by Amy Brent
Amy Rossetti & Associates had offices in a ten-story glass building that housed several dozen tech start-ups and the venture capital firm that funded them all. The only reason my offices were there was because I’d saved the venture firm’s ass more than once after they had been hacked. The CEO tried to hire me as a formal employee, which I declined despite the high six-figure salary, so he opted to put me on retainer, and part of the deal was the free office space, which they could have easily rented out for fifty-grand a month.
Again, it was a prestigious address, but it was all for show. There were four offices with fictitious names and titles on the doors, the reception area where Serena sat behind the desk, and my office, a space twice as large as I actually needed, but it fit the profile of a high-caliber tech consultant such as myself. Smoke and mirrors, baby. Smoke and mirrors.
The suite also came furnished with high-end furniture and fixtures that made my stuff at home seem like yard sale fare. I slid into the two-thousand-dollar Hermann Miller chair behind the six-thousand-dollar glass desk and kicked off my shoes. I sat rubbing my feet as Serena came in to set a fresh cup of coffee on the desk. She plopped down in a chair across the desk and let her perfectly-manicured eyebrows go up and held out her hand and wiggled her fingers at me. I reached inside my jacket and handed over the envelope containing the $50,000 check.
“So, how did it go?” she asked, tucking the envelope into a folder she had sitting on her lap with IDS on the label.
“It went as it always does,” I said with a sigh, sounding completely bored despite the fact that I’d just earned in two hours what it took some people an entire year or more to bring home. “I could give these talks with my eyes closed.”
“Maybe you should try that next week when you speak at the Pentagon,” she said with a smile. She nodded at the steaming mug sitting in front of me. “Drink that. I put in a little honey and lemon for your throat. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Serena, what would I do without you?” I picked up the cup and brought it to my lips. The strong aroma made me smile. Little beads of steam settled beneath my eyes. I took a careful sip and smacked my lips. “Thanks, I needed this. Any messages?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” she said in her usual mother hen voice. Serena took good care of me. She kept the distractions away and my schedule on track. You’d never suspect that Serena, who resembled a young Sophia Vergara in every way, right down to the gorgeous face, luscious hair and killer body, was a graduate student in physics at USC.
She was just twenty-three, a brilliant girl who worked twenty hours a week as my assistant and the rest of the time on the dissertation that she hoped would cap off her illustrious educational career by getting published in Physics Today, the official journal of the physics world.
“I did meet someone interesting today,” I said as I leaned back in the chair to prop my bare feet on the desk. I wiggled my toes to get the blood pumping again. I wore low-heeled, sensible shoes and my feet still ached after two hours onstage. I could not fathom how a woman could go through an entire day with her feet wedged into a pair of high heels.
“Yeah? Who was that?”
“Isaac Hanson.”
“The founder of IDS?” she asked, eyebrows arched. The way her lips fell open told me she knew of the legend that was Isaac Hanson. I did not, however, expect her eyes to go dreamy and her voice to soften. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”
I blinked at her for a moment. That was not the response I expected. “Have you met him before?” Serena nervously licked her lips and looked as if she regretted her words. I gave her a hard look. “Serena? What are you not telling me?”
“Yes, I’ve met him,” she said, rolling her dark eyes like a kid who had been caught telling a fib. “I kind of know him, actually.”
I frowned behind the coffee cup. “You kind of know him… Exactly what does that mean?”
She looked toward the open doorway as if making sure we were alone. She leaned into the desk and lowered her voice. “I kind of work for him, well, for a company that he owns. But I really can’t say anything more. I signed an NDA.”
“A nondisclosure agreement?” I let my feet drop to the floor and turned to face her with my elbows on the desk. “Okay, you cannot leave me hanging with that one. What the heck are you talking about?”
She quickly looked down and shook her head. “I really can’t say.”
“Serena.” She glanced up and I nodded at the IDS folder on her lap. “Would a thousand-dollar bonus loosen your lips?”
She smiled. “No, but a five-thousand-dollar one might.”
“Well played,” I said, smiling back. “Done. Now, spill the beans. And they better be damned good beans.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then asked, “Have you ever heard of Votre Désire?”
“It’s French,” I said, shrugging. “Your desires… Wait... you mean… you’re talking about…”
“Yep, the infamous Club Desire,” she said, head bobbing. She took her voice down to a whisper. “Isaac Hanson is one of the owners.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “And you know this how?”
“Well, I sort of work there.”
* * *
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Votre Désire—Club D or Club Desire, as it was more commonly called— was one of those places you heard people whisper about, but had never seen proof that it actually existed, like Shangri-La or Atlantis or Heaven or Hell.
I’d heard the rumors of the private estate somewhere north of the city where rich men romped with beautiful women, fulfilling their every desire for a hefty price. The legend was heightened by the rumor that members included billionaires, entrepreneurs, famous actors, senators, congressmen, former presidents, dictators, sheiks, all who had put up a ten-million-dollar bond that would be cashed and given to charity if they ever broke the code of silence. And the women who worked there were supposedly paid enormous salaries and sworn to secrecy, obviously going so far as to sign NDAs, and would never reveal the secrets of Club D because it would mean cutting off the goose that laid the golden egg.
