Stephanie Rogers

STEPHANIE ROGERS

The storyline and characters are all fiction. I hope you enjoy...

Chapter One

My name is Stephanie Rogers, I am a 28 year old freelance journalist. The job certainly has its rewards when you get lucky with a top story, but it is also very competitive. You are always looking to see if you can invent a new angle to get yourself noticed, or make yourself that bit more saleable.

Anyway, I received a call earlier this year when things were a bit too quiet for my liking, I have rent to pay like anybody else. The call came from a Rebecca Stamp, a slim elegant woman of 37 who had recently taken over as editor in chief for a magazine I had worked on from time to time.

I went to her office to meet her in person.

The story was; she had got wind of a man who had set up what Rebecca described as, nothing more than a 'sex for sale shop' for women guests only, in which he participated fully.

His name was Joe Holloway, he was a 34 year old qualified sex therapist, who claimed the industry was becoming too restrictive, and too prescriptive in its approach. He had become increasingly frustrated and disillusioned as a result. He felt there was a gap in the market, and had discussed it with close colleagues before he took the plunge. When he set up on his own, he was accused of going 'rogue' within the industry, pandering to his own specific agenda. Everyone in the business knew of him, most disapproved, but it still appeared to be a closed shop in terms of any further information coming out.

He offered his own unique approach to many enthusiastic women in need of his help it seemed.

He had named his business 'The Climax Clinic', where he promised a 'private & professional' experience.

'The Cringe Clinic', Rebecca retorted.

On offer was a more personal approach he claimed. He hadn't even needed to advertise, because he already had a back catalogue of willing patients keen to enlist in his services. It had all taken off from there apparently, and continued to do so by word of mouth. Now he had a three month waiting list, which was growing.

'It's like he's running his own little harem down there', Rebecca chipped in.

His focus was on the female orgasm. If you found it hard to achieve, or wanted results with more regularity, or with greater ease or intensity, he offered his services both mentally and physically. Not only would he escort you on a magical evening, but more importantly he planned to help with any sexually related topics that you might be struggling with. There would be valuable lessons to take away from the evening, so you could hopefully put them into practise thereafter.

The arrogance of the man seemed mind boggling, yet women seemed to be flocking to him.

For a circa 6 to 8 hour single session, you need only part with a whopping great £7.5k.

It seemed to me a strange glimpse at modern society, when a man can publically advertise to 'look after women' in his clinic for cash.

Where was this all leading I wondered?

Rebecca chimed in with 'would you pay £7.5k for a 'private & professional' experience? Then before even allowing me to answer she went on, 'I mean, I like an orgasm as much as the next girl but....' She left her sentence unfinished as we looked at each other in wonder, shaking heads.

I giggled a little self-consciously before admitting I enjoyed sex, so rarely had difficulties in that department.

'Ow.., lucky you', she acknowledged enviously.

'The only good thing I can see in this sordid affair', she went on, 'is the fact that £1k of the fee goes to a charity of your choosing.'

'What' I responded quizzically.

'Yes, he's quite upfront. £3.5k is his fee, £3k goes towards the evening (hotel, drinks, meals, entertainment etc), which leaves the unusual £1k donation fee.'

'Another weird bit of his fee structure suggests, he will refund half of his fee, if for whatever reason you wish to end the evening prematurely,' she went on.

'So if you get cold feet at any point', I replied, 'you get nearly two grand back. He's a confident man isn't he?'

The more you delved deeper into the story, the more it became clear that he was present when all of the above 'education' took place, leading to Rebecca's likely theory of him participating fully. It could I guessed, be what made him so attractive to the women in the first place. You just couldn't be sure.

It was a lot to take in, did the women have to prove they genuinely needed his help? I needed to take stock.

It was undoubtedly a fascinating project, but one I was also feeling a little uneasy about. Rebecca went on to explain that the magazine had tried to make contact with him, hoping his likely ego might bring him to the table. It didn't, the only conversations to be had on the subject would be with his clients alone, he replied. The magazine had also tried and failed with all other lines of enquiry. Clearly what went on in the clinic, stayed in the clinic.

