Finding out where the parties were in Dubai was a tricky business, but thankfully, my boss, Abdul, had connections. Anyone attending the events were treading a fine line, but if the right people attended, then the participants were safe from being arrested by an otherwise enthusiastic Dubai police force. The secret locations didn't have names, just vague addresses that the in-crowd were tuned into.

The one I attended on that fateful Friday night was the largest I had ever been to. The party's location was in an underground office complex below a huge multi-story skyscraper in the financial district of the city. The Sapphire Tower was one of the most prodigious buildings in Dubai and dominated those around it.

The attendees, some of whom were rich sheiks, went there to enjoy the atmosphere of a forbidden event. They wanted to drink illegally and watch sexy girls dancing. They would invite the girls to their tables, buy them drinks, while all the time discussing business with each other. There were few young men at the parties my boss attended. Most were in their forties and older and most were extremely rich.

Abdul Hegazi was a good boss and when it came to breaking UAE rules, he generally erred on the side of caution. The company I worked for imported tools and equipment for the oil refining industry, from the UK and Germany. So, he was always looking to rub shoulders with wealthy and influential people whenever he could.

Fluent in all three languages, I was hired on the basis that I would spend four-month periods in each of our three head offices on a rolling basis. Single and a keen traveller, it was my dream job. At 23 I was earning way more than any of my peers and I was jetting around the world at someone else's expense. With each bonus I secured, my bank balance was swelling nicely so I would soon have enough to buy a house in England, rather than waste my money on renting.

Being fit and attractive had its drawbacks in the circles I moved, but it also had its benefits. For example, when Abdul needed some eye candy when negotiating deals in Dubai. An attractive girl in a PA role was a necessity in Dubai, but not in London of Frankfurt.

Abdul didn't see anything wrong in needing a pretty young woman by his side, but I did. However, I took the job with my eyes open and was prepared to put up with it for four months a year. It was pointless discussing the morality of it with Abdul, because like most of the men in the UAE, his opinion of women diverged drastically from those in the Western world.

A quarter of my genes were Arabic - my grandfather on my father's side was a Saudi. I inherited his surname, Kateb, jet black hair and a hint of his skin colour. However, most people missed the clues in my complexion until I told them my surname.

I guessed that the location of the party was chosen because the building had an underground carpark, one level below where the action took place. Once Abdul had parked his BMW, I waited in the back seat with Rimsha, my colleague, while Abdul and his partner, Asif Moeen, went to check out the lie of the land.

It was Asif who returned and opened the back door for us. "Abdul was right, girls. There are some heavy players here tonight."

Relieved to hear Asif's comment, we both slipped out of the car, carrying our bags, then adjusted our Hijab head scarves. Mine was dark blue and Rimsha's was grey. It was polite to wear sombre colours when travelling around the city, even when most of the journey was by car. We were wearing long simple dresses that covered our legs and arms, again to avoid criticism.

On our way to the lift, we passed a line of the most expensive cars in the world. Rolls Royce and Bentley seemed to be the most popular brands, but there were also fantastic sports cars such as Ferrari, Maserati and Porsche. Hoping that the owners of the cars would be at the party filled me with excitement. Not in a sexual way. It was the sensation I felt when I misbehaved or did something daring, like parachuting from a plane.

I nudged Rimsha. "See that red Ferrari over there?"

"Yes, isn't it beautiful."

"That's the car I'd like to drive out of here. They say Ferrari's can do a hundred and eighty miles per hour."

"You are crazy, Nadia. Haven't you had enough thrills and spills, yet."

Asif was listening. "Marry a sheik and maybe one day you will be driving one of those." We all chuckled at our foolishness.

My job and the perks it gave me had enabled me to do a lot of things that people put on bucket lists. From paddling down rapids in a huge inflatable dingy or bungy jumping into a canyon on the end of a long elastic band, I had tried a lot of exciting experiences. I opted for thrills and spills, instead of serious relationships, which I wasn't particularly good at.

Quite why the sight of so many fabulous cars filled me with as much dread and excitement in equal measure was difficult to analyse. Was it the unknown consequences of breaking the law, or was it the chance I might get of catching a billionaire's eye? If there were ever two ends of a spectrum then those two outcomes could not be further apart.

I knew that the wealthy men who attended the parties were only looking for a chance to chill out and get away from the strict rules they lived by. If the sight of my scantily clad body provided that and gave Abdul an entry into their tight circles, I would consider I had achieved mine and the company's goal.

After entering the brightly lit car, Asif caught my eye in the mirror. "Remember girls, Abdul and I are going home in two hours. If you want to stay, you'll need to get a taxi or a lift in one of those flash cars. Have fun but don't overdo it."

"Do you recognise any of the cars, Asif?" I asked.

