Read the book: «Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules»

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Welcome to Killing Kittens!

MY TEN COMMANDMENTS

1 Members only.

2 Women make the rules and only women can break the rules.

3 No means no.

4 Men cannot approach women. They must wait to be invited before approaching or engaging in fun.

5 If there is something that is not right at any point in the evening, my team and I expect to be told. There may be times when one half of a couple is playing while the other is not, but guys should never look like they are on their own, flying solo – or hit uninvited on any of my women.

6 We expect the parties to be self-policing, and we want everyone to have the best time possible.

7 Behave within the Killing Kittens’ remit – and make sure those around you are as well – and we will all have an experience to remember.

8 Don’t forget your masks. A no-mask, no-entry policy will be enforced, and they must be worn for the first few hours (until they become too hot to wear – in more ways than one).

9 Strictly no mobile phones or cameras in the venue.

10 Dress code is sexy. There is a very large Jacuzzi for you to play in, so appropriate clothing is paramount. Large lockers and towels are provided.

And remember – enjoy yourself!

Eight years ago I decided I wanted to start a business running parties. These parties would not be professional events or corporate functions. I wouldn’t be organizing leaving dos, work parties, birthdays or wedding receptions. No marquees, caterers or dozy DJs. Instead, I had the deliciously wicked idea of creating a very special private club, whose members were open-minded and where the atmosphere would be relaxed and friendly and, ultimately, intensely liberated. No one is getting hurt, no one is getting cheated on and every woman is being respected.

Twice a month a group of people who’d been accepted for membership via my website would congregate in cities across the UK for an evening where they could make their fantasies and desires come true. At my soirées, I would create an atmosphere of non-judgemental curiosity and acceptance. Nothing would be repressed or off-limits. If a woman wanted to dance around the bar in her underwear, or even totally naked, she could, knowing that she was not going to be either thrown out or jumped on. Party-goers would be able to toss their inhibitions aside and feel free to do whatever they liked. My parties would be for people at ease with their own and other people’s sexuality, who weren’t afraid to live out their desires with willing partners. Taking part would not be enforced: people would be free to watch, or to come as a monogamous couple, or even alone (if they were girls), to see what might happen and perhaps taste their own hidden desires without shame or judgement.

Now, I know this isn’t the kind of soirée most party planners would organize. So I guess you’re wondering why a normal girl from Surrey would choose such a wicked career path. Well, I was determined to make this vision a reality because, one life-changing night, I had seen for myself exactly how liberating it could be, when I witnessed an A-list crowd indulging in sheer, joyous erotic abandonment. I decided that it was my mission to help other people taste those delights and that freedom.

But this would not be a tacky swinging party, or an orgy fuelled by testosterone and male fantasies. My vision was to create a sophisticated environment where women were in control and felt comfortable. Anything could happen as long as it was initiated by women. My parties would be the first to be dedicated to female pleasure and feminine desires.

Some of my guests have told me that my soirées are like vivid daydreams where they feel as though they’re floating on air. They tell me that it’s intoxicating, captivating, titillating, thrilling, addictive and the most erotic experience they have ever had.

That makes me happy, because that’s exactly what I want, and why I founded my Killing Kittens’ parties in the first place.

And now I want you to experience it too.

Chapter One

‘Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.’

Socrates

I have two hours to kill before I am to host this evening’s party. Tonight, it’s in a stately home in London’s exclusive Mayfair, and that always draws a particularly upmarket crowd, but my members come from all walks of life. For the most part they are young and curious, drawn by the glamorous settings and the enticing atmosphere of anticipation, for my parties are places where anything can happen. Members apply through my website and they must supply a photograph and some details about themselves (some like to send pictures that aren’t strictly of their faces). Acceptance is not based on looks or wealth, but on a certain mind-set: will these people fit into the hedonistic environment and do they have the right spirit of fun and adventure mixed with respect for rules?

Tonight, 200 paying members will be attending my party. They expect something special and I intend to make sure they get it. As well as pleasing the regulars, I’ll also be making sure the new members are having a good time and fitting in nicely. Anyone who doesn’t play by the rules will be asked politely to leave. But thanks to the careful vetting process, there isn’t usually a problem. A good time ought to be had by all.

Before then, I’m meeting a friend in Claridge’s Fumoir bar. I’m not strictly following the dress code, but no one seems to mind my silky black sleepwear, which is a trademark of mine. If anyone has a discreet word, it will take me less than two minutes to whip on the chic Italian designer dress I’ve stuffed into my handbag. I love to be comfortable, but I never go anywhere without something smart I can slip on, just in case.

The glamorous Art Deco 1930s bar feels like a haven of tranquillity as I step inside. It’s dark, sensuous, alluring and, best of all, tucked away behind a secret door, which appeals to my inner sense of drama. Inside, the decor is a rich aubergine with dark leather seating and low crystal lighting, and the walls are adorned with vintage photographs of beautiful women. I slip onto a seat near the horseshoe-shaped bar and order my wake-up call, a Bull Shot, which consists of vodka and beef consommé and tastes 10 times spicier and more potent than a Bloody Mary. ‘And a bottle of rosé too, please.’

While I’m waiting for my drink, I get out my phone and start checking my messages. After a moment, I look up and see my friend Miss D striding slowly and gracefully towards me. I’m not the only one who’s noticed the new arrival: all eyes are on her, which is just the way she likes it, and probably why she handed her coat to the cloakroom attendant before waltzing into the bar. She’s wearing a sexy black strapless dress with sheer panelling down the sides that highlights her derrière to excellent effect. At first glance, she looks perfectly proper and very alluring with her bee-stung lips, olive skin and thick, glossy dark hair falling around her shoulders, but on closer inspection there’s something missing. Her underwear! Typical. She’s getting in the mood early.