I concluded he must be the first medically qualified 'gigolo' to sell his wears, taking care of a bunch of sad and lonely middle aged women. But no, this was clearly another element that had got Rebecca's goat, he was only interested in 'educating' women who were a size 10, and aged between 25 and 40.

I must have gawped as the penny dropped.

'You want me to go undercover don't you?' I said trying to quell my rising fear.

'Only 50% of applicants are successful, although he doesn't limit the amount of applications you can make' she replied, 'he clearly picks and chooses who he wishes to 'educate'. You are 28 and a size 10 for starters, but you also have a bust, and if I'm not mistaken, that's natural long blond hair you've got tied up on your head. How can he resist you?'

She must have seen I had doubts, even though I was trying hard to hide the concern in my eyes.

'I wouldn't put you in any danger Stephanie, I've considered myself in your position. The word 'consensual' is scattered liberally all over his website. He will only make a play for you if you encourage him.'

What could I do? I needed the money, and I knew I wouldn't be invited back for any other job with Rebecca if I turned this one down, but I was way outside of my comfort zone.

Fact was, I needed the money which was generous. It therefore had to be a no brainer surely?

I rallied and forced myself to come across all enthusiastic, full of gratitude, but behind it hid an uneasiness inside of me.

We soon shook hands however, and I agreed to see if I could find anything more about him and furthermore, complete the required application form for Rebecca to inspect within 48 hours.

Chapter Two

On my way home I kept wondering, 'what have I got myself into?' I had to admit though, it was an intriguing project to pick up.

Kettle boiled and tea by my side, I opened up his website within minutes of returning home.

There was a photo of him, and although presentable he was hardly an Adonis.

I didn't dwell however, I couldn't help myself, I wanted to see the review section.

A little confused, I wondered if the 5 star rating I witnessed was a mistake.

Every single one of the 117 who'd responded, gave him a 5. That was unheard of wasn't it? Rebecca hadn't mentioned that.

There was little detail in the reviews however, due to none-disclosure agreements he had everyone sign up to before he met up with them. A further reiteration of 'whatever went on in the clinic, stayed in the clinic.'

That said, there were plenty of endorsements and words of praise, including a good number saying it had been the best night of their lives!

They need to get out more I thought.

There was a stringent set of rules to get past if you were fortunate enough to meet our 'sex hero' however.

To qualify for an appointment, there were three stipulations to consider as Rebecca had pointed out earlier. I looked at them and wondered how he was able to get away with it.

1 - you had to have been born female and remain so.

2 - you needed to be aged between 25 and 40.

3 - it was necessary to be a size 10.

Impossible for many I mused, but not for me as Rebecca had pointed out, which is probably why I'd got the gig in the first place. And they say you make your own luck!?

If I felt a little smug about passing the first test it was short lived.

I was now looking at the application form, and the final section had me spinning into a blind panic, I instantly regretted taking the job. No wonder Rebecca hadn't run through this bit with me in her office. There was a photograph and video section to complete. This was seriously invasive I concluded, I didn't like it one bit. Unfortunately there was no way of submitting your application without it however. You were expected to upload several photos of yourself either in underwear or swimwear. Thankfully the video was not obligatory.

I scowled and seethed.

I then dithered, stewing over the indignity of having to send semi-naked photos of myself to an arrogant sex pest, who I didn't know, all so he might deign to see me.

I again wondered what I was getting myself into, pondering over every likely eventuality. I went to bed that night restless, whichever way you looked at it, it seemed to spell out trouble.

The following morning however, I took a good look in the mirror, and gave myself a right talking to. I considered myself a confident heterosexual women who enjoyed sex, and although I didn't have a steady boyfriend at the time, I didn't struggle for romance when the mood took me, so why therefore was I being such a prude?

I opened the website again and started to complete the application form.

It was clearly laid out and, apart from the obvious details about yourself, it went onto things like, why have you applied?, what do you hope to get out of it?, what methods have you tried previously, and what were the outcomes?, before giving further details about what made you tick, such as interests, regrets, aspirations, fears etc. Nothing was off grid.

