Page 84 of Duplicity

‘Let’s get that drink,’ I tell Fernanda through gritted teeth.

When your assistant-with-benefits is both AWOL and pissed off with you, and your supermodel date’s appeal begins and ends with taking her out in public to make every other guy on the face of the earth jealous, and your new Alchemy membership card is burning a hole in your pocket, there’s only one way to end your night.

I got Yan to take Fernanda home. She pouted as I kissed her on both cheeks and put her in the car, but her bedtime game isn’t exactly compelling. It’s enough of a win for me to know that I could fuck her if I wanted to, and God knows she can’t compete with what I’ve heard about Alchemy. And first impressions tell me this place will live up toallmy expectations, because holy shit.

The club is based in a white stuccoed villa in Mayfair, and, from the moment I walk in, the vibe is exclusive. Opulent. The lobby is gorgeous, as is the woman manning the reception desk. I’m still in black tie, and she eyes me appreciatively as she greets me. If this is the welcome I get at reception, then things are looking up for the rest of my evening.

Through a set of double doors, there’s a pink-hued bar. If we were anywhere else I’d be happy to linger here, nursing a scotch and sizing up my options. But this is a sex club. I don’t need to hang out at the bar to pull. I neck a shot and, with a nod of thanks to the two brutes on security, head through the next set of double doors.

The Playroom.

The space I’ve been itching to experience ever since my bloody brother got a membership. And on this Saturday night, it doesn’t disappoint. My first impression is of high ceilings, white pillars, white drapes, pink lighting and naked bodies. I feel like I’m at an orgy in Ancient Greece, and I’m fucking here for it.

The heavy beat of the dance music thrums in my veins. This is more like it. I’m restless and feverish, burning up with the need to make mischief. To cause carnage. I reckon I’ve spent more evenings at home since Marlowe started working for me than I have in my entire thirties. I’ve been in some little fuck bubble with her, and that ends now. I’m a sought-after guy with real needs, and just because my otherwise perfect assistant has gone all frigid and left me in the lurch, that doesn’t sentence meto a life of celibacy. My brother may have gone without sex for a decade, but there was only ever going to be one priest in this family, and it was never,evergoing to be yours truly.

I strip off my jacket and fling it over my shoulder, holding onto it with a crooked finger and surveying the debauchery in front of me. Where to start? The woman at reception told me that the female hosts wear little white dresses and the male hosts all-black. I can see one brunette mounted on one of the St Andrew’s crosses, a little white scrap of fabric banded around her middle. Her tits are out and her cunt is on full display and she’s being ravished by several gentleman. She looks like she’s having the time of her life.

I look to my left and catch the eye of a gorgeous young Black woman who has to be a model. Her scarlet dress is sinfully sexy and matches her lips to perfection. She gives me a coquettish smile, but something about her immaculate appearance puts me off approaching her. I’ve already put one flawless woman in a car tonight. I’m not convinced these model types know how to let loose and have a good time.

Tonight I want something messy. Something real. I wouldn’t mind some anal, come to think of it. That’s another area in which limiting myself to Marlowe has curbed my ability to meet my needs. There are times when only something utterly transgressive will quieten the incessant static in my head, and I’m pretty sure wedging my cock into the forbidden chokehold of a beautiful woman’s arsehole will be just the medicine I require.

Right. Now that I know what I need, I can search out someone whose entire demeanour screamsI take it up the arse and I love every filthy inch.

Bingo.

Little white host’s dress.

Messy strawberry blonde hair and big blue eyes that make her a dead ringer for Kelly Reilly.

And such an incredible-looking rack that it makes me think tonight’s the night I could finally fulfil myYellowstonespank bank favourite of Beth Dutton giving me a tit wank.

I just hope she’s less prone to random acts of violence than Ms Dutton.

Most importantly, she screams sex. She’s the polar opposite of my blonde, classy and wholesome assistant about whom I absolutely will not think. I need this, and I bloody deserve it.

Beth’s doppelgänger is loitering by the bar, looking bored. When I saunter over, she visibly perks up, pulling herself upright as she openly looks me over.

‘You look like James Bond.’

‘You look like you take it up the arse.’

She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Charming. But not wrong. I should probably reward your powers of observation.’

She moves towards me, and I hold my hands up. ‘I should warn you, I’m just looking for a quick fuck. Nothing more.’

The eye roll she gives me is quite something. ‘No shit, Sherlock. This is a sex club.’

‘I know, I’m just—this is my first time here. I want to be clear.’

‘Aww. That’s sweet. So I get to pop your Alchemy cherry? Anyway, you don’t need to worry. There seems to be a fascinating misconception by the punters here that we’re all trying to snag an engagement ring. Do you know how many guys I’ve tried to ensnare here? Zero. Do you know how many proposals I’ve had? Three of actual marriage and fuck knows how many to be a fully paid-up mistress. So don’t you worry your little cotton socks about me.’ She drops her voice to a stage whisper.‘Because I just want your dick.’

I laugh. I like this girl. She’s funny and refreshing, and those tits really are a gravitational marvel. I just wish my attractionto her felt less theoretical and more… red-blooded. More immediately carnal.

‘Consider me reassured. What’s your name?’

‘Ivy.’

‘I’m Brendan. Can I fuck you?’

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