1. Cynthia Hargreaves Sex Party

Disagreements, Sex toys and Canapés

Carousel Maidenbow - first diary entry - Friday 3rd January 2013

7.45pm - In the Bentley en-route to Cynthia Hargreaves Party

• Weight 8 stone 3

• 37 yrs 4 months

• Alcohol units 24-ish

• Orgasms 1

• Carbs 17 (not inc alcohol)

• Regrets connected to boss Marianne 5

“Turn on the heater, it’s freezing back here” Marianne King instructed her driver. They turned and threw me an apologetic glance, slender face cast in shadow beneath a line of long dark hair. “You want this Caris?” A husky tone filling the cabin, as the driver attempted to navigate while shrugging off the velvet Ted Baker jacket. Marianne shook her head, waving away the offer.

“Any excuse to show off your arms Van” I managed through chattering teeth. The joke was that Vani Khatri (Mariannes driver and bodyguard) didn’t need an excuse to display her muscular tattooed arms, I’d had them wrapped tightly around my naked back on a number of occasions, so could attest to their strength. Admittedly I was either throwing up or falling down at the time, but it sounded good.

Marianne told her to concentrate on the road and unzipped a bag containing a dark floor length evening gown. Shrugging out of my slacks and shirt and kicking off heels, I tried to ignore the chill. Left only in Agent Provocateur stockings and knickers, I felt ridiculous and miserable. Even my tits were numb, at least Van had adjusted her mirror courteously.

“Here put this on” Marianne held up my hair and helped me into the dress. She drew up the delicate zip, finger tips settling for a time at our waist. I shivered, and thumbing the dress’s fabric saw it was virtually see-through and I’d neglected to wear a bra “brilliant!”. Shrugging on my leopard print fur coat I blew dramatically into my cupped hands.

Marianne fell silent, retiring to the far side of the seat to reapply her lip gloss and avoid my mood. The Xmas lights on St James street hung overhead and as we passed under the intermittent blinking movement of a cartoon reindeer, I sighed. ‘January was supremely shit’.

The heater kicked in, sending the gooseflesh on my arms into remission. Marianne had ventured near, and adjusting my coat collar, slid a diamond studded mask into my lap. Her fingers closed around my hand tenderly, as I took it from her. “You ok? You still cold?”

I shook my head, avoiding her eyes. This year I’d finally end this childish infatuation and focus on more gratifying pursuits. Maybe “table tennis or gluten-free baking or just drink more”.

“Oh, I got you a surprise!” She handed me a box. Inside was a pair of patent leather Jimmy Choo mules, a fine line of crystals decorating each ankle strap.

“I don’t understand,”

“Do you love them?” She asked. ‘There was that look again. Validate me Carousel, I’m a good person. Look, I bought you pretty shoes.’

‘Of course they’re stunning, but the other girls are wearing plain black, and it doesn’t pay to stand out.” I moved to return them.

“Just try them”, insinuating that ‘I could at least do that!’. Then gesturing to my feet added, “May I?”

I let her and she held each heel lightly. It felt so warm and her smile so wonderful, I almost melted. The freezing shoe interior jarring me to reality “She won’t appreciate it,” meaning Marianne’s wife.

Annabelle despised our friendship, and I knew Marianne was not beyond playing games to goad her.

Marianne had, in the words of my past lovers. ‘Single handedly destroyed any intimate relationship I’d dared to have’. Apparently, corralling my relationships towards breaking point, with her passive demands for attention and narcissistic manipulation.

I, however, did not place the blame of my spinsterhood squarely in my friend’s court. After all, I’d had a choice, and had repeatedly chosen her.

“They look amazing, please say you’ll wear them,”, then studying my frown concluded, “She’s been there 30 mins. Shoes are the last thing she’ll notice, unless they’re covered in vaginas or cocaine. Or cocaine vaginas”

This made me laugh, and I nodded, “Ok. And yes they’re lovely”

My attempts to ignore her for the remainder of the drive thwarted, as the Bentley swung too fast around corners, causing her to slide into me. Each time, both of us issuing breathy apologies.

