The Sexopaths (3 page)

Occasionally on the site he’s
come across a review of a working girl by a female client.  He’s sure
there’s one for Xara, posted a year or more ago, which he now
rediscovers.  However, albeit authored by a girl, her male partner was
obviously present too: she praises Xara for her caring sensitivity, before
reporting that the re-energised happy couple have hitherto been at it hammer
and tongs.

But there’s nothing he can find
in Xara’s public history that points to Ms Y and her identity.  His gaze
drifts and he stares through rain-washed glass across the indistinct cityscape,
its grey slate Georgian rooftops draped in a fine Scotch mist that merges
seamlessly skywards into matching stratus, a scene of stark yet imprecise contrast
to yesterday’s vivid if half-imagined brightness.  She’s out there
somewhere, beneath that drizzly smog of secrecy, maybe closer that he can
guess. 
Did
he see blonde hair?  Or did he imagine it? 
It was gathered unusually to one side, its tail softly tickling at times, that
much he’d felt, a clue to who did what.  Should he suspect every matching
hairstyle he might meet in a bar or pass in the street?

But how stupid was he?  It
could have been anyone.  What if he’s been recognised?  Why did he
agree to it?  He purses his lips thoughtfully against his fingertips, then
glances at his mobile lying on the desk beside the laptop.  Although he
has deleted Xara’s text, his memory is clear:

‘Hi can u call me pls?’

On reflection he considers this
initial summons was quite thoughtfully composed – the wrong person
finding it (let’s say a wife) should have few suspicions.  At first he’d
no idea whom it was from, neither recognising the number nor having it stored
in his phone memory.  He’d been about to dismiss the short message as a
stray from cyberspace, when some determined comic-book Numskull working
overtime in the deepest recesses of his Memory Department must have cried
‘Wait!’ and on an apparent whim, but with growing conviction in his hunch, he’d
checked the Angels365 website.  Sure enough – an involuntary bump of
his heart – there was her number, identical.  He’d vacillated for…
well – a couple of hours.  After all, she probably had hundreds of
guys’ contacts, and could easily have sent him the text in error.  She
probably had half a dozen Adams. 

Except he
was
the one she
wanted.  And in due course he’d obliged, drawn inexorably into her
clutches by his own inability to resist.  He’d called her from his car so
as to be sure to be undisturbed.  Now he replays their dialogue, analysing
its content for some hint as to the identity of Ms Y in the fresh light of
yesterday’s encounter.

‘Hi – it’s Adam.  I
got your text.’

‘Hello
you
.  Long
time no see.’

‘It feels like last week.’ 
He wasn’t sure whether to sound apologetic.

‘That’s nice to know.  I
guess you’re free to talk for a moment?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s to ask a favour.’

‘A
favour
?’  He’d
begun to anticipate a pitch for business.

‘Well, to come straight to the
point, can I tempt you with an assignment?’

‘With you?’  Did she mean an
assignation? 

‘Well – with me, yes… but
someone else, too.’

‘Ah.’  He was tongued-tied.

‘It’s a female, if that’s what
you’re worried about.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘A client.  She’d like a
threesome, including a guy.’

‘Wow.’

‘I’ve got lots of girlfriends
– in the business – but this is a bit unusual.’

‘Why me?  Aren’t there…
professionals?’

‘Probably there are, but… well…
let’s just say you meet all the important requirements.  What do you say?’

Her warm velvety voice was intoxicating,
invading his veins like a creamy cocktail that masked its strength beneath its
smooth surface.  And too many partly formed questions had disoriented his
thoughts, dulling his wits.  The best he could manage was a sharp intake
of breath and a mumbled ‘Right-ho’ in an intonation that implied consideration,
but in an octave that patently screamed submission.

‘So you’ll come. 
Haha!’  A transparently triumphant close, wasting no time; a suggestively
loaded giggle at the double-entendre.

