The Pleasure Quartet (12 page)

She unbuttoned my trousers and pulled them down and off in one swift motion. I felt her nails scrape against my hip bones as she hooked her thumbs in the sides of my knickers and yanked them
down to my calves. Before I had a chance to even think of stopping her, she ducked her head down and placed her mouth on my slit. Her first lick was long, right from the base to the top. She ran
her tongue lazily between my folds, sucked my lips, paused when she reached my nub and pressed there until I lifted my hips up in response and she grabbed my arse and held me against her face.

‘Oh, god,’ I muttered.

I had always felt a vague sense of discomfort around the thought of Iris going down on me. Iris’s licks were tentative and gentle, and I harboured the suspicion, and the fear, that she did
not enjoy giving oral sex. I always felt like I ought to be the one giving Iris pleasure, and not the reverse.

Clarissa ate me with such gusto that I forgot my fears. When I instinctively closed my knees together to cover myself, vicing her between them, she spread me open again. When I drew my palms
over my face, covering my mouth to quiet my moans, she reached up and grabbed my hands and directed them to her head, silently directing me to press her against my groin. When I complied, winding
my fingers into her hair and applying gentle pressure to her head, she responded by burying her tongue deep inside me. I pushed harder, clamping her against me, and began to grind. Muffled sounds
escaped from her lips.

Now, I no longer felt as though I was in a position of vulnerability, submitting to Clarissa’s demands on my body. A thrill ran through me, warming my veins and freeing my inhibitions. I
held her down and drove my pussy against her face and the more firmly I did so, the swifter and deeper her strokes became. Her saliva mixed with my juices, a cocktail of lust, and ran down the
valley of my cunt where it pooled on the sofa beneath me, wetting my buttocks. My heat rose as I listened to the sound that our bodies made, the slap of damp skin on leather, the low humming growl
she made in her throat, the scraping of my fingernails clutching the furniture.

She paused, giving me momentary relief from the onslaught of sensations that her caresses elicited. I teetered on the brink of overstimulation, caught between intense pleasure and pain. I
exhaled, felt my muscles relax and just as my heightened arousal began to ebb she wet her finger and slid it gently into my arse. Her tongue returned to my clitoris, trailing around my fully
exposed nub in a slow, circular motion. My whole body tensed again and I shuddered and came and she ignored my attempts to pull her away and held me to her, licking me over and over until the first
wave of my climax subsided and another built up, layer over layer, and I came again.

Finally, she released me, and I lay back against the couch, spent. Before I could properly catch my breath, she flipped me over onto my front. I wriggled, pushing myself up onto my knees and
turning to face her and she placed her hand onto the small of my back.

‘Stay still,’ she whispered. ‘We’re not finished yet.’

She leaned over to one side and pulled a wooden box out from under the sofa. Its hinges creaked when she opened it. She lifted out the object inside as delicately as if she was handling a
dangerous weapon. Squinting in the half light, with Clarissa’s body partly blocking my view, I could not make it out entirely, but I could see that it was dark, and phallic-shaped.

‘Have you ever been penetrated, Moana?’ she asked me. She didn’t look at me when she spoke. Her eyes remained fixed on the dildo in her hands. As she held it up, I was struck
by its size and glossy black sheen. I had never even seen a dildo, though of course I knew such things existed and had even fantasised about using one on Iris.

‘No,’ I told her.

‘Would you like to be?’

Again, I thought of Iris, but my thoughts of her were tinged with bitterness as well as guilt. I knew that she would never penetrate me, what was the point in saving myself for her? Especially
since I had come this far already.

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said.

Clarissa’s eyes gleamed.

‘My harness is upstairs . . .’ she explained. ‘Another time, I will fuck you properly. For now, a gentle introduction . . .’

I could not imagine a gentle Clarissa.

I positioned my body in the same way that I had seen Iris do when Thomas took her from behind. On all fours, back dipped like a cat’s, sucking my stomach in. I tensed, waiting for the
pain. My mind raced, expectant.

‘Relax . . .’ she murmured. Her voice was soft, soothing, but it was almost impossible to let go. I felt as though I was on the edge of a precipice, about to fall over into another
world. As if the next few seconds would alter the course of my life.

