Chapters (64)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
- Chapter Forty-Four
- Chapter Forty-Five
- Chapter Forty-Six
- Chapter Forty-Seven
- Chapter Forty-Eight
- Chapter Forty-Nine
- Chapter Fifty
- Chapter Fifty-One
- Chapter Fifty-Two
- Chapter Fifty-Three
- Chapter Fifty-Four
- Chapter Fifty-Five
- Chapter Fifty-Six
- Chapter Fifty-Seven
- Chapter Fifty-Eight
- Chapter Fifty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
‘You know Fallen Angels? They’ve asked for you, especially. Check your emails, you need to contact the PR and sort out the details, it’s a bit last minute but they’re just checking to see whether they can squeeze you in tomorrow night. Really excited for this one, Imogen. Make it bold, make it hot, make it wild. Go get some, for The Girl!’
I think about the actual Girls, and their anxious emails. Does The Girl want this, really? But then—right now, I’m tired of The Girl. What do I want to do? Briefly, I allow myself to recall an old forgotten fantasy, and shiver with lust. I suppose I have always been quite curious about the Fallen Angels parties…
Chapter Thirty-Three
No Wallflower at the Orgy
Imogen
Writer Imogen Mounce goes deep undercover at the hottest sex party in the capital
Fallen Angels, the notorious and ‘exclusive’ sex party organisation—or, according to its website, ‘the Capital’s premier erotic event’—has deemed me fit enough—in every sense—to go to one of their parties. They talk a good game. ‘This is where the most beautiful people in the world get to know each other intimately.’ And the only time I’ve ever been called beautiful is on Brick Lane, by the maître’d’s who are standing on the pavement persuading passers-by to come into their curry houses. (‘Hey gorgeous! You look like you can put away a lot of sag paneer!’) Still, I upload a headshot and a full length photo, and even though the site warns me to wait a week, I’ve had my ‘exclusive’ e-vite within twenty-four hours. I suspect that in this context ‘beautiful’ might simply mean ‘has own teeth, is not standing in front of a windowless van.’