Once he’d yielded to the pressure
of the sale, he’d felt more relaxed.  He’d asked:

‘When were you thinking of?’

‘Next week, Wednesday –
just after lunch.’

‘And… do I pay?’  Was this
an indelicate question, or good manners?

‘No.  It’s just for
fun.  Lucky you, eh?’

‘Sure.  Erm… what’s she
like?  I mean – ’ Adam had hastily corrected himself.  ‘Rather
– who is she?’  He knew even this wasn’t the right thing to ask, and
got the reply he’d expected:

‘She wants to remain anonymous
– that’s normal, you appreciate that.  Just think of her as Ms X.’

‘Isn’t that you?’

‘Good point.  Let’s say Ms
Y.’

‘Should I call her that?’

‘You probably shan’t need to say
anything.’

‘Really?’

‘She just fancies a hot
time.  She’s very attractive.  But you’ll need to be
blindfolded.  I’ll tell you what to do.  We’ll probably tie you
up.  Gag you.  Does that sound okay?’

He thinks he’d said yes. 
Right now his head is pleading for painkillers as the memory stokes his
pulse.  As he reaches distractedly for the can of caffeine drink beside
his desk a voice overly close-to jolts him from his daydream:

‘Adam?  Sorry, sweetie
– didn’t mean to make you jump.  May I bother you about this
proposal I’m doing for Natalie?’

It’s one of his three business
partners, Stephanie, a tall gothic brunette with naturally pale skin, long wavy
hair and full sensuous lips, purple today to complement her overall colour
scheme.  The carpeted floor has enabled her silently to infiltrate his
workspace with her amply curved presence and envelop him in the tentacled coils
of her heady perfume.  Impressive violet talons have come to rest lightly
upon his shoulders.   Thus subjugated, he’s unable to react before
she sees the revealing display.

‘Naughty, naughty.’  She
says it softly, as if louder might attract unwanted attention to their little
shared intimacy.

Though her discovery can be no
more than superficial – and her tone sounds most definitely teasing
– from his perspective it’s as if she has suddenly become privy to his
thoughts unlimited, a lavish banquet spread before her, its sweet ripe
temptations and oozing rare flesh demanding to be gorged in all its shocking
excess.  He feels himself flushing red, his ears burning.  He closes
the on-screen window with a flamboyant impresario-like click and his inbox
re-emerges from beneath.

‘Ahem – research for Bill’s
dating site.’  He says this in jocular fashion, but as if it might also be
true.  ‘Obviously I’d be castrated if I got caught doing this at
home.  Don’t shop me to the missus.’

‘No need to make excuses to me,
dearie.  We’ve all read the surveys that say Creatives spend the most time
surfing girlie websites.  You have to live up to your image, you know.’

Quite naturally, she appears to
have got the innocent end of the stick.  She doesn’t even ask who Bill
is.  He relaxes, encouraged by her unfazed complicity.  But she’s
pressed up close behind him, taking advantage of her discovery.  Weakly,
he reaches for a diversionary tactic.

‘You don’t have any painkillers
do you?’  Theatrically he raises his arms and presses the heels of his
hands to his temples.

‘Boys’ night out?’  In
affected sympathy she kneads his trapezius muscles.

‘Wife night in, actually.’ 
He rotates his head in response to her ministrations.  ‘Monique’s been
elected to some European agency Board –
AMIE
it’s called –
and I guess we overdid the celebrations.’

‘Sounds impressive – and
lucrative?’

‘I think it’s entirely
voluntary.  The main perk seems to be a bunch of meetings in mildly exotic
places.  Evidently it’s Mykonos in September.’

‘I
adore
Mykonos –
don’t tell me you get to go, too?’

‘Apparently so – seems only
fair, though – I’ve managed to get her included in the deal for my next
few conferences.’

‘Do you need a travelling
nanny?  I’m very cheap.’

‘I think I’ve probably drawn that
particular short straw.’

