The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) by Primula Bond Page A

sliding straight onto the erection quivering in waiting. I take a fantastic shot of Mrs Weinmeyer’s long white arm launching the white shorts into the air as if freeing a dove. She bangs herself hard down onto her husband, making his body jerk helplessly beneath her, but she’s not ready to let go quite yet. She rummages under one of the enormous red cushions and flourishes a pair of leopardskin-covered handcuffs. Nestling down on him she snaps the cuffs around his wrists and fixes them to a discreet hook fixed to the wall behind his head.
    Weird shocked laughter catches in my throat. Gustav should have hooks like that in the apartment to attach the silver chain.
    Mrs Weinmeyer joins in my laughter. Now she’s like a rider on a bucking bronco, a position I love, but these two are so quiet, so graceful, choreographed in slow motion like a dance. It’s sexy as hell, but you couldn’t exactly call it
dirty
.
    It’s so warm down here. Even my silk long-sleeved T-shirt is sticking to me. I roll the sleeves up, pull at the boat neck.
    What would Polly say? For the first time ever the question stalls. Once she’d have been taking notes, demanded that I give her every gory detail, but something’s changed in her. I have no idea what she’d say about this scenario. She’d either tell me to join in or get the hell out. There was something so contrived about the way she writhed on Pierre’s lap and flashed her knickers the other night as he groped her.
    What about Gustav? What would he say? Do the Weinmeyers have a reputation for kidnapping new talent for sexual slavery? Did he know when he waved goodbye from the corner of the Dakota building that I was wandering into a den of debauchery? Is that why he called Mr Weinmeyer just now? Is this another test to open my mind, hold my nerve?
    Mrs Weinmeyer rocks faster, her body sliding easily as Mr Weinmeyer enters her. I step round them as quietly as I can, seeing, catching, shooting. This is my job. Gustav will have to accept it. My body is tight with excitement at the sight of this elegant, white-limbed couple entwining in front of me, to be forever frozen in the act of riding each other on the big red bed deep beneath Manhattan.
    Her bottom gyrates over him. His hands pull half-heartedly against the handcuffs but he doesn’t want to escape. I take a close-up of his hands, clawed, the tendons in his wrists standing out from the tender underside as if he’s being tortured, but straining as if that gives him leverage and rhythm as his wife works her thighs and butt. I squeeze my legs together as the pair accelerate their pace, the little muscles flexing in her slim back, his legs lifting and falling, his toes curling in response as the two of them move soundlessly.
    Mrs Weinmeyer waves her hands wildly in the air and although they’re making no sound I realise from the way her head is falling back and his legs are bending and kicking up under her that they’re coming in perfect harmony. I rub up between my legs, I can’t help it. I tremble in the corner, biting my lip to keep from moaning out loud, until they’ve stopped moving. They remain totally still. The porcelain shepherd and his shepherdess enacting a scene from the Kama Sutra.
    ‘Hey, sugar,’ coos Mrs Weinmeyer after a few moments, flicking her hair away from her face. ‘Come over here. All this lovin’ making you horny?’
    ‘Ingrid,’ growls Mr Weinmeyer, ‘you’re coming on all southern belle. You were born in Vienna, for God’s sake!’
    She sniggers, her pink lips curling back over sharp little teeth like a yawning cat. ‘And I prefer it when you come on all silent Aryan beefcake. Hey, Serena. Come round this side of the camera, why don’t you? Come sit with us.’
    I don’t move for a moment.
    ‘I’d like to see the images so far,’ she soothes. ‘See how well they’ve come out.’
    She’s the client. Remember that, Folkes. Remember that they are certainly going to report back to Gustav.