Wicked Love

the book ‘The Last Days of Pompeii.’ She belongs to Burba tonight, her sadistic master, who’s apparently gone to get refreshments.”
“Ah, I see,” I reply, feeling totally out of my element here. “Well, this gent here needs no introduction,” I continue, “Pleased to make your acquaintance Marquis,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Tout le plaisir est pour moi, Mademoiselle Alice. J’ai comme une impression que vous allez agréablement pimenter la fête, ce soir. J’ai hâte d’explorer vos talents si particuliers.”
Apparently the Marquis doesn’t know I speak fluent French. What he said is this: “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Alice. I have the impression that you are going to pleasantly spice up the party this evening. I look forward to exploring your particular talents.”
Quite the cad I see. So I reply to his unwelcome overture. “Mon intérêt consiste à regarder, monsieur gentil.” [My interest lies in watching, kind sir.”]
I get a frown for that and then he quickly turns his attention to the man who I can only presume is Burba, the master of Nydia by his dress and the way he pushes her to the side.
Thankfully Shelby is back and joins the conversation as if she knows who the people are behind the costumes. Perhaps she does.
“How’s it going?” she asks, clearly bombed.
“Lovely,” I reply.
She hands me a Rum and Coke, which I gratefully accept from her, taking a healthy swallow. Several minutes later, I feel it hit me. Something is different. My muscles feel like spaghetti, and my mind is fuzzy, but not in a bad way. It’s as if I’m watching things through somebody else’s eyes. The music and conversations are simply white sound and the room is transfixed like center stage as the lights dim, and a spotlight from overhead illuminates.
Marquis de Sade steps into the spotlight, and he beckons silently for the slave girl, but as if it’s a practiced play, and it very well might be, Burba steps into the circle of light. The two men stand chest to chest, sizing one another up as if they’re about to duel.
But suddenly raucous laughter breaks out between the two men. They give one another hearty slaps on the back, and turn to the people now gathered around the bright circular light. It’s become the main event for this party my muddled mind concludes.
“Who wishes to tend to my slave girl, Nydia?” Burba hollers out to the crowd. “Who desires to shackle her for their pleasure?” He looks out among the throng of people standing around, and then, as if this has all been practiced in advance, Owl Lady steps forward, pulling Nydia by the wrist into the circle of light. “I will!” she announces, “Allow me to have my pleasure with this slave and allow her to taste me, Burba!”
“Very well,” Burba bellows. “Shackle her but save the best for me, dear Owletta!”
I watch as Owletta tears the tunic and loincloth from Nydia, and pushes her down to the floor, so that the slave is on her hands and knees. She pulls out steel shackles, clamping her wrists together in front of her, and doing the same to her ankles.
Owletta then sheds her garb, exposing her naked bottom half. She squats in front of Nydia, her fingers separating the folds of her pussy as she shoves her pelvis closer to the slave girl’s mouth. Nydia, who is clearly not blind, rolls her tongue up and down Owletta’s folds, her teeth nipping at her clit. Groaning as if she’s in pleasure by eating Owlet’s pussy, Owletta orders her to fuck her with her tongue. Nydia complies. Guess she’s not deaf either.
My mind is foggy still, and I feel a hand touching my back, rubbing my shoulders. I turn quickly to see Peter Pan watching me, his tongue flickers across his bottom lip. “Shall we join in the fun, Alice? There’s room for more in the spotlight.”
My tongue is thick. But not so much I’m unable to hiss out an answer to his invitation. “I told you, I’m here to watch only. Why don’t you get lost?”
“Bitch,” he growls, “Apparently you’re immune to the happy powder I put in your drink.”
I quickly realize why the fog has invaded my mind; numbed my cognition. I turn and make my way to the front of the room, elbowing my way through the spectators, to get to the front door. I push it open, head over to the porch rail, open my mouth wide and shove my index finger inside, pressing my tongue down, allowing my gag reflex to awaken, and do what I need it to do.
I lean over the rail, and toss the contents of my stomach. I repeat the action until there is nothing left. Tears from the heaving run down my cheeks. I wipe them with the back of my hand, and breathe in the chilly October night air, to get my breathing regulated once again. My head is pounding from the exertion, but the effects of whatever it was Peter had put in my drink are slowly subsiding.
Several minutes later, I hear the door open and turn to see Shelby coming out onto the porch. “Are you alright?” she asks, “I’ve been looking for you. I saw you pushing your way out the door.”
I looked at her. “Did you know that prick put something in my drink?” I ask loudly.
“What? No, who are you talking about?”
“That Peter Pan prick,” I snap. “I told you I didn’t want to do anything but watch. But you leave me alone the minute we get here!” I’m angry and Shelby knows it, but she’s not about to give an inch.
“Wait, wait one fucking minute,” she snaps back, “You wanted to come, so I brought you, but I sure as hell am not here to babysit you or to be your personal bouncer, Carson. I’m here to have a good time. And,” she continues, “It’s time for me to make my appearance so you can Uber on out of here