Going Too Far (16 page)

‘Who wouldn’t? I wonder if Carlos might bring her to Chiloe with us.’ My mind was already going over the possibilities and running completely out of control.

Jorge was talented, no doubt about it. As I was considering taking up photography seriously we had plenty to talk about, and he was keen to show me the galleries of Santiago. Meeting him was a terrific plus as he took me to studios I would never have found without local knowledge, while he didn’t neglect to show me the sights of the city and, though the memory was hazy in my mind thanks to over-zealous tasting, a trip to a vineyard.

I’d been in the hotel a couple of days when it occurred to me that although there were always plenty of people about, there was usually only me and maybe one other couple at breakfast, which was served by the polite but unsmiling Ulla. Jorge wasn’t an early riser but sometimes Manuel would join me for a chat in Spanish, which still being rudimentary meant we weren’t really communicating. Then on Saturday morning, before we set off for Valparaiso, there were loads of people sitting in the breakfast room as though they were waiting for something.

‘What was the crush at the hotel this morning?’ I asked Jorge curiously as we wandered out of the house at Isla Negra on to the beach.

He winked, rather absurdly. ‘Saturday morning, no work. Courting couples, of course.’

‘What?’ I started to catch on. ‘You mean coming for sex?’

‘Sure. Great money spinner. They usually only take an hour each, sometimes less. You know, Chile is a Catholic country, and one where most people live at home till they marry, apart from screwing in the car – where else?’

‘I thought they’d want to stay virgins until they marry.’

‘Most do. These are just the fast ones.’ He raised an eyebrow satirically. ‘Unless they take it up the arse, of course, which a lot of them do.’

‘I never realised that was a method of contraception.’

He smiled widely. ‘Very practical. Sometimes makes a mess of the sheets, mind you – but then so does Manuel.’

I had an inkling then of exactly what sort of establishment he was running.

‘So most girls want to stay virgins . . . so the men hanging around during the week are . . . clients?’

He nodded. ‘I wondered when you’d put two and two together. Good operation, don’t you think? Minimal effort, maximum income, I can get on with my art.’

‘So Manuel is a male prostitute?’

‘Almost male. Some men want to be faithful to their fiancées. Or they just like him.’

I felt I’d been a bit naïve to not fall in before, but what the hell. It was rather amusing to be staying in a brothel.

‘So what about the other guests? The Austrians who are there now?’

‘What about them? They come in off the street by accident. We don’t turn them away.’

I wondered whether Ulla specialised in correction – she certainly looked the type – but in view of Carlos and Jorge sharing Susie I didn’t want to question him too closely in case he took it for an invitation.

He didn’t need encouraging. In the car on the way back to Santiago he stopped abruptly in the middle of a conversation about Man Ray and Herb Ritts and said, ‘I want to use you in my work, Bliss. The gallery will be open tomorrow afternoon. Will you be an exhibit?’

‘An exhibit?’ I asked cautiously. ‘How?’

‘Bound. Sometimes Susie has done it; you remember the clown photo?’

I did. Susie’s natural pallor had been completely whitened and she had clown-like red spots on her cheeks and black clown eyes, with the regulation teardrop. Her hair had been pulled back and waxed into three points. Her big clown’s ruff was made of black leather and chained to the wall, as was her black leather-belted waist and her black-booted legs, but her hands were free, juggling with three red balls. Apart from that she was naked, her body as pale as her face apart from rouge-reddened nipples and her brilliant red pubic hair.

‘That was taken from an . . . exhibit?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘Performance art is always part of my work, and if it can be a woman in chains – will you?’

Was this taking exhibitionism too far, I asked myself? It was one thing fucking Red while Robbie looked on. To be naked and chained as an art exhibit before a crowd of strangers was something else.

Jorge shook his head impatiently as I voiced my thoughts. ‘It’s an invited crowd, not a free for all. Come on, Bliss, you’re an artist. The boundaries have to be constantly pushed back, you know that.’

One thing I do know: I love it when someone calls me an artist.

‘I’m in.’

In chains wasn’t to be taken literally, I found out next morning when I reported to the studio at ten o’clock.

‘Everything off,’ Jorge instructed. ‘No make-up – good. Ulla will do your hair after.’

‘After what?’

He produced a huge catering pack of clingfilm and a reel of transparent twine. ‘After I’ve wrapped you up.’

