Slave Night.
It’s like I’m eight years old again, and Cal’s just said Disneyland or Barbie Dream House.
Let’s just say his two-word elevator pitch has me at hello, because I am sold. Oooh. This sounds so far up my street it’s not even funny.
I sit bolt upright on the sofa and squeeze my thighs together under my short, flirty dress.
‘Slave Night?’ I squeak.
My unintentionally high-pitched enthusiasm gets a laugh from everyone else except, I note, Zach. He frowns and drops his head as if he’s in pain, leaning forward to stroke his gorgeous dog, Norm, who’s as good-natured as Zach is grumpy.
I don’t even know why he comes to these meetings. Zach. Not Norm. Norm makes the meetings far more fun. But Zach is the numbers guy, and while he and Cal and Gen and Rafe have all been friends for donkey’s years, he seems to make little effort to hide the fact that he finds the actual workings of Alchemy, and the kinky exploits of its members, uncomfortable if not downright unpalatable.
Well, screw him. Grumpy Zach aside, I’ve definitely found my people here. Even if they all have twelve or thirteen years on me. I don’t technically need to work. Both my father and stepfather set up generous-verging-on-insane trust funds which keep me in Balenciaga very nicely, thank you. But I do have an actual brain somewhere, and I like to exercise it.
To think that, six weeks ago, I was booking flights and expensing astronomical lunches at Nobu for hedge fund twats. Now I’m sitting in a gorgeous, light-filled, high-ceilinged room whose main feature is a vulva crafted delicately from translucent pink onyx, discussing the educational programme Alchemy’s rolling out on social and the upcoming events programme which, apparently, includes a Slave Night.
Sign. Me. The fuck. Up.
‘Calm down, Mads,’ Callum tells me from a couple of feet away on the same sofa. His grin, however, tells me he loves my response.
Callum and I fucked a few weeks ago. It was one evening when Belle had her Unfurl programme going on. Before she finally popped her cherry (spoiler alert: to her adoring Rafe), Rafe and Cal dressed up as priests and did all manner of dirty things to her as she played an innocent postulant. It sounded hot as fuck, and when we saw the guys beforehand in the bar I got myself pretty worked up.
Sure enough, Rafe kicked Cal out so he could get my gorgeous girl on her knees and to himself, and Cal came to find me.
Dog collar and all.
Let’s just say he gave me an amazing seeing-to and I can never look at priests the same way. That said, I suspect we both feel similarly about variety being the spice of life, because neither of us has made a move on each other since then.
Cal’s gorgeous. He still has his rugby player’s build. He’s funny, and dirty, and sexy, and light-hearted. In short, he’s perfect. He’s just a bit… I dunno.
Basic, I suppose.
Like, what you see is what you get.
He’s never going to go all dark and brooding on me, and while I appreciate a sure thing, and I probably wouldn’t say no to him again if I found myself short of options at Alchemy one night, I’m not sure we’ll hook up again unless one of us wanders into a gang bang the other’s enjoying.
We both enjoy sex with strangers too much to go back for seconds.
If anyone’s going to get on board with Slave Night, it’ll be Cal. And if anyone’s going to look like the mere mention of it gives them constipation, it’s Mr Pearl Clutcher in the corner.
Zach.
I mean, I get his general lack of enthusiasm. Obviously. The guy lost his wife. He’s single parenting. From what I’ve gleaned through Gen and Rafe and Belle, his circumstances are the stuff of nightmares. Grieving for your late wife while also trying to parent two little grief-stricken girls and run a household and hold down a full-time job?
It’s unconscionable.
To give credit where it’s due, he wears widowerhood (if that’s an actual word) well. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t sigh or moan or make pointed comments. I’ve noticed that whenever the others bring up his daughters, or his late wife, they do it in a matter-of-fact way. They deal in practicalities, not pity. Which I suspect is just the way he likes it.
Not only does he not complain or seek out sympathy or do anything except underplay his troubles, he also looks fucking good while he’s being all strong and stoic. I haven’t seen much of him in the office these past few weeks. His daughters were on school holidays and I understand he worked from home for the first fortnight after I started before taking them off to Italy with his parents-in-law for two weeks.
The upshot? He’s tanned and bloody gorgeous. He has the kind of skin that I suspect goes instantly, evenly bronzed with no effort at all, and, from what little I can see of his face and hands and neck and that tantalising triangle of chest beneath the open top collar of his shirt, that’s exactly what it’s done. I’m sure he could have passed himself off as a local in Italy until he opened his mouth and dropped that perfectly modulated accent that all alumni of the British public school system sport.
His hair, which has got longer over the summer and is a lustrous mop of almost black, has started to curl over the collar of the sky-blue shirt he wears. The shirt that brings out the startling blue of his eyes. Black-lashed eyes that right now are on full display as his black-rimmed, even-nerdier-than-Clark-Kent glasses lie on the coffee table in front of him.
