out of each other’s mouths like they are licking ice-cream. They pause, tongues curled at the tips, and glance at me, eyebrows raised. My God. They really are like Siamese cats. Polly with her white blonde crop and crystal eyes would match them perfectly.
My mind seems permanently anchored to this new, perverted train of thought. Polly really would think I’d taken leave of every last sense if she thought I was setting her up, even theoretically, in a threesome. She was the one who taught me the facts of life, huddled cross-legged on the cold Devon beach amongst the cigarette butts. She was the one who told me about blowjobs, demonstrating with her bananas. She was the one who let her new boyfriend feel her up in front of all her London friends just a few months ago. Yet she can’t seem to cope with his scars.
And it’s her ignorant little country cousin who’s alone in a room with two of the richest, most debauched people in North America.
My finger trembles slightly. The meter is running. I charge by the hour, and then a further rate for the preparation and development of the pictures. So I start shooting, and once I’m in my stride the rest of the world, already far away, recedes even further from this sumptuous room.
Above us Gotham City marches on, the thrusting metropolis that never sleeps. Somewhere out there Gustav has cut his call to Mr Weinmeyer. Is he wishing he was here at the Weinmeyers’ house, watching? Has he been here before? Has he ever been into this boudoir of delight?
There is a murmur and a squeal from my clients, arousing each other on the bed. I try to drag my mind away from my lover. Not to picture the rickety girders of the High Line and Gustav at his meeting in the echoing space of a converted shed in the Meatpacking District. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to, but the fingertips that can make my nipples hard just by hovering over them will be drumming on the surface of the conference table as some cocky risk-taker outlines their plans for the future. Or a young, green hopeful like me. A twinge of jealousy pricks me. What if he happens upon another female ingénue in the course of his talent-spotting, ripe for the plucking?
I can’t go for more than about ten minutes without thinking about him. I must learn to park him well away from my mind.
I can now hear soft piano music playing. Mozart or Chopin, I’m not sure which, but the notes ripple up and down the octaves and pause, wind around the room. Now piano, now forte. Actually, the sensual ambience in here is perfect, like some kind of drug, because I’m relaxing too.
Mr Weinmeyer’s hand peels his wife’s negligee over her bottom, showing me her ballerina’s thighs and buttocks and the pinkness between. Then he stops kissing her, reclines against the huge pillows and lifts her easily on top of him.
I think of Gustav, lifting my naked, slippery body in the warm, bubbling water of our Jacuzzi. Tying me to our huge bed with the silver chain.
Mrs Weinmeyer strips off her flimsy garment, twists it rapidly in the air as if she’s making pizza dough and reduces it to a strip of cloth that she winds over Mr Weinmeyer’s eyes and fastens in a big bow behind his head. A huge dirty grin spreads across his face, and his blinded fingers explore her dark crevices, fan over his wife’s bottom. I slow the shutter speed to get some of this not only in soft focus but actually blurred, to reflect how sexy this is, and yet intensely, deeply loving.
I can feel dampness seeping into my knickers. My jeans feel too tight. Mrs Weinmeyer’s white bottom opens slightly as her husband rocks her over his groin. My hands are sweaty, and I lower my camera for a moment.
‘No, no, keep shooting.’ Mrs Weinmeyer is breathless. She keeps her blue eyes fixed on me over her shoulder. Her thighs soften, open a little wider.
Mr Weinmeyer lifts his wife off him for a moment. In one clean movement she whips his shorts off and lands lightly down again,
My mind seems permanently anchored to this new, perverted train of thought. Polly really would think I’d taken leave of every last sense if she thought I was setting her up, even theoretically, in a threesome. She was the one who taught me the facts of life, huddled cross-legged on the cold Devon beach amongst the cigarette butts. She was the one who told me about blowjobs, demonstrating with her bananas. She was the one who let her new boyfriend feel her up in front of all her London friends just a few months ago. Yet she can’t seem to cope with his scars.
And it’s her ignorant little country cousin who’s alone in a room with two of the richest, most debauched people in North America.
My finger trembles slightly. The meter is running. I charge by the hour, and then a further rate for the preparation and development of the pictures. So I start shooting, and once I’m in my stride the rest of the world, already far away, recedes even further from this sumptuous room.
Above us Gotham City marches on, the thrusting metropolis that never sleeps. Somewhere out there Gustav has cut his call to Mr Weinmeyer. Is he wishing he was here at the Weinmeyers’ house, watching? Has he been here before? Has he ever been into this boudoir of delight?
There is a murmur and a squeal from my clients, arousing each other on the bed. I try to drag my mind away from my lover. Not to picture the rickety girders of the High Line and Gustav at his meeting in the echoing space of a converted shed in the Meatpacking District. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to, but the fingertips that can make my nipples hard just by hovering over them will be drumming on the surface of the conference table as some cocky risk-taker outlines their plans for the future. Or a young, green hopeful like me. A twinge of jealousy pricks me. What if he happens upon another female ingénue in the course of his talent-spotting, ripe for the plucking?
I can’t go for more than about ten minutes without thinking about him. I must learn to park him well away from my mind.
I can now hear soft piano music playing. Mozart or Chopin, I’m not sure which, but the notes ripple up and down the octaves and pause, wind around the room. Now piano, now forte. Actually, the sensual ambience in here is perfect, like some kind of drug, because I’m relaxing too.
Mr Weinmeyer’s hand peels his wife’s negligee over her bottom, showing me her ballerina’s thighs and buttocks and the pinkness between. Then he stops kissing her, reclines against the huge pillows and lifts her easily on top of him.
I think of Gustav, lifting my naked, slippery body in the warm, bubbling water of our Jacuzzi. Tying me to our huge bed with the silver chain.
Mrs Weinmeyer strips off her flimsy garment, twists it rapidly in the air as if she’s making pizza dough and reduces it to a strip of cloth that she winds over Mr Weinmeyer’s eyes and fastens in a big bow behind his head. A huge dirty grin spreads across his face, and his blinded fingers explore her dark crevices, fan over his wife’s bottom. I slow the shutter speed to get some of this not only in soft focus but actually blurred, to reflect how sexy this is, and yet intensely, deeply loving.
I can feel dampness seeping into my knickers. My jeans feel too tight. Mrs Weinmeyer’s white bottom opens slightly as her husband rocks her over his groin. My hands are sweaty, and I lower my camera for a moment.
‘No, no, keep shooting.’ Mrs Weinmeyer is breathless. She keeps her blue eyes fixed on me over her shoulder. Her thighs soften, open a little wider.
Mr Weinmeyer lifts his wife off him for a moment. In one clean movement she whips his shorts off and lands lightly down again,
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