Page 3 of The Darkest Hour
“Fair enough,” I replied, noting the tired lines around his eyes.
Besides us, the only sound was the jazz band and the low murmur of the crowd in the background.
As I drank more of my bourbon, I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, an instinctive sense that someone was watching me.
I looked around again, and saw nothing.
Paris glanced at the woman and octopuses, and arched an eyebrow slightly. “You always find the most. . .intriguing places to meet.”
A dark chuckle left me. “And you've always been a fan of my eccentricity.”
“Is that what you think?” He shot me a sidelong glance before motioning for a waitress.
She hurried our way.
To anyone else, she looked like an exquisite piece of dark art—devoid of clothes yet her head covered completely by a black lace mask.
Her skin was smooth and pale as marble.
Her nipples pink and hard, and her pussy was bare and exposed for all to see.
She approached our table, bearing a tray filled with cocktails. “What can I get you, sir?”
“A glass of pink gin with three splashes of champagne.” Paris held three fingers up. “Not one splash. Not two, but three.”
“Yes, sir.”
I directed my attention back toward the black woman in the tank.
The largest octopus slithered further down her body.
The music from the stage shifted into an even slower rhythm, mirroring the octopus’s sliding movements.
Soon, its arms began exploring her pussy and legs, shoving away the smaller octopuses.
The trumpeter blew soft notes into his instrument, and each one sent erotic shivers down my cock.
And in the water, the woman writhed and shivered under its tentacles. A trail of bubbles burst from her parted lips and floated towards the tank’s surface.
The sight held me captive.
Such raw and uninhibited pleasure mixed with lush exhibitionism.
While her moans were muffled by her breathing equipment, I could imagine them echoing through the room like a seductive melody—harmonious to the sultry jazz notes permeating the space.
Fantastic.
Desire thickened the air.
I scanned the space taking in the audience’s reaction.
There, men in expensive suits sat, absolutely aroused, their gazes fixed on the tank.
One man near the front leaned forward with a silk handkerchief and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead.
Another, seated in the corner, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, as if the very sight before him was suffocating in its intensity.
A few men in the back discreetly rubbed the outside of their crotches, probably wishing they could take their cocks out.