22
HENRIETTE
I could spot his aggravating swagger anywhere. He walked through the party as if he was hosting. A golden mask covered his entire face, but I knew it was him. What in the hell was Pierre doing at a sex club in the middle of Paris? Did he come for Lucette? Did he know this side of her life? A thousand scenarios played in my head. If he saw her doing what I knew she would be doing tonight in front of dozens of people, who could say how he would react? He didn’t love Lucette, but he definitely thought of her as his property. If she serviced another man in Pierre’s presence, all hell could break loose.
I had to get closer to be completely certain it was, in fact, him. I followed the swagger up the stairs and into another area of the party. The long banquet hall on the second floor was covered in mirrors and looked as if it was a cheap replica of the famous Hall down the road in Versailles. A stage in the round was set and performers were making their way to the red footlights. A processional of six masked naked men, each with a strip of cloth covering their penises, walked in lock-step while carrying a palanquin. Atop was none other than Lucette herself. I recognized her right away—her body completely hairless and naked save for the leather collars around her neck, wrists and ankles. The dead giveaway to her identity was her unique dragon tattoo.
Surrounded by four large golden urns, Lucette was silent, her face obscured by a mask that was also a mirror. The men grunted with each step as they marched her to the stage.
The patrons of the Sanctuary stood back and watched, pointing and giving the performers a round of applause for their ostentatious presentation. I swallowed hard. I loved Lucette, and even though I knew being a sexual performer was a role of her own choosing, I didn’t know if I was capable of watching.
Across the room however, that was exactly what Pierre was doing. I ducked behind a couple fondling each other over their clothes as they watched the naked group unload Lucette, placing the urns equal distances apart on the round stage. Taking her hand, one of the men led her to center stage as four others manned the golden urns. By the time they’d all taken their places, an even larger crowd had formed.
With intent, I watched Pierre from afar. He paced back and forth, keeping his eyes glued to Lucette. His hand clenched in fists of rage, I worried what might happen next. The first of the men poured what looked like oil over her body, and began to massage all her parts from behind. A second stood in front of her, staring at his own masked reflection in the small mirror that was Lucette’s disguise.
A third masked man approached her with a second urn. This time it was filled with water. Carefully he poured, the wetness streaming down her breasts and between her legs, glistening with the oil on her skin. The men, both front and back, washed her in the mixture, their hands moving slowly across her writhing body.
Pierre’s shoulders rose and fell before he pinned his arms tightly across his chest. The gold mask he wore couldn’t conceal his fury.
A fourth masked man approached her, carrying nothing. Different from the others, he and his twin still standing at attention on stage left, wore a set of ram horns on his head. Approaching Lucette from the rear, he dropped his loin cloth to show the audience his massive male member. The women in the crowd gasped in delight. I caught a glimpse of Pierre. He swallowed hard.
Everyone in the room knew what was about to happen. The tension in the mirrored hall was palpable—the anticipation buzzing in the air.
When the ram of a man bent Lucette over, the real show began. Of the two who’d been washing and oiling her body, each took one of her arms, pulling her forward to help her to stay balanced. Classical music filled the room, the sound ringing off the mirrored walls. As the composition hit a heightened crescendo, so did the ram.
I turned my attention back to Pierre. His back to me, he swaggered away, giving Lucette a fleeting glance over his shoulder. I followed, picking up a black lace hand fan someone had left on a nearby side table. I opened it with a flip of my wrist, and held it to my face. I couldn’t take any chances.
In the darkened corner of the mirrored hall, Pierre spoke with a man. Balding on top, he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, but an ill-fitting dark grey suit. He wasn’t drinking champagne, but holding a whiskey in his grip. I moved in closer for a better look. The darkness and red lights reflecting off the mirrors made it difficult to see much. Like Pierre, he was wearing a full gold mask across his entire face.
The music grew louder and the crowd around Lucette’s stage began to applaud again. Pierre turned his head my way and I lifted the fan over my face moving it back and forth. His tell-tale tic was showing itself as he hitched his shoulder and rolled his neck.
Ducking behind another couple engaged in groping, I got too close in my haste and they assumed I wanted a threesome.
Pierre began walking toward me and I dipped my head into the stranger’s shoulder. He kissed my neck and his female partner caressed my bottom. The man in the suit followed Pierre and as they both passed me, he removed his mask completely to take a drink of his whiskey.
“Hold up.” His American twang catching more than just my attention. “Jesus,” he muttered, taking a gulp of his drink. “I hate France.”
Moving only my eyes to his face I knew him. Grey hair, tall with a potbelly. It was the American Pierre met with earlier at the café.
“Merde!” I hissed, breaking the embrace of the couple.
Dropping the fan, I followed the two of them through the long hallway, glancing at Pierre when he stopped to watch Lucette being serviced in every orifice on her body. He shook his head, his neck wrenching as he turned away.
Staying behind as far as possible without losing them, I turned the corner out of the mirrored banquet hall, running face first into Tristan.