"That's it, baby," he continues, his tone almost soothing, despite the filth spilling from his lips. "Take my cock. Take all of it."
Baby.
My belly flutters, my heart soaring like a fool even though I know it's a runaway utterance. A thoughtless spi...
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The moment we step in, we're engulfed in a stream of House music and an even brighter confetti of colorful lights.
All at once, images of the most glamorous things I've ever laid eyes on hit me; large crystal chandeliers, tall antique mirrors, ridiculously high ceilings, even more statues, expensive oil paintings, and the most unique pieces of furniture I've ever seen.
The interior infrastructure and decor is absolutely sick.
Jeez, how the hell in the world can one person have so much damn money?!
We continue to make our way through, trickling in past the other guests. There are swarms of impeccably-dressed people; men in fancy suits and tuxedos, and women adorned in lace, silk, fur, diamonds, and other expensive—and quite revealing—attire.
I spot a statue holding a really large champagne bottle...and I realize it's not a statue. It's a woman, completely covered in green and white spray-on paint. She's so still, it's unreal.
I look ahead and see more like her scattered about the premises; completely motionless men and women stark naked with champagne bottles in their hands and nothing but thin layers of spray-on paint to conceal them.
I continue to make my way through, my eyes roaming over everything as I do.
There are a few barricaded sections of marble floors and mahogany floors over to my left, and in the center of each of them are...stripper poles?
I can't help but shake my head internally. Of course, there would be stripper poles.
I look over to the other side and I spot illuminated dancer cages in the distance, each with two dancers in skimpy bikinis and large, feathery masquerade masks over their faces. They shimmer exuberantly under the neon lights of their cages, almost as if they're covered in glitter.
About twenty feet behind them is a large DJ booth where the blaring House music is coming from.
Over in the corners are several large flat screen TVs, hoisted on the walls adjacent to each other the way they would be in a sports bar.
Speaking of bars, I can count at least five of them from where we stand, all the bartenders are wearing the same uniform—if you can call it that—short 'schoolgirl' flare skirts and bare-back, halter-neck waist coats.
Glass and marble sculptures are scattered here and there, and I see a parakeet fly by and land on one of them. A second later, another one joins it, and their tiny heads dart left and right, their eyes scanning the room full of party-ready humans as if they're spectators.
I approach some sort of massive, open-ended table. I've never seen anything like it in my life. There are countless champagne flutes on it, as well as cocktail snacks, finger-foods, hor d'oeuvres, and right in the center of it, there's a chocolate fountain surrounded by fruit-embellished women who are otherwise completely naked. I'm unable to take my eyes off the sight for several moments.