The dildo inside me felt better than I had ever imagined.

I groaned.

‘That’s it,’ Clarissa said, ‘you like to be fucked, don’t you?’

‘Oh god yes, yes,’ I replied. I pushed my arse back against her as she thrust inside me. In my mind it was Clarissa fucking me. Her dildo was just as real as any cock. That it was
not physically attached to her and made of flesh and bone made no difference at all. I clung onto a cushion and bit into it to stop myself from screaming. She pushed it inside me, her thrusts
alternating short and long, hard and gentle, until her arm began to tire.

‘You’re an insatiable little slut,’ she remarked, as she withdrew the toy. ‘Hard to imagine that you’re a virgin.’

‘Was,’ I corrected her.

‘True enough,’ she said. ‘I suppose that depends on your definition. Have you ever thought of fucking a man? Would you like to?’

I remembered the vision of Thomas standing in front of me, his buttocks firm and his dick hard. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought, although I found his naked body an unfamiliar sight. I
never fantasised about men. Physically, they just didn’t attract me in the way that women did. And yet I was curious about how a penis would feel inside me. If it would be warm, softer than a
dildo, I assumed, less rigid. If it would feel different to be taken by a man.

‘I might consider it, I suppose,’ I told her.

‘Maybe we could arrange it sometime,’ she said lightly, as if she was talking about arranging a dinner date or a card game.

I wanted to ask her more about her relationship with her partner and what arrangement she had with him. Questions tumbled onto the tip of my tongue. Did he too have sex with other women? Or
other men? Did they have sex with other people as a couple? Had she just invited me to a threesome? I blushed at the thought, and I wondered if Edward had heard our maybe not so muted cries. It was
possible that he had even come down the stairs to investigate, perhaps even watched us from above while we were entirely preoccupied with each other and unaware of his presence. A surge of
excitement rushed through me at the thought that we might have been witnessed by Clarissa’s husband, in flagrante.

But now was not the time for more questions. I stretched my arms lazily over my head and looked up. Rays of sunlight shone through a high window. I sat bolt upright, suddenly aware of the
time.

‘Shall I call you a cab?’ Clarissa asked.

‘Please,’ I replied, glancing at her warmly to convey my gratitude. She was still fully dressed. A sheen of sweat coated her brow. Her eyes were tired.

‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I’ve been terribly selfish. Would you like me to . . .’

She laughed. ‘Very sweet of you, but the moment has rather passed now, I think. And besides that, no. I very much enjoyed introducing you to the joys of sex . . . and no need to worry
about me. I will have a nap, and then seek Edward out later.’

She handed me my clothes and a banknote for the taxi ride.

‘I would of course offer you a shower, and breakfast, but time is ticking on, and I know you must get back to your love.’

The clock on the cab’s meter read 6 a.m. I told the driver that I was in a hurry, and he sped across London, through mostly clear streets. The early morning traffic had not yet begun to
pile up.

I turned the key in the door as quietly as I could manage, thankful that Iris was a heavy sleeper.

Her head lay still on the pillow as I removed my clothes and slipped into bed alongside her, hoping against hope that I smelled only of a night out – cigarette smoke and a note of alcohol
that might have come from anywhere – and not of Clarissa.

She didn’t stir, and when I woke again, her side of the bed was empty.

Summer came.

His parents were spending the time in the Caribbean and Thomas had opted to stay in London, but had access to their house in the Chilterns. For several weeks now, he had been singing the praises
of the mansion, with its vast grounds and nearby woods, outdoor heated swimming pool, inviting nooks and crannies and luxurious amenities. He had allegedly been planning the garden party for
several weeks already and had, naturally, invited Iris, and by default, me.

I was reluctant to go, if only for the reason that it would mean missing out on two whole days of work at the Princess Empire, which I could ill afford to do. But then I was also wary of Iris
being away for a whole weekend with Thomas. Maybe I feared she would not return and would move in with him if I were not around, a constant reminder of what we still shared, emotionally and
physically, despite his increasing, obtrusive presence in our lives.

When she heard about it, Clarissa insisted I go.