Eyes that currently telegraph his utter horror and extreme discomfort at the direction our meeting has taken.
What did I say?
Pearl clutcher.
I’m telling you. Zach French wants to sink through that fancy Italian sofa right now. How they ever got him on board with this place beats me.
‘Shut up.’ I lean sideways so I can swat Cal playfully on the arm. Now we’ve got the fucking part out of the way, he and I have quickly found a pesky-sibling-type dynamic.
‘But seriously, what’s the format?’ I ask, turning towards Gen and twirling a lock of hair between my fingers. She’s a stunning, glacial-looking Hitchcock blonde who manages to be unexpectedly warm and yet perfectly poised at all times. I liked her as soon as I met her, though she doesn’t give much away. I don’t know much about her, and I haven’t worked her out yet despite studying her a tad obsessively these past few weeks. There’s a definite girl crush happening at my end.
She hangs out quite happily at Alchemy’s gorgeous bar, she seems extremely invested in this whole concept (unlike some other individuals sitting not far from me), and once or twice these past few weeks I’ve even seen her in The Playroom, slipping discreetly through the throngs of naked and semi-clothed bodies in her immaculate cocktail dresses.
But is she there to supervise her patrons’ behaviour or to partake of The Playroom’s vast array of pleasures?
That is the question.
I don’t even know what her kink is. I suspect a lot of people would meet her and instantly dub her a Domme, but somehow I don’t think that’s right. She’s so perfectly in control all the time that I bet she adores letting loose at the stern, skilful hands of some guy.
Hmm. I tap my glossy taupe nails on my notebook as I ponder the conundrum. The weather’s still very warm—London is, as usual, having a gorgeous September—but I’m firmly in back-to-school mode. That means a new Moleskin notebook for planning all Alchemy’s tantalising social media posts and a more softly autumnal palette for my clothes and nails.
Not that I’m covering up yet. It’s too hot, and my tan is far too fabulous, for that. Today’s a case in point. I’m wearing a long, lightweight khaki shirtwaister dress with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons undone as far down my chest and as far up my beautifully golden thighs as I think is tasteful. (That’s quite far.)
This time of year is fabulous at Alchemy, because the members are all back from partying in whichever Mediterranean playground they’ve spent August in, and now everyone is tanned and lithe and gorgeous and up for being entertained.
Cal, who’s in charge of the club’s promotional calendar, has explained to me that it’s important to kick things off with a bang in September. People have been fucking all summer and they’re looking for a similarly debauched vibe back in London. They want to be distracted from the fact that they’re staring down the barrel of four straight months of work heading into Christmas. September is a big month for new sign-ups, apparently, and they want fun.
Where was I? I got slightly lost there in a rabbit hole of pondering Gen’s proclivities and admiring my thigh-tan and…
Oooh yes.
Slave Night.
Gen smiles mysteriously. God, she’s good. It’s like she has a permanent Mona Lisa TikTok filter on. I wonder, does she practice in the mirror? And I wonder if I could pull off a similar mystique?
Probably not. Like Callum, I suspect I’m kinda what-you-see-is-what-you-get.
Unfortunately.
‘Ask Cal,’ Gen says now. ‘It’s his baby.’
I roll my eyes. Of course it is. ‘Will there be an actual auction?’ I ask hopefully.
He smirks. ‘Bet you’ve already got your sexy little slave-girl outfit all planned out up there, haven’t you?’ he asks, tapping his temple with his forefinger. ‘You’ve gone full Gladiator.’
I glare at him and spit out an offended no to cover the fact that my brain is already running a comparison of whether heels would be sexier than flat gladiator sandals. Gladiator sandals would be more authentic and, you know, bondage-y. But heels do so much more for my legs, and I like the idea of teetering about all doe-eyed and come buy me, sir in just lingerie and heels.
Or would I be blindfolded? I can’t be doe-eyed if I’m blindfolded, but that would be even sexier. I press my thighs together, and Callum, the observant little fucker, notices and raises his eyebrows in their direction.
Fuck’s sake. I mentally file away a reminder to see if Net a Porter has any heeled gladiator sandals. I mean, I don’t even know if that’s a thing.
Thankfully, he takes pity on me. ‘Yeah, there’ll be an auction. But it’s all for charity.’ He looks sideways at Zach before mumbling, ‘Pancreatic cancer research.’
There’s silence in the room. Zach nods and looks around, unsmiling. ‘Appreciate it, guys.’
Norm thumps his tail on the rug in approval. What a clever doggy he is.
‘Of course,’ Gen says at the same time Rafe mutters, ‘No worries, mate.’
Jeez Louise. I knew he’d lost his wife to cancer, but pancreatic cancer? Even I know that’s a relentless motherfucker. I don’t want to make him feel awkward, but I can’t help casting a glance at him from under my eyelashes. His head is bowed again, and he’s biting his lower lip.
