“Milan, let’s go,” said Lydia, nervous now that the whip was in Hackmeyer’s hands. She envisaged her lover’s back, shredded to ribbons, while the vengeful Hackmeyer stood over his panting body.
“No way,” leered Hackmeyer. “Get undressed, Kaspar.”
“No.” Lydia tried to wrench the whip from him.
“I want this,” said Milan simply. “I want you to see it. I’m not leaving until it’s done.”
“Then at least let Karl-Heinz do it. Not that…” She couldn’t think of a word to describe Hackmeyer. Not one that wouldn’t get her thrown out of the house, anyway.
Milan nodded.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Karl-Heinz?” she said, beseeching.
He held out his hand for the whip. Grudgingly, Hackmeyer gave it.
“Make it hard,” he growled.
Lydia sank into her seat, covering her lower face with her ha
nds.
Milan took off his coat and threw it over a chair, then set about unbuttoning his shirt.
He was so beautiful, thought Lydia, still finding that the sight of his naked torso took her breath away. The taut, strong arms, the defined chest and flat stomach all made her skin flush and heat all over.
He handed the shirt to her and she took it and breathed into it. The scent of him whirled around in her head while he pulled off his boots and socks then unbuckled his belt.
She followed the little trail of dark hair down from his navel to the waistband of his boxers with her eyes. His trousers fell from his hips and over his thighs.
“You could do with putting some meat on your bones, Kaspar,” jeered Hackmeyer, but Lydia couldn’t agree with him. To her, he was perfect.
He kicked off the trousers, reduced now to a pair of grey silk boxers with a blue pattern. Surely that would do, Lydia thought.
“All the way,” said Hackmeyer.
Karl-Heinz turned and pointed the whip at his old friend.
“This is my call, Julius,” he reminded him. “Keep them on for now.”
Milan stood before them all, defiant in his vulnerability.
“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want me?”
Karl-Heinz pondered this, chin in hand.
“You know,” he said, “I think I just want you to stand straight. That’s it. Shoulders back.” Milan, facing the table like a criminal before the Bench, thrust out his chin.
“Do you want to see his face, Lydia?” asked Karl-Heinz gently.
She shook her head, swallowing.
“Okay, turn around.”
Milan presented his rear view. Lydia looked lingeringly at the perfect back with its sharp shoulder blades and narrow waist. His skin was flawless, pale marble. What would it look like after Karl-Heinz’s work was done?
“How many do you think, Kaspar?” asked Karl-Heinz, running the butt of the whip handle along the length of Milan’s spine.