"Abdul thinks that Sheik Kareem Ahmed and Sheik Badawi are here."

"Mmm, they usually turn up together," Rimsha mused.

"Which one do you like?" I asked the youngster.

She blushed. "Sheik Ahmed is rather tasty."

The lift doors opened onto a large lobby. The insistent beat of western music was instantly audible, along with the sound of laughter and shouting. The loud music and the sight of half full beer glasses on the reception desk gave us the impression that we had stepped into another world.

A young man wearing a white thawb and red plaid head scarf, holding a walkie talky, stepped forward. "Mr Moeen, the female changing rooms are down that corridor. Third door on the right. Then, there's a security check before you enter the hall."

"Thank you," Asif replied, then shoed us away to change.

The men could come and go wherever they wanted without changing, but we females had to change into our outfits on site. Just as we reached the door, it opened and two young Arab women stepped out into the corridor. We backed off to let them pass.

"Thanks," the taller girl muttered.

She looked flustered, as though it was her first time attending a private party in Dubai. They hurried away, leaving the way clear for us to enter the small rectangular anti-room. After sitting down on the chair next to the door on, one side, Rimsha sat opposite me. I began to get nervous just thinking about the intimate search.

"I hope the attendant is a woman," I whispered loudly so Rimsha could hear.

The beautiful Omani youngster was more relaxed than I was. She was quite open about her desire to bed one of the rich Arabs that frequented the private parties and flaunted her sexuality more than I did. In a way, she was my first line of defence, because so long as we stuck together there was a fair chance that the men would gravitate to the younger, easier and chattier option.

Rimsha, who was 19, had a lot to say and she was good company. She was also, like me, bi-sexual, and the last person I had sex with. We shared a flat and goofed around a lot. And, every now and again we got serious.

The door opened and I sat back as another youngster walked past. She was wearing a red tartan skirt and a white crop top. Clutching a small sequined bag, she glanced at us and looked relieved to be leaving the changing room.

My heart sank when a middle-aged Arab man poked his head around the door jam. "Next!" I got to my feet bravely and walked past him. "Empty your bag on that desk..." He pointed his latex clad finger at one of two, teak wooden desks that had been moved aside for the party. "...then fill in the form on the clipboard."

I emptied my shoulder bag while the suited 'doctor' stood and watched. The whole point of the exercise was to stop drugs from being used at the party. It was difficult to understand the reasoning when we were about to consume a shit load of illegal alcohol. I was told that if the organizers were going to allow some use, they wanted to control the supply for safety reasons.

Anyway, I crossed to the other desk and filled the form in while the man examined the contents of my bag. The document was an authorisation form for a full body search. It was a standard doc and one I had signed a dozen times, most frequently at the airport when I entered the country. I noted the doctor's name had been written on the form, but it made no difference to the repulsion I felt when my orifices were violated by a squirming finger.

I filled the form in and signed it, then laid the pen down beside a large jar of vaseline, a box of latex gloves and a box of tissues. I walked back to the other desk and while the 'doctor' watched, I removed the hijab and placed it on the table. My light cotton dress zipped at the back. Once I had opened it, I slipped it off my shoulders, then let it fall off my arms and body.

While I slipped my white cotton panties and bra off, the doctor went and fetched the clipboard and scanned my answers to the questionnaire,

I stood there with my hands in front of my mons feeling like a criminal. The Arab doctor took his time studying my answers, during which time he glanced at my body several times. He then examined my identity card.

"Twenty-three, is that right?" he asked.

He was trying to flatter a naked girl wearing a pair of black 3" stilettoes. "Yes, Sir."

"I see from your answers that you've done this before, Nadia. I don't need to tell you what to do then..."

He pointed at the floor near the other desk, so I walked over, bent forward and grasped my widely spread ankles. I could see from my lowly position that the doctor was facing my posterior while he changed his gloves. He was studying the main feature of my pose - my smooth convex labia lips and the slither of pink clitoral meat peeping from between them.

"Mmmm, I'm not going to need the vaseline," he muttered after placing his left hand, high, across the cheeks of my stretched butt.

Just thinking about having an internal examination was enough to make me feel gooey and turn my pussy liquid. After a pause, the forefinger of his free hand teased my soft, fleshy entrance with a circular movement, then slowly penetrated my quim. I was hugely embarrassed by the way my sex responded to the slightest stimulation. After testing the resistance, unlike medics on previous occasions, he doubled his digits.

"Oh!" I gasped softly when they stretched my succulent orifice.

"This won't take long, Nadia," the man said smoothly.

As his fingers burrowed deeper, he twisted them and rubbed his fingertips against my sensitive walls. I felt a shiver run through my body and fought the urge to push back.