Decadence

Decadence

b
y

Monique Miller

Copyright ©
201
3
by
Monique Miller

This book is a work of fiction. The
names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locales or organizations is entirely
coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of
this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission from the author.

Definition of Decadence:

process of civilization's decline: a process
of decline or decay in a society, especially in its morals

immorality: a state of uninhibited immoral
self-indulgence

Decadence

The bass from the speakers thumped through
the floor of club Oasis as if it had its own life force. I felt it
from the soles of my feet, up to my chest, the rhythm a rerun, the
voice booming from the sound system spewing lyrics I knew by heart.
It was nice to feel something pumping through my body, under my
skin, other than my own frayed nerves.

Chris was by my side, emanating more good
vibes my way, more good feelings. He was the one that had ordered
and paid for my drink, a cocktail the color of a summer sunset.
When I asked him what it was he told me simply to enjoy it, his
smile reassuring me that he believed I was going to love it. I had
no reason to doubt him, I never did.

The concoction was both sweet and fiery, a
mishmash of tropical flavors that were easy to identify--mango,
papaya and scotch bonnet--with a base of alcohol, all of those
flavors cohabiting in an effort to relax me, set my mind at ease.
It tasted exactly like what I needed and it was making me feel just
what I wanted, and what I wanted was to be in the moment, with
Chris, feeling the music, feeling good, feeling nothing like I had
during the last few days.

I’d had a bad week, the worst I’d had in a
long time, which was saying something since I’d been deadlocked in
a divorce for the past year and half that was trying to rob me of
my sanity. My ex, who wasn’t technically my “ex” on paper as of
yet, was making me suffer for initiating a divorce from being
married to him, he was torturing me for wanting to get out of
something I was regretting had ever taken place. I’d never
regretted a relationship from my past and I was in new territory.
I’d never regretted knowing any of my ex-boyfriends--I’d always
thought of it all as a learning experience, times of my life that I
could cherish the memory of for some reason or another. I’d never
been with a guy that I couldn’t think back on with some
fondness--after all, I’d been with them for a reason--but my
still-husband that I no longer wanted to be my husband was making
me see what the two of us used to have in a new light. I wish I’d
never gone through with our lavish wedding; I wish I’d never said
yes to his proposal of marriage; I wish I’d never anticipated a
future of him during the two years we dated before we got engaged;
I wish I’d seen him for what he truly was before I’d begun to
invest my heart; I wish I’d never met the bastard.

I needed this drink, I needed this
atmosphere--all the people surrounding me, dancing, the screaming
conversations, the energy, and the lust, all of it--to take me away
from my thoughts, release me from the mental anguish that I was
feeling.

And I needed Chris to help relieve some of
the tension. He was good at it, he was doing it, he was the first
person I called, the first person I thought of who I could count on
to be with tonight to wipe away the angst of the week before so I
could focus on tackling the week ahead.

But right now I vowed to live it up, take my
mind off my problems the best way I knew how.

“What are we doing tonight?” Chris leaned
towards me and asked, smelling delectable. From his mouth came the
commingling aromas of cinnamon and mint tinged with liquor, an
almost heady combination that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. His
body held the fragrance of Ultra Violet, his usual cologne that not
many other men wore, but it was one he’d been wearing for years.
His signature. Apart from his handsome face, his perfect body, and
his smile that was completely contagious, the way he smelled alone
was enough to make any woman’s panties drop.

Good thing I wasn’t wearing any to begin
with.

I took another swallow of my drink and leaned
in toward him and said, “I’m thinking tag team.”

He didn’t look fazed or surprised by my
craving, and already his eyes were scanning the crowd, taking in
the bounty of what we had to choose from. Whenever he asked me what
we were doing later in the night there were usually only one of two
choices: Either we were spending some one-on-one time back at his
place or mine where we’d eat some, talk some, and we’d definitely
end up taking out any frustration we had out on one another in the
form of sexercise, or we ended up in a game of sexual tag team
where the need for distraction from anything tame and normal was
first and foremost. Tag teaming provided the escape we needed, the
dominance that translated to power, it was about finding someone
beautiful and screwing their brains out, and having our own minds
blown in the process. As of late the one-on-one time was becoming
less and less and we were both opting for the distractions on a
regular basis. We knew enough about one another’s personal lives
and dilemmas to not get offended about the other person’s need to
be released from our own realities.

“How about her?” Chris nodded towards a
brunette with short hair, bad skin piled with makeup on an almost
rat-like face, but I had to admit she had a tight little body--the
kind that had a tendency to catch a man’s attention and make them
forget the girl in question even had a face unless she was giving
him head, and even then only her lips, mouth and throat skills
mattered; all the guy had to do was lie back, shut their eyes, and
let her go to work. What face? They forgot she had one. Fucking
men.

“Wow, I didn’t know you liked Doberman
Pinchers,” I said casually.

“A tad harsh?” he raised an eyebrow at
me.

“A lot honest?” I countered. “Don’t try and
turn me into a villain.”

“Then don’t be evil.”

I stuck my middle finger up at him. Still
unfazed as he went back to scanning the crowd, about a minute later
he asked, “How about that blond?”

“How about no.”

“She’s kinda cute.”

