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Dirty Secrets
Jane O'Reilly
Thirty days of discovery…With her self-esteem at an all-time low following a disastrous relationship, Jules just needs a place to hide away, so when her childhood friend Theo offers her a place to stay she jumps at the chance!But the handsome, suave and sophisticated man who greets her is unrecognisable as the teenaged nerd she knew ten years ago. She’s out of her depth in Theo’s new world, especially when he reveals the nature of the business that has made him a very wealthy man…Theo owns and runs an exclusive club, a very private members club, catering to clients seeking something extra to spice up their private lives. But Jules’s shock and embarrassment turns to fascination and excitement when Theo gifts her a complimentary thirty day membership…


Thirty days of discovery…
With her self-esteem at an all-time low following a disastrous relationship Jules just needs a place to hide away, so when her childhood Theo offers her a place to stay she jumps at the chance!
But the handsome, suave and sophisticated man who greets her is unrecognisable as the teenaged nerd she knew ten years ago. She’s out of her depth in Theo’s new world, especially when he reveals the nature of the business that has made him a very wealthy man…
Theo owns and runs an exclusive club, a very private members club, catering to clients seeking something extra to spice up their private lives. But Jules’s shock and embarrassment turns to fascination and excitement when Theo gifts her a complimentary thirty day membership…
Dirty Secrets
Jane O’Reilly


Copyright (#ulink_f619e743-4990-54ca-bb1e-2ec52e139fad)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2015
Jane O’Reilly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474030748
Version date: 2018-07-23
JANE O’REILLY started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Find her at www.janeoreilly.com (http://www.janeoreilly.com), on Twitter as @janeoreilly (http://www.twitter.com/janeoreilly) and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor (http://www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor)
Contents
Cover (#ufda7705a-a525-5622-959c-c242af10d744)
Blurb (#u0b7ac2e8-512a-594a-8556-0142aa8a46bc)
Title Page (#u17144bc3-13bd-588e-887f-8d1e47d358c8)
Copyright (#u8f6c9eaf-6b2f-569a-8948-f88e8f4286a3)
Author Bio (#uf6501fc8-ba58-580c-a1ff-311b5e1af0f3)
Chapter One (#u6959a041-5c6e-57d0-9eb4-7dd914c0c65e)
Chapter Two (#uf7dba4d7-c5df-5512-9de4-fc21fffe6d80)
Chapter Three (#ub610cb6c-d8b2-560a-a482-f537889d395c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_c6f97c24-1348-5f35-883e-33e7293ae32d)
This can’t be the right place. I pull out my phone, check the address for the third time, but it seems that it is, no matter how little sense it makes. It’s half past two in the afternoon and I’m standing in a narrow street in Chelsea, looking at a closed door at the rear of a large, red brick building. The door itself is painted glossy black with an ornate brass handle. There’s a doorbell mounted on the wall at my eye level. Above the door is a security camera.
I wonder if it’s working, and drop my gaze away from it.
When Theo gave me his address, I was expecting a flat. Maybe even a house. But this is neither. In fact, I’m not quite sure what it is. Possibly some sort of private members club, although I’ve no idea what kind. It does seem very…Theo, however, and that’s what has me reaching for the small brass bell mounted at the side of the door. I hesitate a moment longer, and then I swallow my fear and press the damn thing. If it rings, I can’t hear it.
No one is coming, I tell myself, tightening my grip on the handle of my pull-along case. I made a mistake. It’s fine. I’ll just go back to the train station and go home. I’ll ring Theo later, make some excuse. It was a stupid idea anyway, taking a sabbatical from work just because I broke up with my boyfriend. I should be in the office now, not here, in the middle of London with a pull-along suitcase and a headache.
I turn away, trying to pretend I’m not disappointed, that I’m not about to cry. I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Crying, that is. I’ve turned into a human fountain.
I lift my foot to take the first step, and the door opens.
‘Jules? Jules, is that you?’
I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere. It hasn’t changed. He still sounds like he smokes twenty a day, even though I know he hates cigarettes.
