Untouchables Book 1: Goldie

REDFORD

“Come on, man. What are you still doing here?”

Tom leans against the doorframe, slowly shaking his head. “I know you’re married to the job, but fuck, dude. You need a change of scenery.”

I sigh, rolling back in my desk chair and folding my arms behind my head as my spine gives a satisfying crack. “Yeah, I just wanted to wrap up the—”

“It’s ten PM on a Friday. Shut off the goddamn computer.”

I cock a brow, but shut it down anyway. “You’re one to talk.”

Tom shrugs. “I’m on my way out, ain’t I? You coming?”

I grab my coat and step into the hallway, locking my office behind us. “Come where?”

“Nocturne.” Tom heads for the elevators. “Best place to decompress after a long week.”

“The strip club on Main?” I scoff. “I’m good, man.”

“It’s a nightclub, Red,” Tom corrects as he presses the button. “Besides, I actually think you’d benefit from seeing a few naked women every once in a while.”

“I’m good in that department too.”

The elevator doors slide shut, and I lean back against the cool aluminum wall. A dull ache settles between my shoulders, the kind that comes from spending twelve hours hunched over a keyboard.

“When’s the last time you got laid?” Tom tilts his head. “You’re way too uptight.”

“I don’t think a lap dance from a random stripper is gonna solve that, Tom.”

“There are a few good shows tonight. Drinks too.” He shrugs. “But suit yourself.”

The elevator dings, the doors rolling open to reveal the dimly lit foyer.

I inhale deeply, nostrils flaring. “What are the people like at that place?”

“The dancers?” Tom spins his keys around one finger. “Pretty classy, actually. The whole place is good vibes. It’s members-only, but I can bring you as my plus one.”

That catches my attention. “And the members?”

He already knows he’s got me. “People like you and me, man. Good dudes. Businessmen, old money, the works.” He flashes a grin. “Come on. You’ll fit right in.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m following Tom down a dimly lit corridor toward a room packed with men.

To his credit, the place is actually pretty nice. Polished wood floors gleam beneath the warm light cast by modern brass sconces, while crystal accents catch and reflect it across the room.

The crowd is definitely mostly men, but there are a few women too. Everyone is well-dressed and at different stages of alcohol consumption.

A small stage sits on the far side of the room, where two women are currently mid-performance. And despite what Tom said earlier, these two are definitely strippers.

I watch for a while from the edge of a plush barstool, nursing my drink as music pulses through the floor beneath my feet. But when my glass finally runs dry, I push to my feet.

“Alright, man. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Tom barely looks up, his eyes glued to the nipple tassels the particularly large-chested blonde is now enthusiastically shaking around.

“At least go check out the other floors before you leave. Don’t waste my plus-one on a single drink and half a show.”

I set my tumbler on the bar with a dull thud. “What’s upstairs?”

“Explicit stuff, man. Like full-on sex in some of the rooms. Kink shit in others.”

I grimace.

Tom shoves my shoulder. “Just go walk around, dude. Maybe you’ll discover something about yourself.”

I huff out something unintelligible, but make my way toward the stairs anyway.

The higher I climb, the quieter the surroundings get.

There’s no wood flooring here, only deep red carpet and sparkling chandeliers. The staircase opens onto a smaller landing with two doors on either side, each guarded by a stoic wall of muscle in a suit.

There’s no music up here, though I can hear some seeping through the closed doors.

I hesitate, but when neither man immediately shoos me away, curiosity gets the better of me.

Kink shit, huh?

I approach the first room—‘Theater One’, apparently.

The guard sizes me up. “Can I see your card?”

I pull the plastic card marked ‘guest’ from my jacket pocket and hand it over.

He cocks a heavy brow. “First time?”

I nod.

He jerks his chin toward a small plaque mounted beside the entrance.

“Ground rules are simple. Consent is mandatory. No touching performers unless they invite it. No touching other members without explicit permission. No exceptions.”

I glance at the plaque.

“Protection is available throughout the club,” he continues. “Use it. Anyone says stop, you stop. Anyone looks uncomfortable, you back off. Security doesn’t give warnings—one strike and you’re out.” His expression never changes. “You can watch as much as you like. Participate if invited. Respect the performers, respect the members, and don’t make extra work for security.”

He steps aside and reaches for the handle. “Enjoy your evening.”

The door swings open to reveal a small theater with several rows of seating. A stage occupies the center of the room, dominated by an elaborate-looking chair fitted with chains, adjustable components, and even fucking stirrups.

