THE PRIVATE PARTY

13

The show, that evening, starts out fast and hard. It is you and Philip, again, on the stage. You are wet as soon as you see him. There is a bondage bed there. You lie on it on your back,  your head hanging a little over the edge. He stands behind you and feeds his long, thick c-ck slowly into your mouth. You touch yourself while he slides it gently in and out. You only gag a little once, and he withdraws expertly. He is very stiff in your mouth, and a little salty already; you think he might even come then and there and a part of you is concerned about this, about your throat filling up with it. But when he seems to be getting close he just disappears.

            He is standing between your legs now, unrolling a matte condom onto his pole. You widen your legs and he presses into you. You feel very full and wet, and you stroke your breasts as you watch his chest flexing as he pumps you. He is quickly hot and shiny. You put your ankles on his shoulders and gasp as he goes too deep.

            The audience is cheering this and then you realize a few of them are on the stage too, men mostly; you are being touched and stroked and kissed.

            Philip pulls out and then another guy takes a turn. The Doctor is standing like a guardian at your legs, handing out condoms, brushing off hands that seem to rough or frantic.

            You are pulled off the bed, off the stage, and into the seats and tables, the long soft leather sofas. From there you don’t remember too much. There are naked bodies flailing all around you, breasts being sucked and penises stroked. There are silver ice buckets holding dewy bottles with gold foil tops.

            You don’t suck anybody yourself, but you are sucked, and you are entered. You feel breasts and buttocks in the palm of your hand. You let yourself go: you feel nothing but ecstasy in this degradation, in the occasional sting of pain, in the long tense buildups to the muscle contractions of orgasm. This sensation annihilates your thoughts, your self, your constant consciousness of your sister in her hospital bed, and the pictures of her standing there in her walker, her face in pain. Those are gone in the candlelit darkness and the smell of leather and mixed perfumes.

            After a long, hot shower, you find there is a thick terry robe left for you in the dressing room, and a little note from Emerson: would you care to join the Owner for a celebratory drink in his office when you are ready?

            You think the bathrobe is asking a little too much; you dress completely. You want all your dignity when you are drinking with the Owner.

            You step into the hall, in your shiny shoes, and Emerson is waiting there. He smiles and you follow him through the doors at the end of the hall, the dark wood doors you have never been through. Then you are going up some stairs, and the building is different here: it is wallpapered, carpeted with eastern patterns; there are sconces in the walls holding candles. You don’t know if it’s someone’s house or a set for a 19th century brothel movie.

            Through some more double doors and you are in a sort of library, the kind of thing you’d see in a gentlemen’s club: walls of leather books,  red Persian rugs, leather sofas. A cart full of glowing bottles and crystal decanters. A fire in a stone hearth. It smells of Christmas. The Owner is sitting on one of the sofas: he stands to greet you. He has taken his jacket off; his tie is loose.

            “I thought we’d have some champagne,” he says. “You might want to come down a bit after that.”

            Emerson flits over and pulls a bottle out of a silver bucket. He works at it with his white gloves until there is a discreet, almost muffled pop.