“Are we nearly there yet? This doesn’t look anywhere classy.” Clarissa tried to keep the petulance out of her voice. She knew she should be flattered by the stretch-limo and the Dom Perignon, glass number three of which was fizzing its way down her throat, but why the hell were they driving about dingy back-streets?

“Relax,” her companion said. “Shoreditch is the new Soho. Home to all manner of delights. Where we’re going is a different type of exclusive.” The way he said it made her shiver like a thousand bursting champagne bubbles.

She tugged her white mini-dress, the one he had insisted she wear, down her bare thighs as a sop to demureness. Pearl earrings and necklace complimented; hair was swirled into a chignon. The picture of youth and beauty, sweet and languid as on the day of her debutante ball. The man beside her should be proud to have her grace his arm − though admittedly he looked fine in that tuxedo, carrying his upper body-mass with such suaveness and composure. Maddeningly he refused to fawn on her. Well she’d pander to his ego a while longer. Snare him the indirect route.

“We’re here.”

She looked about and saw nothing but a warehouse district. The limousine was wheeling towards one massive entrance sealed off by an iron partition.

“Gavin, we’re not anywhere.” She weighted the use of his name with condescension. Her father having introduced him as ‘Mister McClain’, it satisfied her to do so. She mightn’t be the world’s greatest secretary and employing her might have been a favour, but she’d got higher attributes and he’d damn well learn to acknowledge them.

“We’re somewhere very particular,” he responded, hand resting on hers, engulfing it. Despite her willowy height she felt little beside him. “Do you really think I’d take out a girl like you and not give her a night to remember?” She looked into his dark eyes and shivered anew. They drank champagne and her womanly pretentions dissolved in girlish excitement. Clarissa had no idea what was going on, but suddenly it felt like adventure.

The car paused, then a metallic rumble announced the partition’s rising and they rolled into a huge floodlit space. A warehouse, swept clean but abandoned by all industrial pursuit.

“Where the hell is this?”

Gavin smiled wordlessly as the grey-uniformed chauffeur opened her door. She climbed out, her date joining her as she stared around the vast empty space. Nothing remarkable, aside from subterranean rhythms vibrating through the soles of her stilettos.

“Come with me.” She took the proffered arm and the click of her heels echoed through the concrete hall as they walked to a downward-stairway at the rear. Music soaked though the walls as they descended around corners and Clarissa’s heart pounded in time. She was about to be made privy to some delicious secret. One final corner and they confronted a miked-up and dinner-jacketed flunky guarding an iron door.

“Gavin McClain and companion. We’re on the guest list.”

The stone-faced guardian cracked a smile. “That’s quite all right, Mr McClain. Have a good night sir.”

“Thank you. I intend to. Birthday boy arrived yet?”

“He has, sir. He’s being looked after.”

“Very good.”

Clarissa would have voiced her puzzlement, but her partner was guiding her through the now opened door into a covert reception area, till she could recognise the tune playing . “ Inside and Out. I like this song. Gavin, where are we?” Gavin exchanged words with receptionist, as Clarissa tried to peer further. Then his arm was at her back and he was steering her down a curving passageway.

“Welcome, my dear, to the Blue Nile.”

The corridor widened into a shimmering river of aqua-marine light. It bathed Clarissa and sucked her like a powerful current inside the high-ceilinged venue. Blue-white enveloped her like she was drowning in liquid crystal. Shimmering sexiness, enhancing the tide of beautiful patrons, male and female. Clarissa spun three-sixty, drinking it all in − the sparkling granite-topped furnishings and smooth undulation of the interior walls. “This place is amazing! Why don’t I know about it?”

“It has a way of keeping its secrets. Drink?”

“Yes. Blue Lagoon.” She giggled at succumbing to the power of suggestion.

