The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

intuition.
    In many respects, my gig with the Network was a dream job, and working behind the scenes rather than on the stage meant that I didn’t need to bare my body or even engage in any of the sex acts that most of the guests came to watch or enjoy if I wasn’t in the mood for it. Instead I had all the perks – the salary, the international travel, collaborating with some of the most unique and talented performers I had ever met – without any of the drawbacks. And, more importantly, it had allowed me to retreat from music, and its often pernicious influence on my own senses.
    But in spite of all that, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue. I felt tired of it all. Perhaps I was ungrateful, unaware of how lucky I was. Or maybe I was just growing old.
    I thought back to the last time that I had seen Aurelia. The Ball on the Amazon.
    It had taken me the better part of eighteen months to organise. The Ball’s guests had come from all corners of the globe, as they always did. I felt a surge of pride as I saw them gather at the Port of Manaus in the North of Brazil, on the Rio Negro. To any outsiders, we must have looked like a large party of tourists about to embark on a river cruise identical to so many others. In fact, we had bribed port staff and a small number of other tour operators with significant sums to keep the river to ourselves for a full three days, time for the crew to set up, the Ball itself to occur and the Ball’s guests to embark and disembark unnoticed.
    Attendees had been advised to arrive in normal dress to avoid drawing undue attention or upsetting the citizens of Manaus. Room and time for them to change into their party wear would be provided on board. But the Ball’s guests were by nature not a tribe of people that blended into the background. They possessed a palpable type of energy, not unlike that of the populace in Rio. As if their desire to reach realms of pleasure that existed outside even the imaginations of ordinary people made them seem more alive.
    I watched as a young man of about twenty with his white-blond hair gelled into a Mohawk bent down to pick up a rock and tossed it over the rickety wooden barrier that separated the footpath from a sheer six-foot drop into the water below. It traced a neat arc through the air and was swallowed up by the river without a sound, the inevitable splash drowned out by the lapping of waves. Near him, a pair of women who appeared to be in their mid-seventies stood shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, their fingers threaded together tightly. They each sported long grey hair that flowed over their shoulders and wore long coats, despite the incessant afternoon heat. I speculated on what they might be wearing underneath. Latex? Leather catsuits? Lingerie? Neither of them looked the type to wear any of the typical outfits favoured by sex-party regulars.
    I had deliberately avoided outlining a theme for this year’s proceedings. I had explained to Aurelia that I wanted this to be a Ball of individuality, an environment that would give each guest the opportunity to truly be themselves and not concealed under a compulsory costume. Besides which, I knew that previous Balls had covered every possibility from under-the-sea themes, where all the guests had been painted as marine creatures, to the zodiac, with a myriad of men as bulls and women in sequins representing galaxies, and I had no hope of coming up with anything original.
    Our boat approached. At first just a white blot on the horizon, like a low-hanging cloud, gradually morphing into a ship as she floated towards us, cutting a sharp V through the water. The Ball’s engineers had crafted her specially for this event, since there was none large enough, nor of the right dimensions, available to hire. I had nothing to do with the mechanics, but oversaw the layout of the cabins and performance rooms. I knew that the dungeon lay at the bottom and spanned the full length of the ship, a vast space fitted