Excerpt
Marianne Styles checked her reflection one last time before turning her head to smile at her husband. “I’m ready.”
“Yes, you are,” Timothy agreed, wrapping his arms around her, taking care not to smudge her carefully-applied lipstick. “There won’t be a single man there who will be able to resist you.”
“Do you have a preference tonight, or do you want me to choose?”
“Young and curly blond, but I’m willing to change my mind if something else catches my fancy.”
“Blond…with curly hair just slightly overlong, I think,” Marianne mused. “I’m getting wet just thinking about it.”
“Don’t get too wet, you naughty woman,” Timothy warned and spanked her lightly. “Do remember that you have several hours before you’re allowed to come again.”
Marianne laughed as he momentarily pressed his semi-hard cock against her heart-shaped bottom before sliding his hand down her arm to grasp her hand and lead the way out of their large, comfortable bedroom. She had never imagined that married life would be so wonderful, that it would get better and better as the years went by.
Standing three and a half inches over six feet in his silk socks with thick, wavy dark hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, Timothy was her fantasy in the flesh. She had met him when her company had catered for his father’s sixtieth birthday party. It had been a black-tie affair and her first job for a really influential client. She’d been so nervous that night she’d smoked for the first time in four years. She’d been guiltily puffing on the cigarette she’d purloined from her chef’s jacket when Timothy had ventured outside for some fresh air. She’d hastily extinguished the cigarette and made to go back inside, but he’d begged her to stay and chat for a while.
It turned out that he’d been looking for an excuse to talk to her since he’d seen her arrive earlier in the evening, her long titan hair pulled into a sever chignon and hour-glass figure ill-concealed by unflattering, catering white.
Less than two weeks later she moved into his Kensington home, though she kept her Fulham flat until they got married three months after with only their parents and a handful of close friends present.
Tonight they were on their way to the exclusive The Horny Emperors’ Club. Gaining membership was the pinnacle of achievement for wealthy bankers, doctors and lawyers alike. There were no immediate members of the Royal family among its membership, but several of their relatives and close friends could regularly be found there. No other club had quite the same mixture of decadence and classy elegance. There were over six thousand people on its waiting list and few of those had any chance of ever setting foot in the hallowed halls of the club since membership was granted only on the death of a member. As a courtesy the deceased member’s place was first offered to his eldest son, if the club’s management decided that he was mature and of consequence enough. Non-members who were lucky to have friends as members were allowed in on the first Saturday to witness The Entertainment Special Night. These were the tamest of the club’s nights and ranged in variety from Grammy-award-winning singers to the best pole dancers and naked acrobats in the business. Non-members were shocked by these nights and became even more eager to join. Few imagined that what they witnessed was only the tip of the iceberg of the iniquity the club was known for. The real wickedness happened on other Saturday nights when only the close circle of members were present and nothing done or said was frowned upon or discussed outside the club. The club was so exclusive that the law had no jurisdiction inside its walls. If the rapture happen as predicated, the club and its members would be the first to descend into Hell.
This wasn’t a first Saturday. Marianne smiled in anticipation as the valet opened the car door and extended a hand to her. She placed her hand in his and swung her legs elegantly outwards, giving the young man a flash of her bare legs and red panties as the matching sheer netting she wore parted to reveal her to his gaze. The fact that his grip didn’t falter was a testament to the fact that sights of exposed flesh were a commonplace occurrence at the club. He extended his elbow politely and escorted her to the other side of the car where Timothy was waiting having handed his keys to the other valet who would park the Ferrari.
Marianne entered the club on Timothy’s arm and felt exactly as she did every time she came to the club—that she had wandered into a sultan’s harem. It was decadent, opulent to the point of obscenity, catering to wealthy men’s every need and whimsy. Several of the members were also members of the UK Swingers Club and were accompanied by their wives or partners, others whose wives had less liberal sexual views left them at home and came along to join the fun and games knowing that there would be an abundance of holes for fucking anyway.
Several masked, scantily-dressed young men and women mingled discreetly as they’d been instructed to do earlier in the evening. They weren’t members and had been carefully chosen for their good looks and physical attributes. At the end of the evening they would be paid more than they earned in a month working for high street banks and other such financial institutions. If they proved popular with members they could amass deposits for first properties in less than three months and buy whole properties within a year. But few lasted six months because the members’ jaded palettes demanded a constant supply of fresh, firm young flesh.
This was London as only the very select knew it. A world of privilege and debauchery. A world most of us would gladly join, if only we were asked....