I was dreading a skinflick oven-ready-chicken-type scenario but it wasn’t that demeaning, though it was more bizarre.

My arms were pulled back and bound in place, the transparent twine going carefully around my arms and body at elbow and wrist level. Nothing else needed to be bound. That was just to get them in the right position.

The plastic wrap was next. Starting with my feet, Jorge meticulously wrapped me, tightly, making sure it overlapped by exactly the right width. He placed the clingfilm on the floor and rolled me over and over as he wrapped. All the time he kept up a stream of chatter about art, the difference between the erotic and the pornographic, and the necessity to shock.

As his hands brushed against my pubic mound I quivered, just a tiny, involuntary movement, but he felt it. His hand lingered.

‘It would be even better if you were shaved. Do you ever?’

‘Yeah, but only for work. I always let my beard grow on holiday.’

He grinned and encouraged by my eyes his finger pushed gently along my cleft and brought out my moisture. ‘Carlos said you love to be restrained.’

‘This isn’t exactly the same, is it.’

‘No. I’d like to fuck you, Bliss.’

‘Not as an exhibit.’

He laughed, moved his hand and carried on wrapping me. ‘No. Later.’

I kept my options open.

By the time my whole body was encased in the clingfilm I was feeling hot. Maybe it was just being wrapped in plastic or maybe it was because Jorge’s hands on my sex and breasts had put me into horny mode. He had certainly spent a long time on my tits, squashing them with the clingfilm, pulling it even tighter than on the rest of my body as though he was trying to flatten them. He had left me on the floor and was beating something in a bowl.

‘You’re a slug, Bliss. You’re going to crawl across the floor and leave a trail just like a real slug. What do you think?’

Sweating, I looked up. The bowl contained something white and translucent.

‘That looks like come.’

He laughed softly. ‘Egg white. But in an ideal world it would be semen.’

Kneeling down beside me, he put his face close to mine. ‘In an ideal world I’d have ten men masturbating over you, so that you could leave a trail of come as you crawl along the floor. What do you think about that?’

As there weren’t ten men in the room and this was purely fantasy, I liked it. Like any girl I have the orgy fantasy, not to mention the degradation fantasy, and ten men wanking all over me simultaneously was just fine as long as it wasn’t real.

‘I would like to wank on you, Bliss. In fact – you look so naked like that, so soft – will you suck me?’

He undid his trousers. He wore nothing underneath and his cock sprang free. It looked curiously boyish and eager to please. I raised myself into a sitting position and manoeuvred on to my knees. Wrapped, I was rapt, as with my hands helpless behind me I sucked.

He came on to my subdued breasts and it trickled down my front. I knew what he wanted and lay face down on the floor and tried to wriggle forward. Progress was difficult; my body isn’t quite as flexible as my mind.

Jorge turned me on to my side and kissed my mouth, but there was no time for tenderness. Ulla came in to pull my hair back and wax it to lie close to my head, and it was covered in a transparent cap that came down over my eyes. The plastic wrap, which Jorge had stopped at my throat, was extended to cover my mouth, leaving my nose free to breathe through. Finally, feeling rather like a Spam fritter, I was coated in beaten egg white along one side and instructed to lie on it. It worked; I could easily wriggle along in what seemed to me quite a slug-like manner. Jorge was pleased.

So were the guests. A bohemian crowd, they treated Jorge with great respect. As instructed I slid around the room; not too easy when you’re trying to avoid a couple of dozen people, and I was a bit concerned when passing under anyone holding a cigarette. I tried to avoid the chain-smoking Jorge like the plague.

I wondered if anyone would touch me: the imagination worked overtime again, with the poor slug being groped with fascinated horror by the assembled company. However they were a sophisticated crowd and I escaped physical contact apart from the toe of one woman’s shoe. Bitch. I wished my mouth were unconfined so I could bite her leg. I resolved to have more sympathy with dogs in future.

While I enjoyed the wrapping-up process and the initial attention, being a slug soon got a trifle boring, especially as the guests were launching into the wine. I’d just started to wonder how long the show was going on for when Jorge signalled me to make for the gallery door and I wriggled as fast as I could towards him. He was in the lobby with the door marked ‘Private’ open and I slid in there with relief.

‘Photocall, Bliss. You’ve been wonderful. Won’t be long now, then just one more thing . . .’