‘Aw – don’t.  She’s so
cute
!’  There’s a photo of Camille on Adam’s work-station.

‘That’s easily said, until she’s
bouncing on your head at five in the morning demanding a story and
chocolate-spread sandwiches.’

‘Well - we’re gonna be heartbroken
if you keep going away like this.’

‘You’ll be glad of the peace more
like.’

‘Just be sure to nab the best
contacts – you’re the international superstar, remember – they’ll
be climbing over the sunbeds to get to you working on their business.’

‘I like the image – but I
can’t compete with Monique in the charm stakes.’

‘Stay sober, spike her drinks.’

‘I have a feeling I tried that
last night; now look at me.’

‘Hmm.  Maybe I should give
you some practice.  But right now, I’ll donate you the last of my precious
super-duper pills.  But I warn you – they’re addictive.’

***

It’s a little after one p.m. and
Adam seeks essential elements: salt and fat and sugar.  The drizzle has
dissipated and the blanket of cloud is dissolving into patches of misty blue
sky with an invigorating morning-like promise earlier than the real time, as if
the day had stalled, frozen like a great orchestral pause, and is now
diligently working its way affretando through its backlog of movements and
melodies.  In contrast, the timpani of his hangover are beating
diminuendo, a distant and departing marching band.  With brightening
spirits, only faintly tarnished by the small beginnings of a gnawing anxiety,
he topples off the 26 bus amidst a small posse of blinking passengers.  He
has travelled the ten minutes from Princes Street to Roseburn’s tenemented
environs: Edinburgh’s centre is unsullied by real cafés.  As he waits for
a gap in the traffic, eschewing the nearby crossing, a waspish tickle against
his thigh signals an incoming text.  He draws the phone like a novice
gunslinger, all haste and little speed.  It comes out upside down –
but he sees immediately it’s from ‘Ms X’.  Her message is as economical as
the one before:

‘Thnx 4 hlp.  C u
soon.  X.’

Now his thoughts become
sidetracked.  It’s signed off with a kiss.  No – probably it’s
an  X for Xara.  A kiss would be a lower-case x.  Or would
it?  And what about
thnx
?  He always types texts longhand, so
hers seems intentionally coded by his standards.  But wait a minute
– what is he looking for?  Affection? Attraction?  Infatuation?
 That either or both of these females have come to want him in some
way?  Working girls routinely spray intimacies like cheap scent upon
complete strangers, yet if anything Xara is discouragingly circumspect in
conveying such favours.  And as for the mystery client… he was kept
literally in the dark as to her reaction towards him.

He enters the café and spies a
free table at the rear.  En route he accosts the good-looking waitress
clearing plates and orders tea and a brace of bacon rolls.  He sits,
studies the text message: certainly she’s taken more of a liberty this time;
it’s no longer the kind of note you could comfortably show your spouse. 
But neither is it exactly divorce material.  Its four-letter crux: ‘soon’
– the operative word; a catch-all au revoir which might mean anything
ranging from this evening to Goodnight Vienna.  His tea arrives, scalding
hot, undrinkable, as is the greasy-spoon custom; he watches the girl’s
skin-tight jeans snake their way back to the counter.  Smooth
stretch-denim reveals no trace of underwear, just firm globes gently and
alternately caressing one another, framed by apron strings.  His thoughts
– thus prompted – drift…

***

He arrives at the flat on time
– at first he sees all, it’s quite routine – Ms X, Xara, conducts
him in a businesslike fashion along the hall, through a familiar bedroom and
into its adjoining shower room.  She indicates a tumbler of what she
describes as ‘energy drink’ and his ‘outfit’ (a silky black thong); a parting
giggle.  A few minutes elapse and she knocks and re-enters while he still
towels his hair.  She’s clutching a wide roll of glossy ebony tape.

