Chapter 1
Gen
Ihave a problem with faking orgasms.
Let me rephrase, because that’s unclear. You could take it to mean I object to the principle of faking orgasms, and you’d be right.
I run a sex club, for Christ’s sake. The entire point of its existence is to ensure real orgasms on tap.
Or you could also take it to mean I have a problem, and the problem is that I have to fake orgasms.
You’d be right on that count, too.
Maybe I’m being a typical female and making myself the problem, when, in actual fact, the problem is them.
The guys I date.
The guys I fuck.
I have an admirable dating life out there in the world and a red-hot sex life behind Alchemy’s closed doors. Or, more accurately, the closed doors of its Playroom.
The problem is, those worlds don’t converge.
I have indeed had orgasms on tap last week and every week.
Take, for example, that hot Turkish guy last Friday night who tied me up and fucked me in one of Alchemy’s private rooms like he was being sent off to serve a life sentence.
But when a guy looks—and acts—like he’s just walked off the set of 365 Days, it behoves you to give him a wide berth when it comes to actual dating.
And when, time after time, attractive, successful bankers and entrepreneurs and hedge fund managers and tech moguls ask you out for dinner, and are full of intelligence and wit and charm, and there’s a cerebral spark of sorts, and the conversation is stimulating, and the evening flies by?
Well, then it behoves you to take things back to your bedroom where you end up faking it out of politeness and a desire to draw a line under the evening and get them the fuck out of your flat.
Because, while most of them are in possession of a decent-sized cock and know where to put it, they are vanilla as fuck.
And no matter how hot they are, or how much they work out, or how genuine the intellectual spark between us is, I’m not going to go up in flames at some unimaginative missionary, no matter how hard they give it to me.
Of course, I never say anything, except for oh, yes and oh my God, that’s—right there, yeah, and whatever else I can muster up.
The poor guys don’t have a clue that I need more.
Because, outside of the debauched confines of Alchemy and in my actual, real life where I’m searching for an actual, real life partner, I don’t speak up.
I don’t complain. And I don’t ask for what I need. I mean, what’s the point?
Alchemy’s ruined me, obviously. That much is true. Sleeping with a nice, sensible guy after being fucked by the animals at the club is like trying to sate yourself with a cosy mystery after reading the most disgusting dark romance you can get your hands on.
In a word…
Underwhelming.
It is entirely possible, after all, that the problem is me, in a myriad of ways I’d rather not explore too deeply.
Things could be worse.
As I mentioned, I have the sex life and I have the glittering dating life.
Just not together.
But, quite frankly, ‘could be worse’ is not good enough for me.
* * *
I settle myself on the smoke-grey velvet sofa in Alchemy’s main reception room, which is a beautiful space at the front of the enormous stuccoed Georgian building that houses the club.
The room is airy, its plain white walls allowing its fabulous features to sing: the panelling, the original Adam fireplace, and the spectacular cornicing on its high ceilings.
The furniture is pared back and expensive, the only touch of frivolity the vulva sculpture crafted from pale pink onyx that glows ethereally when lit from within.
It’s Monday morning, and I feel suitably refreshed. There were no fake or real orgasms happening last night. Not for me, anyway. Queen Charlotte and King George III had plenty on my TV screen, and they were wonderful.
The five of us meet each morning to catch each other up. I co-founded this place with three of my best friends from uni—Rafe, Zach and Cal—and, while the Alchemy team has grown to encompass a host of hospitality and security staff, we still form the core management team.
Put it this way: the four of us, as well as our social media manager, Maddy, are the only ones who actually show our faces at the club before 5pm.
Rafe’s our CEO. Alchemy was his brainchild, and he used the hell out of it until a stunning young virgin, his neighbour, Belle, signed herself up to our Unfurl programme to take ownership of her sexuality and got well and truly Rafe-d.
Or maybe he got Belle-d. Either way, he only makes use of Alchemy’s facilities with his girlfriend these days.
Zach’s the Finance Director, and, up until about five months ago, had zero interest in anything that went on at the club.