“What do you mean, exactly,” I asked cautiously, wondering if perhaps I did not know Serena nearly as well as I thought I did. “You sort of work there?”
She shrugged. “I mean I work there. As a waitress, not as a… well… you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I said, huffing at her. “Why on earth would you work at such a place?” I knew that I sounded pompous and condescending, but it couldn’t be helped. Being judgmental was in my Italian DNA. The truth was, I was more stunned than anything.
Stunned that the place really existed.
Stunned that Serena worked there.
And stunned that the rumors were apparently true: Isaac Hanson, Denny Chambers, and Sammy Branniff, the billionaire founders of IDS, were really the men behind the mystery. They were the founders of Club Desire.
Serena gave me a deserving frown. “Well, no offense, Amy, but you barely pay me enough to afford an apartment in Silicon Valley.” She spread out her fingers and ticked them off as she spoke. “Plus, I have a car payment, credit cards, a mountain of student loan debt, I like nice clothes, I like to eat…”
“Serena, I would give you a raise in a heartbeat,” I said. “Or a loan that you could pay back whenever.” My voice took on a hurt tone. “I had no idea you were hurting for money.”
“Oh, I’m not hurting for money,” she said with a smile. “Honestly, Amy, I work for you because I like you, not for the money. Plus, I learn something from you every day. You’re a super strong, professional woman. You’re more of a role model and mentor than a boss, I mean, in a good way.”
“Well, that’s good, I suppose…”
“Plus, my net last year was around two-hundred-grand. I just have a way of spending every penny I make.”
My mouth literally dropped open. “You netted two-hundred-thousand? Dollars?”
“Not inc
luding what you pay me, yes, I took home around two-hundred grand,” she said proudly. “All of it tips from working at Club D.”
“Wow,” I said, falling back in my chair. “I had no idea waitresses could make that kind of money.”
“Ordinarily, they can’t,” she said. “The ones who make the real money are the girls who… well… you know.”
“No,” I said, a little dumbfounded, head swiveling on my neck like a frisbee. “I don’t know.”
She put her elbows on the desk and rested her cheeks between her hands. “They’re called Escorts and Specialists,” she said, eyes dancing as if she were telling ghost stories in front of a campfire. “They’re the girls who take the men upstairs for whatever it is the man is willing to pay for.”
“Oh my god,” I whispered, covering my mouth with my fingertips. “You mean… for sex?” Duh, of course, she meant for sex. What was wrong with that? And why was I playing the part of the prude all of a sudden? I liked sex. Hell, I loved sex. I’d never been paid to have it, but back in the day when I was a struggling college student, the thought had crossed my mind a time or two. It was a good thing I never started “hooking” I think it was called. I might have liked it a little too much, especially if the John was a handsome billionaire like Isaac Hanson.
“How does it work, exactly?” I asked. “I mean, men paying women for sex. That’s textbook prostitution. Which is illegal in California.”
“They don’t pay the women for sex, technically,” she said with a grin as if she knew they were getting away with something and found it funny. “They call it consensual sex, and there is nothing illegal about that.”
I didn’t know if I was more intrigued by the sex or the commerce of it all. I had to know more. I asked, “How does it work then?”
“Well, the women are all super-duper drop dead gorgeous, of course. Like freakin’ super models. The men fall all over themselves to get close to the girls, they buy them glasses of thousand-dollar champagne, five-hundred-dollar tequila shots, huge bowls of caviar, mountains of Maine lobster, whatever you can think of they have it there. Then, the men ask the girl if she’d like to go upstairs and if the girl wants to go—and only if she wants to go—they go upstairs and have consensual sex or whatever. It’s like this humongous mansion, like an old hotel really. The girls all have private bedrooms there for the weekends, and some of the higher-net worth members have suites, too. They basically arrive on Friday night and leave on Sunday night. Some of them never leave their rooms.”
“That’s… unreal,” I said, not sure if I believed her or not, though I knew Serena would never lie to me. “How do the women get paid?”
“Every member must put up a Platinum American Express Card and everything is charged directly and automatically to that card. Their initial dues, monthly dues, food, drink, room fees, and—“ she made air quotes with her long fingers— “entertainment fees, that may or may not include private entertainment in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It’s all charged to the card. The girls get every nickel the member spends once they’re upstairs. The house gets everything else.”
“So, the men do not pay the women directly for sex,” I said, making an “aha” face. “The women are paid by the company. Probably as independent contractors.”
“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “All I know is the girls who work as Escorts and Specialists are pulling down major bucks. There’s one girl, Carina, who supposedly cleared over two-million-dollars last year.”
“Holy shit,” I said, shaking my head. That was more than I made last year. “That’s incredible. How did she earn that much?”
