Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
“If I unbind you, will you behave?” Zed asks. It’s been about thirty minutes—a.k.a. an eternity—since he restrained me.
“Maybe.”
He shakes his head. “I’d scold you, but your defiance is an aphrodisiac. You’ve certainly captured Scarlett’s attention.”
“Who?”
“The brunette you pretend to hate.”
I make a face, remembering her delight and my desire to smack it off her face.
Zed tilts his head to study me. “You should know that Scarlett has a penchant for rebellious types. You’re perfect for her, and she knows it.”
“This lioness isn’t about to be tamed by the likes of her.”
He laughs. “Well said. You have options. There are dozens vying to claim that blossom you’re guarding and unfurl it one petal at a time. ”
“Blossom? Unfurl?” I roll my eyes. “I never would’ve pegged you as Smutty Shakespeare, but here we are.”
He chuckles and leans over to unfasten the cuffs. I clamp my thighs together and shake my arms, feeling tingles race along the extremities. The crowd moved on a short time ago, called away by the sound of trumpets blaring. I wanted to ask Zed where they were headed but remained silent when I recalled him mentioning something about games. Naked linebackers and football-shaped dildos parade through my head as my imagination runs amok.
Zed helps me up, tucking the restraining devices into a satchel he probably conjured using some weird sex magic, creating some fucked-up version of Hermione’s enchanted bag. I wonder if he’s got a tent in there. Digging into the mysterious satchel, he tugs out my sandals and kneels at my feet to slip them on. I hold out my hands when he’s finished, expecting him to hand me the robe, but he shakes his head, lips quirking.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” My nostrils flare, and I clamp down on my temper, unwilling to be bound again and herded to whatever location he plans on taking me.
Zed turns and heads toward the sound of cheering. I shoot daggers at his back as I follow, feeling even more naked now that I have shoes on. How is that even possible? Every jiggle feels more exposed, as though the sandals somehow amplify my flesh with flashing neon signs announcing a one-woman flesh-fest parade.
Lusty Lollapalooza .
That’s what I decide to call it as we round a bend, and I see a huge field of kink stretching out before me.
From a distance, it looks like a carnival. Masters and Mavens weave through games and food stands. A hum of activity permeates the air with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy. Interspersed among the higher ranks are naked bodies: Novices and Acolytes. I don’t see anyone from my group of new arrivals, making me wonder if some of them are in the… ah… games.
The grounds span a grassy expanse lit with bright lights and filled with the bells, whistles, laughter, and squeals you’d expect at any carnival event. But it’s just a facade. This is a sizzlefest of debauchery.
As Zed leads me further onto the grounds, my steps slow, and my mouth drops open. What would be a dunk tank in the land of normals and sanity is a woman spread-eagle with a vibrator on a metal arm just beyond her gaping sex. Contestants throw a ball at the target, and when it hits, the pleasure wand shifts forward and works a little magic. But it’s not enough. She writhes, twisting her hips to hit the spot, then screams when the device withdraws, yelling at the line of onlookers, begging for someone with a good arm to finish her off.
My squire nudges me. “Come along. More to see!”
I nod distractedly, my attention switching to a twisted game of Whac-A-Mole, where instead of a bat and rodents, contestants ‘wack off’ a cock poking up from a hole in a board painted to look like a meadow. I assume the winner is the one whose dick squirts first.
There’s a three-legged race, but this one has everything from three men, whose erections are strung together with penis-sized cuffs and chains to form a human triangle, to a combination of men and women who insert, literally, dildos as part of the human triad. Regardless of arrangement and *cough* toys, they have to work as a team to make it to the finish line, and apparently, going limp or visibly coming is a disqualifier.
“Holy shit! I thought pineapple pizza was adventurous.” I point to a small group engaged in something that looks like a kinked-up version of Plinko. “I don’t even have words for this. Is that a remote-controlled dildo?”
Zed follows my gaze and laughs. “Oh, my dear. By the time you join the games, your cherry will be well and truly popped, and you’ll jump into the fray!”
“I doubt that.”
“They all say that in the beginning, and then they’re vying for the best horse on the carousel.” He nods toward the spectacle of sexual delight, slowly spinning to a classic tune while those on board writhe for the onlookers who appear to be placing wagers. I’ve never seen so much skin and… naughty bits. The fleshy sounds of sex combine with laughter, moans, and shrieks, making my head feel fuzzy and my stomach churn in a not-entirely-unpleasant way.
I’m propelled through the veritable cornucopia of sexual fantasy. There’s a ring toss game, only they’re not bottles you’re trying to land your ring on. I catch sight of a milk bottle knockdown, but instead of bottles, it’s giant dildos, and whichever one gets knocked down becomes a pleasure tool for one of the waiting Novices. By the time Zed leads me to the racetrack, I’ve seen kinky versions of everything from cornhole to balloon darts.
Whoever created the whole ‘carnal carnival’ theme would give the gamemakers in The Hunger Games a run for their money in the creativity department.
When we arrive at a large racetrack, my skin feels clammy from the heat and the heat of everything I’ve seen. Zed motions for me to stand on a low stool that overlooks the track. He takes his place at my side, and I notice that the other newbies are spaced out around the entire track, each on their own pedestal with their squires.
My attention shifts to the scene in front of me. It may be a racetrack laid out in a mile-long oval, but those aren’t horses lined up at the starting gate, and that’s no ‘track’ on which to run or leap hurdles. Nope. What’s laid out before me is an entire obstacle course from a tire run to slip ’n slide. And, of course, all of this is to be done buck naked.
“What the actual fuck?” I mumble as my eyes drift from one obstacle to another.
Zed smiles. “Someday, I hope to see you at the starting gate.”
“The fuck you will! I’m not volunteering for that shit!”
He grins and laces his hands behind his back, striking a confident pose. “That’s what they all say.”
I huff. “Well, ‘they all’ are not me. You can suck a bag of dicks if you think you can get me to participate in any of this fuckery,” I say, motioning to the track. “Besides, I don’t run unless someone is chasing me.”
“You know, sucking a bag of dicks isn’t an insult here.”
I shake my head and mutter about the need to appreciate universal insults.
A trumpet blares and Madame Solara enters the field, followed by an entourage of Masters. In their flowing white sarongs and tunics, the Masters look like a flock of snowy egrets trailing after a rainbow macaw. The Madame sits on a raised platform in the center of the track, her entourage sitting below her to form a loose circle. Raising her arms, she welcomes the audience to the culmination of the games.
The trumpet blares three times, and the racers bolt from the gate onto the first obstacle, which happens to be a ball pit filled with lubed-up spheres, creating a huge tub of plastic quicksand. I find myself giggling and cheering with the rest of the onlookers when the contestants battle it out, jousting on a balance beam with huge foam penises. By the time the competitors make it to the final obstacle, the mud pit, I’ve seen so many boobs, dicks, and balls bouncing that my head involuntarily bobs along with them. The crowd roars when the winner crawls from the pit, shoving her opponent back into the muck. She climbs onto the winner’s pedestal to receive a gold medal and the crowd’s adulation.
All I can think is, I bet this won’t be on ESPN.