The broad avenue split and curved around a circular central bar, to which Gavin proceeded, leaving Clarissa to wander. Male patrons were dressed to the same level of refinement as her boss, their partners − in some cases numbering more than one − all high-class slink and poise. She gazed to points around the bar where the walls appeared to curve into chambers discreet from the rest of the room. Each one was flanked by security, a distinctly-coloured glow at odds with the blue of the main bar radiating from within−ochre, maroon or emerald. A young couple paused at the maroon entrance, the male partner flicking a card from his breast pocket for the security guy could check it. Granted a cursory nod, the couple passed through to be swallowed by the room’s mysteries.

“What’s with the all those crafty spaces around the sides?” Clarissa inquired, as Gavin returned with drinks.

“A Nile special feature.” He pressed the Blue Lagoon into her hand and sipped his Scotch. “Themed lounges for guests who require, shall we say, some down-time. There’s the Arabian Room, Egyptian naturally, a bit of sequined ooh-la-la in the Moulin Rouge ... And others more daring elsewhere. Staffed on request.”

Clarissa was not sure whether to be entertained or appalled. “Is this place a …”

“It’s what you want it to be. Somewhere to drink, dance, socialize … or to indulge in fantasy. The lounges are an option, as is the erotic cabaret. The Nile is only as exotic as any patron desires.”

She stared at him, music thrumming through her body. His expectations eluded her, as did the precise nature of what she wanted herself. He was the only boss she’d ever had and her job hung by a thread, but she did not want to be out-manoeuvred in some sexual fantasy of his. “How exotic an evening were you banking on, Gavin?” She added an imperious tilt to her chin. “Are you expecting to show me around a lounge?”

“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,” he said. “You’re here as my guest, Clarissa, not my employee. And a girl like you must be so used to West End nightclubs and Michelin star restaurants. So at the risk of offending, I thought I’d surprise you with somewhere different. Purely to enjoy the ambiance and a frisson of danger. You’re a girl who embraces danger now and then, right?”

Clarissa’s lower belly warmed, not only due to her cocktail. She didn’t like to admit how much this man fascinated her. “Maybe.” She smirked, clinking his glass with hers. “And I’m not offended. It’s nice to be brought somewhere so … exclusive. Is it really such a big secret?”

“Put it this way …” His mouth at her ear made her shudder. “You were lucky not to be blindfolded en route.”

“Blindfolded?”

“Silk of course, in keeping with the establishment. Permanent members are concerned about anonymity. Cameras and recording equipment get confiscated and result in immediate expulsion. So, most guests are kept in the dark, literally, regarding location. I had to make a special arrangement on your behalf. Didn’t want you to be too disconcerted on the way here.”

“I’m flattered.” The thought of a silk blindfold had Clarissa’s heart speeding once more. “So why do you get preferential treatment?”

“The Nile’s owner is a friend. And I assured him of your discretion.”

“You know me that well? Sure I won’t blab?”

His look was appraising. “You won’t breathe a word, my dear. I’d bet my company on it.”

Clarissa grinned her excitement. It all seemed improbably illicit and sexy. She tipped back her drink and the liquid trickled cool down her tongue as she contemplated her guide. A smile teased on her lips. One throwaway reference lingered.

“So Gavin, tell me about this erotic cabaret.”

He returned her smile and downed his whiskey at a gulp. “My dear, I’ll do better than tell you.”

* * * *

The amphitheatre was huge and dark, lit by the stars which speckled its high ceiling. Clarissa and Gavin had a prime spot, their table only one tiered row above the semi-circular dais which served as a stage. She tippled on a third cocktail and glanced about for signs of a performance, the anticipatory buzz infecting her.

“You’ve seen the show before?” she inquired over the sound-sealed auditorium’s modern jazz.

“Several. There’s a rapid turn-over. The artistic director likes to keep things fresh and creative. And fun.”

Clarissa nestled closer, more aware than ever of a massive athletic frame beneath designer trappings. “What kind of fun? You’ve got me all intrigued.”