I struggled completing the application form as I was unable to be completely truthful, and I cringed as I uploaded the photos of me. I had chosen a couple of one piece swimsuit pictures I'd thankfully found after I'd been away with my folks, but I still felt acutely embarrassed.

I loathed him for making it obligatory.

Rebecca was back in an instant, 'you're under selling yourself, he will never choose you. You are a very attractive woman, we know this is important to him. Furthermore, there's nothing in your 'interests' section that will interest him! We need something a little risqué to help turn his head, make him take notice', she said without taking breath.

'Yes, yes, no problem', I replied.

I recognised I'd been too righteous and self-conscious on the photo front, and was embarrassed she'd had to point out the bleeding obvious.

'Now 'interests', she added, 'you put dancing, travel, reading, music and fitness, but what else are you known for. Anything vaguely provocative?'

I frantically wondered what might work, and clearly panicked when I opened my mouth, 'I've been accused of being a bit of a show-off and a tease when I've had a drink,' I ventured.

'Brilliant' she cried, 'an exhibitionist!'

'What?' I said, 'I wouldn't go that far'.

But after further discussion we finally agreed upon; 'I had a distant interest in exhibitionism.'

I now realised I was between a rock and a hard place however. If my application was successful I would be nervously entering the lion's den. If it was unsuccessful, Rebecca had suggested I might have the excruciating task of trying to convince him to see me by ingratiating myself in a video.

I shuddered.

This was getting very personal all of a sudden I thought, I hated the fact I had to try and interest him visually.

I received the application response two weeks later. When I opened the email, I guess the first thought I had was relief, he would be delighted to see me. I wasn't overjoyed, just relieved. The second thought that went through my mind was.., 'oh fuck, what have I done!'

Chapter Three

It took a further 13 weeks before my appointment was confirmed. A few checks were necessary, including blood tests and the like, clearly if you were likely to get intimate with someone, all these precautions were necessary. Plus I also had to wait my turn of course.

I couldn't help feeling it was all a bit impersonal, given I hadn't even met the man.

His appointments were on Wednesday's and Saturday's. It was confirmed when we'd meet, he had studied my profile and as one interest I'd highlighted was dancing, he suggested I bring appropriate clothing for the dance floor. I must admit I was intrigued.

I hadn't studied the requirements carefully enough to realise each appointment was meticulously 'Taylor-made' for each client, based on your application form and information therein. I suppose it was obvious, but maybe I was subconsciously avoiding what would make me feel uneasy. Would the exhibitionist comment come back to haunt me? That said, I might not be in this position if I hadn't lied, it was a concern that proved too hard to fathom.

The evening came around and I was picked-up by limousine, in the driver's seat was a friendly and handsome young black man called Dave. After making sure I was comfortable, he drove me to a swanky hotel. He (the sex therapist) met me in the reception foyer for the first time, he introduced himself as Joe Holloway, greeting me with warmth and assurance, he seemed very personable if first impressions were anything to go by, showing a genuine interest in me. He was also a lot more presentable than I was expecting. After seeing his website photo, I was surprised to look into what I thought was a kind looking face. He was tall and lean, with brushed back untidy brown hair, slightly greying at the temples.

I was a bit stumped at first, was I expecting to instantly dislike him?

'Let's get your stuff up to your room, and get you comfortable', he said helping me with my bags.

The room was dead plush, I'd never stayed anywhere quite like it, but I tried not to show I was too impressed.

You walked into a large quirky, lavishly furnished lounge area, with small kitchen provision. Beyond the lounge sat an imposing king size 4 poster bed, sat central in a tastefully decorated and lit bedroom. I shivered as I looked around, what had I let myself in for?

'I hope it's to your liking', he enquired.

Beyond the bedroom was the en-suite bathroom, which had more mirrors than the famed 'hall of mirrors' in Versailles I thought, it must be a nightmare to clean. In the centre of the room was a large Jacuzzi, with a further shower facility away from the window.

'They've thought of everything', I replied nervously.

