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Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules
Emma Sayle
A true story of sex, seduction and the pursuit of pleasure.Welcome to a world where women make – and break – the rules. An underground club notorious for parties wilder than 50 Shades of Grey; a place where, behind elegant masks, your innermost desires can be unleashed…Emma Sayle is an ordinary girl: raised in a stable home, she had a happy childhood and has a steady boyfriend. She runs a business organising parties. But Emma has a naughty secret.These are no ordinary parties.Decadent, hedonistic and held at secret locations, these parties offer a world of desire and indulgence, focused on female pleasure. These are places where anything can happen. Keeping herself strictly out of the heat of the action, Emma is thrilled to see every night grow wilder, more extravagant and more popular. Risking her reputation to run such a business certainly paid off.But things are about to change – and the consequences could be catastrophic.Emma has learned that her boyfriend is cheating. With a club member. Her world has begun to unravel…Soon the parties – and Emma’s life – are in serious danger of spiralling out of control. In this whirlwind of passion and uninhibited desire, can there ever be any hope of finding Mr Right?
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Contents
Cover (#u5bfd8bfc-ccd6-57ac-8111-73b53650ab04)
Title Page (#ulink_8c57a2c4-5932-535d-bb0a-1202d61e291f)
Prologue (#ulink_dc18b3f4-951f-5bf2-a6b2-58d6c55caa1c)
Chapter One (#ulink_8c784c80-5997-53e4-b371-a788e205e985)
Chapter Two (#ulink_2b14e365-ae4f-599f-abc6-060d1495b062)
Chapter Three (#ulink_285f22e0-477d-527b-bb54-f087177e9efc)
Chapter Four (#ulink_0f0218d3-7bcb-5a72-a00f-be7e617e436d)
Chapter Five (#ulink_3b90eaa4-a66e-5067-b869-dc37108f3eba)
Chapter Six (#ulink_673f3d70-0388-5869-bf1c-630fe40bf174)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_882fa78c-f1ab-5a89-8217-8ef7ac420eb1)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_cbf94f66-eb74-590d-b4e0-ad6edb8cd7b1)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_9c45d14f-3933-5fed-a440-70f0c96c0c36)
Chapter Ten (#ulink_59ca1285-f489-5b07-b06b-8a602a72d85b)
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_340c2cc0-25ef-5a5a-9c2e-495bc0190c49)
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_477b6fdc-6846-5231-9aa5-4e538d91f5c2)
Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_da85a803-d048-5c8f-b023-4e35a895a6d7)
Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_77bd3059-94a8-5ac2-aa6f-58e20c43e43d)
Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_76df7c8d-07b2-5279-8ce5-c8066f65afbd)
Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_bc6bb80b-0f15-5f3b-93f9-a4328a505e08)
Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_d8e4fb81-ffca-540b-8a23-60ddb45196d1)
Chapter Eighteen (#ulink_d2b5addc-e2b2-54dd-8d47-1c444e41dc22)
Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_fed7c4e9-1d55-50e0-a989-7b80ac58c3e1)
Chapter Twenty (#ulink_ce1f97b9-30e9-508d-9f8d-3269af335564)
Chapter Twenty-One (#ulink_de10d7bb-e51e-54cf-8b90-6fee273d6a41)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#ulink_7f404085-755c-54bd-b433-a1ff635878a3)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#ulink_786c6a21-a645-567a-8583-4bdfdb3c0c57)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#ulink_cbd02023-d5f2-5e97-a425-81c5211058dd)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#ulink_626ccbbc-82ab-53e0-85ac-9f036758e7f7)
Epilogue (#ulink_1048d421-89d5-5ec0-a4e8-05e22120d0a0)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_b4aa6392-6ce0-59db-a43b-6e7cf06b8ccb)
Copyright (#ulink_deb551bf-f9c5-5416-ad49-4d8acf01ed7a)
About the Publisher (#u53fa6035-40a3-5da8-8e23-141b55487719)
Prologue (#ue3812f6a-f036-5460-88f5-4e429a1e12de)
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 (#ue3812f6a-f036-5460-88f5-4e429a1e12de)
‘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.
