Page 93 of Feel Free to Scream

Cynthia is an excellent bartender. She’s also happy to do her job wearing a tiny, glittery string bikini, and making the tassels under the cups of her breasts jiggle with every move.

When they’re not throwing a party, there’s a billiard table at the center. It’s currently replaced by a pole, around which a male and a female dancer are slowly gyrating to the sound of slow, low beats.

Around it, a flock of guests dance, laugh, fuck, and tease, every single one of them wearing masks in every shape and color—some obvious slasher fan masks, others, Venetian, the more modern neons like ours.

To me, this is the wyvern den. I’m used to it.

I lean closer to Claire to ask her, “How do you like it?”

“Hate the room. Ours is much better.Lovethe masks.”

Ours.

I grin. “Yes, the wyverns are definitely an old boys’ club. You should hear what most of them do their senior year.”

Even as the words escape me, I decide it’s best Claire does in fact not hear about how they spend their senior year. I’m slowly integrating her into my world, and the details about the wyvern or the Raventhorn ways would be the equivalent of chucking her in the deep end before teaching her to swim.

Instead, I slide my hand behind her back and bring her with me to the throng of the crowd, passing a throuple fucking each other in a line—one guy behind, another in the middle, with his cock in the girl at the front. They manage to keep up with the rhythm of the music pretty well, all things considered. As we circle them, the girl reaches out to another girl, her hand in her partner’s pants, tapping her shoulder. She casually lowers her top to give her access, and the girl with a cock in her pussy bends down to lick her tits.

Once we’re in the middle, anonymous in all this, I bring my hands to Claire’s hips and turns her so she faces away from me, sliding her dress up her thighs slowly as we move.

I didn’t get a chance to see what she’s wearing; not properly, in the darkness of the theater.

“You can dance,” she notes.

I snort. She’s right, I can, but I’m not going to the effort. “You call this dancing?”

“No, but the way you’re moving, I can tell you actually know how to move your body.”

Oh, yeah. I do.

“I’ll take you dancing one day. This is something else.”

To prove my point, I take the hem of the fabric a little higher, past her waist, baring her to all eyes behind their masks. I tie it into a knot at her midsection, and next, lower her straps down her arms, exposing her top, too.

There are more than one pair of eyes watching her, given what she’s wearing. Even more so when I undo the clasp of her bra, peel it from her arms, and toss it away, cupping her breasts.

Spotting someone getting a little too close, I take the tape I slid into my pocket in the car, prepared for this, and tear off a tiny strip with my teeth.

It’s not about where I put the tape. It’s the fact that it’s red, signifying an immediate stop sign. I place it across her nipple, cutting a second strip to make a cross, and do the same to the right tit.

Look all you want. Hands off.

“What’s this?”

“A message,” I reply.

I can tell she’d ask a lot more questions if I let her, but we have only about fifteen minutes until we’re removing masks, and there are far more entertaining things to do.

“Keep your clothes exactly as they are, unless you want to be punished. Count to ten,” I whisper. “Then come find me.”

She sucks in air, turning to ask what I mean, but I’m already stepping away, watching her, cunt bared in that lace harness, tits out, her wild hair as out of control as ever.

I retreat from the crowd, eyes never leaving her for one instant as I exit the room through the east door, practically racing to the west, in order to watch her again.

It’s not a test as such, because I know what she’ll do, but I’m curious. She turns, lost, uncertain—even if I can’t see her face, it’s obvious in the way she looks here and there, desperate.

Someone approaches, likely talking to her. She takes a step back, shaking her head.

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