Club Desire(4)

By: Amy Brent



I had become a master at keeping my expression as blank as a sheet of paper. That skill served me well when she mentioned the name of the ultra-private club that Denny, Sammy, and I had founded for super rich guys like us who wanted to mingle with super hot women without any strings or worry about public embarrassment. The extent of that mingling was up to the member and the girl, but suffice it to say, most members would pay a small fortune to fuck an otherwise unobtainable woman who looked like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, and the women who worked at Club D as “escorts” would go all the way if the price was right.


Fuck 10’s.


These girls were 20’s.


Some of them were even off the charts.


I shook my head like I was disappointed at her sad efforts to ask an original question and gave her a look that said the interview was over. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hands on the desk, ready to push myself out of the chair and show her the door. “I don’t think I’m familiar with… what was it… Club Desire?”


“Yes. Actually…” She reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She set the card on the desk and used one long finger to slide it toward me. The card was expensive looking, glossy and black, with the words “Votre Désire” and a phone number embossed in gold on the front. I recognized the card immediately, though I tried not to show it. It was a card given to beautiful women who might be a good match for the club. We employed hostesses, waitresses, bartenders, dancers, and escorts; the latter being those who would fuck a member’s brains out for two-thousand dollars a pop and leave them begging to spend more.


And trust me, it was money well-spent. Me, Denny, or Sammy were typically a new girl’s first customer to make sure she was a good fit for Club D. We called it “Quality Control”. If we didn’t think the pussy was worth two-grand a pop, we made her a waitress or a dancer, although some girls passed with flying colors based solely on what they could do with their mouths or other body parts.


We called them “Specialists” because that’s what they were: special.


I know, it was a tough job, but someone had to do it.


I picked up the card and stared at it for a moment, examining both sides, though I knew there would be nothing on the back. The cards were sparsely passed out by one person and one person alone: Club D manager and concierge, Monte Lemon—or as we called him: Mr. Lemon, because we thought it sounded cool. Monte was Sammy’s uncle, a former maître d at a high-class restaurant in New York City. He also ran strip clubs for John Gotti back in the day, which gave him the perfect mix of class and attitude. Monte was in charge of recruiting girls for the club and a fucking master of discretion. I knew he didn’t mention my association with the club. And I doubted he gave her the card. Monte was too sharp to give a reporter a card, no matter how fantastic her tits were.


No, she had gotten the card from someone else, someone who’d passed it on with the whisper about what went on there. Clearly, she was on a fishing expedition, hoping to snag the big one and have me verify the long-whispered rumor that Club D actually existed and was the brainchild of yours truly and his merry band of billionaire brothers.


“Votre Désire…” I said thoughtfully. I glanced at her over the top of the card. “Is that French?”


“Yes, it’s French,” she said, one eyebrow arching as she tried to detect the lie that was firmly sealed behind my lips. “It means your desire or whatever you desire.”


“Interesting,” I said with a slow nod. I knew what the name meant. I thought the name was stupid when we came up with it, but Denny liked the sound of it and he was fucking a French girl at the time, so, yeah… Votre Désire… Your Desire. I should have kept the card, but I didn’t want to raise her suspicions any higher. I set the card on the desk and slid it back her way.


I asked, “Am I supposed to know something about this… what did you call it… club what?”


“Club Desire,” she said, taking the card from my fingers and slipping it into the side pocket of the computer bag. “Club D, for short. Are you telling me that you know nothing about the place?”


“What say we play a little game,” I said, leaning forward to plant my elbows on the desk. I spread out my hands and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about this Club D place and I’ll either confirm or deny it if I can.”


“Are you saying Club D actually exists?” she asked, a hint of urgency in her voice. I could see the spark in her blue eyes at the anticipation of a nice, dirty story that would get her a byline in the magazine or on the website. I could hear her breath quicken. I knew that her heart was beating a little faster behind those giant melons. Her pink tongue darted across her lips. She squirmed in the chair as if it were getting hot beneath her, even though I expected the heat was coming from within her cunt and not from the chair.

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