Pleasure Island (23 page)

T
he woman stepped
out of the shower and began to roughly towel dry herself in haste. As usual she was running late for a lunch appointment with her ‘boyfriend', and as usual she didn't really give a flying fat fuck, only she sensed she'd been pushing her luck with him lately and this was enough to ensure she got a move on – not because she gave a shit about him, because she absolutely didn't. In fact, like all of her ‘boyfriends', she felt very little other than contempt for him; he was a pathetic, snivelling, woefully inadequate ass-clown, but she couldn't afford to lose him, not yet anyway. As one of her most lucrative ‘boyfriends', their long-standing ‘understanding' had allowed her to give up her day job and purchase a bijoux apartment in Belgravia, not to mention fund her recent investment into Martin McKenzie's latest pay-per-view ‘project'. Reason enough to be on time then, if there was any.

Their arrangement was pretty straightforward; he was older, married, loaded and liked to be dominated. She was comparatively younger, single, enjoyed administering pain and humiliation and relieving him of a large chunk of his salary for the privilege. As well as the most generous, this particular ‘boyfriend' was also the most subservient, pathetically grateful to be punished for the smallest of imagined slights. And she did so enjoy his pain and suffering. There was, however, one downside to this agreement and it manifested itself in the form of an obsessional intolerance towards bad punctuality. The man went completely crazy if ever she was late to a ‘date', and in a spectacular moment of complete role reversal would tear her a new arsehole if she was even as little as five minutes overdue. It pissed her off but she was wise enough to suck it up and make sure it didn't happen too often. She had a good number going with this particular piece of shit and didn't want to jeopardise it. After all, it beat working for a living.

She began to dress herself from the assortment of attire on the bed starting with his favourite Agent Provocateur stockings, followed by some French lace
ouvert
knickers, a waist-cinching corset and a skin-tight leather Alaïa dress that accentuated her dangerous curves. It was Thursday, Doggie day, where he liked to fashion a diamond studded collar while she dragged him around the bedroom on a leather leash before strapping him into a harness and whipping his naked behind senseless. She particularly enjoyed the part where she got to make him eat Pedigree Chum from a plastic pet bowl as he crawled around the floor like the pathetic turd he was. She stepped into her 8-inch studded Louboutins and reminded herself to walk through as much of the city's grime on her way to meet him; it gave her such sublime pleasure watching him licking the shit off her red soles with his tongue. Occasionally, weather-permitting, they would take a trip out to the countryside together afterwards to some infamous beauty spots, admire the great outdoors before indulging in a little dogging. They would alternate between being the voyeurs and putting on a show for other doggers, depending on what mood grabbed them. Personally she preferred the former. Voyeurism was her bag, although she could be anything you wanted if the price was right; dominant, submissive, as deviant as you were prepared to go; a good all-rounder, she like to think. Still, she enjoyed Thursdays; her ‘boyfriend's' particular preferences allowing her to release any pent-up aggression she had accumulated during the week.

She opened the door to her closet of tricks, which contained all manner of devices and fetish gear, and reached for the 12-inch rubber dildo he liked her to use on him so forcefully. The man really was a sexual degenerate, as well as a respected private medical practitioner to the exceptionally rich and famous. The contrast always made her smile; if only his patients knew what their hero surgeon's sexual perversions were when he cut them open, they'd probably have a heart attack right there on the operating table. Still, it took all sorts.

Applying blood-red lipstick and spritzing herself with his favourite perfume – Rive Gauche, a somewhat old-fashioned smell that apparently reminded him of his grandmother – and mindful of the time, she grabbed her black, studded, Jimmy Choo shoulder bag and made to leave, only her eye caught the laptop that was open on the dressing table and she hesitated.
Just a little sneaky peek
…

She threw her handbag down onto the bed and went over to it. Clicking on the screen she inputted her unique pin code and smiled as the action came into view.

‘Well, hello my little friends, and how are we all today?'

Admittedly she was finding the antics on Pleasure Island utterly addictive. Watching it had become something of a guilty pleasure, money well spent as far as she was concerned. This was her kind of show, a soap opera for voyeuristic sadists, one in which the actors had no idea they were performing for the cameras and where she also had a say in the storyline. After a hard day's spanking and administering humiliation, she had enjoyed nothing more than coming home, switching her computer on and catching up on the events unfolding on the island. She had been particularly pleased with Billie-Jo's storyline. The masseur seduction scene had been her idea and McKenzie had executed it with great aplomb, hiring in a professional to get the job done. The feeling of control it had given her to watch the action unfold had been enough to bring her to an earth-shuddering orgasm; the sex itself was largely immaterial, it was the feeling of the power she had over a bunch of complete strangers that really flicked her switch.

Now she was keen to see what could happen next between Angelika Deyton and Nate Simmons and had been busy thinking of various scenarios that would potentially push them together. She wondered what the rest of the Super Eight might be concocting, rightly sensing there was competition between them as to who could push things the furthest, whose ideas would make it to the final cut and get the almighty McKenzie's seal of approval.

