The Pleasure Quartet (38 page)

The act began simply enough.

The magician, dressed all in black, stood to one side. His assistant was situated in the room’s dead centre, a thin woman with medium-length, mouse-brown hair brushed to a shine who stood totally naked besides a rope of exquisite pearls that encircled her delicate throat. She looked afraid, and appeared to be totally unaware of the crowd that surrounded her. The magician’s attention remained focused on the movement of his hands that played with invisible marionette strings in the air in front of him. It was no matter to him whether his assistant was afraid or not.

The audience emitted a single gasp in unison, as before their eyes a tiny bubble materialised, and floated, growing in dimension until it was the size of a fairy-tale Cinderella carriage large enough to fit four comfortably or six at a squash.

The woman shed a tear, wiped it onto the bubble’s side, and disappeared from sight for a moment, shimmering into a hazy blur and reappearing within the sphere. It hovered just a few feet above the ground, seemingly controlled by the twitching fingers of the magician, whose severe features were now covered in a pronounced sheen of sweat.

She was joined by four others, three women and a man who were so achingly perfect in proportions they might have been sylphs rather than humans, oiled, buffed, sleek and nimble, creatures fashioned by the harsh and beautiful environment around them who would dissolve back into it once their task was complete.

They penetrated her. First with darting fingers and tongues and then with cocks so large she baulked at taking one, before being stretched to fit all three. Slowly her expression changed from fearful to beatific, a stream of emotions registering across her face for the hundreds of strangers in the tent to witness, until she was torn apart inside and assembled together again in a profile that illustrated a surreal form of peace.

Throughout it all, a brown-haired man in one of the front rows remained captivated by another. The red-haired musician standing in the orchestra pit whose nude body sheltered the curves of her violin as she immersed the whole crowd in a devilish pizzicato that peaked in a florid crescendo at the point where some of the audience feared that the woman in the bubble had been killed by her orgasm before the notes evolved into a sinuous melody, her fiddle now joined by the deeper tones of a cello as the two instruments together crafted a song that was both a torture and a delight to the souls of all those present.

The violinist played with her eyes closed, and the curve of a smile visible on her upturned lips. Her skin bore a map of red marks, some of them now fading and others that might bloom into bruises, the colour of the now violet sky presiding above the tent. When she shifted her position, spreading her legs just slightly further apart, a line of moisture glimmered on the soft skin of her upper thigh.

He had eyes only for her.

That night their sleep was uninterrupted, the heavy dreamless slumber of lovers, equally spent and happy to be tangled in each other’s arms.

They did not wait after Summer’s performance, to watch the other shows or the couplings between the guests present that they knew would be inevitable as the early hours progressed to morning.

Neither did they wake to watch the traditional ceremony of Aurelia’s re-confirmation as Mistress of the Ball at dawn.

When they finally arose, well rested, washed in the hot tub and then breakfasted on the leftovers of the extensive buffet that had greeted them on their arrival, it was close to midday and their transport was ready to return them via a long and complicated combination of air and road travel to the airport where they would catch their return flight to London.

Aurelia came to see them off.

Regal even in her casual wear of soft denim leggings, cashmere sweater and thick boots, Noah thought that she still bore the signs of the previous night’s entertainment. Not in puffy eyes or lines around her face but in the same inner glow that suffused her features and which he often noticed in Summer after they had just made love.

‘Hi,’ she said to them both. ‘Thank you for coming all this way.’

‘No, Aurelia, thank you for having us. It’s been . . . incredible,’ Noah told her, struggling for the right words to describe his experience of the improbable wonderland they had been ferried to. ‘The best show of my life,’ he added.

She carried an instrument’s case in her hand.

Noah saw that Summer’s eyes were fixed on it, and her face had turned an even paler hue than her usual shade of white.

‘Is that my . . .’ she started.

‘Yes,’ Aurelia told her. ‘Your Bailly. The Network bought it at auction, on my instruction. But Summer, the instrument belongs to you, and only you. You must keep it.’