‘It’s okay – it sticks to
itself, not you,’ she assures him.  ‘Now please keep still.  Bend
down.’  He complies.  With a little laugh she takes a few turns
around his head to create a taut blindfold, then fastens his hands behind his
back, biting the tape each time to break it.

‘Is there anything you don’t do?’

           
He shakes his head, the string of the thong tightening unexpectedly but not
unpleasantly against his perineum.  He wonders if there
is
anything
he doesn’t do.

           
She leads him into the bedroom, now filled by the compelling pulse of trance,
loud as if designed to suppress all but tactile communication.  Although
he can see nothing, he has a sense of darkness and candlelight.  She
guides him down onto the nearest side of what he knows as an extra-large,
low-profile divan.  The heady, honeysuckle-scented air is warm, though he
feels a regular cooling flutter as a fan rakes to and fro across his naked
skin.  Then she tapes his ankles.

‘Won’t be long.’  Her breath
is hissed hot in his ear.

She – or they – or in
fact it could have been anybody as far as he at that moment could tell –
return maybe two or three minutes later.  They don’t speak, and initially
he just feels movements of the mattress, as though they’re cavorting beside
him.  Gradually, however, these activities transfer themselves across to
him, and he jerks in reflex as heated oil is poured upon his chest, rogue
rivulets running down his stomach and sides, chased and caught and caressed by
more than two hands.  There doesn’t seem much he can do, other than
respond by arching his body in whatever direction pressure is applied.  He
assumes the role is not to play a cadaver.  Then there are giggles; what
must be a moist pair of briefs is pressed over his nose and lips, restricting
his breathing, the musk dizzying, then fingers thrust the tiny garment into his
mouth before slowly extracting it.  A palm cups, squeezes, explores and
then carefully empties the contents of his thong.  Oil is applied –
it seeps hot between his buttocks.  Lips close around him.  Now
things happen with more urgency, and – as he strains to remember –
the chronological sequence is confused.  One, sometimes both, girls on top
of him.  Changing positions, wrestling almost competitively.  One
occupying his tongue, shaven, rasping bristles, pressing down hard and rhythmically
in time with the music, facing the other, who mounts him conventionally, riding
fast and furious.  They use vibrators on one another, and him, and the
scented oil flows copiously.  As their gay abandon approaches its frenetic
climax, more elaborate accessories join the fray.  A ball-gag.  A
cock-ring.  A strap-on.  He’s viewed them all online, wide-eyed,
contemplated buying; now he feels their unyielding efficacy.  One girl at
least – Xara, presumably – is adept in their application. 
While pre-orgasmic moans increase in frequency and volume, still he hears no
conversation – Xara’s the only voice towards the very end when she
whispers an urgent instruction, her lips close and tongue indecently exploring
his ear: ‘Don’t come yet.’  He succeeds, but only for so long –
finally the persistent actions of the female ‘in situ’ make it impossible for
him to hold back, he explodes beneath a tangle of limbs and crescendo of
cries.  On cue the girls tumble off into what he guesses is an exhausted
embrace.  Soon after, they silently leave the room.  One of them
approvingly (he assumes) bends to plant a careful kiss on his cheek as she
passes.  After a short while someone returns.  Although he’s stolen
random slit-like glimpses from chinks in the occasionally flexed blindfold,
right now it gives no quarter.  All is darkness.  Without a word the
girl methodically administers firm smooth hand and mouth relief to which he
considers resistance would be impossible.  Then she untapes his wrists and
ankles, turns down the music, and leaves him, still blindfolded, to
recover.  He’s buzzing like a swarm of bees in a suit of armour, and
wonders if there was something in that drink.  Or is it just sheer sexual
aftershock?  After a while he sits up, unwinds the self-cling tape,
showers distractedly, and slowly dresses.  When he emerges from the
bathroom he finds Xara waiting, elfin, posed demurely on the edge of the bed,
black tresses combed, make-up as new, a laundry-fresh kimono resting its hem
high on her olive thighs.