Chapter Thirty-Seven

There’s a soft knock on our door.

Jameson says, “It’s fine to enter.”

Our attendant has returned. Just in time to refresh our flutes. Then he crosses to the far wall and uses a remote to slide back the panels, which collapse into each other and display an enormous plate of glass.

I instinctively know this overlooks everything downstairs that was behind the partitions.

I slip from the sofa and go to the viewing window, my champagne in hand. There it is, the scene that’s straight out of Eyes Wide Shut. A treasure trove of wicked doings. Only, again, there are no masks. No one is hiding behind… Anything.

Interestingly, it’s a very classy setting, with over-the-top decadence. This isn’t low-budge porn or actors you pay by the hour. These people are real, in the sense of their various shapes and sizes and ethnicities. In their absolute reckless abandonment.

They are here for their pleasure—and to pleasure others.

With his remote, the attendant turns up the volume, so that the moans and the