New Boss (for Gareth)

On Monday Ms Sinclair is working from home. You send her your report on time, like an obedient schoolboy. Her PA has the details of the horribly early flight for Wednesday morning and the hotel where the conference is taking place. Ms Sinclair has mailed you instructions as to your brief - you are simply to attend those presentations which she does not, and make detailed notes. She will meet you at the end of the day for you to hand them over. That's all. Meetings all day, a dinner in the evening, one night in the hotel. In your own room, apparently.

You arrive in Amsterdam on Wednesday morning glassy-eyed from the early start and too much coffee at the airport. A taxi is waiting to take you to the hotel which is right in the middle of town, on Dam Square. Museums to the south, elegant canal houses to the east ... and the red light district to the west. Hm.

The day itself is pretty dull - bland corporate presentations by managers from all over Europe. You dutifully take notes, feeling as if you are on a school assignment. You are nervous, eager to please and still confused as well as aroused by memories of what had happened on Friday. It's hard to concentrate. A friendly German colleague named Hans makes a bit of conversation with you. Apparently the plan is to hit the town once the formal dinner is over, maybe have a look at the red light district ... just a look, of course.

The last presentation finishes and you wait in the lobby for Ms Sinclair. There she is, immaculate as ever. Today the silk blouse is white. Black skirt, stockings and heels.

"Gareth, do you have those notes for me?"

"Yes Miss, of course." You hand them over. She looks over them.

"This looks good, Gareth, very thorough. Well done." Your heart leaps at the praise. Ridiculous that a grown man could be held in such thrall but you cannot help it. "I will see you at the dinner, Gareth, Business dress code still applies there. If you go out afterwards you may wish to change into something more casual. I have one more presentation to give - Mr Kleibrink, the manager for Benelux, has asked me to address his graduate trainees. That will be all, Gareth. And thank you for the notes." Just a note of warmth in her voice? Hard to tell.

"Yes Miss." You see her turn towards a group of expectant young colleagues who are waiting at the door of a meeting room. School again, you think. A tall, striking blonde at the back of the group catches your eye. No-one like that at your old school, you think.

The dinner is harmless but boring. You sit next to Hans who is very excited about hitting the town afterwards. Mr Kleibrink gives an over-long speech. Ms Sinclair is deep in conversation with fellow executives. As soon as you can, you escape to your room, put on casual clothes. Then back down to the lobby as people start to gather, barely recognisable in their non-work gear.

Then you see her across the room. Non-work gear indeed! So she is going to socialise with the rest? Even go to the red light district? Ms Sinclair is wearing a classic little black sleeveless dress with a neckline just low enough to give a glimpse of luscious cleavage. The dress hugs her slim figure perfectly. She has black fishnet stockings - you are now sure that she only ever wears stockings - and black patent high heels. She has let her hair down - literally. It tumbles in dark luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Around her neck is some kind of black ribbon choker. There's something a bit odd about the dress, mind. You get a little closer, then realise what it is. Her little black dress is made of leather. Jesus Christ!

The crowd moves off, out of the hotel - and westwards. Hans has latched onto you and is chattering away about the red light district, but you pay him little attention. Ms Sinclair is elsewhere in the group but you cannot seem to get close to her. You look around at the women in the brothel windows, luridly lit, seeming to float in the dark like the ghosts of sin. Touts at the entrances of sex clubs try to grab your trade - "Best girls in town!" "Our girls are really filthy!" "Come on gents, give us a try! Live pussy show!" The insistent thump of dance music thunders from the doors, no doubt the soundtrack to the lapdancers and strippers and sex shows inside. Smaller groups of men are breaking off from the crowd, looking at the individual establishments. Hans starts to haggle with a burly doorman over admission prices to something called the Thai Banana Bar. Then you hear a soft female voice close by.

"This is tourist stuff, Gareth." It is her, right next to you. You can smell her perfume rising from her cleavage. The brothel lights glint in her glasses. Her choker is a black ribbon with a tiny jewelled ornament in the shape of a black flower.

"Miss?"

