| |
Taryn
––––––––
I’m absolutely fuming as I sit at my desk, staring at my half-eaten spaghetti. I’m not in the mood to eat. I bounce my stylus off the desktop as I stare blankly at the screen. I have a lot of help tickets to get to but I’m too pissed off to be nice and helpful right now.
I knew this was going to happen. I knew Carter was going to go back into jerk mode. And the fact that we didn’t sleep together doesn’t make it sting any less. In fact, it’s almost worse. There are ways to be intimate without sex, and I thought the honest conversation we’d had on our date—yes, it was totally a date—had me feeling like he was opening up to me.
But just like that, the cage around his cold heart slammed shut. I can keep it professional at work, I don’t need to be belittled in front of my supervisor. There’s a difference. He could have done it privately. Hell, he could have mentioned it yesterday. Like casually. But no, grumpy, asshole Carter was back in full swing.
The intercom on my desk phone beeps (why do we even have these?) and I listen to Lisa’s voice telling everyone to meet in the breakroom for a celebration. I’ve been here for over a month and this is the first time I’ve been to one.
Maybe this will help my mood.
We head down the hall and into the breakroom to see a big cake with three names written on it. Then, Lisa insists we sing the birthday song to them before we cut the cake.
I feel like I’m in an episode of The Office. It’s so cheesy.
Carter comes in late, after the singing is done, of course, and Lisa offers him a piece of cake after she’s cut them all into neat little squares. It’s chocolate with strawberry filling and chocolate icing and I decide I’m gonna eat a piece because like Christa says, chocolate makes everything better.
I slice off a bite with the side of my fork and then shovel a big piece into my mouth while I make eye contact with Carter, who has refused a piece.
“This is really good,” I comment. “Happy birthday, guys,” I say to the three whose birthday it is.
Carter narrows his eyes at me and keeps his infuriatingly beautiful lips in a straight line, so I just lick the frosting off my lips while refusing to break eye contact. His jaw pulses like he’s annoyed or wants to say something, but I know he won’t.
“Hi, Mr. Lockwood,” I say in a tone that borders on flirtation. He wants to be a dick and treat me like I can’t keep it professional at work, then I’ll give him a reason.
He dips his head professionally at me in acknowledgment while I leave the breakroom with my cake, my mood a little bit lighter.
***
I’m going to throw up. I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
I sit in my car with all the lights off, staring at some kind of warehouse-slash-massive office building. There are many luxury cars and even a few limos out here. What in the hell is this place?
I watch as finely dressed men and women go to the door, show something on their phones, and then walk inside. This area of town isn’t the best and I wonder what is going on. Some exclusive party?
Maybe it’s a Speakeasy?
I chew my thumbnail as I stare at the line of people waiting to get in. I have my window cracked and I don’t hear any loud music like it’s a concert or maybe some kind of Broadway-type show. Would be a weird location for one, anyway, but who knows what people are into these days?
I know I need a password to get in, but what do I do after I enter? What if it’s an awards banquet or something? But why would people pay $1,500 for an app and need a password to get into an awards thing? I quickly scrap that idea.
I guess I’ll never know unless I go inside. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a tank top after going to the gym, but I only did some weights and didn’t get too sweaty. I give myself a smell test and realize I don’t stink. I have deodorant and perfume in my gym bag, along with my work clothes, a skirt, blouse, and strappy heels. Guess that’ll have to do. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I want to call Christa so bad and have her be my wing-girl, but I’m already pressing my luck having hacked into the program to get this location and password to begin with.
I quickly change into the clothes in the front seat, pull the elastic out of my hair and hope it doesn’t look too bad as it falls around my shoulders, and put on some mascara and bright-red lipstick from my purse. After a squirt of perfume, I exit the car with just my wallet, phone, and keys.
There are about five people in line—all men. The one in front of me turns when he feels or hears me get in line behind him. His smile gives me the creeps and I feel icky when his gaze rakes me head to toe, lingering on my breasts longer than proper. A smartass remark wants to expel from my mouth but I decide to tamp down the attitude tonight. I just want to go inside and see what this is.
“I’m Tom,” he says, putting his hand out to shake.
I return his weak handshake and scramble for a fake name. “Jennifer.”
“Very nice to meet you. Where are you hanging out tonight, Jennifer?”
“Uh, inside there. You?”
He looks confused but says, “Well, I hope to see you in there.”
Then, he whispers something to the doorman, who’s dressed in a suit and tie, and then hands the guy cash, shows his phone, then goes inside.
What’s he looking at on the phone? What’s the cash for?
I panic a little but step up for my turn, plastering on a smile.
“Hi,” he says stoically. “Password?”
“Moorlove.”
“Awesome. Name?”
“Jennifer Smith.”
“App?” he asks.
My cheeks heat and I try to remain calm. “What do you mean?”
He looks annoyed and holds up a thick device about the size of a phone. “You new here? I need to scan the app.”
