The Pleasure Quartet (26 page)

March 11th, 1938

He has attended the Ball. Seen me there. And still wants me. Madly.

Last night he asked me to tie him.

I knotted my silk scarves around his wrists and his ankles, and bound his eyes too.

How he moaned when I slipped my finger into his arsehole. I am going to buy a dildo and a harness – or take one from the Ball. I have never fucked a man before but I want to know how it
feels to slide inside Robert, to see the expression on his face when I fill him.

He looks so handsome when he is helpless.

November 28th, 1937

We have been so drunk on each other that neither of us has even thought of how it might be to let in another. Robert always told me how he dreamed of having an audience.

And yet, such a thing didn’t seem so risqué to me. I have seen so many orgies with the Ball and while they are often beautiful, such events lose their glamour after a
time.

I wanted to be one with a person. To be a pair. And we have been so intimate, we have practically lived inside each other’s skins. I could only be closer to him if I were to crawl
inside him somehow, if he were to actually consume me.

I have invited Hilda to be with us.

To watch us, to touch us if she wants to. We have talked of nothing else this past week but the many variations of how the three of us might fuck when that night comes. The way that her red
hair will sweep over our bodies. Our breasts rubbing against one another. How Robert wants to slide inside me from behind while I press my face between her thighs and drink her nectar.

Feb 4th, 1939

Robert was travelling on the underground yesterday when I heard news of the explosions. My world went dark. Bombs. Had the war we all expected begun and we had not been told? He must be safe!
He must be because without him I cannot live. I had not thought to even ask him where he was going, which stations he would pass through. I waited at home, wearing his jacket because it smelled of
him, praying as though I had never fallen out of touch with God. Oh, the things I promised Him if only He would bring my Robert back. And then when I was done with God, I promised my soul to the
Devil, if he doesn’t have it already.

When I heard his footsteps on the stairs at last I thought I would faint.

I thought of my family for the first time in years. My mother and father, Ireland. I had stopped writing to them when I began to feel that they would no longer be proud of me. When I began
whoring, I felt as though I were hiding something from them, and that they would hate me if they knew what I had become, and I couldn’t bear it. Now, I imagine that they are gone, but if they
are living, I wonder what has become of them and what they make of all this.

The world is changing. I can feel it. There is a wind rising all around us and I am so afraid that it will take my lover – my love – away.

July 15th, 1939

I have told him that if we go to war again, and he joins up, then I will join the Women’s Air Force and go with him. I will not let him leave me. He just laughed, and ground his
cigarette out on the pavement, and said that he wanted to fuck me right then and there so we crept into the churchyard by Waterloo Station and made love on a bench in the garden. On the way home we
bought vanilla ice cream and tasted it on each other’s lips.

May 1st, 1942

I do not know when I will receive another letter from him, or indeed if I will ever see him again. He is somewhere in Europe and is not allowed to reveal exactly where or what he is doing. I
know it must be terribly dangerous.

He told me to not to wait for him. To make love to others. I cannot, without you, I said, and he laughed, and asked me what stories I would have for him if I remained a nun? Make love to
them, and write to me. Write me everything. Send me letters so dirty that you make the censors pass out.

I promised him that I would, but the fire of my lust burns only for him. I touch myself and I think of him and it hurts. I cannot even bear to do that.

September 15th, 1944

We had three days together. Three glorious days and he has gone again. We spent them in bed.

He has changed, we have both changed. We are older, thinner, hungrier for each other than we have ever been before.

He jumps and cries in his sleep.

I promised him I wouldn’t let him sleep.

I am consumed every moment by the thought that this will be our last together.

September 9th, 1945

This monstrous war is finally over.

Maybe our future can now unfold.

And the Ball will call me back and Robert and I can join it forever, wander the world, experience joy.

January 4th, 1947

I have just discovered that I am pregnant with child. I burn to tell him, but he is away.

