Indecent (The Cage Sessions Book 1)

by Skylar Cross

  Shit.

  I think I’m starting to shake.

  Although that’s probably from lack of food as well as anything else. I didn’t eat after cleaning out my…

  Shut up, Annika! That isn’t happening tonight!

  But I did it, didn’t I?

  We take a left onto his street. I’m hardly breathing as we stop at the security gate. Isabella opens her window and presses the buzzer.

  “Name?” says the disembodied voice from the box.

  Isabella looks at me.

  “Annika Spenser,” I say but I get something caught in my throat and it doesn’t come out right.

  “Say again, please.”

  “Annika Spenser!” I say a little too loudly.

  “Jesus,” says Isabella as she puts a reassuring hand on my knee.

  There is a long pause.

  Then the gate just opens.

  Annika puts the car in gear and we drive in.

  The place is lit up like something from Cirque du Soleil. Giant multi-colored strands of fabric whip through the air propelled by wind machines.

  Six-foot tall glass cubes line the outdoor area. The spot where I sat at the outdoor table on Tuesday is gone.

  Inside each cube is a projection unit flashing multimedia images onto the glass. Each side of each cube projects a different set of images. I notice one is Eon Sphinx live in concert.

  My pussy quivers.

  Oh, here we go.

  A valet in a red jacket waves us over. Isabella stops the car and turns to me.

  “Ready?” she says.

  “I…” I say, unable to form a sentence.

  The valet opens Isabella’s door and she gets out.

  I jump when my door is opened by another valet.

  “Jesus!” I say.

  “Sorry, miss,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I get out of the car and join Isabella.

  “Just follow the lit path out back,” says the first valet as he gets in Isabella’s Porsche and takes it God knows where.

  The music gets louder as we stroll along the path of cubes toward the back of the house.

  “Remember when we were fourteen and Eon Sphinx’s first album had just come out?” I say.

  “Uh huh,” Isabella says.

  “In many ways, this is it. The culmination of our girlhood. Tonight we graduate and become women.”

  “Easy there, Nietzsche. Stop looking for meaning. Just let go and have fun.”

  The steady drumbeat is now right around the corner.

  What we see when we reach the pool area is the most glorious transformation of a physical space ever. The pool itself is gone. Don’t know where. The entire outdoor patio… which is about the size of a baseball field… has been transformed into an outdoor nightclub. Laser lights draw figures and words on makeshift ceiling segments.

  “Oh my God!” says Isabella. “That’s DJ Mavi Baz!”

  A series of tables are set up around the main dance area. The cube theme extends to them, each table displaying a different set of moving images.

  I notice one empty table is playing Scandal, my favorite TV show.

  A TV show I wrote about in MiamiImproper.com. Easily looked up by anyone who Googles my name.

  Hm.

  Two girls are moving toward us. They are all silver. Roman-style silver two-piece outfits. Glittery body paint all over silver skin. Glowing silver contact lenses. Silver hair.

  If my mom saw this place, she would fall to her knees with her Bible, proclaiming that “Satan has arrived and this is the time of the end.”

  “Annika?” says Silver Girl #1.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You have a reserved table. Come with us.”

  Each girl moves to our outsides and locks arms with us. I feel like I’m being walked down the aisle as we head to… yep, I was right… our table is the one playing Scandal. Somebody researched me… I wonder who.

  “Please sit,” says Silver Girl #2.

  A third brunette girl in a bright orange one-piece outfit that looks like it’s painted on arrives. The silver girls return to the main entrance area.

  “Hello, my name is Osira,” she says, “I’ll be your servant this evening. Whatever you need I will retrieve for you. Mr. Cage would like to offer you his signature beverage of the evening, a Plutonium-239 made with Stoli Elit Vodka and Blue Curaçao. Our guest bartender tonight is Hiroyaki Matsuoka from Tokyo’s top restaurant Kanda.

  Isabella smiles and nods, granting me authority.

  “Yes,” I say, “that sounds delightful.”

  Osira bows and leaves our table. As she walks away, I notice the full crack of her ass.

  “Oh my God!” I say. “She’s naked.”

  “What?” says Isabella. “No! That’s just a very tight outfit. I see where it bunches up.”

  “No, Isabella, look around!”

  We both survey the crowd. 80% female, 20% male. The males are well-dressed and attractive. Half of the females are in usual Friday night clubwear.

  But the other half…

  “Oh my God!” says Isabella. “Half of these girls are naked! They’re wearing nothing but body paint.”

  “I told you!” I say. “Even our silver girls. Those weren’t silver skirts.”

  Isabella looks back at them.

  “Oh my God!” she says, then turns to me with wide eyes while grabbing my hand. “That’s so fucking hot.”

  Osira returns, placing our drinks in front of us. They are bluish purple… and glowing.

  “Um,” I say, “I thought you said these were made from vodka and Blue Curaçao.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” says Osira.

  “Then why are they glowing?”

  “The Blue Curaçao is infused with tiny slivers of frozen liquid gelatin that appear to glow. It’s perfectly safe. Just an optical illusion. I’m sorry. I should have told you that. You may punish me if you want.”

  She flips her drink tray upright and hands it to me. Then she turns around and bends over.

  Okay, this is just getting too weird.

  And that outfit is definitely painted on. I see her anus.

  “Oh no,” I say, “that’s all right, Osira. No need for punishment.

  “Please”, she says.

  “I’ll do it,” says Isabella as she takes the drink tray. She whacks Osira’s ass hard.

