Page 3 of Noire Moon
You have been selected.The words accompanying my unexpected ticket echo in my mind’s eye. Selected for what exactly remains to be seen. For the pleasure of the members of this supposed secret society, I guess.
My stomach feels like it just dropped into my heeled ankle boots.
“What type of wristband are you going to choose tonight?” One of the girls, I think her name was Cora, flutters her false eyelashes and hooks her arm around mine. She smells like expensive perfume and crisp linen sheets.
“Wristband. Oh, yeah, that.”
Crap. I’d totally forgotten about that part of the entry requirements.
“Last year, I was a little shy and went low, but it was a bit tame for my liking. Do you think you’ll be keen to pick high with the rest of us tonight, Posey? You don’t have to, of course...” She’s sweet and adds that bit at the end to make me feel better, as if she can tell I’m incredibly out of my depth here.
“Honestly, you can just call me Poe, or P.” I fiddle with the chain of my necklace using my free hand. “I still don’t really know. Thought I’d just decide on the spur of the moment.”
From what Rita explained to me in the car, we’ll be presented with a range of clear bands. According to the rules, you choose only one from the selection, then have to slip it over your wrist, and it must be worn the entire night. The markings on them can only be seen under a black-light torch, so none of the regular guests will know what your band indicates.
The only ones who have access to the black lights will be the masked hosts. Those who belong to this place and are rumored to be among the most powerful and influential of the secret society’s members.
If you pick low, you’re indicating that your kinks and sexual preferences lie in the tamer end of the waters of what will be on offer here this evening. If you select a band from the higher range, well, then that matches you with others who might indulge in more wild sexual tastes. Should one of the masked men or women catch you while inside the haunted house, they can supposedly look at your band and decide if they want you.
A complete stranger.
Anonymous.
Being chosen from amongst a crowd.
Something about that makes my heartbeat pulse in my clit, even though there is no way on earth that should be turning me on.
“It’s time.” Rita snuggles up beside me with an excited whisper.
As we fall in line, waiting our turn to enter through the enormous black doors, I catch sight for the briefest second of more masked, suited men standing in the shadows. They watch on as sentries just inside the entranceway. From all the way back here, it's impossible to see anything other than a glimpse of a tailored suit jacket or the flash of a silver watch as it catches the light from a flame lighting the top step.
The chatter around me is mostly nervous energy. Hushed small talk and giggling between the girls as we draw closer to the darkened entrance looming ahead. I zone out because I’m mostly just focused on remembering to damn well breathe.
Can these beautiful, stylish women tell that I’m completely and utterly inexperienced when it comes to anything of this nature? Going to a sex club, let alone one as imposing and slightly terrifying as this seems like I’ve just set foot on Mars without oxygen. I feel like I should silently back away, ditch them, and go wait out the evening in Rita’s car.
I don’t belong in this world.
Except, my best friend must sense I’m two seconds from cutting and making a run for it because she grips me so hard I’m liable to be bruised like a peach come tomorrow.
There’s a palpable tension filling the air as we begin to climb the short flight of stone steps, and others are admitted one by one from immediately in front of our group. The number of heads separating us from being swallowed up by the jaws of this building whittle down with terrifying speed.
My pulse races faster as the scent of something spiced and rich fills the air. My overactive imagination starts picturing it as the kind of incense used in ancient rites befitting a secret society. One with hooded cloaks and lots of chanting.
Maybe the kind that accompanies a ritual sacrifice.
Because isn’t that what we’re all doing here, really? Gladly offering our flesh up as some kind of willing sacrifice to pleasure?
“Ticket.” A feminine rasp startles me from just over my left shoulder. There’s a woman studying me who is dressed in fitted velvet couture with a skeleton mask concealing her identity. A waterfall of glossy black curls tumble over one shoulder, and diamonds encrust her throat, forming a collar.
I can’t make out any details of her face, other than her hazel-colored eyes. From her collared neck down, flawless dark skin is revealed where her dress skims her collarbone in a plunging V at the front.
“Oh, right, sorry.” My tongue feels about three sizes too big for my mouth as I fumble in the pocket of my skirt for the ticket. Rita told me not to bring a bag, but we would be allowed to keep our phone on us during the night.
Judging by the sheer size of this place, I’m suddenly very relieved to be able to text my friend if I find myself lost in one of the endless array of rooms. There must be at least a hundred, judging by the vast number of darkened windows peering down at us.
A shudder travels up my spine wondering just how many more of these masked individuals—these supposed secret society members—are watching us right now, hidden behind those dark panes of glass.
On the other side of me, Rita’s ticket is being handled by a man who looks muscled but lean. He fills out his perfectly tailored suit like a second skin, and his skeleton mask is identical to the woman’s. Allowing us to see only a glimpse of their eyes.
