For over a year, my best friend had been raving about this high-end play party, calling it “the best one in the world.” She had gone with one of her many posh friends before and insisted it was “exactly what I would love.” Nobody knows me better than her—we're best friends in the truest sense. I don’t care for most people, but I love her. I also respect the sacrifices she’s made, like marrying an obscenely rich and obscenely old man. “We can’t all be doctors, Liz,” she had said one night while we drowned our sorrows together, and I remember feeling torn. She was out having fun while I was buried in books with no social life. I’m glad I’m finally catching up now, though I can't help but think it would have been better when I wasn’t halfway through my able life.
I got us tickets after my profile was approved, splurging on an expensive evening gown as required by the invitation. I paired it with stockings from Agent Provocateur and the highest Louboutins I owned. Normally, I wear wigs to these types of events to disguise myself, but this time, I felt confident. I pulled my hair into the highest ponytail and was ready for the night. We planned to go, check it out, maybe make some friends, enjoy the drinks, but what I was most excited about were the live shows. She had described them as a high-end version of Sleep No More—and God, I love Sleep No More—so I was sold.
One hour before we were supposed to meet, she bailed. I was livid.
“I’m so sorry, hon, but I have to attend another event,” her text read. I was glad she couldn’t see my face. She tried to make up for it by sending a photo of the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. “You might get lucky! He’ll be there tonight!” I stared at the photo for a few seconds. He was exactly my type—unrealistically handsome. But even if he was there, I wasn’t going to waste my time; everyone at the event would probably be lining up to talk to him. I had better things to do than embarrass myself.
When I arrived, the process felt as exclusive as promised. Security greeted me, confirmed my name, and escorted me to a private elevator. I shared it with a couple who looked like Barbie and Ken. They smiled, “Are you excited?” I nodded, and once the doors opened, more security guided us to the entrance of a luxurious NYC penthouse. I was asked to lock away my phone and coat. The security guard smirked, “Alone?” I nodded. “Have fun,” he said, his voice smooth and velvety.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The performers looked like they could be straight out of Broadway or Las Vegas. They handed me a glass of champagne as soon as I stepped into the room. I had forgotten to remove my Sleep No More pin from my dress, which sparked a conversation. And then, in the middle of it all, I saw him—the man from the photo. In person, he was even more breathtaking, unfairly so. As expected, a gaggle of women surrounded him. I rolled my eyes at the predictability of it all and moved on, eager to watch the live performances.
As I wandered from one floor to the next, admiring the costumes and appreciating the meticulous security, I kept bumping into him—the Adonis. Eventually, he spoke, “Nice meeting you.” We shook hands. “Having fun?” I nodded, getting lost in his blue eyes—the most perfect sapphires I’d ever seen.
“You remind me of a friend from Paris,” I said. He smiled, warm and inviting. “Paris is always a great place to be,” he replied, before excusing himself.
The night wore on, and after watching several incredible performances, I found myself needing a break. I wandered to the top floor, champagne in hand, and took a moment alone. And then, Lucifer, as I now call him when telling this story—because if Lucifer had a human form, it would be him—entered with a young European model. From what I overheard, it was her birthday. He held two leather floggers, and with his tuxedo jacket now off, you could see his muscles clearly. He proceeded to flog her, and I stood there, mesmerized. She moaned softly, and I watched, completely captivated.
An older couple approached me. “Waiting for your turn?” they asked. I laughed lightly, shaking my head. “Oh no,” I replied. They didn’t seem amused. “Why not?” the woman pressed.
“I’d never let a man do that to me,” I said.
“Why not?” she insisted.
I froze, unable to answer. Then Lucifer’s voice came from behind me, sweet and inviting, “Why not try it?” All eyes were on me, his voice stirring something deep inside. I nodded. “I’ve never done this,” I admitted, but my voice lacked any trace of fear.
“I’ll be gentle,” he said.
“Don’t,” I replied.
His eyes lit up, and the confusion of the moment hit me. Were we flirting? Was I drunk?
I leaned over the bed, and the sensations that followed were overwhelming and beautiful. When it was over, he helped me stand, and I adjusted my dress. “Thank you,” I said. He smiled.
“We should do this again sometime,” he whispered. My heart skipped a beat as I nodded, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl.
The rest of the night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him—his blue eyes, his perfect hair, his muscles. I found myself in a room where he was again doing his magic. And then, the urge hit me. How hard could he go? How much could I take?
“Would you like to try again?” he asked, making eye contact. This time, I removed my underwear, ready to see just how far I could push myself. I leaned over, held my ponytail, and heard him say, “I won’t hold back.”
“Break me,” I whispered.
The room filled with people, their murmurs blending into the background. Each stroke pushed me further, the pain building, the pleasure intensifying. I screamed with the final stroke, violent and vicious, and collapsed forward. He caught me, gently rubbing my sore skin. People around us clapped, and a woman approached, telling me, “You were incredible.” I smiled faintly, my body still tingling.
“Are you okay?” he asked, holding me for a moment longer. Nothing had ever felt so right.
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