Dirty Secrets. Jane O'Reilly
doors and showing me stacks of bottled water and shelf after shelf of green vegetables. On the top shelf is a chocolate fudge cake. I’d like some of that, I think, but old habits die hard, and I keep it to myself.
He shows me to my room, which seems plain at first, until I touch the sheets and realise that the cotton is as soft as silk. And the flowers are fresh, the vase crystal, the mattress deep. There’s an en-suite bathroom with a huge walk-in shower and claw-footed tub.
‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I tell Theo. ‘I always knew that you would. You aren’t married?’
I know that he’s not. Social media is good for something.
‘No,’ he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘Listen, I’ve got some work to do. Will you be all right on your own for a while?’
‘Of course.’ I nod, look around the room again. What on earth am I doing here? I should be at home. I should be at work. It was a breakup, not the end of the world.
‘Just one thing,’ Theo says. He disappears for a moment, then reappears carrying a glossy black folder and a pen. He sets them both down on top of the oak chest of drawers.
‘What’s that?’
‘A few forms I need you to fill in. It won’t take you long.’
He stands there for a moment longer, as if he’s going to say something, then he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
I stare at the glossy black folder. I decide to ignore it. I lift my case, which Theo left just inside the door, onto the bed. I unlock it, pull out some of my clothes, then repack them. I don’t even know if I’m going to stay. But I take a shower anyway. The water is heavy and hot and the soaps smell divine, and by the time I’ve finished my skin is flushed, my hair clinging to my neck. I step out of the shower, pull on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and examine myself in the mirror.
The woman who looks back at me is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her roots need doing. After a moment’s hesitation, I shrug the robe from my shoulders and examine my naked body. It’s not quite as firm as it should be, not quite as toned. If I’d been a better person, if I’d been stronger, I’d have taken care of it. I’d have gone to the gym four times a week like Dave wanted me to. If I’d loved him enough, I’d have sorted myself out.
Those are his words filling my head. I recognise his tone, and the slow creep of anxiety under my skin. I won’t let it control me. I won’t. I pull the robe back on, march through into the bedroom, flip open the glossy black folder. The first few questions are easy. Name, date of birth, eye colour, height, body type. I select average for every box where average applies.
Then I turn to the next page, and that’s where things get more difficult. Interests, it says in swirling italics. Tick all that apply. The list is long, and I don’t know what half of them even are. My heart starts to pound hard and fast in my chest, and I grip the pen tighter, feeling shocked and sad and inadequate. What must it be like, I wonder, to be the sort of woman who can confidently work through this list? Who can say yes, I like spanking and group sex but I’m not interested in latex or breath play?
I flip over to the final page. A single sentence swirls across the top. Tell us about your fantasies.
I don’t have any, I think to myself, but that’s not quite true.
I want to feel pleasure in my own body. I want to get back the woman I was before I became this frightened mouse. I wonder what happened to her, why I let her go. I put pen to paper and start to write. Only a few sentences, but written fast before I lose my nerve. Then I open the door and go in search of Theo.
I find him in the kitchen, sat at the counter with a laptop and more coffee.
‘Here,’ I say, shoving the paper in his direction.
He takes it from me, glances down at it. ‘OK,’ he says. He doesn’t comment on my appearance. ‘I’ll make some calls. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you later.’
I shut myself in my room, but I can’t sleep. I dress, undress, dress again. None of my clothes feel right. I settle on black trousers and a peach-coloured jumper that makes me feel twenty-eight going on fifty. I’m nervous as hell and I can’t seem to shake it off. But when Theo knocks on the door, I do a good job of pretending to be calm, of hiding my emotions. I’m good at that.
‘Ready?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, as if I’m not a quivering wreck, as if I’m not thinking about running off the second we get outside. The heels of my black suede boots are loud on the floor as we make our way outside and into the waiting taxi. I press my knees tightly together and try not to think about what’s going to happen. I concentrate on the lights outside, on the view of London and not on the aching throb that has started up between my legs and deep in my pussy.
The taxi pulls to a standstill across the road from the club. Theo pays the fare before I can get to my purse, and I make a mental note to pay him back later. I haven’t asked him how much I owe him for the club membership either. I hope he takes Visa. Thirty days unpaid leave from work hasn’t left me with much in the bank.
He gets out of the taxi, and I follow him. The door opens when he rings the bell, and we’re greeted by a smartly dressed man in a three-piece suit. He’s got wavy blond hair and friendly eyes. He’s maybe 5’10, and has a good ten years on Theo.
‘You must be Jules,’ he says. ‘I’m John.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I say, so polite, so awkward. So this is the man who owns the other half of the club. Judging by his accent, he’s not English. Australian, I think.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Theo says. He takes my hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘John will take good care of you.’
Then he moves past me, and disappears along the corridor.
John closes the door, and smiles at me. I find myself smiling back. He’s one of those people who makes you feel instantly comfortable, as if you’ve been friends for years. ‘We’re nearly ready for you,’ he says. ‘Would you like a drink while you wait?’
I automatically reach for a no, but find a yes instead.
‘Excellent,’ John says. ‘Follow me.’
He leads me through to a quiet bar area, settles me into a comfortable armchair. He offers me champagne, but I opt for a chilled chardonnay. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back in just a moment.’
There are other people in the bar, but they take no notice of me. There’s a woman in a prim business suit, with her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. After a couple of minutes, two men dressed in identical black outfits walk in. They handcuff her wrists behind her back and drag her away. For a moment, I think to intervene, then I notice that she’s smiling.
I know they’re going to take her through one of the closed doors, into one of the private rooms. I imagine them stripping her, interrogating her with fingers and cocks. I imagine her writhing with pleasure, and I envy her.
I take a sip of wine, hope it will bury the bitter taste in my throat. My request seems so tame in comparison. I want to be outrageous. I want to ask for wicked, delicious things, the things I am too scared to let myself imagine, let alone want. The things that only a selfish, perverted slut would ask for. Maybe I would like to be pleasured by two men, I don’t know.
I’m still thinking about that when John walks back in. ‘We’re ready for you now,’ he says softly. He’s so very polite, we could be in an upmarket restaurant, not a sex club. There’s no trace of what’s about to come in his tone, no suggestion that this is anything perverted, anything untoward.
He takes me to one of the small private rooms. The brass plaque on the door reads Curious Appetites, and I feel like I am falling down the rabbit hole. ‘Enjoy,’ he says.
Then he walks away. I stand in