Page 62 of Repluse

We dropped Sam at home, but he’ll be here later so we can all go to the club together. Being careful not to get my hair wet or ruin my makeup, I take a very quick shower, then head down to the kitchen in my robe to find some food. I find Frankie there pouring himself a drink.

“You want something?” he asks.

“Yes, please, but I was actually looking for some food.”

“We’ll eat at the club. It won’t get busy till much later, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

“You have a restaurant in the club?”

“We have a couple. There’s casual dining at Virtue, and something a little more decadent at Vice. They’re both fantastic. Some clients only come to eat, maybe dance in the main club, and never take part in anything else we have to offer, which is fine. There’s no pressure to do anything you don’t want to at our place.”

He pulls a bag of veggie chips from a cupboard, and a dip from the fridge. He empties the chips into a bowl and takes the lid off the hummus. Sliding them both towards me, he then proceeds to pull a bottle of Prosecco from a built-in chiller drawer under the stone benchtop. I remain silent for a moment as I digest what he’s just said, along with the chips I’m shoving into my mouth. According to my watch, I did over twelve thousand steps at the mall today. I haven’t eaten since my omelette, and I’m now ravenous.

“What’s it called?” I ask as he slides my drink towards me. I know what his club’s called because I Googled it. Then I panic because I think I might’ve told him last weekend that I Googled it. “I love these glasses,” I add as a distraction when I pick up the matte black, stemless flute.

“Thanks, Vizio.”

“Vizio? What’s it mean?”

“Vice in Italian.”

“Ah, it’s good. Not sleazy. I like it.”

“Glad you approve. I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but our club is high end. There’s nothing sleazy about it. Our members are screened. No guests unless we’re given at least a week’s notice and we’ve had time to screen them. All personal belongings are left in your locker, which is key coded, so no need to carry a key. No phones, no smart watches. Every person in the club is issued with their own unique smart band. It’s encrypted with their membership details, their payment details, which means we can track where they’ve been in the club, what they eat, how much they’ve drunk. We have strict rules on alcohol and can cut anybody off at any time. We also have a zero-drug policy.”

“But you said… The stuff you gave me last week?”

“That’s a client—a club member who supplies me and Sam for personal use. He’s a homeopath. We like a little something every now and then but can’t run the risk of ever getting caught with anything in our possession or in our system. It could mean we lose our licence. Our friend creates plant-based substances that leave the system within hours, and they’re not something you could ever be arrested for if youwerefound to have them in your system.”

I listen intently, amazed at the minute detail that goes into life as a successful sex club owner.

“But as for what happens at the club, there’s zero tolerance. Obviously we can’t stop clients doing whatever they do before entering our premises, but our security is strict, and our staff know what to look out for if we think someone might be under the influence of anything more than a few drinks.”

“Wow, that’s…”

“A lot. People come to us because our club’s clean, it’s safe, it’s exclusive, it’s discreet, and we offer a multitude of experiences. Like I said, our clients can just dine and dance, or they can take part in the most erotic or debauched experience of their life. Whatever they choose, they’ll be safe, which, nowadays, with so many shady operators out there, is probably the highest on their list of priorities.”

“Has it made you rich?” I question, feeling brave after the Prosecco hits my empty belly hard.

“Very. We’ve used our wealth wisely and invested as silent partners in similar setups to ours around the world. We have an extensive property portfolio, we’ve invested heavily in medicinal cannabis within Australia, as well as other natural remedy companies.”

He pauses, rolls his lips together, and I’m not sure if he’s thinking about what else they’ve done with their wealth, or…

“Something else—something new we started this year,” he continues, “is like an OnlyFans type of experience for our members. So, for those who can’t make it to the club, we have a room where our clients know they’re being filmed, and footage from that one particular room is streamed to the service. It’s an extra on top of a standard membership, which has proved highly lucrative.”

“So, like live porn?” My vagina reacts to my own question.

“Yeah. The room we stream from has an ‘as long as it’s consensual, and safe, anything goes’ rule. Viewers have no idea what they might be getting. It could be vanilla, an orgy, blood play, they don’t know.”

“Wow. How much is membership?”

“Twenty-five thousand a year. Forty for couples.”

“Twenty-five grand? Does Logan pay that?”

“Yep. No discounts. Not even for friends and family.” He tops my glass up.

“I don’t have twenty-five grand,” I admit.

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