When the car pulls up at our destination, I can’t believe my eyes. Apparently Baron has invited me to a house party at a mansion that obviously belongs to some kind of ultra-wealthy individual, but the house we live in is one of those too, so that isn’t what shocks me. What has my jaw on the floor is the double line of nearly-naked women flanking the entrance to the front door.
Men in suits strut past them, smoking cigars and smiling, acting like they own the world (which they kind of do), and as strange as it is to admit, I look around in something close to panic, searching for Baron.
“What is this!?” I ask the driver.
“The annual Body Ball,” he replies calmly. Then he glances in the mirror and winks. “Never heard about it before?”
I shake my head and stay where I am, not wanting to get out and get involved. I watch as more men head inside. Some of them even have dates on their arms who don’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the half-naked, smiling girls who I notice are all holding champagne for the guests. One man takes one and casually cops a feel from the girl, who just continues to smile back at him.
What is this?
My door opens, and I look up, expecting to see Baron smiling down at me with that obnoxious, amused look on his face, but instead find myself face to face with a terrifying looking man who could best be described as a bulldog in a suit. The collar is stretched around his thick neck, and he eyes me with a stony disregard as he extends a hand to me. I almost don’t want to take it, but not taking it seems like an even worse decision.
“Mr. Stark would like me to take you up to the house.”
“Um, okay,” is the best I can manage as I take his hand. He pulls me up out of the car with such strength that I practically shoot into orbit, and when I come back down, almost break both of my ankles trying to steady myself on the ridiculous stilettos Baron picked out for me.
I don’t know where to look as my canine-esque escort leads me up to the house. Too many boobs. Just too many boobs. So I keep my eyes on the gravel, white and chalky, pretending there’s something
interesting going on with it, until we’re inside. Only then do I raise my eyes.
Long curtains of white Christmas lights line the walls, and candelabras flicker softly overhead as immaculately dressed couples slow-dance on the marble floor of the massive foyer. I’m not the best with money, but I’d be willing to bet that the dresses the women are wearing probably all would add up to more money than most people make in a year.
To the right is a study, where groups of obviously wealthy men are smoking cigars and speaking in hushed whispers. As I enter, I feel their eyes on me, like lions stalking a gazelle. The hairs on my arm stand up, and I quickly look away. Strangely, I’m praying Baron shows up soon to save me. Isn’t that ironic?
“He will be with you shortly,” my guide says as he releases my hand then vanishes back outside, leaving me alone, feeling completely out of place. I’m probably exaggerating, but it feels as though every eye in the place is on me now. They know I don’t belong here.
“Wonderful dress. Montparnasse? Emilio Pucci?” A woman’s voice behind me causes me to turn, and I find myself looking at one of the most beautiful, yet strangely inhuman women I’ve ever met. Her skin is smooth – almost to the point of looking fake, and although I can’t put my finger on it, I can tell she’s had some work done. Her boobs are very big, bordering on too big, and are pushed up to her collarbones. She regards me with cold blue eyes.
“Um, excuse me?” I stammer.
“Who made your dress, dear? I’d love to get one for my daughter.”
Now I feel even more out of place. What would a super-rich girl say at a time like this? “Oh, I don’t even know,” I smile, trying to pretend like I’m one of those people who doesn’t even worry about money. “My fa—my daddy got it for me.”
It’s a bold move, and I feel almost insane for saying it, but it seems to work. The woman’s face softens slightly, and her eyes sparkle.
“Nothing wrong with a sugar daddy, love. You’ve certainly caught a big fish in something like that. Let me see what he’s put you on.” Before I can react, the woman circles behind me and is fumbling around in the back of my dress. “Ah, Vivienne Westwood. Very nice. He must like you, honey. How often do you let him play?”
“L—let him play?” I’m so far out of my depth here that I might as well be drowning.
“Oh, don’t act so innocent.” She winks. “We may not be attracted to these men, but we have to let him have what they want sometimes! I’ve managed to get my man down to once a week without him complaining and still giving me everything I need.”
Oh, wow. This really is another world. Forget drowning; I’m a fish out of water, and it really must be showing on my face, because the woman purses her lips and looks at me like I’m just the cutest, silliest girl in the world.
“Aw, you really are that innocent, aren’t you?”
“More than you could ever know, Janice.” Baron’s hand closes tightly around my waist as he pulls me to him. I want to fawn all over him for saving me from the most awkward conversation in my life, but at the same time, want to wriggle away from him and run for the hills. “This sweet little thing has no idea the sexual power she possesses, and I’m not sure I want her to know.”
Janice giggles with such delight that it becomes quickly obvious that she’s overdoing it. I guess loyalty isn’t held in high regard among these women. And why would it be?
“Whatever is she doing here?” Janice asks.
“I thought I would do her a favor and invite her,” Baron chuckles. “She spends far too much time looking all frumpy and bored around the house.”
“Frumpy!?” I exclaim. I’ve been doing my best to be as inappropriately sexy around him for a while now and he’s calling me frumpy?
“Giving her a taste of the high-life?” Janice asks with obvious amusement. I’ve never felt more looked down on.