She extended the case in her hand, where it stayed for several moments as Summer refused her offer.

‘I can’t . . . the cost . . .’ she insisted. ‘It’s too much.’

‘Your soul is entwined with whatever magic this violin holds,’ Aurelia replied. Her voice was twinged with humour, as if even she wasn’t entirely sure how true the myths were that surrounded the famed Christiansen. ‘If you do not take it,’ she added, ‘I fear for the violin’s next owner.’

Noah remembered from the tales at the auction house that the instrument had a tumultuous history and was aware that some saw ownership of it as a sure path to an uncertain fate.

Summer still refused. ‘I’ve spent some of the proceeds already,’ she told the Mistress, ‘I can’t pay you back.’

‘We don’t need or want your money,’ Aurelia told her. ‘Just your promise that you’ll play it. And, at some stage, play it again for us. Consider it a down payment against future performances, a deposit that I’m sure even your agent would urge you to consider.’

Summer accepted.

‘I have only one condition of my own,’ she said, as she wrapped her hand around the handle of the instrument’s jet-black case.

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t ask me to play Vivaldi again.’

I could feel that fervent buzz of expectancy rumble through the Berlin Philharmonie building. Set in Tiergarten, in the heart of the Kulturforum, it had opened in the sixties and was one of the jewels in the crown of world classical music. I had never performed there before. The main auditorium, in which I would be playing today, was shaped like a pentagon, had over two thousand seats and had the dimensions of a pagan temple. During soundchecks and rehearsals I had felt awed by the sheer splendour of its beautiful acoustics and architectural lines, and knew all too well that my concentration, phrasing and sound were not yet at their optimum, fine-tuned enough for my own satisfaction. But Simon, my ex-lover from a time that now felt like another life, and the orchestra were also aware from experience that solo performers often held back their best for the actual concert, so there had been no sign of worry.

It had taken Noah weeks of negotiations with sundry commercial parties involved to arrange for Simon’s youthful Venezuelan orchestra in full to make the journey. We had parted on good terms. Once approached, Simon had naturally been enthusiastic at the idea of conducting on the occasion of my return to the stage, but the finances had been complicated and had to be underwritten by the label against the future earnings of the live album which would be recorded on the evening. Adding to the pressure on all involved.

He turns and faces the wall, arms outstretched against it for support and allows me to undress him, steps out of the material I have loosened and unbuttoned, material falling away as in a dream. The solid bulk of his body, the sharpness of his hips, the meat of his strong thighs, the delicate curve of his neck and the untidy cascade of his hair flowing down towards his shoulders. I like the fact that his hair is always untidy, untamed. And its smell.

I pass my hand through his legs which he parts wider sensing my approach. Take his balls between my fingers, knead them, caress them, weigh them, careful not to touch his cock, although I can feel it throbbing already.

He backs into me.

His warmth, the gentle fire dancing across his bare skin, spreading its invisible tentacles around me.

I squeeze harder, testing his resolve.

He shudders.

Guttural sounds of pain and pleasure rise from his throat.

I was now alone in my dressing room.

I’d never suffered from stage fright earlier in my career, but today an uncertain feeling seized me, in the knowledge that Noah was putting his own job on the line by organising the concert. If I failed, I knew the awful pressure it could put on our relationship.

The bright bulbs illuminating the borders of the make-up mirror glared at me like tiny suns.

Every flat surface in the room was covered in goodwill cards and flowers: bouquets, vases, intricate confections in improbable shapes, wreaths.

The five-minute call boomed through the Tannoy. I was already dressed, though still shoeless. Make-up in place.

The single rose he’d given me was utter perfection, blood-red, carved with intricacy like a jewel, every petal a work of art, vibrant, electric. He had handed it to me with a soft farewell kiss on my forehead, elegant and forceful in his tuxedo, his dress shirt crisp and white, his eyes sparkling with pride.

Its long stem was festooned with fierce thorns and I took it with care between my fingers and clipped it to my black dress with a gold piece of costume jewellery I had picked up while with the Ball. Slipped on my high-heeled, red-soled new pair of Louboutins, a present from Lauralynn and Viggo, and walked out of the dressing room.