I force myself to stop, to turn around. ‘Theo.’
He steps forward, hands tucked in the pockets of dark trousers. ‘It’s good to see you, Jules.’
‘You too,’ I say, and we both stand there, taking a moment to look at each other. It’s funny how people can change without really changing at all. It’s been ten years since I last saw him, since we both left for university with promises to keep in touch. And we have kept in touch, sporadically. The odd Christmas card, the odd email, a loose connection on social media.
I don’t know why he was the first person I called when I ended things with my ex. It was three in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to call my parents, and I couldn’t call my friends. I’d flipped through my phonebook and his number had come up, and I’d called it.
‘Hello, Jules,’ he’d said, as if we spoke on the phone every day.
‘I’ve broken up with my boyfriend,’ I told him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I’m a mess, Theo.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I need to get away,’ I told him. ‘Just for a few weeks.’
‘Come and stay with me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve got plenty of room.’
And so I’d packed, and I’d got on the first available train, and paid a taxi driver an extortionate amount of money to bring me here. It wasn’t easy. Nothing is easy any more. Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other feels like climbing a mountain. But I did it.
Theo is just as I remember him. Oh, he’s filled out a little, and he’s clearly shaving more than once a week, but otherwise, he’s exactly the same. The same hazel eyes with the same wicked glint. The same unruly dark hair. The same half smile, a little cautious, a little restrained, as if he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to smile or not. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a pair of Raybans hooked in the front. It suits him.
‘You look different,’ he says.
That would be my ex’s doing. The blonde hair, the clothes. He liked me to look a certain way, so I did my best to make sure that I did. I wanted him to be happy. ‘Different good or different bad?’ I ask Theo, lifting a hand to touch the ends of my feathered haircut.
‘I can’t decide,’ he says. ‘You don’t look like you.’
I bite my lip, drop my gaze to the floor. I will not cry. I will not.
‘That bad, huh?’
I nod.
‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’ He moves closer and takes my case. I packed it in a rush, and I have a sudden panic that I’ve forgotten something vital, like money and clothes. I never used to be like this. I used to be so decisive, so sure of myself. I don’t know what the hell happened to me.
He motions me forward, and I walk towards the door. ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s a club,’ he says.
So my suspicions were right. ‘A nightclub?’
‘Not exactly,’ he replies. ‘Although we do open at night.’
‘Do you own it?’
‘Part of it.’
Inside, it’s quiet, and warm. Theo closes the door behind us, and I take a moment to look around me, to drink in the quiet. The lighting is low, the walls painted a soft cream. It smells clean. Definitely not a nightclub, then.
‘Go through,’ he says, nodding further along the corridor.
I walk along it, my heeled boots loud on the polished wood floor. Doors lead off to either side, but all of them are closed so I can’t see where they lead. Stylish black and white photographs decorate the walls. On closer inspection, I can see that they’re arty nudes. I suppose you could even call them erotica. I glance back at Theo, a little confused.
He simply gives me that half smile.
I keep walking. At the end of the corridor, I turn left, and find myself in a large, open space. It could possibly be a nightclub, only Theo said that this place wasn’t a nightclub. Leather sofas line the walls, and in the middle of the room is the most enormous circular bed.
‘OK,’ I say, coming to a halt. ‘This is not a nightclub.’
‘I already told you that,’ he says.
‘Then what is it?’
‘Somewhere women can explore their fantasies.’
‘What do you mean, explore their fantasies?’
‘Exactly that,’ he replies. ‘Somewhere they can come and ask for things they can’t get elsewhere.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I say. My heart is pounding a strange, heavy beat, and I grip the handle of my bag more tightly, trying to ignore the slippery dampness of my palms.
‘Maybe it’s better if I show you,’ Theo says. ‘Come with me.’
I follow him across the space, away from the leather sofas and the great big bed. At the other side of the room is an archway. We walk through it. Theo turns to the left and pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. He selects one, then unlocks the door. ‘In here.’
