Chapter Four
He was blindfolded, helpless, his sweat beginning to soak into the silk bonds that held him strapped, spread-eagled on the mattress. No wonder the Marquis had had him escorted to this room, with its four-poster bed whose curlicued mahogany pillars looked as heavy as marble. No matter how much he thrashed, trying to loosen the woven cords around his wrists and ankles, the wood to which they were fastened barely even creaked; and not only was he a strong young man, his muscles were not merely for show. He was the son and apprentice of a blacksmith, his biceps mighty, his stomach thick and solid for balance, to hold his back safe against the swing of the forging hammer: no footman, hired for height and decoration, no young Regency buck who sparred with Gentleman Jackson at the latter’s Bond Street boxing salon for sport.
That last image made his blood stir. None other than Lord Byron had recorded in his diary that, after pugilistic instruction from Jackson, the two men had enjoyed an encounter just as sweaty, just as intense, but even more stripped down and private. Byron swore that he had had carnal knowledge of Jackson, and whether it were true or not, the vivid picture that this conjured up, the Champion of England and the famous poet, the one all muscle and sinew, the other a beauty for the ages, naked, wrestling for physical supremacy, on a bed identical to this, the sound of their panting as they struggled one to conquer the other with urgent cocks rather than clenched fists – not just the sounds of them gasping for breath, but the slick of sweating flesh against flesh, the quick spit of saliva into a palm, the moist slick of that fluid, enhanced by thick drops eagerly released in anticipation, up and down a thrusting shaft, the final gushing rush of release into mouth or arsehole, the groans of both men as they gave and received in turn . . .
His cock was straining now. If his hands had been free – even one hand, even his less-favoured left hand, which lacked the long expertise in pulling his own cock with the exquisite torture that would inevitably lead to the longed-for explosion – he would have come immediately at the picture of those two men. It was their physical competition that excited him so much, the element of constraint, of force, one compelling the other to a surrender that was so desired but also so erotically resisted to prolong delight.
This was what he craved: the being forced, the forcing in turn. This was why he found himself now, here, oil worked into his body as if he were a harem slave, tied to a bed, desperate for satisfaction, but longing to greet the Marquis with a stiff cock whenever he deigned to enter this bedroom, rather than a belly smeared with his own almond-scented liquid.
It was agony, this waiting, this anticipation. When, finally, after God knew how much time had passed, his tears wetting the silk blindfold that kept him in delicious darkness, he heard footsteps in the passage, the doorknob turn, his balls tightened, his cock sprang even fuller, even more erect, its tumescence now more pain than pleasure . . .
Oh, heaven help him! No – heaven would scorn to reach out and save him from what awaited him. It was his punishment for being who and what he was, not just for desiring men, but for his need of restraint and restraining. For it was not just the Marquis who had entered the room, who was staring at his naked and aroused body. There had been more than one set of boot heels stepping heavily down the corridor, into this bedroom. One man closed the door while another walked to the bed, stood beside the mattress, his gaze as hot on the young man strapped down there as if it were a flambeau held by a footman, so close it could burn the skin.
‘You filthy catamite,’ the Marquis said softly, and more tears dampened the blindfold even as, to his humiliation, his hips thrust upwards at the insult, silently showing his submission. ‘You deserve more punishment than I alone can give you for your disgusting lusts.’
And even as the Marquis’s leather-gloved hand closed around his cock, other hands unfastened the cords around his ankles, freeing them, pushing them up towards his chest. The mattress sagged with the heavy weight of a man climbing onto it, up between his spread legs, still in riding boots, the squeak of the leather unmistakeable. He was to be fucked by a gentleman who did not even deign to strip before he drove his cock in, just loosened his breeches, spat on his hand and went to work.
It was glorious. It was all he could do not to shoot straight away into the Marquis’s calfskin glove. He grit his teeth, threw back his head, held out as long as he could, and his reward, on feeling the stranger’s hot eager come flood his arsehole, finally, was to yield his own to the Marquis’s mouth, which was now tightly sealed around his cock, lapping up every drop of the catamite’s filthy, sinful, forbidden spunk.
‘You wrote this?’ Lexy stared at Caroline, turning over the pages of print-out to see if there was any more of the story. ‘You wrote this?’
Caroline nodded, pressing her lips together to control her fear, as she couldn’t tell from Lexy’s stunned reaction whether she loved or hated the Regency gay sex scene, and it was crucial that she did. This was the second test: Caroline had passed the first, as Lexy had liked the first-person narrative that she had challenged Caroline to write about the anal bleaching scene. Lexy didn’t know yet, she had said, what she thought the book should be; a novel, a biography, a combination of the two. But she had pronounced the piece to be easy to read, full of personality, and not pompous or patronizing. From the way she’d delivered the last words, it was clear that some of the other potential ghostwriters had been exactly that.
