me, please.’ I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, creating pain to distract me from pain.

  Nicki folded her arms, frowning. ‘Well, OK then, bitch. Have I told you how dreadful your hair’s looking these days?’

  A noise came out of my mouth, half laugh, half sob. ‘Thanks, hun. Don’t mention this to anyone, will you? That I was with him last night.’

  ‘No, course not. Not if you don’t want me to.’

  I returned outside in search of Sol as a new wave of sirens became audible. In the pale morning sunlight, people sat on benches and walls, or stood in small groups. Some people held each other in casual, supportive embraces, looking numb and bored. Some were chatting, some smoking. Medics in high-visibility jackets and bottle-green coveralls talked to guests, or walked across the grounds with a reassuringly steady pace. Radios crackled. Nobody seemed to be panicking now.

  Sol stood alone at the far end of one of the manicured lawns, his phone to one ear, his hand covering his other ear. He paced in short lengths, agitated, head shifting from low to high, looking anxiously around. When he spotted me, he raised a hand and beckoned me towards him with a flick of his fingers. As I approached, he turned his back to me, body hunched into his phone call.