‘Hi, Ems!’ she says, and gives me a kiss on each cheek. Before sitting down, she glances about the room, scouting out any attractive specimen who might be worthy of her attentions.

Miss D never misses a Killing Kittens’ party. She’s totally hooked. Her only stipulation is quantity – the more the better. ‘I can’t help it,’ she’ll say with a shrug, looking innocent. ‘It’s just that I’m a sexaholic.’

Miss D and I have known each other for years because our mothers were friends and fell pregnant at the same time. We were born just weeks apart, with me making my entry into the world first. Our friendship didn’t have the best of starts: whenever we met, we fought. Later we went to different schools and Miss D became one of those girls with a high-octane social life and an expensive wardrobe, all paid for by her rich parents, who owned a townhouse off the King’s Road in London as well as a sprawling country estate. She spent her time hanging out in Chelsea, dating boys from Eton and transforming herself into a real-life Sindy doll. Miss D adored Sindy, and by the time she was 13 she had manicured nails, a glossy pout, coloured hair and designer clothes. By contrast I was a complete tomboy and liked nothing better than playing with friends in our back garden. I adored hanging outdoors with my father. If he went fishing, I would try to fish, and if he was climbing a mountain, so would I. As a result, I was permanently clad in trainers and jeans and was pretty much continually filthy, much to Miss D’s horror. Not that her disapproval put me off or dampened my spirits – in fact, it probably made me even more of a sporty and adventurous type. Then disaster struck for Miss D – her parents lost all their money and were declared bankrupt. Fortunately, her grandmother paid for her schooling, so she stayed at her boarding school, but her cool friends dropped her like the proverbial hot potato and her hoity-toity arrogance was completely deflated. One day, when she and her mother were visiting us, Miss D and I were sent off to amuse ourselves together. Instead, we listened at the door and heard her mother breaking down and sobbing like a baby as she confessed all about their woes. Miss D reached for my muddy hand and in that instance all was forgiven. I gave her a hug and we’ve been bosom buddies ever since.

A decade on, Miss D assures me money isn’t everything when it comes to romance, but I have to remind her to stop waiting for her rich prince to gallop out of nowhere and rescue her. Luckily for her, an inheritance from her grandmother has provided her with enough to live on while she tracks down her prize, as she’s incapable of holding down a job for long.

When we’re sorted for drinks – Miss D with a glass of chilled rosé and me with my Bull Shot – she takes another sneaky glance around the room and says, ‘So, how’s your man, Ems? Is everything going well with the mysterious Mr Black?’

‘Well …’ I take a sip of my warm, spicy drink, playing for time. I don’t really want to talk too much about him, not yet. ‘It’s very early days, so I can’t say much except that we’re enjoying each other’s company.’ I smile cheekily at her.

‘Spill!’ She grabs the wine bottle and tops up her glass. ‘Will he be at the party tonight?’

I shake my head. ‘Of course not! You know I need to keep my eyes on the ball when I’m working, young lady. And besides, it’s a full-time job having to keep my eye on you once you get going. You don’t have a stop sign, remember?’

‘You’re so lucky,’ sighs Miss D. ‘An older, single, eligible man. That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ She takes a sip of her wine and then says hopefully, ‘Does he have any friends? Really rich ones?’

‘Stop with the rich, piranha woman!’ I say, laughing but exasperated.

Miss D looks confused. ‘Piranha woman?’

‘Yes, you’re a flesh-eating creature particularly attracted to anything with a bulging wallet,’ I tease. ‘Your type is lethal. The men get distracted by your pretty colours and don’t see your razor-sharp teeth until it’s too late.’

Miss D takes it in good spirit and laughs. ‘You know me too damn well, Ems!’ She smiles wickedly back. ‘By the way, I’ve got something to show you before we head to the party.’ She looks suddenly coy.

‘What?’

‘I’ve brought something special for tonight. Just warning you in case you discover me in a room upstairs later!’ There’s a very naughty light in her eyes.

‘Come on then, what is it?’

She leans in and says excitedly, ‘I’ve brought a grown-up toy to play with tonight!’ And she reaches eagerly for her bag.

‘Miss D, no! Not here in Claridge’s!’ I screech, trying not to laugh. ‘Keep it in your bag till later, for goodness’ sake! And talking of the party, we’d better think about making tracks. I promised Kitty I’d be early tonight. Pass me a glass of rosé, I’ll help you finish that bottle.’

When we’ve made a decent enough inroad into the wine, I head to the ladies, smooth my hair, moisten my lips and fling on my dress. Now we’re both ready for action, Miss D and I step outside where the doorman hails us a taxi, which takes us through the busy London streets, slipping around corners and gliding through the heavy traffic. There are people everywhere.

My BlackBerry beeps with a BBM from Trolley Dolly. She’s a good friend of mine, a single divorce lawyer who’s not to be messed with. At work, she’s got a mind like a steel trap, and in her spare time, she oozes glamour and is the life and soul of the party, winning everyone over with her personality and her natural lack of social inhibition. She adores my parties and is certainly more tiger than kitten when it comes to sex. I’ve nicknamed her Trolley Dolly, as she never looks dishevelled, not even after a long-haul night at my parties. I read her message.

Hey. My car is still not ready so taking the bus! C u in 30.

I message back: Cool.

She replies a moment later: Is it OK if I bring two guys along?????! I’ve met them in my local pub b4. They’re good guys.

I smile and text her back: Sure.

Back pings her reply: Thanks! : ) They’re with me now. H-O-T!

I wouldn’t normally allow any stranger to turn up to my soirées without being vetted, but Trolley Dolly is part of my inner circle and a trusted friend, so I know I don’t have anything to worry about. This is a one-off. She’ll choose wisely when it comes to bringing new people to the parties. I just hope the men she’s found aren’t too innocent, or they’ll be in for one hell of a shock.