It turns out to be a perfectly ordinary office. White walls, desk, chair, keyboard and monitor. There’s a ficus in the corner, a half-full wastepaper basket, a coffee machine. Theo sets my case down by the desk, offers me a coffee. I accept. It seems rude not to.
Then he steers me into the chair, turns me round to face the desk, and switches on one of the screens that sits on top of the desk.
As he turns away and sets the coffee machine going, the screen flickers to life in front of me. At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing.
And then I can’t believe it.
It shows a pretty room with a four-poster bed. There are vases of flowers everywhere, and lace and frills, all very feminine. A woman is sat on the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, staring intently at the man stood in the corner. He’s naked, blindfolded, and he’s got his hands behind his back.
He’s also got an almighty erection.
I am still staring at that, shocked, when the door of the room opens and another man enters. The woman on the bed shifts her position, leaning forward, clutching the pillow even more tightly. If there was any sound, I’m sure I would be able to hear her whimper.
He closes the door softly behind him. He walks slowly towards the restrained man in the corner, and then he sinks slowly to his knees in front of him.
I slap my hands over my eyes before I see what happens next. ‘What the hell is this?’ I squeak.
‘Well,’ Theo says, ‘the woman, who we’ll call Mrs X, has a particular fantasy involving watching her husband with another man.’
‘Turn it off!’ I tell him. ‘Turn it off or I’m leaving.’
I hear the sound of a cup being set down on the desk. I feel the air move, his aftershave brushing against me as he leans over and turns the screen off. ‘You can look now,’ he says.
I move my fingers slightly. I don’t move my hands until I see the blank screen. I’m breathing too fast, and my heart is racing. I can’t believe what I just saw. I’m shocked, so shocked I’m almost panicking.
And I’m aroused. I don’t want to be. I know that it’s wrong. But it’s happening anyway. I get to my feet, needing to be away from this place. I shouldn’t have come here. It was a mistake.
I turn, and see Theo watching me with those dark eyes. God knows what he must think of me. I sink slowly back into my seat. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘For overreacting,’ I tell him, dropping my gaze to the floor. ‘For being such a prude.’
‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for,’ he says. ‘I should probably have found a better way to explain this place to you.’
‘You don’t have to try and make me feel better,’ I reply.
‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’m just being honest. I wanted to be open with you about this place. I didn’t want to keep it a secret, have it turn into an issue.’
That makes me wary. I’ve had enough honesty to last me a lifetime. My ex was big on it. ‘So…how does this place of yours work?’ I ask, wanting to steer the conversation away from things I don’t want to talk about, to think about. Needing to make it not about myself, and driven by an inexplicable prurient curiosity, which makes me feel slightly disgusted with myself.
‘We’re a members only club. We don’t advertise, and generally people find us through word of mouth. We vet every application very carefully. Ninety per cent don’t make it.’
I smooth the fabric of my trousers. They’re navy blue, wide legged, and starting to fade, but they hide a lot of sins. ‘I see.’
‘Those who do are added to our database. They submit their fantasies, and we match them with people who have similar interests.’
I stare up at him as he doctors his coffee, adds one, two, three sugars. This is the boy who grew up next door to me. The skinny boy who liked maths and dinosaurs and spent his weekends tramping round the abandoned quarry looking for fossils.
The man staring back at me is not that boy. I’m not sure who he is. And for the first time in weeks, I realise that I’ve stopped thinking about myself. ‘And they pay you for this?’
He nods. ‘Yes, they do.’ He takes a sip of his coffee, and I find myself turning to the one he made for me. It’s milky, sweet, the way I drank it when I was eighteen. I take a sip before I remember that I don’t drink it like that any more, and set it back down. ‘Something wrong?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I lie, not wanting to get into a conversation about how I need to watch my weight.
‘So how did you get into…this?’ I gesture around his office.
‘A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to go into business with him.’
‘Oh.’ I’m desperate to ask what sort of friend would set up a business like this, but I bite my tongue.
‘The database is my baby,’ he continues. ‘I designed it, I maintain it.’
‘And the rest?’
‘John takes care of that.’
‘John?’
‘My partner,’ he says. ‘You’ll be able to meet him later. I think you’ll like him. Are you hungry?’