Fuck!
“Oh, crap, no I deleted it off my phone. I can’t have anyone seeing that. I just reinstall it once a month, and yes, I am new. I’m really sorry.” I bat my eyelashes at him and smile demurely.
“There’s a five-hundred-dollar cover charge,” he states.
I almost choke. “What?”
“Well, since you’re alone and knew the password, and because you’re fine as hell and we’re short on ladies tonight, I’ll put you down as Tom’s guest and waive the cover.” He juts his thumb at the creep who’s disappeared inside. “But, just this once. Have a good night.” He indicates the door and I head to it like I’m walking the plank.
Short on ladies? Is this some kind of exclusive nightclub? Again, I hear no booming, bass-bumping music coming through the doors.
I literally stop in my tracks at what I see as soon as I walk in. I swallow hard and am unable to hide the shock I’m sure is coloring my face.
There is music playing, it’s just quiet enough to hear throughout the space, just not loud enough to be noticed outside. Some kind of eighties rock ballad.
The smell in here is strong. Fruity mixed with musky sex and people.
The air is thick and it’s warm. I look up to see fans connected to the black ceiling-less roof spinning but they aren’t doing much.
Is this what Carter does? Some secret app that provides perverts with one night of sexual debauchery? Does he come here, too? I mean, he’s 35, I’m sure he’s tried it out.
The thought infuriates me. Makes me jealous. Are there private spaces here to have sex?
I shake my head. The sounds and temperature aren’t what I’m concerned with, though. It’s what I’m looking at that has my jaw on the floor.
To my right is a man with a ball-gag in his mouth kneeling on a plush red settee, a lady dressed like Catwoman, complete with whip, behind him, smacking the shit out of his very cherry backside. He’s naked, save for the ball-gag, and from the looks of it, he’s definitely enjoying her punishing blows—especially considering there’s another woman, wearing a lot of makeup and nothing else, with her hands tied behind her back, his entire cock down her throat. She has tears streaming down her face in black trails, but I believe this is due to the enormity of what she’s taking into her mouth, not because she’s upset. She’s also nude, the nipples on her large breasts clamped with tassels hanging from them as they bounce in time with his thrusts. The man is not restrained, but leaning down to touch her between her legs. She moans as she feverishly works his dick in and out of her mouth, her eyes rolling back and she widens her legs. There are at least thirty people in nice clothing holding cocktails standing around, watching them. One man has his hand down the shirt of his companion, kneading her breast while she watches the interaction with hooded eyes and parted lips.
I have to force my gaze away while I look left to see two women in a full 69 position, feasting on each other. They both look similar, with blonde hair and identical figures. One is on her knees while a man in a Mardi Gras mask holding a riding crop fucks her in the ass with a condom on. He occasionally smacks her backside with it and the girl under her struggles to keep her mouth clamped on her pussy due to his whippings and thrusts (and his balls smacking her in the chin). Occasionally, the man will reach down and knead the woman on the bottom’s breasts with his fingers or whip her as well. There is also a crowd of well-dressed people watching the interaction. The sounds of moans and low chatter can be heard sporadically.
Something inside me stirs. I’m suddenly incredibly turned on. I realize I’ve been rooted to the spot like a noob for too long, so I keep walking. The place is a big, open one, and there are multiple “stations,” oddly separated with what I can only describe as wooden farm fencing with beds, chairs, and other equipment inside it to display those getting it on.
The next station shows two men. One’s on his knees sucking the other one’s dick, while the one who’s receiving is eating out a woman who’s displayed to the side of him, upside down on some sort of erotic cross. Her arms are bound above her head while her legs are spread wide, tied to each side of the cross’s T in full splits, his mouth in between them, going to town while he gets his dick sucked. She shakes and cries out.
There are all kinds of freaky things going on. I continue to hold my head high as I walk, pretending like I’ve been here before. I spy a large bar on the other side of the floor and I realize I definitely need a drink to get through this night. On my way, there, though, I stop at a station where two people are on a bed, doing it missionary like normal people—I mean, save for the guy behind the man, fingering his asshole.
“Did you decide on a room, or do you just like to watch?”
I turn to see Tom standing next to me. The guy’s probably in his fifties and he’s pretty scrawny. A glance at his expensive suit and watch tells me he’s got money, but he’s very sleazy and gives me the ewws.
Then I register what he said. Room? I look up to see a dark hallway that looks like it leads to more debauchery.
“Oh, I just like to watch,” I lie quickly.
“That’s too bad. You sure you don’t want to have some fun in one of the rooms?”
I can only imagine what goes on in there.
“I’m good, Tom. I’m meeting someone here, so I’ll have to decline.” More lies.
“That’s too bad,” he says into my ear, fingering my hair. “You look like a lot of fun. I bet you—”
Suddenly, Tom’s gone, replaced by a very angry-looking Carter.