  “Oh!” says Osira, then shakes all over. She turns, head down, and takes back the tray. “Thank you. If there’s anything you need, just raise your hand. I’ll be with the other servants.”

  We watch her depart with her head down. She stands in a group of other girls with similar painted-on outfits. They all hold their heads down. Each keeps an eye on a different table. Every once in a while one leaves to get drinks for guests.

  “Servants,” mouths Isabella silently to me with raised eyebrows. “She can serve me anytime.”

  We both sip our drinks.

  Yowza!

  Tastes good. Fruity but smooth. Almost minty. And strong.

  I can’t tell if I’m excited or afraid. I still carry a lot of my strict upbringing with me. A tiny segment of my brain tells me that I’m making God very very mad by being here. That part of me wants to leave right now.

  But on the other hand, the environment is ripe with the strongest sexual vibe I’ve ever encountered. I can smell it in the air. That part of me... the one who gets excited by an audience... wants me to rip off my clothes and dive into the crowd.

  The very thought triggers a new gush down below. I cross my legs and take another sip of my drink.

  Two well-dressed guys about our age come over talking to us. They’re not like most guys at bars and clubs. They’re cool with interesting stories. Good-looking, well-dressed, and attractive.

  We dance with them a little. My guy has some good moves, strong and confident. Isabella seems to be really into her guy. Then again, Isabella is into everybody there.

  They eventually move on, c
hatting up other girls without even trying to get our phone numbers.

  I had been planning how not to give it to either of them, but they didn’t ask.

  Hmph. That kind of pisses me off.

  “That was weird,” says Isabella. “I was all set to give the tall one my number but he left.”

  “Maybe there’s a rule at Damien Cage’s parties,” I say. “All numbers are for Damien only?”

  Like I summoned him, there he is. Walking across the patio area from the house, a naked painted bimbo slut tramp whore bitch by his side. The DJ dims the lights, serving up ominous beats to alert the crowd that their host is arrived.

  Isabella and I resume our seats at our table. I sip a new drink that appeared on the table while we were dancing. Definitely feeling the buzz now.

  Screams and applause rise from the dance floor.

  God, it's like a fucking concert.

  Damien Cage just stands there, spotlight full on him, that goddamned cocksure smirk on his face. He's wearing black jeans with glowing designs painted on. Dark sunglasses. Black glistening shoes. Only a leather vest on the top. Chest and shoulder muscles on full display again.

  I bite my straw.

  He reaches into a pocket and takes out a hand-held microphone. Then he just stands and surveys the crowd.

  When his eyes land on me, he lowers his sunglasses and sticks his tongue out in a slow licking motion.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  Several faces look up at me with "Who-the-fuck-is-she?" daggers in their eyes.

  Isabella and I look at each other. She sticks her tongue out in a licking motion and points at me.

  "I'd like to welcome everyone to the party!" says Damien into the mike. The slut tramp whore bitch by his side grins at him, still wrapped around his arm.

  The crowd goes wild.

  "I'd like to kick things off with a song," he says to more cheers. "Usually I sing one of my own but tonight I'd like to borrow a tune from my good friends Nickelback."

  Oh shit.

  The patio goes silent.

  Damien Cage looks down, like he's lost in a sea of pain.

  My heart skips a beat.

  I fucking know what he's going to sing.

  He raises the microphone like he's about to start, but his arm drops back to his side. I see his Adam's apple move as he swallows, like he's trying to compose himself.

  Then the microphone is back up at his mouth.

  He launches into the second verse of Far Away by Nickelback, but his voice quivers. The crowd roars.

  As he sings, he gains strength. Little by little, the spirit guides his voice through the obviously meaningful words.

  I feel a crescendo building within me. It starts between my legs but I feel its tentacles reaching up into my heart.

  He sings like a slow-building fire, stoking the musical embers ever stronger as he rounds out the verse. Groups of girls, arms linked together, are swaying in the crowd.

  Then...

  He hits the chorus.

  Oh my God!

  I've heard Damien Cage sing so many times in my life.

  But never like this!

  His voice leaps into the stratosphere from a place deep inside. My heart leaps into my throat.

  The crowd is singing along with him now, happy smiling faces mouthing the lyrics everybody knows.

  But he's in some sort of wild fervor, firing out the lyrics like it's his final performance. Whatever this song means to him, it's ripping his heart out. I swear I can see pieces of his soul cascading out in streams, washing over the rapt guests.

  A tear forms in my eye and rolls down my cheek.

  He finishes the chorus, spent. His hand falls to his side. His head hangs down.

  It lasted less than a minute, but in that short time he reached into my heart... and likely every other girl's... splitting it in two with his raw emotion.

  The outdoor makeshift club erupts in applause.

  Isabella looks at me in awe, both of us clapping our hands. My eyes are full of tears.

  "Have a great time everyone," Damien says into the mike as he disappears with his bimbo tramp whore slut and the drumbeat of sexy rhythmic music kicks up again.

  All I can think of in that moment is a decision I made while he sang that song.

  I'll accept the offer to write his book.

  I need to know what's behind Damien Cage. There's something in there that nobody knows. I need to learn his pain.

  If I save him from his pain, maybe he can save me from mine. I'll do whatever he wants.

  I've moved beyond teenage infatuation.

  I'm a grown woman.

  And I'm fairly certain I love that man.

  END

  *****

  Watch for Depraved: The Cage Sessions Book 2, coming soon from Skylar Cross.

  Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to write a review at the site from which you downloaded this book. I appreciate and encourage feedback!

  You can also reach me directly at:

  skylarcrossbooks@gmail.com