Alessandra Torre - Masked Innocence

Broward kept me at the office until ten that night, and every night that week, promising me a short day on Friday. Friday, the night of the party. It loomed, mysterious and expectant before me, and I was filled with equal parts anticipation and nerves. By the end of the week I was exhausted, having stumbled inside my house each night, ignoring the crowds that sometimes filled my living room, even the sounds of Zach’s thumping bass failing to delay my immediate slumber. I’d spoken to Brad sporadically, quick conversations squeezed in between Broward’s incessant orders, and Brad kept me fed and hydrated, sending in catered meals every night. The evening deliveries raised more than a few eyebrows, but as soon as everyone realized there was enough to share, the brows dropped and chewing began.

I was able to sneak out for a doctor’s visit on Wednesday, a nerve-racking thirty minutes in which my most private areas were explored and a vial of blood was drawn, with results promised in twenty-four hours. I returned unnoticed, the never-ending pile of work marginally bigger. Broward was abnormally irritable, working with his door closed, moving files out of my line of sight when I would enter his office. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out which case was the source of his angst. From my side, everything seemed to be moving smoothly. He didn’t mention my job future once, a fact I was grateful for, since I hadn’t had time to come to a decision. Thursday, the doctor’s office called, giving me a clean and unencumbered bill of health. And, before I knew it, it was Friday at 6:00 p.m. and I was stepping outside, the dusk light unfamiliar, Broward’s promise of an early day fulfilled. I walked through the garage, glancing toward Brad’s spot, bare pavement meeting my quick-to-roll eyes. Shocker.

A glance at my watch got my mind off Brad’s absence and focused on the night ahead. Brad had texted me that he would pick me up at nine-thirty. Three and a half hours didn’t seem like nearly enough time to physically and mentally prepare for the evening’s activities. I increased my pace, headed for my Camry, a small quiver of excitement running recklessly through my body.

* * *

I STARTED IN the shower, begging each roommate to leave me and the bathroom alone for the next hour. I shaved my legs, underarms and all but a thin strip down below. I exfoliated vigorously, soaked in a hot bubble bath for twenty minutes, then exfoliated again. Getting out, I wrapped a towel around my body and put light makeup on. I then went to my closet.

The idea of a sex party was foreign and, as much as I hated to admit it, exciting to me. Images from Eyes Wide Shut filled my head, though I doubted any event of Brad’s would be as cold and reserved as that scene had been. He said we could stop in, see how it works and leave. That was what I needed to keep in mind. That this was a sightseeing expedition and nothing more. My mind wandered back to the threesome that Brad had orchestrated a few weeks ago. How I had agreed to “try it” for ten minutes and at that point I’d be given the opportunity to back out. How, when that time frame had been reached, and his voice had come through the darkness, offering me an escape, I had never been so aroused, and the thought of stopping had seemed pure insanity. I suddenly realized how drug addicts became addicted. The threesome had been my gateway drug, and I now hovered at the edge of the cliff, ready and willing to jump into the dark depths below. More than willing, soaking wet at the thought of it. I knew, without even entering the party, that I would stay.

Nothing in my closet screamed Sex Party, so I aimed for club wear instead. I chose a red minidress that was tight on the bottom, loose and flowing on top. I ignored Brad’s directive and put on panties, a black lace thong. Slathering my legs in lotion, I was spritzing on perfume when I heard the doorbell ring. I grabbed small faux diamond studs and a black clutch, then headed for the door.

My roommates Alex and Zach were smoking weed on the couch when I walked through the living room and opened the front door. Brad stood there, dark, delicious and sexy in a white button-up shirt and dark dress slacks. His dark hair and tan stood out in stark contrast to the white shirt. I leaned against the door frame, and his eyes swept over me with an appreciative grin. Stepping forward, he braced a hand on the frame and kissed me, trailing his free hand down my open neckline.

I pulled away from the kiss and blushed, flicking my eyes inside at my roommates. He chuckled and put his mouth to my ear. “You know people are going to see a lot more than that tonight.” My cheeks burning, I waved to my roommates and pushed him out, toward the limo idling at the curb.

“Good night, gentlemen,” Brad called out. Alex and Zach giggled in response, and I shut the door, taking Brad’s outstretched hand. We walked to the car, his hand exploring my bare back and short dress along the way, and I swatted his hand as we arrived at the car. Brad opened the door and I ducked inside.

* * *

“YOU SHOULD MOVE.” I turned to look at him, confused. We were moving, the limo driving north through town.

“What? Why?”

“Your roommates. Weed? You don’t need to get caught up in that.”

“I’m not gonna ‘get caught up’ in anything.”

“If the cops bust your house, you are just as likely to be arrested as they are.” I glowered at him, avoiding his reasoning by opening my clutch and pulling out lipstick.

“I don’t think cops ‘bust’ houses over weed. Besides, I like my house.”

“Really? What’s your favorite part? The mildew in the shower or the worn-out carpet?”

“It’s the finicky hot water pressure I adore, thank you very much.”

I stuck out my tongue at him, uncapping the lipstick and carefully applying it.

He laughed, grabbing my knee and squeezing it gently. “We have a stop to make on the way.”

“What kind of stop?”

“Hair and makeup.” His cell rang and he straightened his legs, reaching in his pocket to pull it out. Glancing at the screen, he silenced the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Hair and makeup? I already did all that.”

