The Pleasure Quartet (8 page)

‘I’ve poured us some wine already,’ Thomas called, half apologetically, ‘and it’s more comfortable in here.’ I hurried after them and he pulled the door shut
behind me. It closed silently, without a creak or a click.

Iris was sitting in exactly the same way as she had been when I had walked in the door at our place, and found her waiting for me. Perched on the end of Thomas’s bed, her gloved fingers
entwined, back straight, eyes downcast at the floor. She looked like a schoolgirl waiting to be reprimanded. Had we been alone, I would have gone to comfort her, but here, I demurred to Thomas.

‘Please sit,’ he said to me, pointing out the ottoman, a thick, red-and-gold batik-patterned stool at the end of the bed. The whole room was decorated in a similar fashion. All of
the furniture was carved from dark, heavy wood. The carpets were thick and the bedspread a deep crimson shade, like the inside of a damson plum. There was no window and the air was still and
perfumed with the lingering odour of Thomas’s cologne, a rich, musky scent with a note of cinnamon that I found cloying. The lights were turned out and he had lit candles all around the room,
precariously set on small saucers that immediately made me fear for the health of the surrounding drapery, and our lives, if all were to go up in smoke.

The cushioned seat was low, and atop it, the line of my gaze was only a few inches above the bed. I could not make eye contact with Iris without craning my head back but I had a vision of her
stockinged calves and the onset of her knees peeping out from her skirt. Shadows from the flickering candle flames crept up the walls around us, like a ghost’s long fingers on the verge of
coming to life.

Thomas handed me a glass filled with pale liquid, and then the same to Iris. His hands were unsteady.

‘Take off your shoes,’ he said to Iris. The instruction was whispered, but loud enough for me to hear.

She gripped her glass to avoid tipping it and prised the heel of one shoe off with the toe of the other, then kicked off the second shoe. The carpet was so thick that the sound her Mary Janes
made when they dropped to the floor was barely audible.

‘And your stockings,’ he said.

I was both shocked and aroused by the dominance he was displaying, and Iris’s almost meek obedience to his diktats.

She lifted her skirt and still clutching her glass, struggled with her garter one-handed. Then set the wine down and unclipped the fastenings that held the sheer fabric tight against her thighs
and peeled away one stocking, and then the other.

Neither Thomas nor I made a move to help her. There was something terribly erotic about watching Iris’s movements, each one of them stilted and unnaturally slowed, like a film playing at
half speed. The bare skin of her legs had an unearthly shine to it and I wondered if she had oiled them.

Thomas sat down next to her. His presence affected her posture; the slant of her shoulders immediately relaxed, as though up until now she had been holding her breath.

His hands travelled to her face and caressed the line of her jaw. She lengthened her neck, swan-like, to encourage him, almost in imitation of a cat being petted. His fingers moved lower, down
to her clavicle and then to the top button of her blouse. His progress was glacial, infinitesimally slow. I was straining so hard to pay attention to each small detail that I fancied I could hear
the touch of his skin on hers, a faint rasping, like silk on silk.

The candlelight cast them both in an eerie glow, like puppet figures on a makeshift stage. I focused my gaze on Thomas. He was beginning to sweat. His full lips looked fuller, overripe berries
ready to split. He had an erection, I knew, by the bulge pressing through his jeans. I found it easier to watch him than Iris. I could imagine myself in his place. I was at once terribly curious
– knowing that I would soon witness a man’s cock for the first time since the fascinating if confusing flashes of carnal activity at the Ball – and also terribly jealous. How I
wanted to be the one inside her.

He unbuttoned her blouse, so neatly the clasps seemed to fold through the holes, a gesture he had no doubt practised many times and perfected. The faint hills of her breasts appeared, the
mid-line of her brassiere and a window of her torso, the white fabric on either side like drapes hiding the view behind. He pulled the blouse apart further, slipping it over her shoulders and
revealing the top half of her body.

I had seen Iris naked many times before. Every day, now that we lived together. But never like this, unpeeled slowly like a piece of fruit in front of my eyes. Thomas was deliberately unveiling
her for me, giving me a show, I was sure of that. I felt a sudden kinship with him despite my jealousy. As though we were collaborating in Iris’s deflowering.