Arriving at Hargreaves’ home, a palatial residence of Roedean Crescent, I castigated Van for her driving and agreed to drinks at the club later, then opening the big car door, got out. Bracing against the cold, breathing visible in white plumes, I heading up the wide steps.

Marianne rang the bell, and then we both entered the enormous entrance hall. Bored but efficient staff taking our coats, we stared as wide silver trays of canapés and cocktails floated past. Hibiscus kombucha and Mini Daiquiris quaffed, and arrays of microscopic crafted kimchi prawn boats, and crispy toasted chicken vol-au-vents crunched.

Glancing at the mirror by the hat stand, I stared at myself. With a face hidden by diamonds, black hair swept back and frame draped in shimmering fabric, I looked more other worldly than beautiful. Marianne, by contrast, was the stuff of dreams. She wore an Italian stretch Hugo Boss, displaying an aubergine silk blouse and more than an accent of cleavage.

Her mid length blonde hairstyle moving a fraction as she turned, and full lips glimmering, she smiled. “Come on. Let’s find something decent to drink”

‘Carmens - L’amour est un oiseau rebelle’, drifted from ceiling speakers. The area was vast, lit by an insane display of orange scented candles, their incandescent light exposing only a percentage of the impressive artwork that littered the high walls.

Around forty or so women, with an average age of fifty and wealth amounting to billions, stood or sat around the space. Most were either dressed in black tie or evening gown. They displayed needle shaped pins, announcing their membership of ‘The Sewing Society’ an elite ladies only sex club.

The Sewing Society was Annabelle’s homage to the Old Hollywood lesbian meet-up, ‘The Sewing Circle’, including within its ranks such cinematic icons as Stanwyck, Crawford and Dietrich.

We surmised that Annabelle saw herself as something of a modern day ‘Mercedes de Acosta’ entertaining the queer elite, Marianne being her Garbo. Although, Marianne, in truth, was more far more like Catherine Hepburn, making us by default Nancy Hamilton, albeit a platonic version. Those with access to the ‘Diamond Dogs’ (The Society’s private whores, me being one of them) wore a second pin beneath the first, a tiny silver wolfs head. Only a quarter of those in attendance could afford that privilege.

The Diamonds, seven of them (Beth, Dahlia, Henri, Violet, Claudette, Grace and Lilly, the youngest) had arrived earlier with Anna. All dressed in long black gowns and signature crystal masks. They worked with military precision, resting against walls, displaying just a hint of a lace hold-up, leant over chairs, oiled cleavage exposed, or languishing on sofas with each other, playtime invites dancing in their eyes. They were the epitome of desire, and ferociously loyal to their mistress. Every laugh, smile and remark practiced to a fault, and all to uphold the illusion of perfection. Annabelle demanded nothing less.

The display of opulence and pretence was palpable and I, unlike my counterparts, found it nauseating.

As the music changed to ‘Belle nuit, ô nuit d'amour’. A large woman in a badly fitted suit, hoisted the modest figure of Henri onto a Baby Grand and began fingering her in full view of the onlookers.

Taking a glass from Marianne I said “Bet Offenbach didn’t have that in mind when he wrote the opera”. We both sniggered, but then someone ripped Claudette’s front, and began sucking her tits. I frowned “If this turns into a full blown orgy, I’m gone, just saying”

Marianne sipped her drink, “I won’t let that happen” then her voice changing uttered an “Oh god” and gripped my arm.

Following her gaze, I noted what had upset her. Annabelle was over near the tall bookcases. She looked magnificent as ever, dressed in cream Ralph Lauren, her greying hair pinned up to perfection. She was holding audience, Cynthia Hargreaves and a group of others hanging on her every word. Hargreaves, austere partner hovered nearby, face sullen.