“If you live in District 11 and you’ve
forgotten what hot people actually look like.”

“She is not that bad!”

“If you don’t count the bad boob job, the bad
lip job, the crazy eyelift, the fact that she bought her clothes
two sizes too small from the swat meet, her Chiclets-like veneer
job, and the fact that she’s probably only twenty-five and she’s
had all that stuff done, then yeah, she’s alright.”

“Fuckin’ hell…” he breathed. “Moving on,
then.”

“Please do,” I said as I roll my eyes at
him.

He didn’t say anything for a while, sipped
his drink, his eyes going from me to the people dancing around us,
then back to me again. He was analyzing me and it was making me
feeling just a tad bit uncomfortable.

Sometimes I forgot he’d gotten his psych
degree years ago since he’d chosen a different field altogether and
had decided to become a contractor. There was more money in
contracting. Leave it up to him and he’d be teaching a Psych class
at the local college rather than doing what he was doing, but he
had a family to think of, to take care of, and he knew that
sometimes it wasn’t about what you wanted to do, but about what you
had to do.

Chris was a low key type of guy. Very down to
earth, very real, this wasn’t easy to find in a guy with a face
like his. He was the type of handsome that made women of all ages
nearly break their necks just to get a second glance at his full
lips, his hypnotic eyes, that perfect bone structure, that physique
that made him look like he spent hours at the gym at least six days
a week. Guys that looked like him were typically very vain or
extremely gay, or both, and rarely was there the guy with looks
like his that didn’t try and flaunt them by being in the spotlight
and taking advantage of all they could get in the name of genetics.
If Chris had his way we’d probably be together, sitting back at his
place right now, watching whatever shows played on prime-time
Friday night eating a pizza, relaxing or trying to relax.

It had been my idea from the start to go on
these little hunts, these sexual preying excursions. These little
hunting parties of ours got my adrenaline pumping; finding the
perfect person to take back to the condo on the other side of town
had become a sport I enjoyed. I’d had to talk him into it, told him
if he didn’t like it we didn’t have to do it anymore. He’d liked it
alright; now he was a more than willing participant in the
game.

Tonight, though, I wanted
him in charge of our pursuit. I wanted him to spot the
prize,
our
prize, and bring them home. We were both in charge, but he
knew I liked him to take the lead, exerting his power over me, over
whoever we brought home with us. Every now and again I played the
dominatrix, but that was a seldom occurrence, few and far times in
between.

However, tonight I wasn’t getting much of a
choice since all Chris was doing was choosing at random, thinking
of his dick only and not taking my needs into account as he usually
did. He was choosing women he would have a one night stand with
instead of a girl we could both enjoy, someone worthy of hours at
the condo across town we used for these little escapades of
ours.

The condo was in the newest building that had
been built only three years ago in the northern part of our city.
The co-op was selective and had a wait list a mile long. It was an
area and a building people coveted, that some would give limbs and
blood for if that would get them bumped up even one notch on the
list. It was a place that was insanely expensive which my
husband--whom I no longer wanted to even look at--had bought with
his pocket change without batting an eyelash. The condo had been a
gift to me, but one he wanted back out of spite.

Chris’s mind wasn’t in or on the game
tonight. His mind was obviously somewhere else, and it was
beginning to (irrationally) piss me off.

“How about…him?” I motioned towards a tall
solidly built guy with skin the color of dark chocolate, a smile
that showed white teeth that gleamed attractively next to his
complexion. He could’ve been a spokesman for Colgate. He was cute,
not really my type, but I knew that mentioning another guy to Chris
would snap his attention back to me instead of wherever else his
mind was wandering off to. It was a dirty game to play with a
person, but I didn’t mind getting filthy every now and again. In
fact, sometimes dirty games were my specialty.

Chris frowned at me, but I was playing
innocent.

“What? You always get to have your cake and
eat it, too, along with ice cream; why not invite another guy along
for the ride?” I took another sip of my drink, felt the burn of it,
tasted its sweetness, savored all of it as I let my words sink in,
watched them take effect on my companion.

“For one thing, you said to me a long time
ago that having one dick in your face--and your bed--was more than
enough,” he said looking into my eyes, as I could see a little
anger boiling to the surface behind his. “Second of all, you’ll
never catch me in or near a bed with another wagging dick, trust me
on that.”

He was pissed at me now for bringing it up
and that could go either way, but it wasn’t long--a few seconds at
the most--before his expression softened just as quickly as it had
hardened. Without saying another word, a minute later he grabbed my
hand and guided me toward the stairs that led up to the manager’s
office, but turned and went down the dark hall of the place and
into out of the back exit that not many people knew about. Oasis
was owned by a close mutual friend of ours, and even though we
didn’t frequent the club, we still had certain privileges that
other patrons did not, such as always having a spot in the VIP
section when we actually did happen to show up along with knowing
about little nooks and crannies and escape hatches that only a
handful of people were privy to. That back exit didn’t lead out
into an alleyway filled with foul smelling garbage, a concrete
floor covered in piss, or section 8 housing for rats, but to a
private garage fit for only about five vehicles. But it wasn’t
parking space Chris was looking for, only a minimal of noise from
the overly loud space we’d just come out from so we wouldn’t have
to yell our private conversation over music and strangers.