So Caroline had demonstrated that she could write in a way that appealed to Lexy. And her attitude was clearly acceptable; in fact, Caroline’s deference provided Lexy with a great deal of amusement. Lexy had a way of looking at Caroline with lightly concealed mockery every time Caroline acted too humbly or seemed intimidated by Lexy’s sheer physical confidence.
They were meeting today in the bar of a Bloomsbury hotel, all black leather sofas and parchment-toned orchids on polished silver tables, and Lexy had already laughed out loud at Caroline’s insistence that she was perfectly fine just drinking tap water. Lexy was on Pinot Grigio, which she had ordered with a slice of lemon in it. The nervous waiter had brought the lemon on the side, and Lexy, tutting loudly, had plonked it into her glass, commenting on how annoying it was when people couldn’t listen properly. The waiter, not knowing where to look – her famous face, her famous breasts and her famous legs were all very much on display – retreated backwards as if she had been the Queen, bowing and mumbling apologies.
‘Well,’ Lexy finally said, putting down the pages once she had confirmed that the Regency bondage and buggery scene ended at the point that two out of the three participants reached their climax. ‘I’d never have guessed it! You don’t look the type at all. But they say the quiet ones are always the filthiest, don’t they? Fuck me, I need a drink after that!’
She picked up her glass, drained the wine, sucked enthusiastically on the lemon, and waved over to the barman to order another. Then she turned back to fix Caroline with a stare that, for the first time in their acquaintance, had respect in it. Caroline had emailed Lexy the anal bleaching scene a couple of days after the meeting in Sandbanks, and though Lexy had rung her up that very day to convey her approval, she had added that she had a big question which needed to be resolved. As far as Caroline was concerned, that could have been almost anything, and she held her breath until she heard what Lexy was about to say.
‘No offence,’ Lexy had said breezily, which naturally meant that something very likely to insult was coming down the pipeline. ‘But can you be sexy?’
Caroline – who was at work, in her usual uniform of Next grey skirt and M&S polyester crepe shirt – looked down at herself instinctively and winced.
‘I could try, I suppose,’ she said feebly.
‘Hah!’ Lexy laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you get on a pole and give me a twirl! I mean your writing, Ghost Mouse! Can you write sexy?’
‘Oh!’ Caroline let out a sigh of relief. Was bated breath the same as holding it? If so, hers was unbated now. ‘Yes,’ she said confidently, careful not to repeat the word ‘sexy’ so that her colleagues didn’t realize this wasn’t a work call. ‘Yes, I can definitely do that. You don’t need to worry.’
‘Okay, but I can’t just take your word for it,’ Lexy pointed out.
‘I’ve already written, um, quite a lot of material in that area,’ Caroline said, glancing around at her co-workers to make sure they didn’t notice anything unusual in this conversation.
‘Great! You got something I can read?’
‘Yes. I could email it—’
‘Nah. Bring it along this afternoon,’ Lexy said briskly. ‘The Bloomsbury Square Hotel, three o’clock, in the lobby bar. Print it out, yeah? My editor says it’s better to read stuff on paper than screen. Fuck knows why.’
And without bothering to say goodbye, Lexy had hung up, leaving Caroline impaled on the horns of a dilemma. If she ducked out of work that early, her boss would be livid; the day she had taken off to go to Sandbanks last week was still being held against her because of the lack of notice. And walking out in the middle of the day was even more extreme.
Caroline would have to plead a family emergency – after she’d surreptitiously printed off a sex scene for Lexy, of course, a sackable offence in itself to use office equipment for private purposes – but she was dreading how this would be received. She was quite right to be worried. Her boss threw a massive wobbly: to placate her, Caroline had to promise to come in an hour early for the rest of the week and stay an hour late, effectively tripling the time she would be taking off this afternoon.
It wasn’t fair. But no one in their twenties expected the job market to be fair. You didn’t go to HR to complain, you didn’t point out that you had holiday days or sick days coming against which you could set this afternoon. You were desperate to keep your job, pathetic and low-paid and prospect-free though it was. So you kept your mouth shut and apologized and agreed to anything your boss demanded, then grabbed your cheap plastic knockoff handbag from under your desk and slunk out with your head hanging, pantomiming guilt, mumbling a string of sorrys to the colleague who was going to have to finish your proofing work as well as her own . . .
And having to meet Lexy while dressed in ugly work clothes was an extra punishment. Caroline had been staring miserably at her handbag on the tube, mortified at the state of it. Threads were coming off the stitching all round the handle, and when she tried pulling at one to break it off, it just kept coming till she got scared it would all pull free. She ended up wrapping the thread clumsily around the base, trying to knot it as best she could so it wouldn’t keep working itself loose. The bag, bought from a market stall a couple of years ago, was in a terrible state. She had known it was very bashed up, but it was only now, sitting with it on her lap, that she took in how badly the plastic was cracked and curling away from the corners, the threads on the side seams fraying as well.