‘The theatre will still manage without you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t taken a day off ever since you began, anyway. You’re owed. It will do you good. A change of
scene. Some real-life glamour, away from our tinsel-lined imitation game.’

Sensing my reluctance, she suggested I take Gwillam along. She had been particularly amused when she had learned the story of my reunion with this long-lost cousin.

In addition, Iris genuinely appeared keen for me to join her, as if she was still uncertain about the true state of her relationship with Thomas. ‘I might like him but I still need you
too,’ she confessed. ‘You’re my anchor. Maybe it means I’m greedy, but what the hell; who ever said it was wrong to want one’s cake and eat it too?’

I called Gwillam at his law firm but was told he had a few days off and I had no other way to contact him.

We left London as night fell. Both Thomas and Iris had hurried home from their workplace to pick up hastily packed holdalls with clothes for the weekend. I’d had all day to prepare and
wait, and already felt unsettled at the prospect of the next two days. Iris had mentioned that the party would be quite glamorous, with politicians, celebrities and even film stars present, and
seemed taken by the idea. I wasn’t.

We heard the sound of the horn of Thomas’s small double-parked Renault 4CV below our window, the signal we had agreed, and rushed down to the street where we fitted ourselves into the
vehicle.

‘Ready for an adventure?’ Thomas asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Iris replied, ignoring me and settling in the left front seat next to him, while I sat at the back crowded into a corner by an uncommon amount of luggage. How much
stuff did Thomas need?

We crossed the river and crawled past the West End through Holborn until Camden Town. Beyond was unknown territory to me. Thomas pointed out Hampstead and the outskirts of the Heath as we
climbed a steep hill and then the passing vistas outside the open car window blurred into darkness and a twisting maze of tree-lined roads until we finally emerged into the countryside and a
straight road that seemed to continue forever. It was rush hour and the traffic was heavy.

An hour later, we turned off the busy main road and found ourselves driving down a narrow lane between a canopy of leaning trees that made me think of the entrance to a fairy-tale wonderland,
and still the journey into darkness continued.

‘This is it,’ Thomas cried out. On the passenger seat at the front, Iris stirred back into life. She had been dozing.

There was another lane, narrower than the first, on our left, with just enough space for a car to advance in single file. We ventured down it at lesser speed. I wondered what would happen if
another vehicle came towards us; there was just no room for two cars to manoeuver without scraping against each other. The lane was boarded with high hedges behind which a vastness of fields
stretched into the night.

For ten minutes we drove down the exiguous lane. There was no light, but Thomas’s driving was assured and steady.

Then, the path broadened and we were moving on gravel, a crunching sound below our wheels shuddering through the car’s thin bodywork and vibrating across our bodies. Ahead, I could
distinguish the squat shape of a huge building, with just a few random lights on. The mansion looked like something out of the movies, regal, tall with a rampart of whitewashed stucco dotted by an
infinity of windows. There were half a dozen cars parked in front. Each one more luxurious than the other.

‘Home, sweet home,’ Thomas said, parking the diminutive Renault on the gravel drive at a right angle to a sleek, shiny, fire-red Italian sports car. ‘My sister’s
chariot,’ he said.

‘What does she do?’ Iris asked.

‘Something in fashion,’ Thomas replied. ‘It’s just a hobby, though. She has rich lovers . . .’ And laughed.

He had never mentioned having a sister before, that I recalled. Not to me at any rate. Maybe Iris was aware of her existence. But my friend remained silent, visibly in awe of the building in
front of which we now sat.

‘Actually,’ he added, ‘Tilly’s the one who is organising the party . . .’

A further revelation.

‘Is she older than you?’ I felt compelled to ask, my curiosity tickled.

‘Oh yes. Four years older. Tilly stands for Matilda. I’ve always called her that. She hates the nickname, which is why I keep on using it. But best if you refer to her by her real
name when you meet,’ Thomas advised.

We picked up our stuff from the boot and filed up the short flight of steps that led to the mansion’s main door, which was held open and revealed a bonfire of light beyond the darkened
threshold. I heard the purr of further cars advancing across the gravel path behind us and parking at random angles. Large and expensive ones, I knew, just from the cushioned rumble of their
powerful engines.