"This is tourist stuff. These are shoddy rip-off joints, no quality. Here's a choice for you, Gareth - you can follow Hans and the boys and pay over the odds to watch a bored little Thai girl push bananas up her twat while a fake-titted Lithuanian skims your credit card behind the bar. Or you can follow me." There is no choice, of course. She begins to walk away purposefully towards a narrow side alley. You follow her. Out of the corner of you eye you see that Hans is staring open-mouthed at the sight of you going off with Ms Sinclair.

In the darkness of the alley, away from the lurid lights of the brothels and bars, she stops at an unremarkable front door. The plate above the doorbell has no name, just a small logo - a black flower. She presses the bell, a Dutch voice crackles from the intercom. She replies in Dutch. The door opens. Inside is a tastefully lit reception area. A pretty girl behind a desk greets Ms Sinclair, who shows her a small black card or pass of some kind which she must have taken from her handbag. More Dutch is spoken. Ms Sinclair signs a book, the girl gives her two cards both bearing the number 52.

"English is spoken here, Gareth," explains Ms Sinclair, "but not at reception. It deters the tourists.Take this card. This is a private members' club and no cash changes hands. If you want a drink or anything else, show the card, it will go on my account." You wonder what she means by "anything else." You look around. Stairs lead to an upper floor. In front of you is a heavy-looking double door. From behind it you can hear music - not thumping dance music but some kind of slow jazz - and voices and laughter, as if the room is full of people. Ms Sinclair pushes the door open and walks through. You follow her.

And you stop dead in your tracks. You seem to have walked straight into the middle of some kind of orgy. You look around, trying to take it all in.

You are in a large room, set out more or less like an upmarket nightclub. At one end is a small stage or platform. In front of that, tables with stools around them. Around the sides of the room, booths with fixed seats, some have had curtains drawn across them. The decor features the recurring motif of the black flower.

In the booths you can see into, couples are having sex. It's as simple as that. Hands are up skirts, breasts are bared and being fondled and sucked, cocks are being sucked. Strippers are doing close-up lap dances and letting themselves be groped and fingered. Some couples are simply fucking. Some of the couples look to be real couples, others are clearly client plus stripper/hooker. You assume that behind the curtains it is more of the same.

In the corner is a live band - fully clothed - a trio playing slow sensual jazz. On the stage is an old-fashioned couch or chaise longue. On that, a naked young man and woman are somehow moving beautifully to the music and genuinely having sex. They make sinuous stylised movements while she sucks his cock, then he licks her cunt. People sitting at the tables watch.

"Do sit down, Gareth." Ms Sinclair's voice snaps you out of your amazement. She is sitting at one of the tables. You join her but cannot take your eyes off the dancers. The female dancer is extraordinarily beautiful. Tall, willowy but not skinny, with perfect toned buttocks and thighs, and small pert breasts like little apples. Elegant and lithe in every movement, even in the blatant sex acts she is performing a few feet away from you. She has fine features, high cheekbones and big eyes - hazel, you think. Her hair is short and very pale blonde. For a moment you think you have seen her before, but surely that is not possible. Her pussy is fully shaved. And at the moment it is full of the male dancer's cock.

"Champagne, sir? Madam? On the house." You look up. A bar girl is standing in front of you carrying a silver tray on which are glasses of champagne. She is wearing a silk sarong or wrap type thing round her lower half - and is naked above the waist. She is of Indian appearance, short and curvy, with a big bum, big boobs and a big smile.

"Er ... yes please," you stammer.

"Would you like to taste?" You nod. She puts the tray down, takes a glass of champagne and pours a few drops of its contents onto one breast so it dribbles onto the big brown nipple. She gently holds her breast up for you to suck. Not quite believing what is happening, you suck the champagne from her big heavy tit. "Er ... ve-very good, thank you," you somehow manage to say. She passes you the glass, then repeats the exact same procedure with Ms Sinclair, only using her other breast. Ms Sinclair thanks the girl, who smiles broadly and moves on to the next table, buttocks jiggling happily under the sarong.

"Let me explain about this place, Gareth - oh and do carry on watching the dancers while I do." On stage the girl is riding the boy in a reverse cowgirl position. "This is the Black Rose, Amsterdam's oldest and most respected private sex club. The owner is an old friend of mine and the place has been in her family for generations, passed down the female line. The only qualifications needed to become a member are discretion, and a respect for the place and the people who work here. Couples come here to have sex or to swap partners. All the dancers and bar girls are whores - very good ones, I might add, and very well paid and looked after - who offer sex as well as drinks and dances, either in the booths or in rooms upstairs. But there's no pressure and no obligation, you can sit over a glass of champagne and just watch the dances all night if you like. I thought you might find it interesting."

