Page 45 of Stay Toxic

Whoever wrote this specific NDA wants power over anyone who signs on the dotted line. Sure, the point is privacy, but the cost of breaking it is rights on the person. The right to share their private videos, the right to take their money, their homes, their cars.

I find the straightforward, downright predatory paperwork refreshing. I’m tired of people pretending to be nice, only to bite as soon as they get the smell of any weakness. I’ll take honesty any day.

The Heritage Club demands secrecy, and there could be a thousand reasons why, but given what Sebastian had said so far, I’m not completely surprised by the details of the auction. Fascinated. Morbidly curious. A little aroused. But not shocked.

Finding Ari in the middle of all that is a bit of an adjustment, but well, I did meet her in the middle of a threesome, so I shouldn’t be too astounded.

That said, when Sebastian takes me up four flight of grand marble stairs, and scans his thumb to open a door into a vast hall, I am left openmouthed, breathless, and completely frozen on the spot.

Frankly, I don’t have the imagination to dream up a place like this. I would never have thought it actually existed outside of porn movies and erotica books.

The large, open space is sparse, but for a few sofas and a bar. In the middle, there are a couple dozen people around our age, also dressed in finery—I’m sure I would have seen them downstairs if I’d paid attention—dancing to the sound of familiar pop, chatting, cocktail glasses in hand, and partying like normal people. Except there are also people fucking, right there in the open.

A woman, completely naked, dances gracefully around a large silver hoop, spreading her legs, stretching. Her circus routine would be tasteful if we didn’t see her tits, and her actual cunt, folds and all.

Several servers walk the floor, all of their bare skin and hair painted silver, matching the trays they carry, offering drinks like this is completely normal.

A woman’s on the floor nearby, on all fours, the lower half of her gorgeous dress thrown over her ass to give access to the guy humping her from behind.

The sofas are occupied by fucking couples; two men, upside down, sucking each other off. A gorgeous pink-haired beauty, legs over the shoulders of a dark-haired guy with his face firmly stuck between her thighs. I think I recognize her as one of the baristas from the cafe in the library. And now that I’ve noticed someone I know, I see other faces I can’t quite place, but have definitely encountered on campus.

Jesus.

It’s a veritable fuckfest.

My eyes are stuck on one specific woman, a blonde, straddling one man, while another one fucks her ass. She’s tiny and dainty, but she’s taking both of those cocks at one. I didn’t even know bodies could stretch that way.

Sebastian nudges me, his hand finding my bare skin right above my ass, and I swear myclitfeels it. In this environment, the barest touch is a jolt of electricity right between my legs. As I feel my pussy clench, I’m startled to realize my panties are soaked.

“Would you like something to drink?” he offers casually, as though it’s the most normal situation, and we’re just at a regular party.

As if we’re still downstairs with violins and flutes playing and well-to-do, elegant people exchanging pleasantries.

“Err—yeah.” I clear my throat. “A drink…a drink would be nice.”

Except the bar is all the way over there, and we have to pass by the veritable orgy to get there. I scarcely know where to look.

I’m hyper-sensitive to Sebastian’s hand, as he gently leads me.

“This is my cousin Markus—Marius’s brother,” he says, tilting his chin toward the man whose face I can’t see, thanks to where it’s buried. “And his future wife, Dez. They don’t share, either. No one would dare touch either of them.”

I blink several times. “But they do…that. Here.”

“As I said. Some of us like to show off.”

Oh. That’s what he meant. My gaze cuts to his. “You’re into that, too?” My throat feels completely clogged. It’s a miracle I managed to get the words out.

“Among other things. And you’ve met Calla, I believe?” he asks as we keep walking. We’re about halfway through the room. “She’s not much for playing, but this is her husband, Ciaran. He just goes by Beaufort. Nice guy.”

Said nice guy has long hair up in a ponytail, and is sucking on a gorgeous black woman’s tits while she sits on another guy’s face.

I clear my throat. “Doesn’t Calla mind?”

It’s one thing for couples to be here together, but the idea of the husband doing this while the wife is downstairs is another story.

“You know what? I don’t know. She’s a couple of years younger than me, and pretty reserved. I guess we’ve never really talked. The club’s larger than you’d think—we don’t all know each other well.”

That makes sense. She doesn’t strike me as someone with a lot of friends. I make a mental note to maybe offer the option of opening the discussion with her if she wants to talk. We’re friends, after all, and now I’m in on…whatever this is, I might as well give her a safe space to chat.