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The hostess doesn’t know where her body ends and the others begin, slick flesh gliding and slipping. She disentangles herself from the mass, stretching out her languid limbs across the crimson carpet as her fingers poke around on the coffee table for a cigarette.

The air is already hazy, thick with sex and smoke, desire and release. Small lamps with thick tweed shades cast a low, tungsten glow that illuminates the skin like molten metal.

As she finally plucks a smoke from the smattering of random objects strewn across the wood, the little redhead by her feet sits up, folding her legs beneath her. She stretches her arms high above her head, head tilted back and eyes closed, letting out a little mewl of pleasure as her spine crackles.

Tyrone rolls onto his side, pressing his pillowy lips against the redhead’s creamy thigh. Their hostess enjoys the contrast of their bodies next to each other, dark and light, yin and yang. One so broad and powerful, the other dainty and fragile. Though not actually fragile, considering the evening’s various festivities. She’d managed to outlast the two other bodies strewn behind them on the couch, long passed out from exhaustion.

She brings the cigarette to her chapped lips, mouth dry from moans clawing out of her throat, and pats around on the table again for a lighter.

“I want you to slap my face,” the redhead says, drawing her lower lip between her teeth afterwards, doe eyes as massive as doubloons.

Tyrone’s left eyebrow practically hits the ceiling, and he gives her thigh a gentle squeeze. That tiny thigh that disappears beneath his massive hand.

He offers a small smile, the kind given to children when they need news broken gently. “Babe, I can’t do that. I could really hurt you.”

“That’s the point.” She pouts, and bats her eyelashes at him. “I want to know what it feels like.”

He chuckles, the sound low in his throat like stones brushing against each other. Their hostess still hasn’t managed to locate a lighter.

“I’m not comfortable providing that feeling for you,” Tyrone says, and his thick finger traces a smooth cheekbone with feather-light touch.

“I’ll do it,” the hostess says, tossing her unlit and useless cigarette onto the coffee table. “But then you have to smack me back.”

The redhead’s eyes light up, teeth showing with her gleeful grin. “Deal.” She brushes sweat-slicked curls from her forehead and sits up perfectly straight, nipples as hard as bullets at the tips of their perky mountains.

The hostess admires them for a beat, replaying all of the kisses and licks and pinches of the evening. She crawls forward and then perches in front of her guest, mirroring her posture perfectly, giving Tyrone a good view of the two of them. She imagines that optical illusion with the two faces opposite one another, producing the perfect shape of a cup in the negative space. She wonders what the negative space between their bodies looks like, but doesn’t bother asking. Tyrone isn’t looking at the air between their bodies.

She doesn’t bother to psyche herself up or do a countdown. She winds back her hand and brings it across the redhead’s pristine cheek, vanilla flushing red as the crack reverberates.

“Damn, girl,” Tyrone huffs.

The auburn-haired goddess brings her face back to the front, eyes alight with revelation and mischief, and then draws her bottom lip between her teeth.


The blow sends the hostess’ head to the side, cheek blossoming with electricity that zings along her nerves, thrumming all the way down into her core. She runs her tongue along her teeth, ready to pounce on the crimson vixen and reward her for her tenacity.

Alas, it’s not to be, as the door opens, casting harsh green fluorescent light into the room, breaking the spell, breaking everything, and blinding the inhabitants that hiss with annoyance.

“Jesus, have you been here all night?” Eddie demands, stalking inside with his sweater vest and his leather shoes that look like they’re perpetually spit-shined.

The hostess groans as her guests scramble for clothes, no longer comfortable hanging out naked as their bubble of debauchery bursts.

“Why are you even surprised by this, Man Bun?” she asks, flopping back onto the plush carpet, limbs splaying everywhere. From her vantage point, she spots a lighter under the couch and a little ah escapes her throat. She jams her hand beneath the base, wiggling her fingers around to try to get at it, but she can’t reach it. She really stretches, squashing her face against the couch cushion, and with her emphatic excavating, jostles the leg hanging in her way.

The owner of the limb sits up, blinking rapidly, breaths coming fast.

Eddie throws his hands up. “Alvin? Seriously? You’re fired, get your shit out of the break room.”

Alvin buries his face in his hands for a split second before apparently remembering that his dick is hanging out, and staggers over to the last cluster of clothes, following the rest of his new acquaintances in their hasty exit.

“You need to stop fucking the interns,” Eddie says.

With the couch now vacated, the woman on the floor gives it a mighty shove, and her hand clasps around the lighter. She sits up and holds it above her head like a trophy, and then flicks it, bringing it to her lips.

He puts a hand on his hip and points at her, brow furrowed in the most stern manner he can muster. “I’m serious. It’s incredibly hard to find good interns.”

She lets out a grunt of frustration when she realizes that the cigarette she wants to light is not actually in her mouth, but back on the coffee table.

Eddie steps into her path as she attempts to crawl for it. “Are you hearing me? Are you hearing me and actually listening to me?” He plucks the lighter from her hand and puts it in the breast pocket of his vest, nestled between two pens.

“I don’t know why you fire them.” She stands up and brushes off her still-naked ass, twisting and turning this way and that.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Drug-fueled orgies between coworkers cause problems. This shouldn’t need explaining.”

“But here you are explaining anyway.” She shrugs and heads over to the vanity, flicking on the round bulbs. “Maybe if you joined me once in a while, you wouldn’t be so uptight.”

Eddie mutters something under his breath that sounds like something similar to hearing and listening, and storms to the door. “Have a fucking shower, please.”

“Yes, mom,” she sings the words back with a long, drawn out falsetto. As the door clicks shut behind him, she turns to the styrofoam head next to her on the dresser. “Time to put on our sweetheart face,” she says to her pink wig.


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