Free Muti Nation by Monique Snyman Page A

close and personal with a dominatrix at a residential swingers’ club.”
    “I hope you’re joking.” Grandpa’s expression is almost as priceless as Howlen’s shock, which is quickly replaced with a scowl. I answer them with a sheepish grin, and begin to exit the office. “Esmé, tell me you’re joking!”
    “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call over my shoulder, suppressing a laugh.
    The truth is I’m not joking.
    Leila Fourie and I go way back.
    She was the popular girl in high school with a flock of rugby players tending to her every whim and need whereas I was the awkward girl smoking those cheap Voyager cigarettes under the bleachers with other likeminded outcasts. Leila had the body of a svelte twenty-something year-old when she was barely sixteen, whereas I was a bit more childish-looking. We’ve always been worlds apart but an unlikely friendship grew in the summer of 2004 after I held back her hair while she vomited up a bottle of vodka. As remuneration for not abandoning her like her so-called friends Leila taught me the finer points of womanhood. Before her I was clueless when it came to cosmetics and clothes due to growing up in a predominantly male environment. Now I’m possibly the best-dressed occult crime expert in the world. Before me she perpetually second-guessed herself and relied on others to rate her worth. Now Leila is a respected publicist for a major mobile company by day and a fetishist by night. She’s independent and self-confident unlike ever before.
    The reason we meet in secret—in a swingers’ club that changes location every time a gathering is planned—is because she gets confidential information from high profile individuals and secure databases. She could easily be assassinated if our friendship becomes public knowledge. This is why we only meet on a bimonthly basis at the swingers’ club, where members’ secrets are kept secret.
    The location for the swingers’ club, tonight, is in an ambassadorial mansion in Moreleta Park. It’s a beautiful house with an enclosed courtyard, pool, four bedrooms with en-suites and a fifth with its own lounge. And the whole place overlooks a private bird park, dam, and endless rolling lawns.
    When I drive up a security guard checks my credentials and membership card at the gate before he waves me through with a tip of a non-existent hat. Then the hard part begins.
    I climb out of my car wearing a formal red dress with a low front and an even lower back. I carry my prop-box I’ve filled with all kinds of goodies Leila will swoon over. I walk up to the front door of the mansion and knock. Inside people are already laughing and acquainting or reacquainting themselves with one another.
    The soirée is in full swing.
    The door opens and another security guard allows me entry. Familiar faces smile at me. We exchange greetings or trade quick tête-à-têtes while I discreetly sweep the room for Leila. I move on to the next room, and the next, falling into the usual routine of conversation until I finally find Leila in the kitchen. She is dressed in a Grecian-style white dress, sipping tentatively on a flute of champagne.
    Leila doesn’t feign an iota of interest with the older gentleman trying to wiggle his way into her knickers, but he doesn’t get the message.
    Only when she spots me in the door does her face brighten.
    “Excuse me.” Leila pushes past the tuxedo-clad man and closes the distance between us. Air-kisses are exchanged and the box is handed over.
    “What a boring old fart,” she whispers as we exit the kitchen to explore the house. “As if someone like me would ever agree to consensual sex with someone like him. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy. By God, I do have some standards.”
    I laugh. “Good thing I made the cut.”
    “I told you if you ever want to change teams I’d go steady with you.” Leila winks.
    I almost blush at her appraising glance, but we end up laughing it off.
    “Let’s mingle for a few minutes and