We make good time through the traffic and arrive at the venue well before any guests.

‘This place looks incredible tonight, Emma,’ Miss D says as we walk through the double doors and into the palatial marble-floored hall. ‘Such a brilliant choice, it couldn’t be more perfect.’

‘I know – it’s fabulous.’ I look about, pleased. I love this place. It’s a rare eighteenth-century jewel, a Georgian townhouse that is both incredibly grand and amazingly shabby, and the effect is perfect for my parties. There is beautiful art on the walls, and the exquisite rooms seem to go on and on, but the peeling paint and battered skirting add an air of divine squalor. This is my favourite part of the evening: soaking in the splendour of my surroundings, sipping a glass of champagne in the drawing room with Miss D and relaxing in the peaceful atmosphere before the real fun begins. ‘You go and take a look around. I’ve got some work to sort out, then I’ll come and find you.’

‘Sure. See you later.’ Miss D heads off up the huge staircase.

Kitty Kat saunters over armed with a clipboard. She’s dressed in a sexy skin-tight black leather outfit and wearing a cute cat mask with pert black whiskers. Kitty Kat is in her early twenties, petite and has finely chiselled features and luscious lips. Her porcelain prettiness draws plenty of attention, even though she never seeks it. Tonight she looks hot.

‘Here you go, Emma.’ She hands over the clipboard with the list of names of guests attending tonight. There are almost 200. ‘The candles have been lit, the rose petals have been scattered down the staircase and over all the beds, the mirrors have been polished and I’ve put out about a thousand condoms all over the place. You’ll also notice I’ve strategically placed the “Please take a shower before Jacuzzi. Seriously” notice where it can’t be missed.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. I know I can rely on her precision and attention to detail.

‘The canapés and oysters are ready. And the champagne’s been chilling for a few hours, so it should be at the ideal temperature by the time everyone arrives.’ Behind her mask, her eyes sparkle with a touch of mischief. ‘Forty-five degrees Fahrenheit, of course.’

‘Of course.’ I’d expect nothing less from Kitty, who appreciates the finer things in life. By day she’s a rising actress and has already appeared in films with some big Hollywood stars. She loves the arts, opera, theatre, classical music and French cuisine. But by night she’s a dark, beautiful creature who prowls on my behalf alongside my security man, Jupiter. He’s big, strong, suited and booted, and has a remarkable intuition when it comes to sniffing out trouble.

Kitty has other useful skills too: she studied martial arts and was taught how to box by a British ex-heavyweight champion, which is handy for my security staff and me, as she often spies the first hint of trouble. She also employs these skills to fend off men. Despite numerous attempts to set her up with some very eligible bachelors, she has point-blank said no. In fact, Kitty hasn’t had sexual relations of any kind for three years, vowing abstinence after having her heart broken one too many times. Instead, she dedicates herself to helping me facilitate the pleasure of others.

I check the guest list as we take a stroll around the ground floor, looking over the set-up. It’s all brilliant, and I hand back the clipboard with a smile. ‘Thank you, Kitty, everything’s immaculate down here. I’m going to make a quick inspection upstairs before people start arriving. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Of course,’ she replies.

As I walk up the grand staircase, I can’t help but absorb the house’s dark glamour. It’s an ex-embassy, and its eight reception rooms, billiard room, clubroom with Jacuzzi, ballroom and 24 bedrooms make it perfect for entertaining. It also attracts the world of show business: Kate Moss filmed a lingerie advert here, walking sensuously down these very stairs. Amy Winehouse shot her ‘Rehab’ video here as well. And it’s also where Oscar-winning actor Colin Firth filmed his therapy sessions in The King’s Speech. If it weren’t so amusing, I would blush to think of the many Kittens who have enjoyed the kinkiest, acrobatic, down-and-dirty sex on the very furniture where Colin Firth, Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush filmed their scenes. I can’t help remembering one woman who screamed and orgasmed three times on that very sofa as she embraced her dark side with the tanned Swedish model she and her partner had selected for the evening. Sorry, Colin!

I find Miss D upstairs in the ballroom. In this splendid room, several huge leather beds covered with red Egyptian-cotton sheets have been pushed together to form one huge one underneath a massive chandelier. Around the sides are sofas, chairs and cushions.

‘It looks lovely,’ sighs Miss D, her eyes glittering with anticipation. ‘I can’t wait to see what happens here later.’

‘Better keep your special toy handy,’ I advise her, and we both giggle. ‘Now – let’s find a glass of champagne. It’ll all start kicking off soon, and then I’ll be hard at work.’

‘Good idea,’ says Miss D. ‘I like your style.’

At 9.30 p.m. the first guests appear and then, suddenly, it’s busy. The atmosphere is one of a slightly louche drinks party as guests start arriving. I’m busy at the door, ticking off names and making sure everyone is wearing masks – I have a few spares just in case. All the guests are attractive – some even beautiful – and distinguished-looking, but not intimidatingly so. They don’t look like sex-mad orgiastic beasts, but like normal people, and any observer would think that this is just a normal party. Once inside, couples talk quietly together, glasses in hands, while groups chat around the bar as the champagne is served. The men are in lounge suits, and most women are immaculately dressed in cocktail dresses. The average age is late twenties to mid thirties. I wonder what they’re all talking about – this is one gathering where guests are reluctant to discuss their jobs or much about their everyday lives at all. And why not? This is where they live out fantasies; they don’t come here to dwell on the mundanity of existence. At this point in the evening, people are scouting for potential playmates. The more uninhibited are open about their desire to play – these are the ones who don’t mind performing, or get a thrill out of being watched as they have sex, and who may be up for several encounters and group episodes. Others are shyer, some even a little awkward. Experience tells me they’ll warm up. I’ve seen retiring, silent little birds turn into golden eagles when the play begins. Some are single girls looking for a couple or vice versa, or girls looking for one-on-one action with a man or a woman. Some are here to watch, perhaps while discreetly caressing their partner before going somewhere private to work off their inflamed passions. I notice two beautiful brunettes are wearing identical La Perla corsets made of pale-pink silk and boned into a hip bustle scattered with feathers. They are clasping hands, smiling, and give a hint of what is to unfold. I know exactly what these two will be doing before too much longer.