My gaze flicks around the room.

People are… helping themselves… right there in the audience.

I spot several men in various states of enthusiasm and a couple tangled together near the back row.

I take in the scene for exactly one cursed second before turning around.

Fucking Tom and his weird idea of a good time.

The guard outside sends me a knowing grin. “Not your thing?”

I grimace. “Sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers getting themselves off? Nah, not my thing.”

He nods toward the stairs. “Private shows are upstairs if you want to check those out.”

I wave him off. “I think I’m good. Thanks, man.”

My footsteps are muffled by the carpet as I head back toward the stairs, the sounds of the performance fading behind me.

I make it three steps down before stopping. My gaze drifts to the staircase leading up.

I could check out the third floor, I suppose. Like Tom said, it’d be a waste of a plus-one if I didn’t at least look around once.

I turn back and make my way upstairs, trying to go unnoticed by the guard from earlier.

The third floor is even quieter than the second. There are only two guards here—but then again, if these are private shows, I suppose there are fewer members up here.

I’m halfway down the corridor when a woman steps out from a discreet alcove near the wall.

She’s dressed professionally in all black, a tablet tucked beneath one arm. “Good evening, sir.”

I glance behind me, half expecting her to be speaking to someone else. “Can I help you?”

“You look a little lost.” Her smile is practiced but genuine. “If this is your first visit, I can walk you through our private-viewing options.”

Before I can answer, she holds out a sleek black folder.

“There are three performances remaining this evening.”

I flip it open.

The first listing is already highlighted.

Goldie — ‘Sweet Dreams’ — Solo Performance Voyeur Observation Experience

Below it are two others.

Aurora & Ivy — ‘Changing Room’ — Partner Performance Interactive Audience Experience

The Velvet Room — Sensory Demonstration Guided Exhibition

“What exactly is this?” I ask.

“The bottom two are interactive performances. The solo suite contains a private viewing room separated from the performer by one-way glass.” She gestures toward the corridor. “You’ll be able to see the performance. The performer won’t be able to see you.”

That catches my attention.

“Private shows carry an additional fee,” she continues. “You can simply swipe your membership or guest card inside the suite. Any optional additions are presented after entry.”

“Additions?”

Her smile widens slightly. “Those are explained inside the room itself.”

I glance back down at the card. “Is there a time limit?”

“Each reservation lasts thirty minutes unless otherwise specified.” She folds her hands neatly in front of her. “You’re welcome to leave at any time.”

My eyes drift back to the first listing.

Goldie.

The employee notices. “That’s a popular performance, but we just had cancelation. It begins shortly—it’s in suite number five.”

I glance at the door marked with a golden number five.

“How much is it?”

“Four hundred eighty-five.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Money isn’t the issue, but paying nearly five hundred bucks to watch a girl ‘perform solo’ just doesn’t seem reasonable.

The woman smiles sweetly. “Your guest card gives you fifty percent off one performance,” she says. “I don’t think you’ll regret choosing this one.”

I run a hand along my jaw as I contemplate my options. “You know what? Yeah—why not.”

She gestures toward the door. “Good choice, sir. Enjoy the performance.”

I curse myself every step of the way, but I make it to the room eventually.

The space beyond is surprisingly small and incredibly spotless. I guess that’s to be expected for what they charge.

There’s a comfortable chair facing a wall, a small sink, a narrow shelf stocked with tissues, and several built-in dispensers filled with various lotions and lubricants I don’t even want to think about touching.

Above the shelf stretches the mirror—the one-way glass, I assume. Right now, it just looks like a sheet of darkened glass.

A card reader is mounted beside the shelf. Above it sits a row of buttons.

One is labeled ‘Present’, the second reads ‘Spoken Request’, and the third reads ‘Texted Request’.

The last two have ‘$50’ printed beneath them.

Insanity.

A quick glance at the instruction card tells me all I need to do is swipe my card and press the ‘Present’ button to announce my arrival.

I swipe the card and press the button.

For a second, nothing happens. Then the lights flick on beyond the glass.

And I see her.

Hooked? Good 😏

Starting VERY SOON (probably within 2 weeks or so?), I'll be updating Goldie every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 18:30 CET / 12:30 p.m. EST / 9:30 a.m. PST 💋

Consider Goldie's story your official introduction to the girls. Get excited. 🤩❤️‍🔥