Freya North - Pillow Talk

‘Suck my cock,’ he panted and Petra obliged, though she didn’t need his hands guiding her head and she wished he wouldn’t because it made her gag. ‘God, I’m horny,’ he murmured, pulling her up to standing, which again sent waves of pain through her knee as it was straightened. ‘Got to fuck you now,’ he said, groping and pulling her trousers as he backed her towards the sofa. His desire for her was what turned Petra on most about Rob. He could be arrogant, he could be moody. They hadn’t that much in common, really. He wasn’t what she’d term tender, which was a quality she rated, and he was attentive really because he could afford to be – flowers and gifts and nice dinners in upmarket restaurants. But he was very good at sex, and it was obvious that he thought Petra was very good at sex. He liked sex a lot and he liked lots of it and it flattered Petra that she appeared to turn him on so much and it was a thrill for her to take credit for his libido and his satisfaction.

So he fucked her rudely and quickly on his sofa and she thought to herself that, though her knee was being scuffled painfully against the fabric because he was taking her from behind, if they had been in missionary then both her sore heels would have suffered anyway. So it was OK. It was good, wasn’t it, as he humped into her, his hand between her legs fiddling around for her clitoris. As he came, his mouth was at her ear and his gasps and groaning turned her on more than his cock or his hands and she moved herself urgently so that she came too.

They lay in a post-orgasmic, drunken slump.

‘Nice fuck,’ Rob said at length, easing himself off her. ‘Petra,’ he said sternly, ‘ pop socks ?’

‘You weren’t meant to see,’ she said with a coy smile, ‘but you were in a rush to have me.’

He raised his eyebrow and shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think of you as so refreshingly quirky – but sometimes I think you’re just odd. Come on, girl. Bed-time. And dear God, don’t go walkabout tonight.’ He locked his front door and locked the key in his briefcase which had a combination code Petra didn’t know.

But she did walk. A couple of hours after they’d fallen asleep she’d left the bed and walked into the wall where she thought there was a doorway as she assumed she was at her flat.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Rob said, not that Petra could hear him. He found her in his sitting room, standing stock-still. He turned her shoulders and gave her a little shove every few steps.

‘Petra, I can’t be doing with this.’ She looked at him directly, her eyes vacant though she spoke at him.

‘I know what you mean,’ she said flatly.

‘I doubt it,’ Rob said back though he knew they weren’t conversing.

‘But I wouldn’t agree with you about Gordon Brown.’

She made to turn back to the sitting room but he steered her to the bedroom and she lay down without a murmur.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he said, ‘but I’m fucking knackered.’ And he took a tie from his cupboard, binding it around her wrist and securing it to the bedpost.

Petra’s knee healed faster than the blisters so she continued to wear her Birkenstock sandals with socks to the studio all week, and still had to wear her pop socks and slippers when she saw Rob a couple of evenings later. I’m wearing pop socks again, she advised him, so if you want to do unmentionably rude things to me, can you give me warning so I can take them off first. Rob had called her a little hussy – much to her delight. And in the event, she left her socks on and they had sex energetically while he slapped her buttocks and called her a naughty naughty girl. When she woke the next morning, though her buttocks felt decidedly tingly it was her left wrist which felt really sore and when she looked at it, it was red; scorched like a burn. She showed it to Rob who’d said, Don’t you remember me pinning you down as I rogered you senseless? However Petra couldn’t remember, precisely. But the sex had been kinky and mostly in the dark and perhaps all that spanking had distracted her, so maybe he had. As she showered, she did quietly consider how, as good as they were at sex, it would be nice if she and Rob could be a little better at the bits in between. But she quickly washed away the notion that, quite possibly, it was beyond Rob’s natural personality to loll about chatting idly, or to hold hands whilst walking, or to make love rather than always fuck.

‘Petra, what have you done to your wrist?’ Gina asked her in the studio.

Petra pulled her sleeve down but gave Gina and Kitty and Eric a saucy lick of her lips. ‘Rob’s a bit of a tiger,’ she giggled, sashaying out to the toilet.

‘He’s a bit of a prat,’ Eric said dryly when Petra was out of earshot.

‘He’s a lot of a prat,’ Gina defined.

‘I don’t like it,’ Kitty said darkly. ‘Petra is naturally gentle – physically and emotionally. I’m sorry, but I don’t like to think of someone being rough with her.’

‘She can look after herself,’ Eric snapped because actually he wished he’d come out with Kitty’s insight.

‘No, Eric. I can look after myself,’ Kitty said. ‘Petra was born someone to be made love to – I’m someone born to fuck.’

Gina giggled. ‘Kitty, you are outrageous. You’re putting me off my work.’

Kitty shrugged, her skeins of blue-black hair snaking around her shoulders like a latter-day Medusa. ‘Sorry, Gina,’ she said, ‘but I do have authority to speak. I’ve had more sex with more people than all the hyphens in the double-barrelled surnames in your street.’

Gina giggled again. ‘Rob is a prat – but it’s not for us to say so. Anyway, Petra is very fond of him. And she’s really set on making this relationship last.’

‘Even if it doesn’t necessarily work,’ Eric sighed. ‘Christ.’

‘True,’ said Kitty, ‘but if I think he’s hurting her, then no one’s bloody gagging me. Silence has no place in the shadow of violence.’

Both Eric and Gina quietly hoped that this was the end of the matter and that Petra would not come into work with marks on her again. Neither of them fancied Rob’s chances against Kitty.

‘I’m taking Charlton’s piece back to him,’ Petra announced when she came in again. She showed them the ankh pendant she had fashioned out of gold according to Charlton’s precise design; Celtic ornament enlivening the surface. ‘Does anybody want anything?’

‘Can you pop into Bellore for me?’ Gina asked. ‘They phoned to say my turquoise is in – it’s all paid for.’

‘And I need some 4mm setting strip,’ said Kitty. ‘Can you lay out for me and I’ll pay you back?’

‘Anything else? Eric?’

‘Oh go on, twist my arm – I’ll have a cappuccino,’ Eric said. ‘But better make it a skinny one – my belt was tight this morning. Do you think I’ve gained weight?’

Petra raised her eyes at Kitty and Gina and left them to deal with Eric’s neuroses while she went about her errands.

On one side only of Hatton Garden there is a line of trees which bow subtly towards the kerb like some kind of benign, eco-friendly security grille. It is on this side, about halfway down, that Charlton Squire has the original of his two jewellery galleries. The other, opened last year, is off New Bond Street in the West End. Like Electrum in South Molton Street, Charlton Squire Gallery is revered as a hotbed boutique of cutting-edge talent. However, there’s a price to pay for such innovation in precious metals and gems and designs and it’s high; the pieces for sale are marketed meticulously as luxury goods for those who can afford them. There’s also a price to pay by the jewellers whom Charlton chooses to exhibit at his gallery and that is hefty commission charges. However, to exhibit at Charlton Squire means access to wealthy clients and occasional exposure in the pages of Vogue and Vanity Fair .