I watch as some people wander up the grand staircase towards the ballroom and wonder if the giant bed is seeing any action yet. At this point, I expect it’s more like a sofa than a bed, a place for chatting and flirting – for now. The mood is one of playfulness and gentleness laced through with great expectations of the fun to be had. I’m pleased. This is precisely the good vibe I wanted when I originally planned my parties.

I hand the door duties over to Jupiter for a while and go downstairs, where some guests are sitting waiting for the Jacuzzi to open. I tell them that the Jacuzzi will be ready for playing in 15 minutes and remind them where they can leave their clothes. On the way back upstairs I pass Kitty doing her rounds accompanied by one of the security team. In a venue this size, I always have an extra couple of discreet big guys around in case anything kicks off, though they’re rarely needed.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

‘So far, all fine. No drugs. No guys on the prowl.’

Any Kitten caught with drugs is thrown out, no excuses, no exceptions. Even Miss D was once asked to leave when I spotted she had drugs in her handbag. I have a zero-tolerance policy.

‘Great. I’ll head upstairs and see what’s happening.’

It’s after 11 now, and the place is full of people. The noise levels are rising, and the party-goers are loosening up after a couple of glasses of champagne. I know that any second now someone will start something and then, with amazing rapidity, it will begin. I walk around the ballroom and check out the mood in the other rooms. It’s definitely warming up. I can see people kissing, hands caressing, dresses unzipped, shirts unbuttoned. The regulars know the score and want to start enjoying themselves. Newcomers are a little less at ease, waiting to be transported out of their awkwardness by alcohol or lust, but also eager to begin.

By the time I return to the ballroom, that invisible switch has been pulled. It’s started. Masks are coming off and there’s a hedonistic, Bacchanalian vibe. The mood has swiftly changed to one of decadence, and what was a luxuriously relaxed drinks party 10 minutes ago has crossed the line into something else. Couples are on the bed, kissing, undressing one another. I can already see a beautiful naked girl sinking down to caress her partner’s huge erection with her lips. Around the room, some people watch the scenes unfolding before them, others are getting down to their own action.

I notice that in the corner near me, two toned, tanned and leggy women are lying naked on a couch in the ‘69’ position. They are devouring each other, as a beautiful young couple stands nearby, watching every erotic move. The couple look flushed, breathless, disbelieving. Then one of the women looks up and smiles at them radiantly. ‘Hi,’ she says invitingly. ‘Why don’t you come and join us?’

The young woman, dressed in a lavender draped cocktail dress, blushes and looks nervously at her partner.

He is handsome and impeccably dressed in a black pinstriped suit, and he gazes down at her, concerned. ‘Do you want to stop this now? Shall we go home?’

She looks at war with her own desires. She takes a long gulp of champagne. ‘No, don’t let’s go. This is what I fantasize about. You know I do,’ she says, her voice quavering.

She seems to be looking for permission to do what she’s longing for. Her lover takes her champagne glass, puts it down on a nearby table and wraps his arms around her tiny waist.

‘You look incredible,’ he says, his eyes gleaming as he takes in her form.

She beams. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

He pulls his right hand from her hip and runs it up her leg, under her cocktail dress. He can tell that she’s obviously turned on and ready for whatever is coming next.

‘We could do it here. Just the two of us.’ His voice is soft, but urgent.

She shakes her head, smiling now. ‘I want to experiment – I want to see what it’s actually like. Shall we join our new friends? We don’t want to keep them waiting, do we?’ Then, with a wicked smiled, she leads him over to the sofa, where they submerge themselves into the luxuriant pile. Soon, hands are undressing them, releasing their bodies, mouths are taking possession of their mouths and they are completely lost to the sensations they’re enjoying.

Good, I think. Two more about-to-be-very-satisfied customers.

The huge bed is now covered with people having sex in every conceivable position, and the sofas around the room are occupied too. There are threesomes everywhere – two women and one man, two men and one woman, all kissing, licking, eating, caressing. One woman has invited three men to play with her. She looks like she is having a wonderful time.

A petite pale brunette is sprawled on the bed, her legs on her lover’s shoulders as she invites him to penetrate her. Another young woman is kneeling on the floor, enjoying a man’s huge erect penis like it is a giant lollipop. She is buxom, curvaceous, beautiful and sexual. Her breasts are swollen, her nipples hard and tingling with intense lust and need. She’s expertly working her tongue down to his balls, licking, teasing, then popping one slowly into her mouth, followed by the other.

I know this man. He’s a barrister who’s made an absolute fortune from closely guarding the domestic and financial secrets of the rich and famous. He’s tall and Draculine, with a penchant for blondes. His highly confidential, big-money business dealings are conducted in his glossy offices in London or New York. He’s formidable, never loses a case and is certainly not to be messed with in the courthouse. But tonight, he’s under my opulent roof, sprawled and thrashing about on my bed, totally defenceless. His fingers are tugging his lover’s mane of perfectly tousled blonde locks; he’s totally intoxicated by what she’s doing to him. She’s in complete control as she pulls her mouth away, grabs a condom from one of the many nearby baskets, expertly rolls it into place and then sits on top of him. She slowly bumps up and down his length, one hand on his chest, the other reaching behind her back to fondle his balls.

‘Oh fuck, I’m going to come,’ he says, panting and helpless, as she jabs him into her, deeper, quicker. She is setting her pace, fast and hard, as he writhes under her and then groans loudly as he reaches orgasm. I can tell that the woman is not finished yet. She’ll be looking for her own orgasm, either from him or from someone else.

