Flee the room

After extracting the dildo from my ass and letting it drop to the floor, I run out through the open door, only sparing a moment to take in the orgiastic scene unfolding in the front of the room as seven of the pleasure models ravage the hapless inspectors.

Then I'm out in the empty hallway. In the distance comes the sound of rhythmic screaming and moaning. I attempt to retrace the steps back to the lobby. Beside the elevator bank is a stairwell, which seems like the safer way to go in an emergency. However, when I enter I do hear some noise above me.

On the first landing, a man is laid out on the floor, supine, scraps of clothing lying in ruins around his form. Two pleasure models are mounted on top of him, one sitting on his face, the other sliding up and down his erect cock. They stare at each other with inhuman concentration, their hands gripping each others' nipples. Under their breaths, they continue to mutter the mantra--"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

None of the threesome pay any attention to me, so I tiptoe around the bodies and ascend another flight. In the hallway leading to the front, I find more clothing scattered about on the ground--panties, bras, boxers, shirts, blouses, ties, socks, shoes, pants, scraps of denim and cotton--no people as far as I can tell though.

That changes when I pass through the door into the lobby. A dozen groups are scattered about--men, women, and bots all writhing together in sexual congress--their screams and moans and gasps echoing throughout the cavernous space, accompanied by the metronomic "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" of the pleasure models whose mouths are not otherwise occupied. The door outside has been wrenched off its hinges and left shattered a couple of meters away. Gingerly, I make my way to the entrance, avoiding any shards of glass that could pierce my bare feet.

I walk outside, onto the sidewalk. A car has come to a halt on the street right in front of me, slightly skewed, visible tires tracks underneath, driver's door wide open. The driver must have slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting something, presumably one of the bots. Given that she's now naked and bent over the hood of her car while a pleasure model kneels behind her--holding onto her writhing hips and eating out her pussy--it isn't hard to infer what happened next. I have to guess this was not the outcome she was expecting when she set out on her trip.

Going further down the road, I see more scenes of depravity in every direction. This has turned into quite the catastrophe--and I'm pretty sure it's all my fault, though I'm at a loss to understand how. At least the pleasure models haven't gone full Maenad and started ripping people limb from limb. They just want to spread as much mind-blowing sex as they possibly can.

I wonder what I should do next. Perhaps I can sneak back to my apartment, fall onto my bed, cover my head with a pillow, and pretend none of this has happened--although getting across town could be difficult, dressed as I am. I look ruefully down at my exposed boobs and cooch, already burning under the noon sun.

Of course, I have a different out. The police are bound to show up soon to sort everything out, and when they do, I can plausibly claim to be one of the victims of the pleasure models' depredations--hence the lack of clothing. Maybe the best course of action is to wait.