You are simply speechless. Both of you turn to watch the stage. The blonde girl is now being vigorously sodomised over the arm of the couch. Then the boy pulls out and ejaculates copiously over her buttocks and back. Both dancers stand and take a bow. There is a polite scatter of applause, as if for an after-dinner speech, then they disappear behind a curtain.

"Gareth," says Ms Sinclair, "I'm going to chat to the owner for a while. If you need another drink or anything just catch the eye of a bar girl and put it on the tab." Again you wonder if she meant to say "or anything". She walks away towards a door that looks private. You try to get your head round it all. Then another female voice, this time with a slight Dutch accent:

"May I join you?" It is the blonde dancer, now dressed in a skin-tight black lace vest top and and ultra-short red PVC skirt. She smiles and sits down next to you before you can respond. "First time here, huh? What do you think? Did you like the dance?"

"Amazing," you say. "It's all just amazing, incredible." She smiles. She really is gorgeous. Her manner is natural, putting you at ease; under the confidence there is a sense of gentleness and vulnerability which makes her all the more alluring.

"My name is Astrid, by the way," she says. You introduce yourself. "So Gareth, if you like I can give you a nice little dance, just for you, at the table here ..." she has started to stroke the back of your hand ever so gently with one slim finger. You cannot look away from her huge eyes. "Or if you'd like we could have a more private dance, in a booth. And then maybe you wouldn't be able to resist going a little further? That would be fine by me. Or if you really want to treat yourself we can go to an upstairs room. Up there you could do anything to me - and I really do mean anything - and nobody would know. I am a very obedient girl, very eager to please. I very very rarely say no ..." It is the good old lapdancer's or hooker's spiel but by God she is convincing. Your heart is melting, your cock is stiffening and your brain is barely functioning.

"Just a moment, let me think ..." you are thinking the unthinkable. Lap dances and sex with a hooker, put on Ms Sinclair's tab? Impossible ... but so so tempting.

And then Ms Sinclair's voice, just behind you. "Hello Astrid, remember me? How did you enjoy my presentation this afternoon?"

Astrid almost jumps up in shock, panic in her eyes, wrapping her arms around her scantily clad torso as if to protect herself. "Ms Sinclair! Oh I don't believe it! Oh please please don't tell Mr Kleibrink!"

So that's why she looked familiar! She was the tall blonde management trainee who had caught your eye in the hotel - which now seems a million miles away.

"Gareth, this is Astrid van Zeist, whom Mr Kleibrink rates as one of the most promising trainees in the Amsterdam office. And whom Maria, the owner of the Black Rose, rates as one of the best whores in town. Very popular and obliging, so I hear." Astrid is in a state of utter panic. "Oh don't worry," continues Ms Sinclair, "Mr Kleibrink is more broad-minded than you probably think, and he will not care how you choose to supplement your income. You don't have to worry about anything. I ask just one thing of you."

"Anything, Ms Sinclair, anything!" says Astrid.

I have booked one of the upstairs rooms for the evening, originally for Gareth and myself. Astrid, I would like you to join us." In her hand she has a key with a numbered fob. "Both of you follow me please."

Ms Sinclair leads you and Astrid out of the main room, back into reception and up a steep staircase. As you climb the stairs you have a clear view up Astrid's tiny skirt of her perfect buttocks separated by a black lacy thong. Ms Sinclair unlocks the door to a room. The three of you enter. She locks the door again.

The room is not what you had expected. Not a dungeon with whips and chains on the walls, nor a cliché red-velvet brothel bedroom. It is a plain, tasteful room, softly lit. There is a double bed, with space on all sides around it. The head of the bed, but not the foot, has metal posts and a rail with bars. There is a cupboard in one corner, an armchair in the other. The only thing that stops it looking like a hotel room is the fact that there is a very large floor-to-ceiling mirror taking up the middle of each of the four walls. It means that everywhere you look there are multiple reflections of everything. The window is slightly ajar, and the sounds of the red light district - music and voices - filter in from a distance.