The long corridor that ran parallel to the auditorium, leading to the stage, unfolded, the rumour of the awaiting audience growing with every step.

I get down on my knees.

He swivels round. His hard cock now standing at attention in front of my face. I keep on grasping on to his ball sack. He moans. A glistening pearl of pre-cum shines on the tip of his cock, forcing its way through the eyelet of his glans. I lick it. Taste it. Savour it. Suck savagely in an cruel attempt to pump him forcefully, extract his essence with every further drop I can raise to the surface. He stoically endures my perverse torture, his eyes both faraway and fixed on me.

His knees are unsteady and I allow him a respite.

I finally strip and we are both naked.

I get back on my knees, take his soft balls in my mouth, lick him clean, move my tongue further down, trailing over his perineum until I am forcing its tip inside him, his darkness, his most intimate part.

I can feel him resisting another surge of pleasure, holding back. I know how sensitive he is down there. He knows too.

We move to the bed.

Someone held a curtain aside for me, handed me the Bailly and I emerged onto the stage. The sound of applause was deafening but I was blinded by the light as I walked the short distance from the wings towards the centre, where Simon stood on the conducting podium. Lauralynn sat, legs wide open, her massive cello like a throne pushing back the folds of her long dress, leading the strings, a familiar face among the orchestra’s players.

The light dimmed.

I bowed.

Caught a glimpse of Noah in the front row, amid a vast sea of faces.

I looked straight into his eyes.

Silently reminding him that I was here for him, that he was the only spectator I cared for. That the other two thousand plus members of the audience were superfluous, invisible.

He winked.

My throat felt dry. I evoked his unmistakable taste, and the way his whole body shuddered as if pierced by a sword of cold at the moment he would come in my mouth. Felt the heat rise from my core to my forehead.

I heard the pat-pat of Simon’s baton across his lectern, bringing the orchestra to attention. The musicians scrutinising both the conductor, awaiting his signal to commence, and their unfolded leaves of sheet music.

There was a lengthy orchestral section before I was ushered in. I closed my eyes. Isolated myself. The soul of the Bailly poured through my fingers.

A weighty hush ran through the auditorium.

He takes me into his arms, tosses and turns me, uses hands, fingers, lips, tongue and toys on me, until I am begging for him to fuck me.

He cruelly and beatifically takes his time while I hover on the edge of a precipice.

I am hot inside and outside, a wreck, a supplicant begging for him to press his advantage and reduce me to pulp, ejaculate across my naked skin to mark me as his, like an animal, now that I have no shame left and am reduced to a brain imprisoned in cage of pure lust, striving for pleasure, a cage of flesh that he plays with, teases, insults, manipulates, pleases in ways I didn’t know were possible. But I am greedy, always want more, more love, more lust, more pleasure until I finally reach that abominable wall against which I want to crash and explode into a trillion pieces. Filled by him, invaded by him, stretched and widened and pulled and torn. Until we are just one.

‘Fuck me hard . . .’

‘Yes, my love,’ Noah says.

I shifted slightly, broadening the angle of my legs, imagining a soft, sweet breeze wafting upwards through the Philharmonie building and reaching my naked cunt lips beneath the tight black dress, soothing my inner fire. I wore no underwear. Noah had asked. A mighty secret only the two of us would share. Had he asked me, I would have performed naked even.

I raised the bow.

My music came to life. I came to life.

Acknowledgements

Three years ago, Vina met Jackson on a train between London and Bristol and the adventures of Vina Jackson in the land of pleasure were launched.

Ten books later, and it’s been a wild, wonderful, erotic ride as the journey has come full circle and we bid farewell to Summer and all her fictional cohorts.

We’ve named names at the end of every volume of 80 DAYS, MISTRESS OF NIGHT AND DAWN and, now, THE PLEASURE QUARTET, so this time around discretion will remain the better part of valour. You know who you all are.