I say yes, only because I don’t want to say no and have him argue. I can’t breathe in here. It’s too hot, too claustrophobic, and I can’t stop myself wondering about what I saw on the screen. I keep glancing at it, even though it’s turned off. ‘Are you supposed to watch people?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t that an invasion of their privacy?’
‘That particular couple asked for a recording of the session,’ Theo says. ‘That means they agreed that John or I could check to make sure everything was working properly.’
‘That doesn’t mean you should have showed it to me!’
‘Are you going to tell anyone?’
‘Well no, but…’
‘Jules,’ Theo says gently. ‘It’s OK. Come on. I can see we’ve got a lot to talk about, and I’m hungry.’ He leads me out of his office, locking the door behind us. We move past more closed doors. Each one has a brass nameplate, with a word cut into it in scrolling letters. ‘I suppose you have a red room of pain somewhere,’ I say, only half joking.
‘We offer that, if it’s what a client wants,’ he says.
‘Do you…’ I falter. I can’t ask.
‘Indulge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sometimes.’
I can’t think of anything else to say after that, so I follow him in silence as he leads me outside. I blink in the light, feeling a strange sense of confusion. I’m not quite sure where I am, but fortunately Theo does. On the other side of the road is an upmarket organic cafe, the kind that sells exquisite coffee and foraged salads. I find a table and let him order for me.
I pick at my bruschetta and goat’s cheese. Theo watches, but doesn’t comment on it. ‘Tell me about your ex,’ he says.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ I say. ‘We were together, and now we’re not.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s a pretty personal question.’
‘You phoned me up in the middle of the night,’ he reminds me. ‘This wasn’t some easy, mutual breakup, Jules.’
I break my food into little pieces. ‘We broke up because of me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I couldn’t be the girlfriend he needed.’
‘I see. So did he end it, or did you?’
‘This time? I did.’
‘There were other times?’
‘A few.’
‘Sounds exhausting.’
I think about that. ‘It was.’
‘So what do you want, Jules? Do you want to get back together with him?’
‘No.’ I don’t let myself think about that. I won’t. I’ve made my decision, and I’m not going to go back on it. ‘It’s over. Permanently.’
‘You don’t sound entirely sure.’
‘It has to be over,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t go back to that. I won’t.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘I want to eat,’ I say, staring at the food I only played with. ‘Drink lattes with hazelnut syrup. Wear red.’ I look at him, take a moment to find my courage. I didn’t know what drove me to call him. I didn’t know what I was looking for, until I walked through the door of that club and found it. ‘I don’t know who I am any more, Theo, and I need to find out. And I want to have sex,’ I say. ‘Lots and lots of uncomplicated sex. You said that the club lets women explore their fantasies. I want to explore mine.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_9d13e5c4-3150-5c9b-9fe3-64a31ae18c0e)
Theo folds his arms, leans back in his chair. ‘You can’t fix yourself with sex,’ he says.
All the courage I’d pulled together folds in, shrinks, shrivels up inside me and dies. He’s right. Of course I can’t. My inability to fix anything with sex is part of the reason I’m so broken in the first place. ‘You’re right.’ I pick up my paper napkin, fold it in half, smooth the crease. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve apologised,’ Theo points out.
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s the third.’
This time, I bite my tongue.
‘OK,’ he says, as if he’s come to a decision. ‘This is how it’s going to work.’ He picks up his cup, drains it. ‘I’m going to give you thirty days’ membership of the club.’
‘I thought you said I couldn’t fix myself with sex.’
‘This isn’t about sex,’ he says. ‘This is about you. This is about finding out who you are, what makes you tick. You agree to visit the club at least once a week, starting tonight.’
‘To do what?’
‘Whatever you want,’ he says.
‘Whatever I want,’ I repeat softly.
‘Yes,’ he says, a slight smile catching the corners of his mouth. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Starting tonight?’
‘Starting tonight.’
I pull in some air, let it out again. ‘The problem is that I don’t know what I want,’ I tell him.
