Chapter 33
Gen
This apartment is my haven.
It’s for me and me alone.
And, while it’s not girly by any stretch, its energy is feminine. Serene.
My professional life is demanding. My personal life can be… intense.
Exhibit A: this evening’s spontaneous orgy.
I work hard for my money, and I play hard, and it’s critical that I have a safe space to retreat from the professional and social and sexual onslaughts I inflict upon myself.
I’m extra grateful for it tonight as I stand robed in my all-white bathroom, body showered and hair washed.
God knows, I need to decompress. I should be exhausted, and my body certainly is, but my brain hasn’t got the memo.
I’m wired to the hilt, crawling out of my skin.
All that stimulation has my adrenal system over-functioning.
The face that looks back at me in the mirror is objectively wrecked but somehow glowing.
I suppose orgasms really are the best facial.
I fixed my just-fucked hair and smudged eye makeup in the little bathroom off Anton’s office and reapplied my lipstick, but I’m far from the usual groomed version of myself that I present to the world.
I put on my towelling beauty headband and get to work, pumping a generous dollop of my favourite gel-to-oil cleanser onto my palm and spreading it over my skin. Working it in. That sensation as the gel turns to oil is my favourite, and my skin deserves every second of TLC tonight.
The aftermath of tonight’s sex-fest was…
interesting. We’re big on aftercare at Alchemy.
Maddy recently led a huge social media campaign around educating our members on its role and its importance.
That said, in the main Playroom there tends to be more of a fuck-and-leave approach.
Aftercare is more prevalent in our private rooms.
This evening had aftercare and after-celebrating. Anton helped Athena back on with her thong and, it seemed, whispered what was most likely the filthiest form of praise to her before she took herself off to the bathroom and then slipped out of the room.
David and Max, meanwhile, were all about helping me get dressed, given all they had to do was stuff their dicks back in their boxers and haul their trousers up.
They got me on my feet and held me between them as they slid my thong up, hooked my bra, and zipped up my dress.
Max slipped a hand up said dress as he put my shoes back on as if I was Cinderella while David held me steady, a worshipful expression on his face.
If I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t indulge in this kind of thing much. He’s less overtly dirty than Max and Anton are, though it’s safe to say he enjoyed himself this evening.
Max was in his element as he got me dressed, laughing and making dirty jokes and ribbing Anton.
And the Big Bad Wolff?
He zipped himself back up and stood there, watching every second of the fun I was having with the other guys.
Because it was fun.
It wasn’t awkward or excruciating, like it could have been. I was seriously chilled after two orgasms, riding high on feel-good hormones and on the heady experience of being the only person Anton Wolff had eyes for.
As Max flirted and kissed up my back before zipping my dress closed, Anton watched me still.
His expression was impassive, but his eyes were burning.
I can feel them burning into me even now.
I apply my serums and moisturiser and pad through to my apartment’s spacious reception area.
This is my favourite room on this planet.
High ceilings, original plasterwork and an Art Deco-style drum chandelier are all the features it needs.
The floorboards are polished originals, the walls and furniture are off white, and double doors lead through to my white kitchen.
One whole wall is lined with well-thumbed paperbacks, and my enormous coffee table holds an orchid and an edit of my coffee-table books.
Dior.
Chanel.
Oscar de la Renta.
Cartier.
Capri.
All the classics from Assouline.
There’s a chaise longue in front of the huge windows, cream upholstery with an iconic beige Hermès blanket strewn across it. It’s my favourite place to sit and read, or daydream.
Which is what I do as soon as I’ve put a chicken dish my part-time chef cooked in the oven to reheat and poured myself a glass of beautifully chilled Chenin Blanc.
I sit down on that chaise longue and I put my feet up and let my head fall back against the headrest. My apartment smells deliciously of Diptyque candles—Feu de Bois, to differentiate from the Baies candles we have peppered around Alchemy to mask the scent of sex.
I’ve got some soothing classical piano music on.
I’m surrounded by the womb-like serenity of my apartment, and still I feel jolted.
The group sex didn’t make me uneasy. I made a decision long ago to refuse to feel any guilt or self-loathing over what is a harmless and healthy and highly gratifying activity between consenting adults.
Six years of being sexually active without achieving a single orgasm at the hands of anyone other than myself focused the mind.
It tipped me over the edge when Rafe proposed the concept of Alchemy to us.
And it focuses the mind on nights like this, when the come-down could be hard and the temptation to ruminate could be too great.
I pause, take a sip of wine, and check in with myself.
Nope.
No guilt.
No self-recrimination.
No slut-shaming.
No judgement.
Science tells us that orgasms are seriously fucking good for female health. They deliver oxytocin, they increase blood flow to the brain, they aid sleep, they help our skin, for fuck’s sake, they strengthen our pelvic floor, and they’re absolutely brilliant for our immune systems.
There’s a reason they call her Mother Nature.
So, nope. There are no problems here. Once I’ve had a chance to wind down gently, I’ll go to bed and get a great night’s sleep, and it’s all thanks to Anton Wolff.
As I recline in the glory of a summer sunset, I grudgingly admit to myself that Anton’s parting words to me at the door may be in part responsible for my buoyant mood.
He stood in the doorway, one palm up on the doorframe in a particularly alpha pose, and said the following.
Not you were magnificent.
But you are magnificent.