I do get an appreciative look from August when I walk out of my bedroom, so there’s some validation I’m not a total hag this evening. Regardless, it’s my first night out and away from the hospital or the house so I’m going to enjoy it.
Even in the car, he still doesn’t tell me where we’re going, but when he pulls up to the valet stand outside of The Onyx casino, I assume he’s taking me out for a nice dinner and perhaps a show. My heart actually suffuses with warmth over his thoughtfulness.
We move through the lobby of the casino over to an elevator with a neon sign above it that says The Wicked Horse. It must be a private club type of restaurant. We ride the elevator up forty-four stories to the top of the building, stepping into a lounge area manned with a hostess behind a podium. The beautiful woman smiles at August, clearly recognizing him. “Good evening, Mr. Greenfield.”
In return, August inclines his head, then puts his hand to my elbow to lead us past her. I’m slightly surprised he doesn’t check in, assuming he made a reservation earlier, but they clearly know him, which means he must eat here a lot.
I’m led up to the long bar manned with four bartenders. August procures a white wine for me and a scotch for himself. Once our drinks are in hand, he leads me through the bar area toward a set of double doors. The most I can figure out by the decor is this is indeed some type of private club—maybe like a city country club—and there are probably various places where people can enjoy a quiet drink before dinner.
Through the double doors is another lobby with long hallways leading off it. With his hand putting gentle pressure on my lower back, he leads me down one of the halls to another set of wooden double doors. I look around with interest at the gleaming hardwood floors covered with Persian rugs, the expensive wood paneling, and the elegant sconce lighting. I know August makes fairly good money at his job just by the beauty and size of his house, but I have to say I’m quite impressed he’s a member at a place like this. It’s totally beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before in our ultra-modest life in Denver. While we aren’t poor, we definitely don’t eat in fancy places like this.
August opens the door on the left, then motions for me to proceed him in. Crossing the threshold, I’m taken slightly aback by how dim the room is. The sight before me leaves me thoroughly confused.
Holy shit… what in the hell am I seeing?
The room itself is monstrous and so dark it takes a moment for my eyes to fully adjust. Focal lights shine down from the ceiling in an otherwise darkened room, highlighting several couches, chairs, and chaises intermittently scattered throughout. Where there isn’t actual furniture, there are piles of huge silk pillows strewn about on the floor. Waitresses and waiters glide around with full trays, barely clothed.
And on the furniture and the pillows and the floors and up against the wall, there are… naked people.
Naked people… fucking.
And not just couples. There are groups of people together. On a pile of purple silk pillows on the floor to my left, I count at least six people, all tangled up, gyrating and touching and licking and sucking—
I spin around to face August, only to find him watching me intently.
“What the hell is this?” I demand.
I realize I’m shaking all over, and August notices as well. He takes my glass of wine, which is practically sloshing over the edge, and hands it to a passing waiter.
“What do you think this is?” he asks.
I stammer out, “I-I have no clue.”
Which is a lie. I know exactly what this is, and my nipples start chafing against my bra and my panties feel incredibly damp.
August casually lifts his scotch up to his mouth, then takes a sip. When he lowers it, he says, “It’s a sex club. This is called The Orgy Room, but there are other rooms we can go to if you’d like.”
I dart a glance around, taking in the various sex acts, while my ears ring with moans and the slapping of flesh. Gulping, I manage a strangled, “W-why did you bring me here?”
August merely chuckles before draining the last of his drink. It’s conveniently placed on the tray of another passing waitress before he replies, “I want to fuck you, Leighton. In here. While people watch. You took a lot from me the night we were together. I want to see how much more I can bend you to my desires.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” My voice comes out sounding hysterical. I feel like I’m either dreaming or being punked.