She had strategically pulled out the book extract for Lexy before entering the hotel, bunching the handbag up under her arm and then dropping it onto the armchair, practically sitting on it to conceal its decrepitude. The waiter brought Lexy her second glass of Pinot Grigio, this time with not only a slice of lemon in it but a decorative curl of peel perched on the rim, and she nodded at him in thanks as he set it down.
‘So what’s with the gay stuff?’ Lexy asked Caroline, picking up the glass. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I like gay porn as much as the next girl! The only thing better than one naked hot guy is two or three naked hot guys, right?’
Having lived her adult life under the glare of TV cameras, Lexy was entirely nonchalant about making sexual or revealing comments in front of staff. The waiter’s ears were bright red as he withdrew to the bar once more, and Caroline, much shyer, waited until he was out of earshot before she answered.
‘I wrote a novel last year,’ she said. ‘That’s an extract from it. It’s about a blacksmith who falls in love with the son of an earl. In the end they run off to be pirates together on the South Seas—’
‘Cool, but why the gay stuff?’ Lexy was inexorable. ‘Why not girls and boys?’
Because I don’t feel sexually confident enough to write straight sex scenes, Caroline thought. Because describing women’s bodies that are way better than mine – women who don’t have any problems getting on top of a guy because their tummies are flat, or doing reverse cowgirl because their bums are smooth and not spotty or pocked with cellulite – makes me feel incredibly sad about my own really boring sex life. I’m too embarrassed to try anything but missionary. Or doggy, but only in the dark.
I bet that’s why women write male gay porn novels, she thought suddenly. I bet it’s because it doesn’t make them depressed at the contrast between the perfect figures they’re describing and the state of their own belly fat. If you’re creating hot guys with washboard abs and bulging biceps and bums like twin peaches, guys who would never look at you in real life, it’s much easier to have them fancy each other. That way you don’t have to deal with the cold hard truth that you’ll never, ever, shag a man that hot and sexy . . .
‘Lots of women write this kind of thing,’ she told Lexy. ‘They use their initials, or men’s names, otherwise the gay guys wouldn’t buy it. Or the women readers, I suppose – the fantasy is that it’s a sexy man telling the story. There isn’t loads of money in it, though, because only gay guys and some women buy them, which doesn’t add up to a huge amount of people.’
‘I didn’t even know there were books like this!’ Lexy said. ‘I’d definitely give this one a go, though! Hot gay porn! And I don’t even read books much.’
She glanced at the pages spread out on the table, nodding approvingly.
‘I didn’t understand some of the words, honestly, but that doesn’t matter, ’cause you can totally work out what’s going on,’ she commented. ‘It makes you sound really clever. Plus it makes the reader feel clever too, reading a dirty sex scene with long words and all that posh history stuff in it, Lord Byron and that. It’s much classier than . . . I dunno, those porn novels with the black and white photos on the cover.’
‘Thanks!’
Caroline went pink at this praise. The part about making the reader feel clever was the best part of all.
‘Could you do something that was sexy like this? In the same sort of style as that bit you sent me about me getting my bum bleached?’ Lexy asked. ‘Ugh, Frank wasn’t joking about liking me more natural, by the way. He hasn’t gone near my arse since. I even googled “how long does it take anal bleaching to fade?” but couldn’t get an answer.’
‘You should try Reddit,’ Caroline suggested.
As Lexy had already learned, Caroline was swift at repartee, and she was a fast learner, aware now that when Lexy said something outrageous, the best response was not to become embarrassed but to assume a poker face and a dry retort.
‘What’s that, then?’
Lexy was almost through her second glass of wine, but she didn’t sound remotely affected by it.
‘It’s online,’ Caroline explained. ‘People ask questions and everyone chimes in to help and answer them. It can be really funny. Celebrities do it too, for interviews in real time. It’s called an AMA – Ask Me Anything. Seriously, you should definitely do it when you’ve got something to promote – you’re good at banter and thinking on your feet.’
‘So are you, eh?’ Lexy said, setting down her now-empty glass. ‘You don’t look it, but you are.’
She surveyed Caroline, who cringed, knowing what was coming.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Lexy began, ‘but what you’re wearing is fucking criminal. You look like you work behind the counter at a bank. Do you work at a bank?’
‘No, I write and copy-edit press releases for a media company,’ Caroline said, noticing with pleasure that Lexy was folding the A4 sheets of her book extract and dropping them into her extremely expensive-looking leather bag, covered in buckles and studs and unnecessary hardware. ‘We do publicity for trade organizations and—’
But Lexy was calling for the bill, pulling out her wallet, ignoring Caroline’s answer.
‘Come on, then!’ she said, standing up. ‘We’ve got a meeting at four. I’m not promising anything, yeah? But you might as well come along. It’s just round the corner.’
‘What is?’
Caroline’s heartbeat juddered irregularly as she waited for the answer.
‘My publishers, of course!’ Lexy said impatiently.
Her eyes widened as she saw Caroline stand up and fish out her bag from the armchair.
‘Fuck me,’ she said. ‘What is that thing? Looks like you nicked it off a skip on the way over here!’