Lilly was naked, and hugging Anna from behind. She’d have looked cherubim if not for a large red dildo that jutted out, almost waist height. Anna caught us staring and, grabbing the girl’s face, kissed her roughly, hands squeezing her arse. Lily clung on to her, giggling, her big blue eyes wide with promise, but she was merely this week’s prize, a shiny new thing to torture Marianne with.

We touched our friends arm, hating the humiliation we knew she felt. Although, if gossip was to be believed, the Brighton elite had stopped expecting her to react to Anna’s indiscretions. They saw it as part of the course and her tolerance of it, hubris.

We both turned to find the big dyke from the piano approaching. The fly of her slacks undone and tie and grin crooked.

Marianne stepped in front of me, offering her a firm but polite greeting.

To our horror, the woman’s fleshy digits, that moments before had been half way up Henris cunt, now brushed the exquisite grey fabric of Marianne’s backside.

Feigning a stumble, we slopped a drink across the woman’s crotch. “Oh god how clumsy” then taking a stack of napkins, passed them to the crestfallen Lothario and turned away.

Marianne hid a grin and then leaving, hissed a low “You did that on purpose!”

“Nonsense” I said, then, looking at a meagre plate of canapés, snatched up two asparagus spears and handed one to Marianne.

I bit into it and chewing added “Go on, dare you, it’ll make your pee smell weird”

She laughed, then with a mouth of crunchy filo pastry indicated a quiet lady in a peach coloured two piece. She was parked on the sofa, holding what looked to be a bramble martini. “That’s her. Verity Masterson, trust fund baby. Friends call her Very”

“Very shy” I offered

She popped the rest of the asparagus in her mouth, “and Very dull” then “have fun”.

“Thanks,” and wiping my hands, asking how I looked and got a thumbs up

Marianne touched my waist and whispered “Toys are in the bowls marked toys.”

“Well thank god you’re here,” I walked over to Verity, her eyes darting about. “Hello.. Verity isn’t it?”

We’d started to use clients’ first names at events, as they desired a less formal environment. Although I suspected that formality had never quite been an issue. Watching as a woman, The BBC had called ‘The nation’s baking treasure’ licked Speculoos chocolate from Dahlia’s tits, by the fondue table.

Verity was busy helping herself to a second brie and pear crostini and looked startled. Dusting off crumbs, she stated, “Goodness, you’re tall,” then managed a dimpled smile.

“It’s the heels” I offered and then extending out a hand, clasped her doughy palm and shook it “I’m Carousel”

“Like the ride?”, she shuffled aside, giving me room to sit

“In many ways, yes,” and reaching for the chilling bottle of champagne, I refilled her glass, and took one for myself.

She giggled, allowing the liquid to bubble and fizz up, her cheeks ruddy. I wondered if Verity Masterton had ever had any stress that didn't include cocktail parties. I tried to hold her gaze, but she kept looking towards the food trays.

“Can I get you something?’ I asked, feeling weirdly hungry.

"Have you been to many of these parties?" She asked. Then potentially realised the futility of her question, coughed on her champagne. I took a napkin from a passing tray and dabbed at her soft chin. “There,” I said, “perfect” hating that I sounded exactly like Marianne.

She lent in whispering “It’s very naughty isn't it?” then giggled. I guessed she’d had a fair few drinks to calm her nerves. “You’re even more lovely than your photographs,” she said, and I thanked her, not knowing what to say in response, so focused on complimenting her jacket.

She was gulping the drink. We filled it again, thinking that at this rate, she might pass out.

“Can I ask.. why do you all wear masks? a shame to cover up such a pretty faces,”

“My boss’s idea” we indicated Marianne, who was talking to an an actress. “It means we can have jobs outside of sex work” we gloried at the ease with which Marianne moved from guest to guest, shaking hands with intimate eye contact, smiling sweetly at the raucous, and placating the nervous. Marianne conducted the intricacies of societal niceties as one might an orchestra, it was beautiful to observe her in her in the wild.

