Zara gulped past the lump in her throat, doing a little hand wringing in that Jesus on a cracker can't believe what she was seeing way, her pulse thumping loudly in her ears over the music and the loud base of voices. It was just all there in eyeline wherever she looked. It wasn't as though Zara was unsophisticated, but knowing what dinner fork to use at a fifteen-course banquet was not going to come in useful right now, nor was the very limited experience in anything physical going to help process what she was seeing without extensive embarrassment coating her face.
Sex was private, something to do behind closed doors, not with a damn audience watching on and if she was to ever actually have sex one of these days, she sure wouldn’t be doing it while sweaty men jeered nearby. Not that she categorized herself in that way, but on the scale of them and her, yep, she tipped the scale to good just because having sex in public would never occur to her as the thing to do. Looking at the people dry humping and puffing on long cigarettes, she was ninety-nine-point six percent sure this was where good girls came to die. I thought this was meant to be a party not an orgy.
Zara was clearly in the wrong place, like she’d taken an incorrect turn on Pleasant Avenue straight down to Death row no passing go or collecting $200. Oh, for fucks sake, what level of hell was this? Bodies writhed in one mass debauching undulation, men and women in varying stages of undress, everyone drunkenly enjoying themselves. Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated.įor believing I could and telling me I would. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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