A masked gentleman walks in looking for his partner and finds her naked, gently massaging and kissing another woman’s silicone-enhanced breasts. Slowly, her hands are wandering down the woman’s neck to her nether regions, amid moans and gasps.

‘Ah, there you are. Naughty wife!’ he says, without a trace of crossness in his voice. ‘I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?’

She smiles, inviting him to join in. He quickly unzips his trousers as both women prepare to welcome him.

‘I’m glad you’re back, darling,’ his wife says, looking radiant, still kissing the other woman and stroking her breasts while she opens her legs wide for him. ‘I want you to do me first, and then her. How about it?’

‘Jesus, my darling, you are naughty! I am going to give you a good fucking now. I hope you’re ready.’

Others are watching as he plunges into her, making her gasp with delight.

‘Holy hell, watching this is the ultimate fantasy,’ whispers a tall, good-looking man to his female companion, a bulge growing in his trousers. He has a look in his eyes I’ve seen before. It’s a kind of wonder that’s turning into arousal and a fervent desire to taste some of the pleasure that others are enjoying. His girlfriend gazes back at him with the same look in her eyes and I know that they’ll soon surrender to the atmosphere of lubricity and the erotic stimulation of what is unfolding in front of them. This is no staged plastic porno with its relentless action and managed climaxes – these are real people giving and receiving real pleasure because they want to. The effect is liberating and highly arousing.

I’ve seen enough. I’ve grown used to scenes like this and I’ve taught myself to stay separate from it all. I can’t afford to lose my head and join in; I’ve got to stay on top of things here. I head downstairs. In the hallway, two couples are flirting. ‘We could go back to our house. It’s round the corner and the children are away tonight …’

In the other corner, a couple in their late thirties are looking for a female partner to join them.

‘No, definitely not her,’ says the woman. ‘She’s far too thin and will make me look like a beached whale! How about her?’ She points to a tall brunette, who looks very familiar. Miss D!

‘Perfect choice,’ mutters the man, as they saunter over to Miss D.

I laugh inwardly. Miss D will have them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Before my watch has clocked 60 seconds, Miss D is clutching both their hands, leading them up the winding staircase.

‘I have a sex toy,’ she’s saying to her new friends. She smiles seductively at them. ‘I think you might enjoy it! What do you think? Sound good?’

Oh, Jesus!

Just then I notice a commotion at the front door, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just Trolley Dolly arriving and making plenty of noise about it. She’s wearing a mask and a Burberry mac with, I suspect, very little underneath. She’s flanked by two gorgeous men.

Guests stop and stare. This is the power Trolley Dolly has when she enters a room.

‘So you made it then.’ I smile.

‘Oh, Ems, Ems, I have. And look who I picked up at the bus stop of all places!’

‘The bus stop?’ I ask, bemused. Her companions are smiling nervously.

‘Yes, the bus stop in Hampstead. No car, no cab in sight. So I decided to hop it on a bus, and I bumped into these two fine specimens. Aren’t they just something? They liked my mask and said that I must be going to a pretty special party dressed like this. So I invited them along. And here we are. Gentleman, I introduce you to the hostess this evening, the glamorous Emma Sayle, my best friend and confidante.’

I say hello when she introduces her guests as Alfred and Kinsey.

There are blank expressions on their faces. ‘Our names are not Alfred and Kinsey,’ says one.

‘They are tonight,’ she smiles wickedly. ‘It’s in honour of my hero, Alfred Kinsey. Boys, I guarantee you are going to learn a lot here.’

They still look bemused. ‘We’ve never heard of the man.’

‘Listen and learn, boys. All you need to know is that we have him to thank for starting the sexual revolution back in 1953. If you can believe it, he was branded a Communist and investigated by the FBI – for saying that women have orgasms.’

One of the guys laughs in disbelief. ‘Really? That’s insane!’

Trolley Dolly shakes her head. ‘I know. As crazy as claiming the earth is flat. Thank God we live in more enlightened times – but a lot of that is down to Kinsey.’ She beams. ‘So wear his name well, my friends, and let’s see if you can prove his theory all over again! Follow me!’

She leads them off in the direction of the stairs. I suspect Trolley Dolly’s prey have no inkling of the frantic activities unfolding upstairs, but they soon get the hint when she flings off her coat and reveals that she’s wearing a black balconette Agent Provocateur bra, with flashes of hot-pink silk under the bust and along the straps, matching knickers and nine-inch killer designer heels.

‘It’s a Maddy bra. You like, gentlemen? Just call me Maddy tonight,’ she purrs. ‘See you later, Emma. I am going to show these lovely boys around now. I hope you don’t mind. Catch up tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’ I wink back. ‘Let’s be in touch. Enjoy yourself.’

Kitty comes up and tells me that things are going well. It’s in full swing now and won’t start winding down for another hour or two. I’m no longer needed. The party will run itself, the staff is managing the bar, Kitty and Jupiter will clear up and lock up.

There is only one thing I can do now, as I am feeling restless, frisky and very playful. The scenes unfolding around me have affected me despite my best efforts. I take out my phone to make a late-night booty call to Mr Black.

I call his private number. He picks up on the third ring.

‘Emma? It’s two in the morning,’ he says.

‘You’re still up. Is it a problem?’

‘I never have a problem where you’re concerned, Emma.’

‘I want to come over. Just for a little while.’

‘You can stay all night. Where are you?’

‘Round the corner. Usual place. Mayfair.’

‘My driver is on his way. Two minutes.’

I tuck my phone away. It’s time to leave the party now: I know everything is going smoothly. I need a little action of my own.

