On to the "Women's Room"

Sara manages to wiggle and twist out of your grip and pushes you away with a playful laugh.

"Come on, Joy," she teases. "I'm supposed to be giving you a tour."

"Alright, alright," you throw up your hands. "Lead on."

She doesn't have to lead you far. A short way down the hall pas the red curtain for the men-only room is a lavender curtain. Sara ducks through it and you hurry to join her.

You are in a plush and sensuous room, exotic silks hang from Middle Eastern light fixtures on the ceiling and drape over the room. The floor is covered with beautiful rugs and the hanging silks divide the room into open and airy tents filled with soft cushions. Within these small areas you can see women of all shape, size, and description relaxing, talking, kissing, and making love. The heat and scent of the sex in the room is lost in the thick aroma of clove incense and, your trained nose picks out, the scent of marijuana.

"It's amazing," you gape in wonder, noticing the sitar music playing above the gasps and moans and cries of women pleasuring women.

"I don't come here too often," Sara admits, "it can be a little intense and-"

A petite young woman with coffee colored skin pushes between you, completely nude, the dark nipples of her pert breasts dragging across your leather coat.

"Excuse me," she gasps, obviously high on something.

You watch the small woman's firm butt wiggle away. She drifts into one of the silky chambers and disappears in a sea of cushions with a laughing woman. All you can see are two feet sticking straight up, but you can hear moans of pleasure that you think are coming from them. It's hard to be sure, the smoke, the soft light, the music, the sound from every direction...Sara is right, it's very intense in here.

"Who is that?" You ask, gesturing to a woman seated atop a large pile of pillows at the back of the room.

"The Queen B," Sara replies. "She's sort of the den mother for the girls in here."

You study the Queen B. She's a moderately attractive hippie-looking woman in her late 30s or early 40s. She has big droopy breasts with pierced pink nipples and large areolae. Her tits sag sideways as she reclines on her cushions smoking from what looks like a hookah. She's only wearing a pair of pink panties and a pair of striped athletic socks. She has a large butterfly tattoo on her pudgy tummy and a skinny Indian girl, wrapped in transparent pink silks, is applying henna to her shoulder.

At the base of her throne of pillows several women - it's hard to tell exactly how many - are writhing in a pile of tangled limbs, flicking tongues, and wet pussies. The Queen B puffs out smoke from the hookah and waves at you in a friendly "come here" manner. You look to Sara and the older woman shrugs.

"Once she's got you in her web," Sara whispers loudly to be heard over the music and the cries of pleasure, "it can be hard to leave this room before the party ends."

"Would you...I mean...," you struggle to phrase the question.

Sara slides an arm around your waist and your leather coat crinkles.

"I'm up for whatever you want to do," she answers your unasked question and flicks your earlobe with her tongue.