He kept his commission even though this war is over and is now travelling through the devastated no man’s world of Central Europe, working for the government. How I detest them, all of
them. Leave it be, I want to shout, let our men come home and just leave the world be. He will never tell me about the true nature of his activities but I know it must be dangerous. He has been
gone this time over a month. Normally he is back within a fortnight.

I worry.

I write him letters.

I fear I will never see him again.

That he will never set eyes on the child I am carrying. His child.

If the worst happens and Robert does not return to me, I have decided to leave this place. I want our child to come into this world away from the greyness of London and the austerity that now
surrounds it.

I will go journeying again and find a new world beyond the stars.

I wanted to hurt him.

As the whip descended, it took on a life of its own. Its multi-threaded wing flying through the air with both grace and ire, forming a curve that defied the laws of geometry and gravity
combined, at first suspended, then briefly floating on air before finally colliding with Thomas’s bare buttock with all the unstoppable dynamics of a runaway train.

I was unsure what sound reached me first: the sharp swish as the leather made contact with his skin, or the muted sound of his teeth gritting and a deep moan taking birth in the pit of his
stomach and riding through his lungs up to his throat.

I heard Iris sigh deeply behind me.

‘Jesus Christ, that fucking hurt,’ Thomas hissed.

My arm rose again.

I was aware of the fact I was not holding the whip right. Pierrot earlier, when he was instructing Thomas, had been careful to demonstrate the angle at which it should be wielded, and how the
holder should angle his body. I followed no rules.

I paused briefly.

Thomas was catching his breath. He knew there would be more. I would not disappoint his expectations.

My wrist relaxed and the whip cord took flight again.

This time, it struck just an inch away from the previous line of impact, flashing against Thomas’s right side, instantly drawing a welt.

Thomas’s whole body spasmed, a shock wave of delayed pain racing through his splayed limbs.

I wanted to see into his eyes, but standing behind him all I could peruse was the bruised landscape of his exposed arse and the darker valley of his crack. My anger was receding, gradually being
replaced with an invigorating feeling of power instantly followed by helplessness, as I quickly realised that I wasn’t necessarily the person in charge. He could, at any moment, just stand up
and walk away. By accepting my domination Thomas was in fact as much in control of the situation as I was, if not more. As probably Iris had been in the earlier play, using her tormentor to
deliberately orchestrate the rise of her pleasure. The concept felt profoundly disorienting, rocking the foundations of my uncertainties. The more I thought about it, the more confused I
became.

I struck again. His body bucked hard against the fixed saw-horse.

And again.

Iris emerged from the shadows and kneeled by Thomas and took hold of his free hand, as if wishing to commune with him and share his pain.

The whip rose again. But this time, there was no anger in my arm as I studiously attempted to control the glide of the whip’s flight and downplay its violence so that its threads now
caressed the young man’s exposed skin rather than openly assaulting it. I found a rhythm. Settled my mind. And began to understand the dynamics of the play. I relaxed.

My wrist loosened and the whip became an extension of my arm, and I patiently began to draw patterns of pink across his arse as I could feel him impatiently now expecting every new stroke,
anticipating them, transforming the sharp repeated impacts into something else which held no fear and was actually welcomed.

Still holding his hand, Iris looked up towards me and, for the first time in ages, there was gratefulness in her eyes, the knowledge that maybe now I was beginning to understand her true nature.
Perhaps there was a way forward for us, I mused, even if it would now include Thomas too. Although I also knew that I was not yet ready for the roles to be reversed and finding myself on the wrong
end of the whip or whatever other implements might emerge from this Ali Baba cave of sweet decadence. For now. But the seed had been planted.

My arm ached.

I stopped.

Set the whip down.

Silence fell.

Without speaking to each other, Iris and I helped Thomas rise from his prone position and watched him dress. She embraced him as I looked on, then, with an expression that reminded me of the
times that we spent alone together, before Thomas, she bid me join them and we all huddled, Thomas and I sheltering her nudity in our improvised harbour.

We were inseparable for the rest of the night.