Theo leans forward, props his elbows on the table. ‘That’s why I’m giving you thirty days,’ he says. ‘So that you can find out.’
He takes me back to his flat, then, which is a lovely second-floor apartment in Knightsbridge that tells me the club is either extremely expensive, or extremely successful. I suspect a little of both. He shows me around the plush, comfortable living room with its high ceiling and velvet curtains that graze the floor. Then the kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and enormous American-style fridge. ‘Help yourself,’ he says, opening the doors and showing me stacks of bottled water and shelf after shelf of green vegetables. On the top shelf is a chocolate fudge cake. I’d like some of that, I think, but old habits die hard, and I keep it to myself.
He shows me to my room, which seems plain at first, until I touch the sheets and realise that the cotton is as soft as silk. And the flowers are fresh, the vase crystal, the mattress deep. There’s an en-suite bathroom with a huge walk-in shower and claw-footed tub.
‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I tell Theo. ‘I always knew that you would. You aren’t married?’
I know that he’s not. Social media is good for something.
‘No,’ he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘Listen, I’ve got some work to do. Will you be all right on your own for a while?’
‘Of course.’ I nod, look around the room again. What on earth am I doing here? I should be at home. I should be at work. It was a breakup, not the end of the world.
‘Just one thing,’ Theo says. He disappears for a moment, then reappears carrying a glossy black folder and a pen. He sets them both down on top of the oak chest of drawers.
‘What’s that?’
‘A few forms I need you to fill in. It won’t take you long.’
He stands there for a moment longer, as if he’s going to say something, then he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
I stare at the glossy black folder. I decide to ignore it. I lift my case, which Theo left just inside the door, onto the bed. I unlock it, pull out some of my clothes, then repack them. I don’t even know if I’m going to stay. But I take a shower anyway. The water is heavy and hot and the soaps smell divine, and by the time I’ve finished my skin is flushed, my hair clinging to my neck. I step out of the shower, pull on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and examine myself in the mirror.
The woman who looks back at me is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her roots need doing. After a moment’s hesitation, I shrug the robe from my shoulders and examine my naked body. It’s not quite as firm as it should be, not quite as toned. If I’d been a better person, if I’d been stronger, I’d have taken care of it. I’d have gone to the gym four times a week like Dave wanted me to. If I’d loved him enough, I’d have sorted myself out.
Those are his words filling my head. I recognise his tone, and the slow creep of anxiety under my skin. I won’t let it control me. I won’t. I pull the robe back on, march through into the bedroom, flip open the glossy black folder. The first few questions are easy. Name, date of birth, eye colour, height, body type. I select average for every box where average applies.
Then I turn to the next page, and that’s where things get more difficult. Interests, it says in swirling italics. Tick all that apply. The list is long, and I don’t know what half of them even are. My heart starts to pound hard and fast in my chest, and I grip the pen tighter, feeling shocked and sad and inadequate. What must it be like, I wonder, to be the sort of woman who can confidently work through this list? Who can say yes, I like spanking and group sex but I’m not interested in latex or breath play?
I flip over to the final page. A single sentence swirls across the top. Tell us about your fantasies.
I don’t have any, I think to myself, but that’s not quite true.
I want to feel pleasure in my own body. I want to get back the woman I was before I became this frightened mouse. I wonder what happened to her, why I let her go. I put pen to paper and start to write. Only a few sentences, but written fast before I lose my nerve. Then I open the door and go in search of Theo.
I find him in the kitchen, sat at the counter with a laptop and more coffee.
‘Here,’ I say, shoving the paper in his direction.
He takes it from me, glances down at it. ‘OK,’ he says. He doesn’t comment on my appearance. ‘I’ll make some calls. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you later.’
I shut myself in my room, but I can’t sleep. I dress, undress, dress again. None of my clothes feel right. I settle on black trousers and a peach-coloured jumper that makes me feel twenty-eight going on fifty. I’m nervous as hell and I can’t seem to shake it off. But when Theo knocks on the door, I do a good job of pretending to be calm, of hiding my emotions. I’m good at that.