The fading away of music and dying of lights to a luminescent glow promised to answer her question before Gavin could. There was a breathless hush in which she could only hear the bang of blood in her ear. Then in surround-sound a male voice boomed: “Ladies and Gentlemen, prepare yourselves … for Kong, Eighth Wonder of the World!”

Grandiose organ music erupted from the speakers and resounded as in a cathedral. Seamlessly the stage-machinery rolled into action. The dais proved half of a vast disc which rotated counter-clockwise along with the black wall that split it in two. In the dim light Clarissa made out a figure framed in a dark rectangle upon a shallow platform, being carried by the circular motion from backstage. She leaned forward in her seat, eyes peering wide to distinguish more through the gloom. Then the dais halted with the frame directly below her and spotlights lit from opposing sides of the dome, bathing the scene in twin pools of white light.

Clarissa’s jaw dropped, hand stifling her shocked laughter. ‘Kong’ was a tall and brawny young man stretched out in a naked X within the ebony frame, dark hair draping behind him to his waist. He was swarthy but waxed clean of hair, the definition of his body enhanced by oil and sweat. The upper part of his face was obscured by a black ape-mask, firm-set mouth and jaw still apparent. Even more transfixing was the majestic erection that speared from his groin. The sophisticated girl from Chelsea gaped at the sight so boldly displayed in public. Applause and laughter was breaking out from around the amphitheatre.

Beside her Gavin chuckled and she turned, wondering what amused him. Then the speaker-voice boomed again and sealed her attention to the on-stage action. “King in his far-distant country, he now stands helpless in chains of adamantine.” Kong writhed against his bonds−he appeared to be manacled hand and foot−pelvis thrusting like he was fucking thin air. “Helpless and forced to endure the whims of his young female captors.”

The captors in question materialized from obscurity, either side of the stage, and stepped onto it in perilous heels, advancing on their prisoner. Both were petite but closing in with poise and confidence, dressed identically and minimally. They wore one-piece costumes of buckled-together leather patches, barely covering their more intimate fleshly regions. The outfits were strapped with chain behind necks and around waists, diving vertiginously between their thighs to band clean-waxed crotches. Jauntily balanced top hats, along with the flails they carried, provided a twisted ring-mistress effect, which they augmented by circling their captive, flicking him derisively with their multi-stranded whips.

Clarissa watched it all−Kong’s body twitching each time leather thongs licked his torso, the girls’ naked asses gobbling up their g-strings, the taunts on their pretty faces contrasting with his partially obscured grimace, as fingers began to tease. The flails they slotted into brackets either side of the frame, so that their palms could slither about Kong’s chest, then his stomach and groin. Clarissa liked both girls, admired their teasing and control. That was how to keep a man: figuratively if not literally in chains. Rock-hard and at the mercy of your feminine wiles. The brunette with the bobbed hair was good−austere and cruel−but Clarissa preferred the blonde, hair tamed into a side-ponytail, eyes alive with mischief as she writhed her body and provoked her captured prey. He tore against his bonds and thrust his cock in vain as they massaged his body, licked his neck and applied flicking tongues to his nipples.

Organ music had turned to pumping dance and the rhythm drove the scene as they grabbed their flails, teasing the thongs about his quivering phallus, then lashing his chest and thighs with force. Clarissa was salivating, her pussy moistening in union with her mouth to see it all so close, the white light of the spots etching every erotic detail. She stared enthralled as the brunette girl embraced Kong from behind, clutching hands to his chest as her blonde companion dropped to her knees and perched before his groin, tongue wriggling against the tip of his cock. Actual contact between tongue-tip and pulsing organ−Clarissa could scarcely believe it. The captive’s body a mass of erotic torment as he strained against his bonds. God, she almost wanted him to succeed in his struggle for freedom …

And then of course he did. The music had dropped to a hypnotic synthesized swell and was building back to a crescendo. Blonde had risen to kiss his perspiring face, brunette strutting back around the front to nibble his ear. Then the manacles snapped open. Kong had broken his bonds and hell broke loose with him. Rhythmic drum and bass exploded as he grabbed both fleeing captors by the hair, top-hats tumbling from their heads, hands letting go the flails. He thrust them to the floor before his mighty cock, venting a long roar.