Her bra came off next, unhooked and dropped onto the floor on top of her shoes with little ceremony. Her small breasts stood pert, nipples erect. He lowered his head to her chest and kissed
them, keeping his profile to the side so that I could see. My own nipples were hardening in response. I dared not make a sound, not a single sigh of pleasure, for fear of startling Iris and causing
a scene. I sat silently, pressing my thighs together hard as I felt my desire quickening inside inexplicably fanned by my status as an intruder, a voyeur.

She lifted her buttocks slightly from the coverlet, allowing him space to peel away her skirt. He left her knickers on. A lacy lavender-coloured pair that I hadn’t seen before. Another
gift, I guessed, and a presumptuous one at that. A piercing stab to my heart, a burning knife twist, knowing that Iris had hidden them from me.

Thomas stood and undressed. Removing his own clothes, he was hurried and clumsy and I took a small delight in watching him struggle to wriggle his tight jeans down his calves, totally failing to
maintain any dignity at all. Iris stared as he slipped his grey cotton jocks down to his feet and his cock immediately sprang out. She looked away quickly, shocked, embarrassed perhaps. A flush
crept up her cheeks.

‘Touch it,’ he said, and she turned back and reached out a hand, hesitated, and removed one glove. Her bare fingers crept closer until she grazed the head, and then trailed down his
shaft and finally took his balls into her hand and cupped them gently. Thomas’s eyes fluttered closed. He moaned softly. She gazed up at him with an expression of wonderment plain to see on
her face. I resisted the urge to throw my glass of wine over both of them and rush from the room.

His eyelids flickered open again and he stepped closer towards the bed and laid his palms over her breasts. For a moment, my view of Iris was obscured, bar one of her feet and a hint of her
ankle. Instead I was faced with Thomas from the back. His buttocks were hard with one dimple indenting the base of each cheek. Thick thighs. His legs were long and covered with a light coat of
downy hair that extended only to the onset of his arse. His back was totally smooth and hairless. He was lean, almost but not quite thin.

Perhaps sensing that he was blocking my vision, Thomas lifted Iris up and scooted her body along the bed at an angle, so I could see the full length of her. He raised himself up onto his knees,
leaning over her, and pulled down her knickers, exposing her bush.

Somehow I hadn’t expected that he would go down on her, but he did. He slid down the length of her body and inserted himself, kneeling, between her legs, then lowered his face to her
pussy, pulled her lips apart and began to lick.

Iris groaned, and her whole body sank as she relaxed on the coverlet, melting into his touch. She tangled her fingers in his hair and held his head, pushing his face into her slit.

Unbidden, the taste and smell of her arose from memory in my mouth. My tongue moved between my lips and I closed my eyes and imagined that I was pleasuring her. Wetness seeped between my legs. I
hitched up my skirt, as quietly as I could manage and began to rub my fingers against my clit. Wondering if Iris would notice.

I opened my eyes, they were both oblivious to me. Thomas was totally engaged in his task, ignoring any discomfort that might have arisen in his knees or his hunched-over back as he continued to
lap her, his arse pointing into the air. I admired him, begrudgingly, for attending to her pleasure. Somehow, I hadn’t thought that he would.

Her lips had parted and her eyes were closed. I could tell that she was close to orgasm. Her arms moving over the bed, octopus-like, grabbing and pulling at the blanket, then embedding her nails
in a pillow and then pushing it aside in frustration and returning her grip to his hair. Thomas did not falter, despite the fierce grip that she had on his locks, or the violent squeeze of her
thighs against her head. I knew from experience that Iris was ferocious when she was about to come. Licking her until she exploded was akin to riding a wild horse as it bucked. Sometimes it was all
I could do to keep my tongue fixed to her clitoris and continue the evidently effective pattern of my strokes over her bud as she wiggled and squirmed beneath me.

I followed Iris’s rise into the peak of arousal in my mind, trying to catch up with my body. I concentrated on the rise and fall of her breath, the flush of her skin, the faint sheen of
sweat that appeared on her forehead and her upper arms. My cunt began to twitch in sympathy with hers and I rubbed faster, stretching my legs out in front of me and leaning back as far as I could
without tumbling off the ottoman. I usually masturbated with my eyes closed. Doing so with them open felt daring. I watched Iris’s breasts sway as she moved up and down on the bed, pushing
herself against Thomas’s mouth.