‘Ready?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, as if I’m not a quivering wreck, as if I’m not thinking about running off the second we get outside. The heels of my black suede boots are loud on the floor as we make our way outside and into the waiting taxi. I press my knees tightly together and try not to think about what’s going to happen. I concentrate on the lights outside, on the view of London and not on the aching throb that has started up between my legs and deep in my pussy.
The taxi pulls to a standstill across the road from the club. Theo pays the fare before I can get to my purse, and I make a mental note to pay him back later. I haven’t asked him how much I owe him for the club membership either. I hope he takes Visa. Thirty days unpaid leave from work hasn’t left me with much in the bank.
He gets out of the taxi, and I follow him. The door opens when he rings the bell, and we’re greeted by a smartly dressed man in a three-piece suit. He’s got wavy blond hair and friendly eyes. He’s maybe 5’10, and has a good ten years on Theo.
‘You must be Jules,’ he says. ‘I’m John.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I say, so polite, so awkward. So this is the man who owns the other half of the club. Judging by his accent, he’s not English. Australian, I think.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Theo says. He takes my hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘John will take good care of you.’
Then he moves past me, and disappears along the corridor.
John closes the door, and smiles at me. I find myself smiling back. He’s one of those people who makes you feel instantly comfortable, as if you’ve been friends for years. ‘We’re nearly ready for you,’ he says. ‘Would you like a drink while you wait?’
I automatically reach for a no, but find a yes instead.
‘Excellent,’ John says. ‘Follow me.’
He leads me through to a quiet bar area, settles me into a comfortable armchair. He offers me champagne, but I opt for a chilled chardonnay. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back in just a moment.’
There are other people in the bar, but they take no notice of me. There’s a woman in a prim business suit, with her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. After a couple of minutes, two men dressed in identical black outfits walk in. They handcuff her wrists behind her back and drag her away. For a moment, I think to intervene, then I notice that she’s smiling.
I know they’re going to take her through one of the closed doors, into one of the private rooms. I imagine them stripping her, interrogating her with fingers and cocks. I imagine her writhing with pleasure, and I envy her.
I take a sip of wine, hope it will bury the bitter taste in my throat. My request seems so tame in comparison. I want to be outrageous. I want to ask for wicked, delicious things, the things I am too scared to let myself imagine, let alone want. The things that only a selfish, perverted slut would ask for. Maybe I would like to be pleasured by two men, I don’t know.
I’m still thinking about that when John walks back in. ‘We’re ready for you now,’ he says softly. He’s so very polite, we could be in an upmarket restaurant, not a sex club. There’s no trace of what’s about to come in his tone, no suggestion that this is anything perverted, anything untoward.
He takes me to one of the small private rooms. The brass plaque on the door reads Curious Appetites, and I feel like I am falling down the rabbit hole. ‘Enjoy,’ he says.
Then he walks away. I stand in the doorway and stare at the door for long, terrifying minutes before I push it open.
And take my first step into another world.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8c8f1edd-2fd9-5e63-918a-6d3420162ef8)
The scene has been set so perfectly just from my few scribbled words. Candles line the shelves, hang from sconces in the ceiling, creating slashes of shadow and light and plenty of places to hide. There is no bed, only a beautiful velvet sofa and a vintage dressing screen embroidered with a red dragon. The room is otherwise empty. I take a moment to get my bearings, to calm myself, to breathe in the scent of beeswax and jasmine. I requested an hour with a man, a beautiful man, one who couldn’t see me or hear me or speak to me.
He’s waiting for me. I can hear him breathing, deep and slow. I don’t look at him, not yet. Instead, I move over to the little table next to the sofa, where a bottle of champagne sits cooling in a bucket of ice. I pop the cork, pour myself a glass, take a small sip and savour it.
I can already feel heat building between my legs, and I press my thighs more closely together, putting pressure on my pussy lips and my clit. I’m nervous, too. My palms are damp and my stomach is twitching. But it’s all right, because he doesn’t know.
I walk behind the screen and slip out of my clothes, draping them carefully over the top. It was very thoughtful of whoever set the room to think to include this for me. Although I know the man can’t see me, getting undressed directly in front of him is a step too far.
