The Callon Club ranks among the world’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs… for women. That is to say, the world’s wealthiest men pay generously for the club’s discrete service, commodification of female bodies. I know what you’re thinking - it isn’t a brothel.

The club maintains a private, bespoke catalog of women - French, Italian, Japanese, whatever you might want, but only ever the finest, most refined, most beautiful specimens. The member chooses, the girl is brought in, and then the man donns the her body in much the same way they might slip into an expensive suit.

An hour, a day, a month, whatever their wallets can afford. They swim, they drink, they smoke. They dress up and cavort. They fuck. Oh boy, do those old bastards fuck.

The women are generously compensated for their time, of course. If one can truly put a price on the finite hours and days of your life, or on the risk of some hedge fund manager overdosing your body or accidentally drowning it in the pool.

And me? I’m the bartender, at least on paper. I know their bodies better than they do, I know precisely what drinks their taste buds enjoy. I know them inside and out. And I know how to make those bodies scream and moan in bed.

I’ve fucked the brains out of more bankers, more CEOs, more oil sheikhs than I can count.

But you always remember your first President.