God. The poor, poor guy. Life is so fucking cruel sometimes.
‘The auction proceeds will all go straight to the charity,’ Cal tells me now in a softer voice. ‘But themed nights like this are always good for business. Our members love them, and we get a lot of add-ons.’
‘Do you need volunteers?’ I ask Cal, trying to make my voice sound supportive rather than enthusiastic. ‘Like, to be auctioned off?’
He smiles wolfishly. ‘You bet we do. You game?’
‘Hell, yeah,’ I say, and he laughs.
‘Nice one. I’ll put you down.’
‘I bet Belle would do it, too,’ I muse aloud. I’m amused beyond belief when Rafe practically shoots off the sofa.
‘Over my dead body,’ he growls which, you know, doesn’t seem like the most diplomatic thing to say given the circumstances. But his caveman impression gets a smile out of Zach. He lifts his head from his coffee mug introspection and full-on grins, and it’s fucking gorgeous.
I think my new purpose in life might be to get Zach French grinning as much as possible. For, you know, both altruistic and intensely selfish reasons.
‘That’s right,’ Zach deadpans. ‘I forgot she answers only to you now.’
‘We’re monogamous,’ Rafe snarls. ‘I’m not having her parading herself at some fucking slave auction in front of those wild animals.’ He jerks his thumb in the direction of the hallway that leads to the main club.
‘You’ll just have to make sure you outbid everyone then, won’t you?’ Gen chimes in sweetly. ‘It is for an excellent cause, you know.’
Rafe puts his head in his hands, and I giggle inwardly, because Gen’s put him in a tough position. He’d be insane to let Belle go up there, even though I already know Belle Two-Point-Oh would love it, but he knows how much money she could raise to fight the illness that took his best friend’s late wife.
I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Tell me more about the format,’ I order Callum now. ‘I need major, major details.’
He shrugs. ‘Pretty straightforward, really. We get the volunteers up on stage—male and female—and auction them off to the highest bidder. They can wear whatever they want, but they’ll most likely be cuffed and blindfolded.’
‘And then what happens?’ I ask, leaning forward.
‘The person who wins them becomes their master or mistress for the evening. The individual they’ve won becomes their sex slave—they can do what they like with them out in the club or in a room. They have to stay on the premises. We’ll have the private rooms reserved for auction winners only. You get to say whether you’re happy to be bid for by men or women or both. You might even see a few people getting together and bidding as a syndicate—then they all take you off together and have their fun.’
I lick my lips. God, that sounds so hot. I can tell by the way Callum’s staring at me that he’s very much enjoying my reaction. In my mind, I’m already there.
Up on stage, naked or scantily clad.
My hands bound.
My blindfold letting in just the merest sense of light and movement.
Some guy—or, even better, guys—desperate to win me, and then getting me, and taking me off to some room where they’ll get me on my hands and knees, and possibly tie me down or truss me up, and fuck me every which way…
It’s my ultimate fantasy.
My idea of heaven.
And it’s all for a good cause. A great cause.
I’m practically squealing with excitement.
The membership to Alchemy is literally the best perk these guys could ever have bestowed upon me.
Zach interrupts my reverie. ‘That sounds very… demeaning,’ he says. When I look over at him, he’s frowning. Like, if his brows were any closer together they’d be a mono brow. ‘I don’t want anyone being taken advantage of for this… I’m worried things could go wrong. People could get hurt.’
‘Those are both quite different things, mate,’ Rafe tells him gently. ‘You know the rules around consent are watertight here. Everyone who signs up to attend on the night will have to e-sign that they understand the boundaries. But as for the humiliation aspect—’
‘I just don’t know what the slaves get out of it.’ Zach looks not worried exactly, but conflicted, maybe? I can’t quite work out his facial expression. He gestures at me, but he won’t look me in the eye. ‘Like, for people like Maddy. It’s a lot to ask.’
‘Hey,’ I say, and he manages to meet my eyes. ‘This isn’t me taking one for the team. This is literally my ultimate fantasy. I joined this place so I can be used in all the best ways. I want to be up there on that stage and for someone to claim me as their prize. And then I want them to take everything from me and get their money’s worth. It’s such a turn-on for me. I want some predatory, hungry fucker to claim me and strip me and spank me and mark me and dominate me and work me really, really hard. So don’t you worry about me.’
I shoot him what I intend as a sunny, optimistic smile, but he’s reacting to my total shamelessness with a stare that’s the weirdest mixture of horror and disbelief and conflict and, I swear to God, arousal.
As if he can’t believe I just admitted to all that.
Or he can’t quite allow himself to believe I mean it.
Or, and I can’t tell you why this does stuff to my pussy that shouldn’t be allowed at nine-thirty in the morning, that my admittedly porno little speech has ignited something deep inside him.
A side he keeps very carefully hidden.
A side he’d rather die than surrender to.
Hmm.
We’ll see about that.
I’ve always known it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.
