Justine Elyot - Game

‘Oh Sophie,’ whispers Sash, clicking her last and rushing over to take my hands and stroke them. ‘That was perfect. That was astonishing. Are you all right?’

‘Uh-huh. Gimme a minute.’

The doorbell rings.

‘Ah, that’ll be him.’

I stop lolling and sit bolt upright, thighs clamped shut, arms crossed over breasts. Him?

The solo shots are done, but there is more to come.

Sash slips away down the stairs. I hear her unbolt and open the door, but the voices are too faint to pick up. As the sound of feet hits the steps again, I grab a fur throw out of the prop box and wrap myself in it before the company arrives.

‘Oh, don’t cover up on my account.’

‘Lloyd!’

I give him my fiercest glare, but he is unruffled, threading his way past the tripod and camera towards me.

‘Who’s looking after the hotel?’

‘Kathleen’s fine for a couple of hours. There’s nothing exciting going on.’

‘Famous last words.’

He touches the side of my face, just above my temple, but I draw away, angry with him about all kinds of things, only some of which I can identify.

‘Chill,’ he says. ‘Smile. You’re on candid camera.’

‘A bit too bloody candid,’ I grumble.

‘I thought you’d be in your element.’

‘Do you want to see what we’ve got so far?’ invites Sophie, and he goes to join her as she fast-forwards through a few digital stills.

‘Come and see, Sophie,’ he says, but I don’t want to look at them. ‘Suit yourself,’ he mutters.

I watch him from the corner of my eye. His lips are curled up at one side, as if something amuses him, but his eyes are intensely focused, almost anxious. ‘I remember when you used to look at me like that,’ he says.

‘I was looking at you.’

‘Back when I worked in the cocktail bar. You always had this look. Kind of “I want you, but I hate that I want you, so I’ll pretend to myself that I don’t.” Remember?’

‘No. Because I didn’t want you. Not back then.’

‘Yes, you did.’

His flat assertion needles me, and makes me question myself. Is he right? Did I want him without knowing it? What were the implications of that? Were my thoughts not to be trusted?

Sash switches off the viewer and claps her hands, dispelling the tension. ‘So. Lloyd. You had some ideas for this section of the shoot, I believe.’

‘Yeah. Soph, come over here.’

He sounds conciliatory, a little exasperated. He sits on the sofa and pats the space beside him. I wonder if he wants me to fail or succeed. Which would be the better outcome for him?

I sit next to him, but not on the side he indicates. Instead, his discarded jacket lies between us, a no-man’s-land of light-grey pure wool.

‘What are you going to make me do?’

‘Oh goodness, I only photograph consenting subjects!’ exclaims Sasha. ‘There’s no forcing involved.’

Lloyd turns so his face isn’t visible to her and mouths the word ‘Fail’ with a raise of his eyebrows. I have to save this if I want to pass the test.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Lloyd and I … we have this sparring kind of relationship. It’s just our idea of fun.’

‘I see,’ says Sash, but I doubt she really does.

‘We like to push each other’s boundaries,’ he adds. ‘Challenge each other. That’s what this is all about, really.’

‘A challenge?’

‘Exploring limits,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it, Soph?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So, I told Sasha we could do some action shots.’

‘By action you mean …?’

‘Sex.’

‘Porn?’

‘No!’ trills Sasha. ‘I don’t do porn . I do erotic and boudoir . These will be sensual, non-explicit shots of your faces and upper bodies during the act of love.’

I nearly vomit. The act of love. With his customary presence of mind, Lloyd speaks hastily over my incipient snort.

‘Of course, we understand that. Sophie’s being cheeky.’ He gives my wrist a little tap. ‘Bad Sophie.’

The bastard has me hot again. Fuck him. How dare he?

I move a little closer to him, rumpling the jacket. He reaches an arm behind me, pressing a fingertip to the nape of my neck, a small but devastating connection. I start to believe that I can do this. My breathing deepens.

‘So, I can fold out the couch for you to use,’ suggests Sash. ‘Or I can put cushions on the floor, or in the cupboard I have a sex chair, even a swing …’

‘A swing! Ooh, exciting! Can I see?’

‘I was going to say I don’t really recommend the swing. I have to be seriously on top of my game to get good shots from it. It’s just so … swingy.’

‘Well, the sex chair then? Lloyd?’

‘Yeah, sex chair sounds interesting.’

‘OK, I’ll get it out. Can I get you two a drink while I set it up?’

‘No,’ says Lloyd. ‘We’ll just get warmed up.’

And, without warning, he tilts my head and swoops down to claim my lips. God knows what happens to his jacket, but we crush it between us, too caught up in arms and legs to care about its pristine creaselessness.

‘So,’ he questions me, between thrusts of tongue, ‘did you come just now? For the camera?’

‘Shut up. You know I did.’

‘I wondered if you would.’ Tongue goes back in, tongue draws back out. ‘But you’re so flushed. I love it when you’re flushed.’ More kissing. ‘I can’t wait to see the pictures.’

‘Who says I’ll show them to you?’

‘Oh, they’ll come to me first. I’m paying for them.’ His leg wedges itself over mine, trapping me underneath it.

‘I hate to think how much they’ll cost.’

‘Hmm, well, yeah, so do I.’ He kisses me again, the longest, dirtiest snog so far. ‘But I’m thinking of it as an investment.’

‘Oh my!’ Sash interrupts us from the centre of the floor. ‘Please come and do that for my camera. You have such chemistry.’

I cast a bleary look over to the chair she has assembled. It’s not what I imagined. For some reason I thought it would be a dungeon fixture with cuffs and stuff – in fact, it is a simple padded S-shape in expensive-looking zebra print leather. It’s almost more a bed than a chair, good and wide and full of possibilities.

‘So this is a sex chair?’ Lloyd rises to his feet, freeing me from my limb bondage.

‘There are various designs,’ says Sash.

‘I know. I haven’t seen this type before though. It looks so comfortable.’

She laughs, patting the padded upholstery. ‘It is. Come and see for yourself.’

She flits back to her camera, preparing for the highlight of the set. ‘So then, Lloyd. Time for your striptease. Now, you’re a male model, you need to bust out the moves.’

He mock-snarls at me and does that whip-cracking belt buckle thing that makes my knees weak. It lands on the floor in a curl of shiny leather, reminding me of all the times I’ve been struck with it.

Once the socks and tie are disposed of, he deals with the trousers, stepping out of them elegantly, then removing his pants so that he stands in only his long white work shirt, open at the collar, linked at the cuffs.

The inevitable fiddling with cuff links leads to the moment of revelation – the slow unbuttoning of the shirt, opening up on to a pale freckled chest, a stomach flatter than it used to be (must be all the sex) and then finally powerful thighs framing a cock in full-blooded erection.

It astonishes me that I used be indifferent to Lloyd. As he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders, I want nothing more than to pull him on top of me and shag him into the fifth dimension. It’s not about his looks. It’s about the looks he gives me. Nothing sends an arrow of devastating lust straight to my sex as fast as one crinkle of a Lloyd eye, one curl of a Lloyd lip.