"Both of you, get undressed, then stand next to each other in the middle of the room. Astrid, keep your shoes on" says Ms Sinclair. Wordlessly, you and Astrid obey. You strip off. Astrid peels off her top, wriggles out of the tiny skirt and the thong. You and she stand next to each other, naked. Ms Sinclair looks at you dispassionately. You can see the three of you reflected in the mirrors. You run your eyes over Astrid's reflection. In her heels she is nearly as tall as you. She seems to consist of shades of blonde and tawny: light blonde hair, golden evenly tanned skin even at her shaved crotch, no tan lines, hazel eyes, caramel-coloured nipples large and prominent on her small breasts. There is a pronounced gap between the tops of her thighs and you can see that she has rather protruberant labia. This and the large nipples seem almost incongruous on her slim, smooth body. Ms Sinclair, on the other hand, is all contrasts: pale skin, dark hair, dark blue eyes - and, as you already know, pink nipples and black pubes. But she still has her dress on.

"Well well, my young colleagues," she says, "you are a fine looking couple, I must say." A slight smile. "I'd like you to kiss."

You and Astrid hesitate.

"Go on," says Ms Sinclair, "Kiss. Snog. Make out. I want to watch."

You and Astrid turn towards each other. She puts her arms up around your head and draws you into the most exquisite of deep French kisses. Her hot little tongue probes your mouth. Blood rushes to your cock, your head spins. You put your hands on her curving hips and pull her towards you, your erection jutting against her belly. Astrid softly kisses your ears and neck, her nipples are hard against your chest.

"Oh how lovely," says Ms Sinclair, "do carry on." Out of the corner of your eye you see Ms Sinclair move towards the cupboard, open it and take something - what? - out. Then she is behind you as you are kissing Astrid deeply. Something soft and slightly rough is stroking your back from between your shoulder blades down to the base of your spine. You shiver and tingle. Another soft stroke, this time down to your buttocks. Then something reaching in between your legs from behind to stroke the underside of your scrotum. What the fuck is happening? Then whatever it is, it is gone. Ms Sinclair is moving round to behind Astrid. In her hand is ... what? ... ah, now you see. A leather riding crop. Oh Jesus. She had been teasing you from behind with a leather whip. And now she is doing the same to Astrid, you can feel her tense slightly.

"Don't stop just yet, my dears," says Ms Sinclair. Then you hear the sharp smack of the whip on Astrid's buttock. Astrid tenses, and pulls you closer. You feel strangely protective towards her even though you know she must have played games like this a million times. Another crack of the whip, Astrid stifles a whimper as she kisses you. Then Ms Sinclair moves round to behind you. Astrid whispers to you "It's OK Gareth, hang in there, you're safe with me ..." at the very moment that you feel the sting of the whip on your arse. And again. You hang on to Astrid for dear life now. Another blow, and another. Sharper and more stinging than the spanks you felt last time. Real pain. And real arousal - your cock is just getting harder and harder. Then she is round behind Astrid again, a couple more blows. Then she steps away.

"Oh well done," she says, "you two really are good. I'm going to have fun with you. Help me get undressed, please."

You and Astrid disentangle yourselves. Ms Sinclair approaches Astrid, then turns her back. Astrid unzips the black leather mini dress, it slips to the floor. Underneath, Ms Sinclair is wearing a black bra, black lacy suspender belt, black fishnet stockings - and no panties. "Bra please, Gareth," she says nonchalantly. With shaking hands you unclip her bra strap just has you did that night in the office. She puts her clothes on the chair and turns to look at you. Big breasts jutting, nipples hard. "Astrid, I would like you to suck Gareth's cock. Gareth, try not to cum just yet, I'm going to be needing that hard-on in a moment."

So no pressure then! But before you have time to think, Astrid is on her knees in front of you and has taken your cock into her mouth. You look down at her, she looks up at you with those big hazel eyes. Her soft warm mouth engulfs your cock, moves slowly back and forth. Christ she is good at this! How the fuck are you supposed to hold back? You look up at Ms Sinclair - she is playing with her pussy as she stands and watches you getting fellated. The look on her face is cool and dispassionate. You look down again at where Astrid is giving you the blow job of a lifetime. She works her way down your shaft with soft kisses until she reaches your scrotum which she starts to lick like a cat licking a kitten. You feel as if you are about to explode.