Serena gave me a scolding smile. “She is very good at what she does.”
“Wow…” I leaned back to sip my coffee for a moment, then asked the question I really wanted the answer to. “Tell me about Isaac Hanson and the others. How involved are they in running the place? Are they there every weekend?”
“I probably shouldn’t say anything more,” she said, sucking air in her teeth. “I’ve said too much already. I’m pretty sure I just broke the terms of the NDA, which would get me fired and sued into the ground if they found out.”
“You just earned five-grand in five minutes,” I said, leaning forward and leering at her. “That’s Carina-level money, and you didn’t even have to take your clothes off.”
“I know, but—“
“Serena, cut the shit. Dish it up, baby girl, every dirty little detail.”
“Amy, really, I can’t…”
“Let’s make that bonus ten-grand, shall we?”
She glanced down at her manicured nails for a moment, then took a deep breath and told me everything she knew about Club D and its founders.
Isaac, Denny, and Sammy were typically there most weekends; partying, drinking, schmoozing, sometimes pairing off with one of the escorts or specialists, which I came to understand were escorts with special skills, such as the ability to deep throat the longest of cocks or, like Carina, take on five men at once and make them all cum simultaneously.
To quote Serena, “Three holes, two hands, perfect timing.”
I’m still having a hard time figuring out the physics of that one.
Or like another girl, Annabel, who could contort herself in such a way that she could lick her own pussy while the men watched.
It was a little like hearing someone describe the freak show at the circus rather than a high-end sex club-slash-whorehouse.
Each founder had his own private suite on the third floor away from the action downstairs. Denny and Sammy were the more social of the three partners, but Isaac was the one all the girls wanted to fuck according to Serena.
She kept using words like “huge schlong” and “can go all night” to describe what she’d heard the other girls saying about him. She had never personally drunk from the Isaac Hanson cup because the line to do so was simply too long. Plus, he wasn’t really her type. She had her sights set on Sammy Branniff, the partner who looked like a linebacker for the Rams.
I was shaking my head by the time she finished. I had stood inches away from Isaac Hanson and never would have pegged him to be some kind of insatiable sex god. Still, I couldn’t deny the warmth I was feeling between my legs just listening to Serena’s stories. Heck, it had been so long since I’d been turned on I might have just pissed my pants.
“Oh my god, I just had a thought,” she said, gushing, like having a thought was a new thing for her. “Why don’t you come with me this weekend?”
“What? To Club D?”
“Yes. I’m staying the entire weekend. They have a huge guest house for the employees who don’t want to drive back and forth to the city. You could stay with me and be my guest. I’d have to get it approved by Mr. Lemon, but once he saw you all dolled-up I have no doubt he’d let you in if you would be willing to schmooze with the guests. You wouldn’t have to do anything, of course, and—”
I held up my hand. “Mr. Lemon? Seriously? Is that really his name? I think I know him. Is he round and yellow, by any chance?”
“Yes, that’s his name and he is the manager,” she said. “And no, he’s not round and yellow. He’s like six-five and skinny as a rail.”
“Right, yes, well, I’m going to have to pass,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Thanks anyway.”
“Amy, when was the last time you slept with a man?” she asked, one eyebrow up in a perfect arc.
“Well, that’s none of your business,” I huffed.
She gave me a scolding look and blew out her cheeks. “Okay, when’s the last time you went out on a date? Or had a man’s tongue in your mouth or his hands down your pants? When’s the last time you had a big, thick, juicy cock in your hand?”
“Serena, that’s enough.”
“No,” she said forcefully. “Tell me.”
Sadly, I couldn’t remember the last time I was with a man.
Or kissed a man.
Or had dinner with a man.
And the closest I came these d
ays to holding a big cock in my hand was when I was buying Italian sausages at the grocery store to make carbonara for my dad on Sunday.
I frowned into the now-empty coffee cup and mumbled.
“Well… um…”
“You can’t remember, can you?”
I held out my cup. “Can I get another cup of coffee, please?”
“Oh my god!” she wailed, hands in the air. “It’s settled. I will not take no for an answer. I’m going to clear your schedule tomorrow so you can spend the entire day at the spa and the salon. I’m going to pick you up at seven tomorrow evening and I want to see those tits and that ass and that face on full display! Understand?”
“I understand,” I said with a smile, though I was lying through my teeth. There was no fucking way I was going to put on a tight dress and go to Club Desire for a weekend of watching rich men with Viagra boners chasing after women who made me look like Mr. Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies.
No fucking way.
That was not my style.
No, sir.
Not gonna do it.
“It’s settled then,” Serena said with a happy smile as she got out of the chair with the folder tucked under her arm and her phone in her hands. She was swiping the screen with one long finger. “I’ll clear your schedule and call Mr. Lemon to get it okayed. He’ll want to see a photo. I have that one of you from that fundraiser you spoke at a couple of weeks back. You were wearing a black cocktail dress and your hair was down. You actually looked hot in that picture.”