Stalling. Lots of stalling.

Taking the long route to the South side, sashaying your hips seductively, you draw the attention of every satyr in the den, giving the girls here a well deserved, if tragically short, break. Keeping close to you like she was your shadow, the receptionist guides you to the Gold room, while constantly marking Kiv and his pockets. When you get there, you turn sharply, bite your lip and wink at them all, before backing into the room, beckoning them to follow you with your finger.

Almost immediately, pandemonium breaks out as fists, horns and insults are sent flying. As you've hoped, and expected, the satyrs have lost control over themselves and have started fighting amongst themselves to try to be the one to fuck you first. Your eyes shift quickly, seeing the receptionist duck and weave through the chaos, narrowly missing being sandwiched by a pair of charging satyrs, and squeezing into the room. Turning to you, she purses her lip and shakes her head. Your eyes flash annoyance for just a moment, before the first satyr breaches through the wall of amorous, excited flesh.

Stoz, squinting up at you through his now one good eye from behind blood stained gold curls, wipes at his split lip. He swallows loudly, taking in the sight of you pinching at your breast and your fingers working furiously at your crotch over your outfit. "Fuck..." you gasp, making your eyes flutter and your body shudder on the bed. "Ooh... watching you boys fight over me... gets me so worked up... mmm... oh fuck... if you were the last one standing... you could do anything you want with me... Oh..."

With renewed vigor and the ferocity of a crazed animal, Stoz howls and throws himself back into the fray, murder in his eyes and insatiable lust in his loins. You feed every satyr that makes it into the room, that isn't Kiv, the same spiel, and delight in them beating each other senseless. But, you are getting increasingly annoyed at how inept your new ally is, that she can't even sneak a contract out of your mark's pocket. Then again, he is currently holding his own against four others, using a pair of broken table legs as makeshift clubs.

When he finally manages to limp his way into the room, dragging one of the legs behind him, he pants heavily, glaring pure determination at you with bloodshot eyes. Following him is the receptionist, looking equally frustrated at his torn bloody vest and somehow immaculately clean pocket. "There you are," you coo, holding your hands out, inviting him to come closer into the spider's parlor. "Your clothes are so filthy, Kiv. Why don't you take it off? And then you can cover me in something better."