He glanced at my worried face with a reassuring smile. “And you look absolutely gorgeous. This is more for the mask aspect of the party. Jessica and Marco are masters of creative disguises. As much as I hate costumes, it does add to the ambience of the party, as well as relax a lot of inhibitions.”

I gripped my purse and thought of the peephole mask I had tucked inside. Not the sexiest thing in the world, it was the only thing I had that would be considered a mask. I was grateful for the opportunity to choose a different one. “I’d think you would have a closet full of swinger costumes. You know, velvet capes, top hats, canes?”

He fought a smile and leaned over, brushing my lips with his, the brief contact not nearly enough for me. “I prefer a more discreet approach. And that is pimp attire, not swinger.”

“Oh, that’s right. Swingers wear suspenders and fedoras, right?” My smart response earned me another silencing kiss, and I grinned against his mouth, stealing an opportunity to grip his hair and deepen the kiss.

“So.” I tilted my head and looked at him. “You’ll be fine with us just popping into this party, watching some stuff and then leaving?”

He turned in his seat, my eyes finding mine and holding them hostage. “Of course. Are you getting cold feet?”

I frowned. “Not cold feet—I’m just a little nervous.”

“Okay. That’s normal. What are you nervous about?”

I shrugged. “Just the fact that it’s an organized sex party. I get uncomfortable at being approached. I don’t like the pressure of turning someone down. I think that’s what stresses me out.”

“First of all, all of Beverly’s parties have one cardinal rule. Women do the instigating. Men can’t approach you, and you will make any decisions about what will occur. Think of it as a feminist’s wet dream.”

I turned that over in my head, leaning against him and trying to figure out what I would want if it was all going to be up to me.

He frowned, running a hand down my hair and rubbing my neck gently. “I don’t want you to be stressed. This party, this lifestyle, is about enhancing our sex life—not causing it or you discomfort.”

“But if I’m not okay with the swinging, then we break up.”

“I don’t expect you to be okay with everything from the get-go. You can ease into this. We are taking the fast route, and we don’t need to do that. I just didn’t want you to miss out on this party and have to wait three months for the next one.” He frowned at me. “We don’t need to go. I have no issue with saying ‘screw the party’ and going home.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to know if I’m okay with it until I’m there. I want to go, but I want you to know that I’m not going to want to do anything that I don’t feel comfortable with.”

He stifled a laugh and quickly brought my hand to his mouth, kissing it quickly. “I have no interest in scaring you away. If you want to leave, we’ll leave. If you want to stay, we’ll stay. Tonight, you are the boss.”

My eyes flashed at his in the darkness. “Hmmmm.... I like that.”

He laughed. “I’m sure you do.”

I watched his face as he ran his lips over my hand, squeezing it briefly before dropping it to his lap. “Will this work out?” I asked suddenly, shifting in my seat to face him fully. “You and me, exclusive?”

“At this party?”

“No—in normal life. Us having an exclusive relationship, with you being so...” I grimaced, trying to find the right word. “Slutty,” I finally managed.

He smiled, his gaze traveling over my face, the depths of his soul staring out through those dark, confident eyes. “This isn’t my first relationship, Julia. I know you think I will whip my cock out at the first woman who breathes my way, but I assure you—I can handle commitment.”

“As long as you have additional stimulation. Beyond me.”

“Well, there is that, yes. But your involvement in the activity is what makes it so stimulating.”

I snorted at that. “Bullshit.”

He cocked his head at me. “The other night, if I hadn’t been involved in that threesome, would you have enjoyed it?”

I frowned. “If you hadn’t been there, I never would have had sex with him.”

“Ignore that logic for a moment and envision the situation as two different possibilities. One, just you, me and him. Then imagine the situation with you, him and another guy. Would the experience have been the same?”

I leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes and envisioning the scenarios. When I removed Brad from the equation—my trust in him, his sexual presence that made every touch electrifying, his ability to somehow know exactly how much I could take, how far to push my boundaries in order to give me the most mind-shattering experience that I was willing, at that point in time, to experience. I finally sighed and opened my eyes, meeting his. “No. It wouldn’t have been the same.”

He grinned, pulling me in one quick motion onto his lap. “And you make things different for me. You don’t know it, but you captured me quickly, with your faux innocence, the nerdy-glasses, pencil-skirt look that you were trying to pull off. When I saw you later, dressed to the hilt, pure sex from your stilettos to your hair, I didn’t believe it. Saw you as playing a part. But—” he breathed, reaching out and trailing a finger over my open lips “—you are pure sex. When you are in your element, which is typically when you are stuffed full of cock, I’ve never seen a more sexually perfect being in my life.” His mouth twitched, and he pulled me to him for a soft, gentle kiss. “I fell for the feisty, smart-ass Julia that calls me on my shit. But I’m owned by the vixen that you become behind closed doors.” My response was lost in his next kiss, a heady, desperate kiss that consumed both of us, hands fisting in hair, an erotic fusion between two captive souls. I was glad that he took my response, because I didn’t have a coherent thought in my head.

Our kiss was interrupted by the limo’s slow turn into a short driveway, the suited chauffer waiting an appropriate amount of time before opening our door. The makeup stop turned out to be a small bungalow in an established neighborhood, a black Porsche Boxter in the driveway. Lights were on in the house, and Brad rang the doorbell, holding my hand on the front porch.