Chapter Two

‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’

George Eliot

I never got the chance to tell my parents myself about my new career in the sex industry. As far as they knew, I was a corporate PR girl promoting respectable businesses. So they were taken by surprise when the Daily Mail published an article about me with the headline: ‘She’s the Poshest Swinger in Town’.

I had only been running Killing Kittens for a few months and hadn’t yet spread the news to my nearest and dearest. I was sunbathing on Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia, when Mothership called me, obviously furious. I could practically hear her blood pressure rising and her nervous system going haywire.

‘Emma, I’ve never been one of those mothers who yells and spanks their children. But if you were here, I would smack you right now for being such a risk taker!’ she shouted.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but once she’d managed to draw breath long enough to calm down and read out the Mail piece to me, I felt terrible, filled with guilt that my parents had had to read about me like that. I tried to apologize but Mothership was having none of it.

‘How could you, Emma?’ she cried, her voice cracking and sounding like she was about to cry. ‘Don’t you know how this makes us feel?’

‘I was going to tell you, I promise!’

‘When, exactly?’ she snapped back.

‘As soon as I got back to London.’

‘The phone has been ringing off the hook all day. Your father is furious. The Daily Mail called us. Don’t you realize how this could affect us all? They say you run orgies for wealthy liberated couples and single women. Is it true? And if it is, why did you have to leave it to the Daily Mail to inform us?’

‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ I replied, thinking it must have been Chinese whispers, my story getting passed around and eventually ending up in the press.

‘The whole world knows before we do. Oh, Emma, really! Your father and I have decided the only good news is that, according to the Daily Mail, you’re not getting involved in these orgies yourself.’

‘That’s right,’ I said calmly, trying to soothe her. ‘It’s business for me.’

‘Well, that’s a relief at least. Thank God for small mercies.’ But she still sounded angry. I crumbled on my sun lounger, wondering how I was going to clean up this mess and make it up to my parents.

The 10,600 miles between Sydney and London bought me some time for everyone to calm down, but a week later I faced the music. I stopped in London only long enough to dump my luggage at my flat, and then I went back home to my parents’ house, arriving so late that they’d gone to bed. I made my appearance the next morning, trying to get back into the good books by bringing my mum and dad (otherwise known as Mothership and Colonel) tea in bed, along with two baseball caps embroidered with slogans. One read ‘Poshest Swinger’s Dad’, the other ‘Poshest Swinger’s Mum’. To their credit, they laughed. As they sipped at their tea, a little less stony-faced than when I’d come in, I offered them my overdue apology for the shock and embarrassment I’d caused, and tried to explain exactly why I’d taken this particular path in life. They made an effort to understand, but I don’t think they did.

‘I’m sorry for not telling you first,’ I said. ‘I should have. But it’s only been a short time and I’m still finding my feet.’

‘But honestly, Emma – sex parties?’ My mother still looked scandalized. ‘Why? What makes you want to do it? Look what they’re saying about you.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t care what the newspapers write about me. Remember what you said to me once? “A tiger doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep.” I live by that motto. Besides, this is what I want to do. It’s an excellent business opportunity, I’m providing a service people want and I intend to make the most of it. I’m not going to be derailed by the groaning hypocrisy of people who’d like nothing better than to come and see what’s going on for themselves.’

Colonel burst out laughing. ‘Emma, you’re a stubborn creature, aren’t you? You’re probably right. And your mother and I would be lying if we said we were truly shocked. You’ve never failed to surprise us.’

I could see that they both understood that I had made up my mind and that there was no point in trying to convince me to follow a different path. I smiled at my parents. ‘You always said to me you wanted me to be the best at what I do. This is what I’m going to do. Now watch me.’

Looking back, I can see now that I was never going to do things conventionally. I’ve always had a desire to take risks, do things out of the ordinary and forge my own path. From the moment I could walk, I wanted to run away from home. Every opportunity that presented itself, I’d have my little wheelie case ready so I could flee the nest. It wasn’t that I didn’t like home, I loved my family deeply. I was very fortunate: I had a privileged upbringing with nice homes and private schooling, but I always knew no matter how comfortable my life was, I was never going to take the usual route and do things the easy, mapped-out way. I never liked taking orders and I was keen to win my independence and get on with life’s adventures. Childhood was an irritating inconvenience and I couldn’t wait to grow up.

My sense of adventure began early. I was born in Guildford, Surrey, but when I was one, Colonel’s army duties took us to Belfast. My father was brilliant and academically gifted; he had read Classics at Magdalene College, Cambridge, and was fluent in German, French, Italian and Latin. After becoming a Fellow of his college, he’d left for a career in the Army and then the Diplomatic Corps, which meant his family was destined for a life on the move. He was talented and successful, but nonetheless he always looked a little ordinary next to my beautiful mother. She was glamorous, leggy and olive-skinned, with ash-blonde hair, blue eyes and a smile that could calm a raging ocean. She was a devoted wife and a great asset to my father, as she charmed everyone she came into contact with at the same time as raising her little family all over the world.

My sister Georgie was born during our two-year stay in Belfast. By the time I was three, home was the Rheindahlen Military Base in Germany, where my brother Johnny was born. I was seven when we moved back to England, where we set up home in Somerset. When I wasn’t at school, I spent my young days hanging upside down out of oak trees or lining up my toys in height order with OCD military precision (I still have a mania for order). At eight, I was sent to Hanford Prep boarding school for girls in Dorset. I spent most of my free time reading, devouring the books of Enid Blyton, Arthur Ransome and Willard Price. Adventure appealed to me, and my literary heroes and heroines gave me the sense that anything was possible. When I outgrew these books I moved on to the spy novels and books about war and religion that my father read.

I was a real Daddy’s girl; I worshipped my father and always longed for his attention and approval. Attention I got by causing mischief, and approval I tried to win by impressing him with my school reports and athletic prowess. I was impish and prone to getting into scrapes, but I also did well at school. I didn’t mind lessons and I was good at games; at 10 I was tall for my age with long legs that made me a natural runner and captain of the netball team.