The flash blinded me. Like Susie I was going to be immortalised on his gallery wall; would Carlos see me? He took several shots from different angles and then took off the cap and removed the clingfilm from my mouth.

‘Wine!’ I said urgently, and he laughed.

‘Wine, sure. But first you need to get that plastic stuff off your body, and I thought after you’ve showered Ulla could massage you with some essential oils. OK?’ He started to unwind me.

‘Fine, as long as I can have a drink at the same time.’ I would have agreed to anything for a large glass of wine.

‘The other thing is, I’m getting into audio as well. What I’d like to do is tape you talking while Ulla massages you: first describing being tied and wrapped up, what it was like being a slug, what you were thinking, and what you’re thinking about Ulla’s massage as well, describing where she’s working and so on; and try to put the tape and photographs together. What do you think?’

‘It sounds like a candidate for the next Turner prize. I’ll do it.’

He smiled. ‘Good. We’ll see if it works. Being in English will be great. You get your shower and I’ll get you a drink and fetch Ulla.’

‘And now I’m having a massage from Ulla, the one I mentioned in the nurse’s uniform, to get some essential oils into my skin after the plastic wrap – can I have some more wine? Oh, sorry, but I expect you’ll be editing this, won’t you?’

‘Yes to both,’ said Jorge, grinning and getting up for the bottle. The microphone, which he had been holding to my mouth, was propped on the pillow. ‘Don’t stop, though. What exactly is Ulla doing now?’

Before he poured the wine he took another photo.

‘Massaging me, I said,’ I repeated, getting slightly exasperated, though frankly I think it had more to do with two large glasses of wine on an empty stomach than any real disgruntlement. After all I was quite appreciating Ulla’s hands on my back, especially now as she rotated them firmly over my buttocks.

‘Detail, Bliss,’ said Jorge as he handed me another glass of Cab Sav. ‘Actually turn over, it’ll be more interesting.’

I assumed he meant for the photo he took as I turned and settled lazily on my back, though I realised what he really meant when Ulla’s capable hands moved on to my breasts. I giggled.

‘Right, I know what you mean. Her hands are on my tits – breasts – edit out what you want. It’s nice.’

‘Exciting? As exciting as being the slug?’ He zoomed in to my tits.

‘Different. I told you, I liked the crowd watching me, legitimately, as an artist, even though it was a bit like being a stripper. But contact is . . . well, more immediately pleasurable.’

Her hands moved to my stomach, which was a bit disappointing. I was starting to hope for some nipple teasing at least.

‘How exciting, Ulla?’

Why was he asking her? I didn’t have to wonder for long as she pushed two fingers inside me. Well, I said she was like a nurse, but I must admit it wasn’t much like a medical.

‘About as good as it gets,’ she said quietly, moving her hands back to my stomach. I started to wonder if I’d imagined it but, no, she’d definitely penetrated me. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary massage.

‘Bliss?’

I was neglecting my commentary duties.

‘Ulla just penetrated me with two fingers, obviously on instruction to see if my excitement had produced lubrication,’ I enunciated pedantically. ‘And it had.’

‘Does that mean you’re hoping for sex, Bliss? And with who?’

‘Whom,’ I corrected, a touch acidly.

Jorge laughed and took the wine out of my hand. ‘Enough of that. I’ve got a better idea.’

Before I could say sorry, yes I am hoping for sex, you’ll do nicely, he pulled my arms above my head and fastened each wrist to a corner of the massage table with leather straps. Massage table, that’s what they’d called it. I started to wonder if I’d been right about Ulla being more into flagellation than Swedish massage. She was busy fastening my ankles to the bottom of the table, of course.

After the inevitable photo I dutifully told the tape machine what was happening and admitted that I was not displeased. I had to confess as well that when the oily hands pulled my labia apart and smeared my wetness over my clit and started to massage me with feathery strokes rather than the firmer ones I’d been enjoying on my body I was equally happy. Describing Ulla’s every stroke, probe, rub and caress into the microphone turned me on almost as much as the fingers themselves and Jorge’s eyes flickering from Ulla’s attention to my face didn’t make it worse. I was slightly tipsy and it made me loud and maybe slurry and slightly theatrical as my voice rose to tell the tape how she had two fingers pressing inside me and her little finger ringing my arse but most of all her other hand was on my clit. My orgasm must have been about two seconds away as Jorge raised his hand and she stopped abruptly.