Chapter 6
Anton
She is quite simply lovely.
Lovely.
And she doesn’t fool me for a second. She may think her immaculate Hitchcock-heroine act is convincing. She certainly looks the part. She’s Grace Kelly with flesh on her bones. Betty Draper’s blonde, patrician beauty with Joan’s incredible tits and arse.
Jesus Christ, what man could withstand that combination?
I see what she’s got going on here. She’s playing the whole in-control Domme role. The sexy schoolmarm. That iPad may as well be a clipboard. I bet she runs this place like a Swiss watch. It’s almost sweet, and it might be convincing to someone less perceptive.
But I didn’t get where I am by being unable to read people, and, from where I’m standing, Genevieve Carew is as readable as a fucking three-year-old’s picture book.
I saw the look on that beautiful face when I outlined my particular set of appetites.
I saw what it did to her.
Yes, I may have been unnecessarily salacious, but I was looking for a reaction.
And boy did I get one.
Her huge baby-blues went wide. Her pupils dilated faster than you could say on your knees, and an extremely pretty flush bloomed on her cheeks.
Not to mention, she dropped the fucking pen.
I should feel sorry for her. I should feel bad for making her hot and bothered, but instead I’m thrilled.
I told her I was looking for challenges.
I suspect I’ve just found my first one. Something tells me she won’t easily succumb to the inevitable.
I’d be hugely disappointed if she did.
She throws me a few more questions, but I can tell she’s still rattled. She’s a cool customer, and she runs a sex club, for God’s sake, so I assume she’s used to running these interviews. Used to discussing all manner of sordid secrets.
Therefore, I can only conclude that it’s me who’s getting her all hot and bothered.
Just how I like it.
‘Would you like to see the club?’ she asks somewhat abruptly, laying the iPad down on the coffee table.
‘If you’ve got everything you need from me then yes. Very much.’
She nods and stands. I get to my feet too and gesture for her to lead the way.
The back view is quite as spectacular as the front.
This woman has the old-world curves of a Hollywood bombshell, and she certainly knows how to dress to show them off.
She’s in a sleek, form-fitting pencil skirt that nips in at the waist and stretches over her fantastic arse, and whose rear slit hints at a tantalising sliver of thigh.
Nude stockings. High heels and fucking amazing legs.
Her platinum-blonde hair is perfectly coiffed in some kind of up-do, and the silk shirt she’s wearing is palest lavender and sleeveless, showcasing toned arms. The pussy-bow tie at the front gives off a sexy-secretary vibe that I can—surprise, surprise—definitely get on board with.
Everything she’s wearing, down to the starched white cotton camellia brooch that’s unmistakably Chanel, screams class. It’s almost as if she’s terrified anyone might deem her unseemly.
Come to think of it, the camellia feels apt. It’s pure. Flawless. Intricate. Highly structured. No room for improvisation. For mess. None of those big, blowsy petals other flowers go for.
It’s perfect.
Just like her.
And yet this immaculate, golden goddess runs a sex club. Fascinating. I find myself intrigued by her as I watch her arse sway in front of me, thanks to those four-inch heels she’s wearing.
I follow her out of the room and down the wide entrance hallway where I came in.
Its walls are lined with chrome sconces, its floor a highly polished black-and-white chequer.
This building has good bones. It’s a wonderful example of a classic Georgian villa—I wouldn’t be surprised if Adam himself designed it.
‘This is how the guests enter in the evening,’ Genevieve says. ‘And this is our main bar.’ She stops in front of a pair of double doors and opens them with a flourish.
The room I step into is large. Light-filled.
Impressive, even when empty. There are French doors at one end with a leafy garden in view, and heavy oak doors at the other.
The main feature is the long, pale pink onyx bar dotted with heavy chrome bar stools, their leather seats an eye-popping emerald green.
It’s a beautiful space. Chic and tasteful.
The type of bar I’d expect to find at the Connaught or the Berkeley or at a swanky members’ club like Annabel’s, not at a sex club.
I’m sure that pink bar looks stunning in the evening when it’s backlit.
The room smells heavily of what I recognise as Diptyque Baies candles, and sure enough, I spot their iconic matte black votives everywhere.
It’s a scent that, unfortunately, instantly evokes Marie-Claire, Wife Number Two, who had Baies burning all over the house.
I look forward to overwriting those memories with new ones.
Memories that involve sex and only sex.
‘We wanted to capture an exclusive feel,’ Genevieve explains, gesturing around the room. ‘We didn’t want it to appear too overtly sexual. Members can bring guests this far, and many of them use it as their club, even when they’re not planning on going next door.’
Next door is The Playroom, and I swear the air thickens when she opens the heavy doors and ushers me inside.
Yes. This is more like it.
Even if it’s far more… girly than any sex club I’ve been in before.
I’m used to black and red. Whips and chains. This is prettier. It’s a vast white room whose lightness is tangible even in the absence of any natural light save for that filtering through the open doors. The huge windows are firmly shuttered.
There’s a bar on one side, a stage on the other, and the space in between the two is cleverly punctuated by huge white pillars from which hang billowing white curtains. I prowl around the room as I take it in, Genevieve following me.
‘I assume it’s more bacchanalian at night,’ I mutter.
‘Definitely,’ she says. ‘Though not the drunken part—we have a two-drink limit per member to protect everyone. But the orgy part, yes.’
It does feel like some Ancient Grecian temple where the young and the beautiful can indulge in utter debauchery, and I like it.
It’s not sordid like some clubs I’ve been to—it’s upmarket and unapologetic.
The sheer number of white leather sofas and daybeds and ottomans leave no room for doubt as to the purpose of the room, but it feels… elevated.
I’m confident the kind of sex I can have in here will be elevated, too.
Even the three St Andrew’s crosses in a row are stylish, crafted from smooth, blonde wood with tan leather cuffs that look like they could have been crafted by Hermès’ own artisans.
But the sight that sends an anticipatory tug to my groin is the sight of a waist-high, chesterfield-style ottoman with cuffs chained along the top.
Because cuffing a woman and bending her over that thing could work very well.
Come to think of it, Genevieve Carew’s arse would look particularly fine bared like that.
Which prompts my next question.