Page 80 of Their Cruel Love

“I’d say this is going to be a boring night.” Razor eyes this with a skepticism that I’m also feeling. “Except this place rarely does boring.”

“Yeah. So true.” Then and there I decide to spill everything to Razor. Later though. I need him to back me up in all that I might do, and I’m not using Phoebe. She’s too flighty, too delicate, too something I’m not yet sure of. I guess I just don’t want to feel guilty when something I instigate goes wrong, and she gets hurt.

Ironic, since we are at Satan’s Tea Party here.Killer Crew Club.Those fingers… At the memory, my stomach feels infested with sickly worms.

“Would you boys care to partake of the dance floor?” Phoebe links arms with Razor and me.

“Boys? Them there are fighting words, miss damsel.”

“Damsel?” Her hiccupping laugh and then Razor’s make me realize this is one of the few times we’ve laughed together.

Some distant whoops echo. “Let’s go explore. If it’s boring?—”

“If it’s boring,” Razor adds quietly, “I think we should still stay. That penalty might be fake, or not. They haven’t even bothered to send a copy of what we signed to the room.”

Phoebe tugs us forward. “And it’s so noisy we could talk about how to get intothatroom, and nobody will know.”

That room. I’m not telling her my idea. At this point, she is best kept out of the loop.

Concealed behind the dancers and the groups talking, are a roulette table and two other tables where people are playing cards for golden casino-style chips.

I point at the first one with three men seated around it. “I would hate to think what they’re playing for?” The chips could represent anything.

“Flesh and favors?” Phoebe’s eyes narrow as if she is sure it will be something deviant.

“And how consensual would those be?”

“Or just money.” Razor casts me a glance. “Everyone here is rich. Redistribution of wealth is a favorite of humans.”

Except if we took too much from these people, I reckon we’d get knifed, either figuratively or in reality if they were extremely pissed at the loss.

For an hour or so we mingle, pretend to dance, and trip over each other’s feet, except for Razor, who is quite good at this. We gamble and find out the chips mean whatever the table occupants choose them to mean, but only for long enough to participate and then we get out of Dodge before the piranhas eat us. We nibble food, we mingle some more.

“What is the purpose of this?” I ask Razor, swallowing a tiny caviar snack and a gulp of champagne. The alcohol is flowing.

“They haven’t been handing out drinks until this one.” Razor echoes my thought.

Phoebe is off visiting the bathroom when the central divider begins to be rolled away to either side, revealing a head-high mesh barrier behind it. On the other side women, and a couple of men, are lined up in rows, semi-naked, with their ball gowns or pants removed or cut away to the waist. They’re strapped into metal devices that hold them in place, kneeling, with their rears facing us.

Only now do I notice that half the people in the room have been vanishing.

“Getting a bad feeling.” Hesitantly, I step forward to see more of the room.

“Getting?” Razor curses.

The left-hand side of the dividing wall rolls further back…fifth along is Phoebe, gagged and dressed only in the lacy white underwear that came with the dress. She is strapped down, ass presented outward.

“They must have taken her in the bathroom.” Razor arrives beside me, iron-eyed, jaw twitching with tension. “The fuckers.”

“The nonconsent part of CNC is strong tonight. I am concerned she may not be intended for us alone.”

“Yes. Same here. Other thoughts?”

“Wait and see.” What else. It is possible our thoughts are worse than what they mean to do.

The stage has been revealed, and our dear friend Bastion stands there beaming, his perfect blond coiffure stiff and combed upright, his suit a shiny black. The mic on the stand before him is larger than his hand.

“Welcome! Welcome to our annual bidding war for theasses, mouths, and whatever else you choose to use, of our lovely contestants!”

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