As long as the cash flows were healthy, he gave it a wide berth.
He’s had a beyond shitty time of it, losing his wife to cancer and having to navigate the perils of single-parenting while he and his daughters suffer a deluge of grief.
In a plot twist I didn’t see coming, however, he started fucking Belle’s friend Maddy soon after she started working here to manage our social media.
What we all assumed was a much-needed physical outlet for him turned into far more, and they’re now blissfully loved-up.
She formally moved in with him and the girls a month or two ago.
I’m very fond of Maddy. She’s vivacious and open-hearted, and she owns her sexuality in a way it warms my heart to see in a young woman.
And, while she and our very own amazing but repressed Zach couldn’t be more polar opposites in every way, somehow she has been precisely what he needed.
She’s brought colour and light and love back into his and the girls’ lives, and for that we’re endlessly grateful.
In fact, Zaddy, as we call them to annoy them, serves as a wonderful reminder that I like to think I’m wise but that I actually have no fucking clue about life or the human race, because I never, ever saw that one coming.
Even though they’re perfect together. They’re sitting next to each other across from me, and while they’re not touching, the love is palpable.
The connection. Their bodies are leaning in towards each other like they simply cannot help themselves.
All you need to know about Cal is that he’s a total man whore, a rock-solid guy and a great friend.
Unlike me, he’s given up all attempts at dating and spends most of his evenings either at Alchemy or at the gym.
He’s a major extrovert whose role as Chief Marketing Officer is a thin facade for him to spend his days organising parties and special events for the club.
As for me, I’m the COO of Alchemy and responsible for new memberships. It’s a role I love. I crave inflicting order upon chaos. Give me a clipboard, and I’m happy as a pig in shit. If Rafe’s the big picture one, and Zach’s the data nerd, and Cal’s the party guy, then I’m the systems person.
In the sex club industry, nothing can be left to chance.
It’s all very well having a big idea to create a beautiful, inspiring, safe space where people can fuck each other’s brains out, but creating that environment doesn’t happen by accident.
It requires endless policies and procedures and security and troubleshooting and hygiene and vetting.
The vetting part is why I oversee the process of approving new members. You can have all the safeguarding and explicit consent policies and NDAs in the world, but if you allow a load of dickheads into that space, you’re nothing. Safety and respect come first.
End of story.
And when the membership fees are as hefty as ours, weeding out entitled dickheads who want to join can be a full-time job.
Cal is innocuously singing The Teddybears’ Picnic as he takes his seat next to me. His voice is decent, but the knowing sideways grin he’s giving me makes me want to slap him.
‘If you go down to the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise,’ he sings. ‘If you go down to the woods today, you'd better go in disguise…’
‘Got something you’d like to say?’ I enquire. My tone is icy, my eyebrow arched. The combination has been known to fell men on many an occasion.
‘Today’s the day, isn’t it?’ he asks, disappointingly unchastened.
‘What day?’
I know bloody well what he’s getting at, but I’m damned if I’m going to give him an inch.
He grins at me. I know for a fact that grin has melted plenty a pair of panties off, but it has no effect on me whatsoever.
I lived with the guy at uni, for fuck’s sake.
I’ve had the deep misfortune of seeing him unconscious in a pool of his own vomit more than once.
He may be the debonair man about town now, but he’ll always be a gormless, if lovable, rugby-playing twat in my eyes.
‘Today you’re meeting the Big Bad Wolff,’ he says, articulating the last three words in a way that’s decidedly creepy.
‘So what the fuck are you singing The Teddybear’s fucking Picnic for?’ Rafe asks him before I can ask the same thing. ‘The surprise is the fucking teddybears. There’s no wolf. Wrong song, mate.’
Zach throws his head back and laughs the kind of deep belly laugh that we heard far too rarely from him up until he got together with Maddy. The sound of it warms my heart and makes me laugh.