Although I was away from my father in term time, I was desperate to be with him in the holidays. Wherever Colonel went, I followed, which meant flying out to join the family wherever he had been posted. He’d become a leading liaison officer and was sent to Berlin in 1989, so I was there when the Wall came down. I was only 11, but I remember that night vividly. People everywhere were jumping up and down, crying and laughing with joy. My parents and I joined the crowds by the Brandenburg Gate and cheered on every East German Trabbi that drove through to the West. I also took a hammer to the Wall like everyone else, knocking off chunks of history and stuffing them in my bag. With everyone rolling into the West, we went to East Berlin’s flea markets and I stocked up on Russian dolls and fur hats, which I bought for next to nothing. I was nicknamed Del Boy Trotter back at school, as I sold my bits of Berlin Wall, fur hats and dolls and made a fortune.

With the Cold War coming to an end, my mother started organizing food and medicine convoys to Russia, and when I was home for the holidays I helped her. Once we were filmed by ITN as we sat in one of 10 trucks on the 1,454-kilometre trip from Berlin to Smolensk. I felt humbled by meeting orphans, some of whom were the same age as me. To be able to hand out the clothes and sweets that I took for granted made me determined that when I was older I would set up my own charity and carry on doing what I could to help others and relieve a bit of the misery in the world.

For the next two years, I hammered away at the Berlin Wall in the holidays and continued to sell the chunks to my school friends in term time. I gave half of the proceeds to charity. At 13, I left Hanford Prep and went to Downe House, a girls’ boarding school in Berkshire. Any girl who makes it into Downe has fought to be there and, as result, the school is full of strong, competing personalities and a lot is demanded of the students (including the future Duchess of Cambridge and her sister, who were there at the same time as me). I loved it – I was born a fighter.

I made strong friendships at school and took an enthusiastic part in the healthy tradition of practical jokes (in fact, I’m told that some of my most notorious pranks are still recounted to this day). I also fell in love for the first time. The object of my passion was one of the school gardeners, a lad of about 17 who looked deliciously tanned and muscular as he trimmed the bushes. I was completely infatuated with his impressive masculinity, and he always stopped work and stared when he saw me too. Our romance was fuelled by love letters, passed between us by his boss (who perhaps ought to have known better), but when we actually managed to meet, it was a disaster. Close up, my gorgeous gardener was far less impressive than I’d thought, as he stared cow-eyed at me and fumbled for my hand. His love letters had seemed sophisticated, but in person he was sickly sweet with a squeaky voice. Everything I felt for him withered and died in an instant.

Although I enjoyed myself at school, there were times when I felt isolated. I was not one of the ‘London Trendies’, as we called them – the girls from rich families with opulent pads in the most expensive parts of London. They were real-life Barbie dolls, with a skinny look and the right designer clothes; some of them not only wore Versace or Alexander McQueen, but also had photographs in the dorms of themselves clutching their favourite fashion designer’s arm. While I was on Russia-bound medicine-and-food convoys, their school holidays consisted of private jets, Bentleys and exotic locations. By the time I was 16, I began to feel the difference so keenly that I developed eating issues and secretly started taking laxatives. I wanted to be as thin and glamorous as those girls, with their effortless confidence, fantastic clothes and gorgeous boyfriends from Eton and Radley. Despite all the privileges I had and all of my outward confidence, I still felt inferior and thought I could control it with food, as though that would somehow be a route to social success. The eating issues that started then would take a long time to conquer.

When I was 14, my father was made the British Defence Attaché to Kuwait and Egypt. Home was now Cairo, and that was the same year that we all went to Buckingham Palace to watch Colonel being invested with the OBE for his services during the Falklands War, Northern Ireland and Berlin. I watched in awe as the Queen pinned the award on my father’s jacket and congratulated him. Mothership squeezed my hand and whispered, ‘All right, darling?’

I didn’t say anything in reply. I was too proud of my father to speak.

Despite my sometimes-shaky self-esteem and on-going eating problems, I was developing a keen interest in another side of life: boys. My passion for the gardener was long dead, but I had other objects of fascination now. Although I was at an all-girls school, I had a brother, which was an advantage as I was able to snog a few of his friends. Otherwise I met boys at parties or through my parents’ friends. I met Ed at a party during the summer holidays, and he became my first boyfriend. The romance had an expiration date, but I loved holding Ed’s hand and kissing him (we’re still friends). There were other boyfriends after him, and at 16 I went further than ever before. Sex was not on the menu, but there was plenty of exploration and I began to unravel the mysteries of what men were like and what happened when things got steamy, and it’s safe to say that I liked it.

As I got older, I became wilder and more reckless. I was still kicking over the traces, keen to get on with life and taste everything that adults enjoyed. It could have disastrous consequences, like the time I got properly drunk for the first time, aged 16. Colonel was hosting a lavish dinner party at our Cairo house for the Canadian Ambassador. Unknown to everyone else, my endless glasses of Sprite contained double shots of vodka and after a couple of drinks, I became convinced the 28-year-old army officer sitting to my right was deeply in love with me. Colonel noticed my odd behaviour and said, ‘You can try a tiny glass of wine, Emma. It may calm your nerves.’ He wasn’t to know that the wine would prove the proverbial last straw, and my flirtation came to an abrupt end as I threw up violently all over my plate of beef Wellington, stunning the other guests into horrified silence. Colonel dispatched me to my bedroom with military efficiency. He did not offer me a glass of his beloved Châteauneuf-du-Pape for years to come after that.

I lived up to my final Downe House school report from one teacher, which read: ‘I have found Emma to be cheeky, over-excitable, opinionated and thoroughly obnoxious – she’ll go far.’ I thought it was a fair point.