She came, and I shortly after. The sound of my climax was lost in the aftermath of hers. Neither of them turned to look at me. Iris lost in her lust and Thomas lost in her. He did not lift his
face from her opening until her shuddering had subsided and she had begun to grind against him again, signalling that the hypersensitivity of her orgasm had passed. I pulled my skirt down, now
somewhat satisfied in my body, if not my mind. I had been arrogant enough to think that only I could induce raptures like this in Iris, now I knew I was wrong.

I picked up my wine and took a sip, and then another. The sweet liquid did little to soothe my troubles, but it did make me thirst for a glass of water. I could hardly get up now, though.

Thomas had flipped Iris over onto her stomach, her head facing me on a diagonal so that I could see them both in profile. She struggled to lift herself up, supporting her body on her elbows. He
pushed one of her knees forward into a right angle, exposing the cleft of her arse. Briefly I saw a flash of his cock jutting out, straight and hard, resting in the valley of her cheeks. His face
creased in concentration and hers tensed in premonition of what would follow. He pulled his body over hers, holding himself upright with one arm as his other hand directed his head into her
hole.

I braced myself, expecting Iris to cry out or shudder in pain, but she did not. The moment that he broke through her passage, barely a flicker of discomfort passed over her face. She winced
momentarily and then relaxed again, like a rag doll. Thomas, initially tense that the moment had arrived looked at first relieved as he entered her at last, and then elated as he began to thrust,
slowly at first, waiting for her to adjust to the sensation and then quicker as she pushed back against him, encouraging him on.

The actual fucking lasted a few minutes. Just at the point when Iris looked overwhelmed by pleasure – eyes closed, cupid lips parted, her breasts swaying as Thomas pumped into her, nipples
hard – he came, and collapsed on top of her. I felt a stab of bittersweet joy at the flash of disappointment evident on Iris’s features, before she turned to curl up in his arms. You
might have a cock, I thought vengefully, but if I were to wear a fake one and plough her, at least it wouldn’t be over too soon. I would fill Iris until she was satisfied, even if it left me
exhausted.

Thomas lay on his back with his arm beneath Iris’s neck, pulling her against his side. I wondered what he was thinking, if he was worried that it hadn’t been enough. I hoped so, I
thought, bitterly.

Iris turned herself awkwardly onto her stomach and craned her head up to look at me. Our eyes met. She reached out her hand. Even now, I could not bear to refuse her. I stretched out my arm and
grazed my fingertips against hers. A gesture of affection, understanding, forgiveness, perhaps.

Or maybe just love.

Nothing changed overtly following the uncalculated tryst: life continued, a quiet routine, but there was an uneasiness in the air. It just floated there like a cloud whenever
Iris and I were together and the silence became too heavy. The unseen curse of the days after.

Unfortunately, we were spending less and less time with each other. She had a 9-to-5 job, and then would often spend the time with workmates (and Thomas?) having drinks together when their stint
at the office ended, by which time I had already left for my work at the theatre. By when I would get home, she was all too often asleep and even though she still instinctively cuddled up to me in
bed when I slipped between the covers, it was more of a heat-seeking reaction, a habit rather than an overture to sex. When sex between us did occur, it was tepid and, on her side, unenthusiastic,
as if she was discharging an obligation or merely being kind to me and her heart was no longer in it. Under me, over me, in embrace, Iris grew ever more passive and quieter. While I kept on being
held hostage by tendrils of want.

Our weekend opportunities together were also limited to snatched hours as the Princess Empire was currently featuring matinée performances on each day due to a strong demand for the show,
curtailing my free time with Iris.

I invariably awoke to an empty bedsit, my sleep barely disturbed by her movements rising and dressing earlier, while she ventured as discreetly as she could to the kitchen area so that I
wouldn’t be disturbed by her breakfasting sounds or the swish of the front door closing as she left for work. All this faintly registered with me in the periphery of my dreams as I
sleepwalked towards day.