“Camera four, under the pool, double quick!” Pru barked into her intercom, and down in the camera runs around the house a black draped dalek-like shape began to glide along the corridor, down the ramp and into the spying position under the pool’s glass bottom.
But although the drunken couple teetered on the edge, kissing deep and laughing loud, they did not fall in.
“Oh my God! I think they’re making for Copulation Cabin!” Pru could scarcely contain her excitement. “Somebody ring Geraldine.”
Copulation Cabin was a wooden hut that had been placed beyond the swimming pool and filled with cushions and draped lamps. It looked like somebody had attempted to create an Arabian love tent in a garden shed, which was exactly what had happened. Peeping Tom had put it there in the transparent hope that if they supplied a place where people could get away from the prying eyes of the other housemates they might have sex. It was hoped that the existence of no fewer than five cameras covering this tiny space would not dampen the ardour.
Kelly led Hamish into the cabin and they collapsed together in a laughing boozy heap on the cushions.
Hamish had fancied Kelly from the start, and for him the cameras were a turn-on. Quite apart from the terrific thrill of the idea of bedding Kelly while millions of jealous men looked on, he felt that it would be a wonderful starting point towards presenting his own quasi-medical sex show on the television, which in his fantasies was called Dr Nookie Talks.
The kissing was becoming more intense, long, passionate, drunken kisses. Showy, chewy, gurgling kisses. Kisses that were in fact more about exhibitionism than passion, because if there was one thing that both Kelly and Hamish knew for sure, even in their drunken state, it was that this moment would make the cut of the following night’s show and also that it would be in the papers the following morning.
What a wildly exciting thought that was! That simply by clamping their mouths together they were making themselves into stars!
Hamish boldly chanced a hand, spurred on by genuine lust and pure vainglorious exhibitionism. Gently he slipped it under the hem of the baggy vest that Kelly was wearing. It had been clear to him all evening and to the four million viewers who would later be watching on television that Kelly was not wearing a bra.
“Uh-oh, that’s second base,” Kelly breathed, and removed his hand.
In the bunker they were on the edge of their seats.
“Did he touch a tit? Did we win the magnum?”
“I don’t think so, she stopped him.”
“Cow! Let him have a squeeze, girl, go on. Think of England!”
“I think he might have touched it, I really do.”
“We’ll have to wait for the replay.”
“Plenty of time yet, anyway. Look at them.”
In Copulation Cabin Hamish’s disappointment over the failed grope was already forgotten. Kelly seemed to be turning hot again.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s sleep here tonight, eh? Then we can be really famous: Hamish and Kelly sleep together in poolside love nest! Ha ha!” Then she pulled off her jeans.
“Yes!” they cried in the monitoring bunker, punching the air with their fists as Kelly’s gorgeous bottom, clad (if “clad” could be considered the word) in a tiny G-string, was revealed.
“Oh, yes!” they shouted once more, their fingers positively quivering over their editing controls.
“Come on,” Kelly breathed, “get your kecks off, you ain’t sleeping in my love nest in dirty stinky boy trousers.”
Hamish did not need asking twice and immediately began pulling down his immaculate chinos. As he struggled to get them off over his shoes, which he had neglected to remove, the full erection struggling within his underpants was plain for all to see.
“Naughty,” said Kelly. “Did you make that for me?” And with that she pulled the rugs up and over them.
“Damn,” they said in the bunker. “We never should have given them anything to cover themselves with.”
In the darkness under the blankets Kelly put her hand over her microphone and whispered. “That’ll give ’em something to think about, eh?”
Kelly had reached her limit. Quickly, Hamish tried to push her on. “Why don’t we really give them something to think about, Kelly?”
“What sort of girl do you think I am?” Kelly giggled. She was already drifting off to sleep. “I’m tired.” She whispered it so quietly that even Hamish had trouble hearing her. And her hand was over her microphone.
Nobody would have heard it but him.
The booze and the soft cushions were taking their toll. Kelly was losing consciousness. Inwardly Hamish cursed. Hamish kissed her. He kissed her again, whispering in her ear, trying to revive a mood, which had never really been the mood he thought it was anyway.
“No,” Kelly murmured. “Don’t be silly. Too tired, too drunk, too comfy.”
Or at least that’s what it sounded like. She was so far away by this time that she wasn’t speaking clearly.
Hamish held Kelly close. Her arms were still around him, exactly where she had placed them before she had fallen asleep. His body was pressing up against her, his whole bursting, desperate body. He slipped his hand back under Kelly’s shirt, the hand that she had only recently removed. This time she did not remove it. She was asleep. Hamish held her breast.
In the bunker there were no celebrations. The crew did not realize that they had won their magnum. They could not see. They did not know.
“What are they doing under there?” Pru asked.
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” said the PA. “Too bloody pissed. I know the feeling.”
Under the blankets Hamish gave Kelly’s breast a little squeeze. Gently and then more boldly he allowed his fingertips to play with the glorious, sexy little nipple ring. He pulled at it a little. Kelly did not even stir.
Hamish was a doctor and he knew that Kelly was not asleep. She was unconscious. Hamish’s head was swimming in the darkness.
The darkness! Hamish suddenly realized how dark it was. They were completely concealed. It was black as coal beneath the thick, heavy, musky blankets.
Slowly, being careful not to move the blanket that covered them, Hamish began to edge his hand down Kelly’s body. Down across her ribs, which rose and fell so deeply, and so regularly, across her smooth, flat tummy, until finally slipping it beneath the tiny triangle of her G-string.
Hamish was blind with excitement. The prospect of touching such forbidden fruit had completely intoxicated his already drunken mind. Now Kelly let out a deep snore.
In the bunker they heard Kelly’s snore and, noting that the blanket beneath which Hamish and Kelly lay was scarcely moving, they concluded ruefully that the excitement of the night was over.
But the excitement wasn’t over: it was reaching fever pitch. Hamish had his hand between Kelly’s legs now, he was touching her, discovering her, discovering to his surprise that Kelly had a little secret… her labia was pierced. This she had not revealed to the group; her nipple rings she had mentioned often, but this most private piece of jewellery she had kept to herself. Until now.
As Hamish gently explored, a phrase suddenly appeared in his fuddled consciousness, a phrase which he remembered from his class on forensic medicine. The phrase was digital penetration.
That’s what he was doing now. That was what it would be called if anybody ever knew.
Suddenly Hamish became aware of the appalling risk that he was running. He was committing a serious crime. This crazy drunken improvisation, this sex prank, was assault. He could go to prison.