I leave my bra and knickers on. Then I walk out from behind the screen, pick up the candelabra from the table next to the champagne, and carry it over to him.
He’s sat on a chair that matches the sofa, worn velvet the colour of old roses, with gilded arms and curving feet. A black leather hood moulds the shape of his head, obscuring his face, his ears. I wave my hand in front of his face. He shows no discernible reaction. I whisper ‘hello’ and he doesn’t react to that either. Blind and deaf, just as I had requested.
His wrists are bound to the chair with silk ribbon, and he’s completely naked. I move the candelabra closer, examine his body. Faintly tanned, masculine, hair in all the right places. I can’t tell his age, other than that he’s neither old nor young, and he’s really quite beautiful. Muscular but not bulky, in a strong, fit kind of way. His shoulders are broad, and his upper arms have a nice curve to them, as does his chest. The dark hair that dusts that and his belly and thighs stops him from looking too preened, too vain.
I look at his penis, which hangs between his spread thighs, the tip touching the velvet. It looks clean and healthy. Not erect, but…heavy.
The same feeling echoes between my thighs.
I reach out and touch it, the tips of my fingers to his soft, vulnerable flesh. He jerks in his seat, then goes still. He spreads his thighs a little wider, as if he wants to make sure that I can touch him, that he’s not impeding me in any way.
I set down the candelabra on the floor at the side of the chair.
Then I kneel in front of him, and fondle his cock. He gets hard almost immediately, thickening, lengthening, until the tip of his penis is no longer grazing the velvet but lying close to his navel. There’s a slight curve to his prick, and I follow it with my finger, curious, fascinated by this new plaything.
He can’t tell me that I’m doing it wrong. He can’t tell me I’m doing it right while his expression tells a different story. He can’t bat my hands away and tell me that his previous girlfriend could get him off, so why can’t I?
He can’t do anything but submit to me.
It’s a strange feeling, the power. But still the doubts are creeping in, prickling at my insides like I’ve swallowed a handful of pins. I take my hand away. If he knew it was me, if he could see me, would I still have this effect on him?
No. I won’t think about that. I won’t. There’s no one here to criticise me now. No one to tell me that if only I could lose a few pounds, if only my hair was a slightly different colour, if only I wasn’t so selfish all the time, everything would be fine.
This man doesn’t know me. He’s never going to know me.
I go back to the table that holds the champagne and I drink it, swallowing it down like it’s supermarket white wine instead of Bollinger. I refill my glass, take it with me back over to where the man is sat. This time, I stand between his legs. His knees press against my thighs, warm and firm, and I sip a little more of the champagne, letting the delicious bubbles coat my tongue, and suddenly I know what I want. What I need.
I reach down to the ribbon that binds his right hand to the arm of the chair, and slowly tug it loose. He flexes his fingers. I keep pulling on the ribbon, pulling and pulling until it slides free. I drop it to the floor.
Then I take his wrist, and lift his hand to my tits. His fingers meet my flesh, and instantly began to squeeze, the automatic male reaction. I let him grope me for a moment or so, let him find his way.
His fingertips find the edge of my bra and try to make their way inside, but the angle is awkward and he can’t quite manage it. I take his wrist, hold his hand steady as I drain the rest of the champagne from my glass and set it aside.
Then I slowly, slowly free my right breast from the tight satin that hides it. The flesh swells up over the top of my bra, exposing my nipple, which has already become a tight little nub. When I put his hand back in place, his fingers find it immediately.
He pinches it, hard.
I gasp, my knees trembling, and spit out an offensive word. But I don’t smack his hand away. Instead, I reach forward and pinch his small, flat, brown nipple in return. He flinches. He softens his grip, stroking me with his fingertips as if he’s trying to soothe the hurt he caused. Then his fingers slide slowly upwards, over the top of my breast, finding my collarbone, my neck. I’ve clipped my hair up out of the way, leaving him no loose strands to play with, though he explores the curve of my ear, my jawline.

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