It was a peculiarity of Fleur’s make-up that, whilst most of her life was spent satisfying her peculiar sense of refinement, the men she found most acceptable were invariably a little on the cheap side. The kind that really turned her on can best be described as the sort that wear short socks and reveal a hairy ankle whenever their trousers are hitched up. This penchant manifested itself early in her life. And it was due to her mother—who understood that trait—being sympathetic and concealing the incidents from her father, that she inherited the fortune she did when she reached thirty, by which time Fleur had at least learned to discriminate between actual gangsters and gents who looked enough like gangsters to get her off. She never entertained the idea of getting a beating, but the threat caused her considerable excitement. In her own way it was as near as she came to realising that pain and pleasure were intimate strangers.
Seeking therapy from a renowned mystic therapist when such things were fashionable, she confessed during an early session that her first orgasmic sensation had been induced during a spanking administered by her father, when she had peed herself in fright, the wetting being accompanied by a thrilling feeling. The distinguished psychologist had smiled and commented that the punishment was providential, as not every girl found herself released into womanhood that simply—or that early.
Fleur didn’t have too many female intimates, but one, a blonde model with luminous skin, could only find satisfaction with black men. Fleur felt sorry for her because her field of endeavour was so restricted—never for a moment considering that her own predilections restricted her in much the same way.
She thought about what she would wear for her ordeal in Harley Street, and promised herself a Sobranie with her cappuccino in Fortnum’s—or num nums, as she had called it as a child—as a reward when it was over. Before sliding open the mirrored doors of her summer hanging space, she sat on a low padded satin chair, spread her legs, and regarded the neat blonde triangle covering her pubic bone (its shape waxed geometric by an expert in Putney), the triangle that housed the ‘magic wherewithal’, as the bearded Dutchman, who spoke such quaint English, had termed it; the magic wherewithal being a clitoris so distended that it protruded like an erection when it was stimulated.
Fleur closed her legs and concentrated on some new games for her party.
The Rose had always been an addictive personality. Even before medical college focused his obsessive nature on study and left his contemporaries in the dust. His decision to become a surgeon seemed natural, and nobody doubted his eventual success. He rose like a spark, securing rooms in Cavendish Street, an apartment with a view of the Thames, and a black Bentley—brain-surgeon black, as he called it—with single headlights. “The last elegant car that Bentley made,” he was fond of saying.
He was abstemious by habit (the strongest drink he’d ever taken was black coffee) and the idea of sex, the great appeaser of the big ego, was something that seldom entered his noble head. All this changed one country weekend in a grand house when the hostess doused an indifferent trifle with sherry. The Rose did have a sweet tooth, and he ate two portions. He was found an hour later on all fours, still in the dining room, an empty bottle of Dow’s nearby. He later confessed to a colleague that when the trifle hit his palate, he had let forth a ‘Wow!’ of recognition, the kind of recognition which is known to any hereditary alcoholic who recalls sampling their first drink.