I couldn't help myself, I felt genuinely impressed although I tried not to show it. Behind it all however, I was fast becoming terrified about how the evening might unfold. Could I carry off this charade?

I really was beginning to struggle with the whole concept again. We had paid for the room and no doubt a wonderful meal, then presumably he'd take me off dancing to return to this room later..., but then what?

I was starting to panic, and had to force myself to calm down.

He never stayed overnight, but if you chose to, you would continue to be looked after as a premium guest.

The website blurb obviously made no reference to sex but, it seemed to suggest the evening was set up to provide both physical and mental 'education' for his guest. What might that entail I thought, had I just entered an elaborate upmarket knocking shop?

Back in the lounge, our sex therapist was pouring out aperitifs.

'I hope they have alcohol in', I joked.

'My mum's recipe', he replied.

I don't know what was in it, but it tasted good and helped calm the nerves.

He was already dressed for dinner, so he made sure I had a key fob and then said, 'make yourself comfortable, and I will pop back and collect you for dinner in 20 minutes, is that okay?'

It was, I only needed to change clothes, I'd already done my hair and make-up.

'We'll come back here after dinner to change before we go dancing in one of my favourite spots, I'm sure you'll love it.'

Chapter Four

Glad rags donned, he collected me soon after and we jumped into the lift before heading down for dinner.

The restaurant was intimate, mainly down to the low lighting levels. Lots of hard surfaces meant you could hear the clatter and chatter from the kitchen in the background, but the tables were well spaced out, and the chairs lovely and cossetting, it felt very personal despite its size.

I found myself unable to shake off my nervousness, I had never been in this position before. The position of spy that is! I hated lies and had never been very good at them either. I galvanised myself however, I needed to help take down this male chauvinist sex pest, or at least expose him.

I was knocked a little sideways however when my sex therapist turned out to be the perfect dinner companion. I quickly found out he was talkative, witty and warm, nothing like the arrogance or excessive confidence I expected. We had a further aperitif before he ordered wine when he understood my preference.

The first course was spent just getting to know each other. It wasn't until the main course arrived, that he started to probe into my application. I was having none of it.

'You have to admit, this is a strange way to run a sex clinic', I ventured.

He was used to it of course.

'Very' he admitted, 'let me tell you how I got to this point, then maybe you will tell me a bit about yourself.'

He then proceeded to tell me he was a fully qualified sex therapist, he hadn't meant to get into it, but had been influenced by experiences he'd accidentally found himself involved in, with two female friends from his youth. Two experiences, where he had managed to help more than the industry set up to manage such difficulties.

When people found themselves in need of help in the sexual area, they were understandably uncomfortable, it was embarrassing, and despite help the outcomes regularly frustrated. He seemed to have a happy knack of being able to sensitively help out with many query resolutions, or at the very least help improve their situation. These instances occurred while he was still in medical school, but their success stimulated his interest and his subsequent move into specialising in the area.

Both fixes had required a level of intimacy that he could only really get away with, as they were friends. He admitted that he had ended up sleeping with one, with the approval of her boyfriend, and getting intimate with the other. The outcomes had both been positive however much to his relief, the whole experience had filled him with a great deal of pride.

'Are you not 'losing your load' as part of your 'education', I responded crudely.

He sat back and studied me patiently for a minute.

'Often', he finally acknowledged with a sigh.

'I didn't on those first two occasions, but I don't want to be evasive so, to answer your question, yes, it does happen, and frequently. I never seek that outcome, it is not my brief. However, your relationship and understanding of a person inevitably morphs and changes as the evening progresses, and you get to know and understand each other better. Barriers might come down, and perhaps even some level of trust and comfort is established. People hopefully find themselves more open and willing to discover hidden sides of them. If that ultimately takes them to a better place, then I consider that a success.

'How convenient', I replied. 'Let me understand you, are you saying people get carried away, once you've had chance to charm them?' I asked accusingly.

'I would prefer to use the word 'help' rather than 'charm' but, if we can set that aside the answer is yes', he replied to my astonishment. 'You know it yourself, we are all capable of getting carried away. Perhaps we should seek to do so more often', he countered.