Playing with other people's lives was such fun. It was only a pity she couldn't throw on some PJs, order in pizza and spend the afternoon tuned in. Listening in on a conversation that Mia and Angelika were having about Rupert while simultaneously watching Nate Simmons use the bathroom – he was certainly blessed in
every
department – she wondered which of the other club members were watching and checked the bottom left corner of the screen to see who was currently on-line. Inadvertently she dropped the lipstick she'd been holding. That couldn't be right, she thought, frowning. Her phone suddenly beeped, startling her. It was her ‘boyfriend' demanding to know where she was.

‘Chill the fuck out, arsehole,' she muttered, her eyes transfixed on the bottom left of the screen. It was clearly a mistake. McKenzie had given their private exclusive little club the moniker it had for obvious reasons – there was just eight of them. In which case, she wondered – a feeling of unease suddenly settling upon her tightly encased stomach – how come it now said: ‘users: 112,478'?

‘
A
ren't
you worried about getting caught?' Billie-Jo stood opposite him in the sea, the water waist height, the sun and light breeze causing her big nipples to harden like diamonds beneath her gold-and-silver Agent Provocateur Mazzy bikini. ‘What if we're seen?'

‘Isn't that part of the buzz?' He grinned at her. ‘Anyways, why the fuck should I be worried? I'm not the one who's married.'

‘Yeah, but you came here with Mia, as her … I dunno, what would you call it, squeeze? Date? Grandson impersonator?'

‘Cheeky little fucker you, aren't you?' He laughed. ‘Mia's all right. She's been pretty good to me really, I s'pose. Helped introduce me to some influential people, you know, producers and stuff, guys who've worked with some big names, people like Pink Floyd and Led Zep and those dudes. I can't say that stepping out with her hasn't helped my profile either. She might not have had a tune out in years but man, the paps still gotta thing for her.'

‘Led Zep? Never heard of them,' she said dismissively, ‘and for that you have to fuck her in return, right?' She swished her long, blonde hair back from her face in dramatic fashion. ‘Must be like eating out your nan's pussy. Eww.'

She pulled a face and Joshua laughed again. She was so crass, and so damn sexy with it. He kinda liked it. Billie-Jo was all front, literally, yet he sensed there was more going on underneath the bravado. Still, at least you always knew where you were with a girl like that. He hated all that second-guessing bullshit most chicks played. This one was nothing if not direct. It made a refreshing change.

‘I'd rather eat out
your
pussy.' He raised his eyebrows at her, his dirty, blond hair hanging just below his shoulders, giving him the look of a young, fairer Jim Morrison. ‘Anyway, a boy gotta do whatta boy gotta do, you know what I'm saying?'

She did. Exactly.

‘Your cast is getting wet,' she said.

‘The only thing I give a shit about getting wet is your pussy,' he retorted.

‘Ha, dream on,' she said. ‘Anyway, like you said, I'm the married one.'

‘So what you doing here then, sugar tits?' he replied cockily, ‘checking out the view?'

Billie-Jo snorted. She did so love an arrogant man, one who presented her with a challenge; she thrived on it.

‘I'm asking myself the very same question,' she replied facetiously, placing a hand on her hip. Actually she knew very well why she had agreed to meet JJ down by the beach at such an early hour and why she had stomped round the cabana that morning creating as much of a din as possible; she wanted Nate to know that she was off somewhere; she wanted him to search for her and ideally find her, catch her alone with JJ. It was a test. If he came looking for her then she knew all was not lost and that he did really love her.

At the end of the day that's all Billie-Jo had ever really wanted; to be loved. She knew deep down that life had hardened her, making it almost impossible for her to obtain true intimacy with anyone. She trusted no one, not even her own mother. In her experience, both sexes were out to get her in one way or another; men to use her for sex and women because men wanted to use her for sex. She couldn't win but she sure as shit was gonna put up a damned good fight.

Billie-Jo was of the school of thought that you had to leave someone before they left you; first sign of trouble and she was out the door and into the arms of the next awaiting car crash. It had been a diabolical pattern all her life but the alternative – giving herself to someone fully, loving someone unconditionally – was far scarier. Einstein she may not have been, but she was far more emotionally intelligent than she cared to let on. She understood that in order to have a successful relationship with a man, with anyone, she would need the balls to tear down her barriers and learn to love herself. After all, if she didn't love herself, then no other fucker was going to. And that was the bit she struggled with most. When you'd been treated as if you were a worthless piece of meat since you were a kid, it was difficult not to believe it in the end.

Nate felt sorry for her but she sensed he did not love her. How could he? She hadn't exactly made it easy for him. They wanted different things; him to settle into obscurity, become a nobody and her polar opposite. He'd experienced fame and it had left him with a bitter aftertaste. For her it had been like nectar on her tongue; it had made her come alive, feel special for the first time in her life, the attention giving her flaccid self-esteem a permanent hard-on. Was it so wrong to want to be adored, to be admired by others, celebrated and imitated? People were always saying how fame and money doesn't make you happy. Like, who the fuck were they kidding? Did Kim Kardashian have a miserable face when papped on board her husband's yacht? Did she fuck.