Colonel hoped I would follow in his footsteps and apply to Cambridge University, where he had been both a fellow and bursar of his college, but I decided that wasn’t for me. Instead, much to his disappointment, I chose Birmingham University, to read Sports Science. Before then, I took a gap year paid for by my Del Boy Trotter trust fund, and my first stop was Africa. Colonel had now been sent to Kuwait and was busy with his new posting, while my mother was resettling yet again, and I reassured them by telling them I had a job lined up in Cape Town. The truth was that there was no job, and all I managed in the first week was to get my belly button pierced and lose my memory for most of it after being offered hash cakes. I was mugged in the street and had my passport and purse stolen. When I went to the police station to report the incident, I was groped by a burly Afrikaans copper, who kept muttering, ‘Gee my jou hand. Ek hou van jou,’ while he pawed me. Translated, he was asking for my hand and saying he liked me. I’d had enough of Cape Town, and I swiftly packed my wheelie case and headed to Kuwait to join my parents. They had lined up a job for me at a holiday resort, but I was sent packing within two weeks after I encouraged most of the Filipino staff to go on strike because of their appalling pay.

With time on my hands, I turned my focus to boys and began dating a man. Losing my virginity never felt monumental to me: I knew it would happen when it felt right. That moment came during one date, while we were sunbathing at a poolside. I suggested that it was the right time to do it. He was surprised but willing, and we lost no time in going somewhere private to do the deed. As I was an 18-year-old virgin, I had no idea what I was doing, but pretended I did. Luckily I didn’t expect it to be a magical event – after all, I had no strong feelings for the man, I just wanted to do it – and sure enough, it wasn’t mind-blowing. It was awkward and it hurt, but I was glad I’d done it: I felt more grown up and confident, and I sensed potential. This time might have been a damp squib, but I knew it could be much, much better.

My motto for that wild year before university – and ever since, if I’m honest – was to let go of any inhibitions I had and push the boundaries to the limit. For me, it was part of my journey to self-exploration and finding myself, but I went beyond reckless sometimes. It helped that being a daughter of a diplomat came with privileges and immunity: my diplomatic ID card gave me quite a safety net and turned me and a few other English and American diplomat kids into reckless risk takers. Once, Colonel took me to a party on board a US warship in Kuwait and I enjoyed a marathon kissing session with a handsome Lebanese man there, until my father discovered his family was part of the Lebanese mafia and nipped that in the bud at once. Another time, I was dared to climb on board a superboat belonging to the ruling family of Kuwait. Never able to resist a dare, I gave it my best shot and managed to get on and off without being caught, but the British Embassy heard of my little exploit and my father was ordered to get me under control. Another time I was thrown into jail for being a potential spy after being car-chased by Saudi patrolmen along the Kuwait–Saudi Arabia border. The truth was, no espionage was involved. It was dark, I got lost and I’d forgotten my diplomatic ID card. Colonel had some choice words to share with me when he picked me up from jail.

I wanted fear, risk and exhilaration, but I soon learned that pushing boundaries could have consequences, and not just for me. I was dating an American marine who was a member of the US Embassy security staff. Deciding that Kuwaiti hotels, the beach, army barracks, tankers, helicopters or warships no longer had the thrill factor, we decided the rooftop of the massive, fortress-like US Embassy was the place to have sex. Now that my virginity was out of the way, I had taken to this pleasant new activity with gusto and loved having sex with my hunky marine as often as possible. As we exchanged that devilish look on the rooftop, we both relished the excitement of doing something so daring and forbidden, and that made us throw caution to the winds. But the loud groans that followed meant that it didn’t take long for us to get caught with our pants down. Moments later, security guards armed with rifles swarmed like ants across the rooftops and it was only my marine identifying himself that stopped a full-scale military shootout. Colonel was summoned to the US Embassy for a stern dressing down, and once more I was in big trouble. But he was learning by now that I was headstrong, difficult to control and determined to play as hard as I could.

My crazy gap year came to an end and I headed to Birmingham University to take up my place to read Sports Science. I reluctantly left my marine and we made promises of mutual devotion, but in my first week of university, a friend in Kuwait called to tell me that no sooner had I left than he’d jumped into bed with someone else. So that was that. Despite the activity and excitement of Freshers’ Week, I was miserable, but my heartbreak was swiftly dispelled when I met Aidan. He was tall, dark, athletic and handsome, and his intense piercing blue eyes won me over before he said ‘hello’. We fell in love almost at once, but it was a tumultuous, rollercoaster ride of a relationship and it came with the condition that a break-up never really meant ‘it’s over’. For three years, our big love affair was punctuated by frequents splits and passionate reunions. I loved being with Aidan, but when we were apart, I didn’t slow down. University was mostly a blur of sports, some studying, drinking, making friends and having sex. I made sure that I broadened my horizons, with sex in particular. A foursome with a guy I’d been seeing, his best mate and a girlfriend of mine became a threesome when my friend did a runner, leaving me with two very hot, ripped rugby boys. I tried the other kind of threesome when I was having a drink in a bar with an ice-hockey player and another girl joined us. She and I shared a drunken snog, which was quite fun, and my boyfriend, clearly enjoying the show, suggested we go back to his place. When we got there, he told me he’d like me to go down on our new friend. I was game for anything, so I did, but I decided then and there it wasn’t for me. My boyfriend ended up shagging her, which was fine, but we didn’t last much longer after that, and Aidan and I got back together yet again.

When graduation came, Aidan and I went our separate ways: I headed to London and he moved to Sydney to become a high-flying corporate psychologist. But we stayed good friends and made a promise to each other: if we were both single by the time we hit the big 4–0, we would marry.

But for now, I had to decide what I was going to do with my life. The last thing on my mind was organizing orgies, but Fate was soon to intervene with a spectacular experience.