‘It’s the Lil’ Red Riding Hood song you want,’ Rafe continues. ‘You know…’
He launches into a sketchy rendition of some song I’ve never heard of. Maddy starts giggling.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Is it too much to ask that you all grow up a little so we can actually begin this meeting? And please, for the love of God, try to hold it together if you happen to see Mr Wolff in here later. We’re all supposed to be representing the Alchemy brand.’
I glare at them all. I refuse to let my amusement show through, because, as usual, I have to play school marm with these three. Maddy’s fourteen years younger than the rest of us, but I swear, she and I are the only adults in the room.
‘Got it.’ Cal clears his throat. ‘So I can’t say’—he bats his eyelashes and adopts a breathy, Marilyn Monroe-esque falsetto—‘what time is it, Mr Wolff, if I see him?’
My glare intensifies as I attempt to make laser beams shoot out of my eyes and burn his obnoxious good looks to the ground. Everyone else in the room falls about laughing.
Zach reaches for Maddy’s hand as he fixes his alarmingly blue eyes on Cal. ‘And you definitely shouldn’t say, my, my, Grandmother dear. What big teeth you have.’ His falsetto is even more porno than Cal’s.
‘All the better to eat you with!’ Rafe and Cal roar in unison before cracking up with laughter. Their schoolboy humour is so infectious that my mouth begins to twitch right as I roll my eyes.
I’m laughing at them, not with them.
Just to be clear.
‘I detest and despise you all,’ I say calmly, smoothing my hands over the pleasing cover of my Smythson notebook.
‘Anton Wolff is an impressive businessman who’s far more successful than any of you twats.
And let me remind you he’s a prospective member here.
So, for fuck’s sake, show him some respect if you see him. ’
‘Didn’t he apply a few months ago?’ Rafe asks, brushing an imaginary speck of fluff off his excellent trousers. Not only is the guy objectively and seriously attractive, but he’s always perfectly turned out. ‘I seem to remember you getting your knickers in a twist about it then.’
‘How ridiculous your memory is,’ I huff. ‘I don’t get anything in a twist over any prospective members.’
Lie. I was seriously flustered when Mr Wolff’s application first came in for reasons I’d rather not examine too closely.
Cal sniggers.
‘And yes,’ I clarify in response to his original question, ‘he applied in the Autumn but his assistant put it on hold for some reason. She got in touch last week to set the wheels in motion again. I’m assuming he was wintering somewhere hot.’
This time, it’s only a partial lie. My TikTok For You Page tells me that billionaire tycoon Anton Wolff has indeed been enjoying the pleasures of the Caribbean this winter, but he’s also had a voluptuous and very beautiful Colombian TV star on his arm for most of that time.
My FYP may or may not have informed me about a month ago that the two had parted ways.
Fucking TikTok. You look up someone once to perform a little professional due diligence, and its algorithm won’t let you move on. It has the memory of an elephant and the unwelcome stickiness of gum stuck to the sole of your shoe.
‘Well, don’t take any shit from him,’ Rafe says, which I’m pretty sure is exactly what he said when Wolff’s application first came in. ‘He’s subject to the same requirements as everyone else—make that clear.’
‘I’m sure Gen’s got this,’ Maddy says with a flick of her glossy brown hair. The woman is gorgeous, and her legs look insane in those nude heels. She’s a sweetheart and a knockout, and I couldn’t be more ecstatic for her and Zach.
‘Thank you, Mads,’ I say pointedly, giving my three so-called friends another glare for good measure.
‘Anyway,’ Maddy says, ‘he’s sexy as fuck. I mean, seriously. The guy is ridiculous. You’ve got to let him in, Gen.’
‘Hey.’ Zach grips her bare thigh, looking outraged. I grin. That wiped the smirk off his face.
She pats his hand. ‘For the singletons, babes. I only have eyes for one guy these days, but I’m invested in having hotties around for my fellow females to have fun with.’
I suppress a shudder that’s definitely not revulsion. Quite the opposite. Because the thought of the Anton Wolff getting down and dirty in our club is one I cannot allow myself to compute.