Nate Simmons was the closest Billie-Jo had ever been to a man – hell, to anyone really – and yet she knew relatively little about what really made him tick. He had been kind to her, though. He'd never given her a slap like some of the others had; never unashamedly engaged in all that roasting and prostitute-shagging that many footballers were want to do, humiliating their wives and girlfriends in the process. On the contrary he'd been respectful, placid even, tolerant of her often-destructive behaviour, supportive while she'd been starting out in the glamour game, even encouraged her. Their marriage had been sedate and relatively drama-free – and yet, she felt ashamed to admit, largely boring as fuck because of it. Unless she was in an intense state of emotional agony or a crazy euphoric high then Billie-Jo wasn't feeling anything at all. She didn't do middle ground. Nate was just too good for her, and she was just too good at being bad.

Although she sensed her marriage was little more than a farce coming apart at the seams, Billie-Jo had felt irritated with her husband's indifference towards her since they'd arrived on the island, his attention somewhat pre-occupied by that fucking toffee-nosed writer-bitch,
Angelika
. She still couldn't get her head around that one, the possibility that he might actually prefer the likes of
her
. It had been the first time she'd been faced with genuine competition for any man's affection, let alone her own husband's, and it was not sitting well with her. One thing Billie-Jo had always relied upon was being the prettiest, most-desired girl in the room and it had been a huge bruise to her ego that Nate's attention seemed to have become focussed elsewhere. Still, Joshua Jones was shaping up to be a suitable replacement if needs be, and besides, she actually quite liked him.

JJ splashed her playfully, lunging forward and linking his good arm around her tiny waist.

‘Cool it, mister,' she said, backing off, ‘all breakages must be paid for.'

JJ laughed. ‘Bit late to start playing it cool, isn't it? Like, that ship sailed a few nights ago, babe.'

Billie-Jo snorted in a bid to disguise her nervousness. Had it, really? If so, then she sure as shit had no recollection of it.

‘So you say, Jose,' she remarked, ‘but then again we were all off our tits. Cement would've had a job getting hard the amount of shit and liquor we shovelled up our noses and down our throats.'

She was right; he couldn't quite remember the details himself, but he was pretty sure
something
had taken place. They'd woken up naked next to each after all.

‘What do you think of Angelika?' Billie-Jo asked, interested to get JJ's take on her. ‘Do you think she's attractive?'

‘Sure,' he shrugged, ‘bit girl-next door for my personal preference, but pretty enough face and a smokin' hot lil' body. Could have a bigger rack, I suppose, but I wouldn't kick her out of bed, put it that way.'

‘No, please, tell me how you really feel! And you wouldn't kick
anyone
out of bed,' she said, mildly aggravated. ‘You're just a dog with two dicks like the rest of them.'

‘And you're just the kinda bitch this dog likes. Anyways, don't be jealous, you're much more up my boulevard, babe. She can't hold a candle to you, which is a good job really I suppose since you might go up in flames with those plastic tits.' He laughed. He liked this chick, genuinely. There was something about her.

‘And here was me thinking you yanks didn't do ironing.'

‘Irony, dumb ass.'

‘That's what I said!' she shot back.

‘Ironing is what you'll be doing for me soon enough; keeping my shit nice to take on tour with me; I can just see you in your house coat now, hair in curlers, sucking my dick while you press the creases in my jeans.'

‘Piss off!' she screamed at him. ‘Anyway, who the fuck under fifty puts creases in their jeans anyway?'

The both started laughing now, hard, and for a split second Billie-Jo found herself lost in the moment, enjoying herself for real. She'd never laughed like this with Nate before; she wasn't sure she'd ever laughed like this with anyone.

‘Anyway, screw that, you won't need to do the ironing; we'll pay some maid to do that shit for us, I'll be needing you for
other
things though.' He was face to face with her in the water now, their noses almost touching, his hands linked around the small of her back. She felt his hard on pressing against her wet thigh.

‘Oh yeah, and what's that?'

‘Every good frontman needs his woman on tour with him, keep the groupies in check,' he said, his lips almost upon hers. She felt his breath against her face, warm and salty, the faint smell of cigarettes and alcohol.

‘I'd be on tour
with
you?'

‘You bet your ass,' he whispered, their eyes locking. ‘You think I'd leave a knockout like you at home? No freakin' way!'

Billie-Jo smiled happily. Now this was much more like it she thought as he finally pressed his lips against hers, his warm tongue gently sliding inside and meeting her own. ‘But I'm married …' she was about to say but thought better of it. Oh fuck it, she said to herself, surrendering fully to the kiss, pressing her large, hard nipples against his lean, tattooed torso, it wasn't as if anyone was watching.