We gave a little sigh and turned to find Verity watching the couple opposite, they were sorting through the range of sex toys on offer, inspecting each with nodding with deep consideration.

Then, seeing that Beth had slid off her outfit, exposing her perfectly firm breasts and long ebony legs. Verity snapped us a look “Can I see them?” Pointing to our, in contrast - flatter - chest.

Group nudity was optional at parties. They gave us the opportunity to request private rooms, the risk of being groped by onlookers a constant concern. No lurkers around, I didn’t see the harm, so unzipped my frock part way. The thin straps slipping, exposing my smaller offering. Verity’s eyes darted over them, desperate to touch, a pink tongue visible.

I caught Marianne standing a few feet to the left, sipping her drink impassively.

“Could we get one of those?” Asked Verity pointing to a girl that was using a clit-sucking tool. “That looks fun”.

This time I saw Marianne break a smirk, and throwing her a frown, went to fetch one from the ‘unused box’.

“Is she asking to touch them?” Marianne whispered, and gestured to my tits with her glass.

“Don’t worry she can swipe her credit card. What you think?,” I offered, pressing my breasts together to make a cleft

Marianne frowned “I’m just saying”

I grabbed the purple device and some lube. Marianne raised a finely pencilled brow. “You wanna join us?” I asked grinning, her cold resolve making me regret the mockery. I promptly returned to the sofa and a semi naked Verity.

Two Diamonds opposite had thrown out the rule book. Violet was elbow deep, and Beth, Afro lurching, was attempting to force a giant dildo into a tory councillors arse.

The rooms atmosphere had tilted from the hum of conversation, to a litany of moans, gasps, laboured breathing and wet sounds. Those without a second pin hovered nearby, watching the entertainment, with greedy eyes.

Verity had removed her skirt and asked me in a whisper If I’d mind tearing open her tights. Gripping the delicate fabric and after a few false starts, it ripped. Enjoying the sound it made, I tore them up to the waist band. I could see the wetness soaking through her peach underwear. A few observers pushed in closer, hands buried into trousers and undergarments, fabric undulating as fingers groped.

“Ignore them, focus on me” I encouraged and hitching up my gown, positioned my self closer. My finger tips sliding over the fleshy little mount in her lingerie, trailing nails over the spreading wet patch. Her belly fluttered, the little downy hairs shuddering.

“Tell me to stop at anytime. Ok?”

Verity was no longer in a conversational frame of mind. She had settled against the fat cushions, moaning as I tickled my nails up and over the moistening crotch of her panties. “Your clit is so hard,” I said, a catalogue of erotic phrases filling my mind. Then, gliding fingertips along the lace edging, suggested that we remove her knickers. I felt oddly disappointed when the ruined tights were placed aside ‘was this a kink that needed further exploration?’. I returned to my task.

Pressing a generous squirt of silvery lube into my palm, I slathering it into her cunt, making it slick and wet and switched on the toy. The sucker springing to life as I settled the mouth against her, watching fascinated, as it tugged at the intimate skin.

Stretching open her clit, I working the pulsing toy over it, applying  an ounce of pressure until she squealed.

She craned backwards into the seat, the leather creaking as she moved. Gaining my balance, I using my finger to trace the crescent of light hair, now thick with glistening lube, and slid them deep into Verity’s cunt. My forefinger first, then as the plump entrance swelled and opened, I slid in my ring and index and spread them wide. Verity grabbed onto the sofa, giving a guttural moan.

My knuckles slid in next, playing against her fleshy lips, then settling the device against her hardening clit, pushed down, causing Verity in turn to sit bolt upright. I mirrored her, but being taller, my breasts grazed her cheeks and taking this an invitation, she tongued at my nipples. The feeling was singularly unpleasant, the wetness it left quickly cooling in the room’s air, and transporting me back to the misery of the car.

I pressed a hand in hard, the drench between her legs slathering our own. Our left hand curling into a little fist and thrust into her, increasing momentum and felt the first spasms fluttering inside.

