Filthy Little Games

Ch. 9: The Vulture

QUINTON

The crisp, chilled wind nips at us, causing our winter coats to billow as we disembark from the helicopter. With her arm through mine, Emery gingerly treads the grassy path leading towards the Chateau. Above us, the remnants of waning dusk paint the skies in hues of plum and navy, illuminating the grand staircase that ascends to the imposing doors of the chateau. Emery pauses on the final step, her breath escaping in hesitant puffs, transforming into ephemeral clouds in the frigid air.

"You're nervous."

"I don't know why," she admits timidly, staring at the antique brass Goddess Athena door knocker.

"We can leave," I say, casting her a look of understanding. "If you're not ready."

"No." She shakes her head, reaching for the knocker. "I'm fine. Let's do this."

The wooden doors vibrate as Emery makes her choice. Within seconds, the doors open, and deviant ambiance spills onto us in a wave of humid heat and sinful chatter. At the entrance stands a dapper young man clad in a finely tailored NDP suit, his gloved hand extended as he politely requests our invitation keys. I hand over the keys with a nod. Once the transaction is complete and our coats are removed, I allow Emery to step over the threshold first and enter a world I believe she's always dreamed of living in.

"Holy shit..." she breathes, eyes wider than I've ever seen them before as we enter the main room. Her gaze dances along the mounds of panting bodies, dozens of silken beds, fur-draped chaises, and secretive alcoves.

There is nothing holy about the scene that surrounds us. It's primal. As if we're privy to the deepest desires of sinful souls. Hundred of souls. Each one desperate to live out their wildest fantasies. Each one starving for a moment of complete freedom.

"Who are all these people?" Emery asks, bewildered at the sheer volume of bodies in the Chateau.

"It's a rather anonymous function," I say. "Unless you're a public figure and easily recognizable, but even then, they expect discretion."

Her eyes narrow to an animated ménage à trois in the corner of the grand room. "Isn't that the Dutchess of—"

"Shh..." I hush her, giving a nod of disapproval. "Not out loud. In here, she's just a random body. That's all."

She blinks, and then silently proceeds further into the room. While Emery surveys the moaning sights, I simply stare at her, drinking her in beauty. Her lips are painted red, like blood, like the thing that keeps my heart beating, alive. My gaze flicks down to her chest, the silken robe unraveling as she slowly moves deeper into the epicenter of the chaos. Despite the balmy heat that permeates the room, her nipples harden, her breasts spilling through the tight hem of her lace lingerie. Fuck. My cock twitches against the ring, and I can't wait to watch her get devoured.

Each pile of glistening flesh we pass takes a moment to stare at her, dozens of hungry eyes flicking toward us. It's because they can smell it on her. The inexperience. The innocence. And she knows it too. She knows they want to ruin her. And she'll let them.

Emery grabs my forearm, tugging at it as she stops walking, her heady gaze fixed on a party of three women twisted in a delectable human pretzel. She licks her lips, head tilting as she watches their movements, their fingers, their tongues.

"Does that intrigue you, darling?"

"A little," she whispers, shifting her weight from heel to heel beside me. "They're all very..." She swallows. "Pretty."

"Why don't you go say hello?" I suggest, giving her an encouraging smile. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind the company." I feather a finger down the outline of her face, arching over. "You're also very pretty."