After we departed the room, Thomas fetched Iris’s clothing from a nearby closet where they had earlier parked it prior to their planned scene. She had arrived at the house in a confusion
of crinoline layers that reminded me of the French queen Marie Antoinette in its opulence and fussiness but suited her perfectly, emphasising her wasp-like silhouette, and bared the milk of her
shoulders and the onset of her small breasts to great effect. Iris and I located a bathroom where I helped her repair her make-up following the earlier tears and she suggested improvements to mine,
drawing thick lines of black kohl around my eyes and adding a touch of rouge to my cheekbones, a part of the masquerade that Gwillam had wilfully neglected. The lightness of her fingers on my skin
felt like the flutter of a butterfly and, yet again, I was feeling drunk at being so close to her.

Our eyes, for now, were doing all the talking.

Iris’s gaze roamed over my body, lingering on all the exposed parts my maze of satin ribbon allowed. I blushed. I looked down and saw how hard my nipples were, dark, engorged and, further
down, how the untamed bush of my pubic curls burst through the feeble web of material that framed it.

‘I would never have believed I would see you like this, everything on show,’ Iris remarked.

‘I reckon we’re not in New Zealand any more, Toto,’ I giggled.

We hugged.

We were about to leave the bathroom and face the rest of the evening, when the door burst open and Matilda came rushing in. She was distraught, in tears, dark eye shadow rivulets skipping down
her cheeks. Her silk tunic was crumpled, the seam under one arm torn and she was missing a shoe.

She saw us, recognised us and shielded her eyes, as if embarrassed to be seen in the dishevelled state she was in.

All her haughtiness had gone, wiped away in a stroke by some unknown event or person. She brushed away some hair from her forehead in an instinctive gesture and straightened her posture,
ignoring us and heading straight for the sink where she plunged her hands under the running tap and brought them to her face to wash the distress away.

I wanted to ask her what had happened but I knew she would choose to ignore me. Had her brother, waiting for us outside the bathroom, seen her?

It was a shock to encounter Tilly in this state, and it was puzzling to me to observe such a change in her personality.

Even though I wanted to linger, maybe offer my assistance, Iris, attuned to the mood and Matilda’s obvious wish to be alone, pulled on my arm and we stepped over to the door and left her
there.

Thomas had, in the meantime, moved to another of the adjoining rooms where he was waiting for us and sipping from a bottle of beer, unaware of his sister’s appearance. Seeing us walk in,
he beamed.

‘My ladies,’ he remarked, with a clear hint of mischief in his voice. Iris squeezed my hand as if to warn me not to comment, let alone tell him about Matilda.

I was hoping I would come across Gwillam again that night, but he was nowhere to be seen, and there were rooms with closed doors I had no intention of breaching. I’d experienced enough
surprises already for a lifetime, I felt.

Emotionally exhausted, Iris, Thomas and I left together. His car, a Renault 4CV, was parked across the street and we packed in and drove back to his apartment on the other side of town.

That night, we all slept in the same bed, creating a cocoon of warmth in which we all sheltered.

We were much too tired for anything to happen.

Tomorrow would be another day.

There came a period of peace as one season merged into another.

After much hesitation, I agreed to move in with Iris and Thomas. His flat was infinitely more spacious and comfortable than the bedsit I was camping in since Iris’s departure and commuting
to my work in the West End from there would prove infinitely easier – notwithstanding the fact that the Princess Empire was not having a great patch, with a series of loss-making shows that
all closed early, which resulted in me and the other part-time staff having to struggle to live on our meagre, and unreliable wages. In addition, their invitation to join them provided me with a
perfect excuse to cease my sexual experiments and the aimless whoring. Clarissa was no longer employed by the theatre as her freelance commissions now took up most of her time, so I was seeing very
little of her right now. Anyway, I was also wary about investing more time in my relationship with her and Edward. As much as I did enjoy their company, I knew in my bones that they formed part of
another world altogether, one I could visit on occasion but never be fully included in. When I was with them, I was their toy, and nothing more. Lavished with affection and embraces, but somehow
always held at arm’s length. A tourist in the sea of sex.