“You’re incredible,” she gasped, her breathing laboured as she clung to us.

“Yes I am,” I thought, feeling a sudden wave of confidence, and deliberately catching Marianne’s gaze, held it and bit my lip, fighting the urge to lick our top lip. Then, grasping the other woman’s fleshy arse, pulled her onto our fist, burying deep.

“Omg I’m coming” Verity gasped

“Thats it,” we panted, still maintaining eye contact with Marianne. Then tilting the toy upwards so it sucked in air and tugged eagerly at the hood of her clit. Pressed our fingers towards Verity’s arse, she came at once, liquid surging out, bathing our hand. Muscle spasms clamped around our fingers as her pussy twitched. She screamed as the second orgasm hit and at that point we realised that our dress was probably beyond saving. We stared at the now emancipated sex toy as it danced happily away on the leather cushion and wondered what its future held.

The bystanders were frenzied, naked, bend double and all fucking each other like idiots. Fingers buried in arses, mouths, cunts. No orifice was safe.

The woman’s vagina muscles contracted one last time and relaxed to a pulse. A blessing, as my wrist bent backward for ten minutes and had lost sensation. A box of tissues appeared next to me, so I took a few. Marianne moved off, looking unusually flushed, her face unreadable. I busied myself wiping Verity off my hands, while she lolled in a stupefied state on the ruined leather.

Marianne arrived back a few seconds later with a chilled towel and a glass of iced water, her charm and ease of speaking soothing the client. This allowed me to clamber off the settee, and zip up the sodden dress. I wondered how it was that she could make perfect strangers feel so at ease, and yet me, her best friend, so uncomfortable.

The chubby nude heiress, her tights ripped, costly dress in a heap on the floor, covered in her own cum, beamed and sipped at the chilled mineral water. Marianne, ever the professional, cleaned her with scented tissues and complimented her in a deep resonating voice, on her lingerie. Which, like my dress, would need fucking steam cleaned.

I left the scene, still questioning my growing irritation, and was on my way to the bathroom when one of the onlookers blocked my path. They were clearly drunk and slurring “Wouldn’t mind you making me cum later” and stumbling, accidentally seized me. I tried to stop them falling, scared they’d smash their head against,”the concrete tiles.

Marianne arrived, steadying us both and squeezed the woman's wrist so hard she yelped and let go. She snarled “Two pin patrons only!”

The woman loped off, miserably.

“Are you ok?” She was smoothing her hand down my arm, scanning the reddening skin.

“Yes” I barked at her “for Christ’s sake, it’s not wrestle mania!”

I pushed past her headed for the bathrooms, I did needed to pee, but mostly I just wanted to get away from Marianne, and the confused she caused.

I found her waiting near the mirrors as I came out, her look questioning. Removing the mask, I dabbed at my brow with a tissue, studying a potential pimple.

“Did I do something wrong?”

I opened my purse ‘Where do I begin?’ I thought, but instead said “No” and reapplied my gloss. Sensing her studying me, I cast her a glance. “What?” Then holding up my arm I slapped it with my hand, “Why don’t you just stamp me with a scannable barcode and get it over with?”

“Oh, stop it Caris,” exasperation granting her the credence she needed she propped herself closer “Enforcing guidelines, so these bastards don’t push it, is part of my job. But you know that’s not the reason I stepped in.”

I turned “Do I Marianne?”

She started to say the same lines she always did ‘You’re my best friend Caris, I care about you Caris, I’m only looking out for you... blah, fucking, blah’. I snatched up my mask, expression resigned. “Can I take the car? I smell like a goddam fish tank”

Marianne sighed, “Of course, but can we talk about this first?”

“No we can’t” I snapped and walked off

“Ok, I’ll get a lift back with Anna then” she called after us

“Good. Enjoy your night” and with that I marched from the room, feeling not unlike an total arsehole and leaving a defeated Marianne by the sinks.