Gavin laughed and applauded. “Good boy.” Clarissa looked on, scared and enthralled, as Kong dragged the girls to him so that their heads masked his erection from the audience. He took the blonde first−was she really being made to suck on him or was it only simulated for the show? Her hair had come loose and was thrashing along with her whole body as though her mouth was working vigorously to placate his wrath. Her brunette companion followed suit, head bobbing frantically, while he roared in triumph to be fellated with such subservience and industry.

Kong appeared to alternate between his captors-turned-slaves until the service of their mouths was not enough. Up he arose, dragging them with him, his unsated cock thrusting tall. Then he cast them down theatrically one at a time so that they fell on hand and knees, faces to the audience. Both asses he pulled into the air, unfastening the costumes at the back so that g-strings fell away to allow clear access. Then having loosed another roar and smacked the proffered bottoms hard, he knelt to claim his prizes. Once again it was cunningly disguised as to whether or not he penetrated; Clarissa suspected not, but it still held astonishing power when he thrust behind the blonde and she jolted, mouth wide like that kingly appendage was slamming inside her.

He sham-fucked some moments, the object of his lust screaming ecstasy as he gripped her shoulder and unleashed primitive thrusts. Then with disdain he cast her sprawling and took the brunette from behind with equal drama, driving in rhythm to the music, sweat trickling the length of his upper body. The second girl writhed and moaned under his brutal influence, then she too was dispatched onto her face. The dominant primate beat his chest and raged, cock standing proud.

Good god, what a show. What a fucking crazy show.

Then the finale. Kong hauled the brunette to her feet and flung her to kneeling once more, this time within the ebony rectangle. He seized the blonde and stood her within the frame with her heels on her fellow-slave’s back; then he manacled her wrists so that she stood splayed as he had done. The costume he unclipped and tore from her body, rendering her naked; her breasts undulated, large and firm on her slight frame. He shafted from behind and her body jarred in response, as though impaled repeatedly. They sustained the erotic tableau, the blonde thrashing within her shackles to the drumming dance-rhythm as her victorious captor pumped her.

Then the circular stage rolled into motion. All three actors rotated gradually out of view, Kong roaring wildly, his body rigid in feigned or real coitus. The lights snapped to blackness and the music died.

Cheers from the audience. Near-manic applause. Clarissa gawped into darkness. When the starry house lights came up bright enough to see, she turned awestruck to her partner. Gavin was impassive. Her sense of the primal lurking beneath his Armani was magnified by what she had witnessed on stage. He reminded her now of Kong. So much the gentleman, yet with that undercurrent of authority. Of ruthlessness. She thought of the thrashing blonde and was scared−in a way that made her nipples harder than they’d already been.

“Well?” her boss asked with nonchalance. “What did you think?”

Clarissa’s mouth was open several moments before sound came out. “What did I think? I … thought it was amazing.” She laughed, giddy with embarrassment and arousal. In the periphery of her vision couples were rising from their tables, pawing each other indecently, filtering off no doubt to make use of the lounges.

“I had a sense you’d enjoy it,” Gavin said. “The only question remaining is, would you like to meet the performers?”

“What?”

“With me, now. Backstage. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the ape.” He reached out a hand. “Come on, Clarissa … it’s stage magic, that’s all. Don’t you want a little of that danger?”

She paused before placing her hand in his, heart beating like the drum and base. “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”

* * * *

Alcohol and adrenalin took her past the stage area’s side door, through covert passageways to one of the Blue Nile’s most secret rooms, Gavin’s hand on her back once more. He’d known the location of the lounge’s secret entrance; how well-acquainted was he with this place? The room was a perfect circular curve, discreet ceiling lights radiating an amber glow. Satin cushions were cast about and one third of the space was taken up...