We try to do our job, but…

…finding the VIP's room proves troublesome if one is inclined to understate.

Pacing around the doors of high-end suites, growing evermore worried, are a guilt-ridden Ahab, and his perennially flustered manager. They shift their powerful bodies in discomfort while looking over the chit with our intended—yet wholly obscure—destination.

"Do we have the number on this right? I'm starting to think we can't have it right." Ahab asks, standing abreast Natalie, shifting his gaze between a paper scrap, and the door nearest him.

"Maybe? I mean, there aren't too many rooms on this floor, but… is that number a seven or a three?" His manager asks right back, confusing the Hell out of me.

I hoist myself up on my muscular friends' melon-esque deltoids to better see what's written on their chit, and implore, "How could a three possibly be miswritten as a seven?— Oh." Laying my eyes upon the most appalling handwriting conceivable, I finish, "That's how. Okay, whoever wrote that is now a personal enemy of mine."

We pause, defeated for a couple seconds. Then, Ahab, looking absolutely delectable with his abs flexing in nervousness, posits a solution; pointing his thumb at the door behind him, he asks, "Well, if we can't tell, how about I just knock and ask if it's their luggage?"

"I can't see the harm in that." I reply, understanding full well the hundreds of ways that could go wrong.

He sets down both bags and inhales before knocking on the impassive door; Natalie and I enjoy staring at his muscular back as we wait, but, seeing the taut, parabolic curvature of that gorgeous ass, I decide his guilt isn't penance enough for laughing in my face after I got assaulted by that lesbian-cyborg.

Without his notice, I drape a hand onto each side of his microscopic towel, preparing to rip it off once the guests open the door. It takes superhuman willpower for me to not simply feel him up.

A couple of women soon burst forth from the room's depths, bringing an astringent **** stench with them; their lopsided, grinning faces beam upon seeing Ahab standing before them half-naked.

"Oooo~ Looks like the entertainment's here!"

"Hahaha! Where do we put the money, Sexy?"

"Huh?! Wait, I-I'm not—!" My guy friend stammers out, embarrassed at yet more girls seeing him in his glory. He reddens and recoils under their lascivious ogles— and that's when I strike.

Ripping the towel clean off Ahab's hips, I make his big, beautiful penis spring into view for this new audience; prompting some devilish giggles from the women who'd already been undressing him with their eyes— and a loud combination moan/gasp from his manager Natalie.

"Oooh~ He's bigger than I expected!"

"No kidding… that's hot."

"Woof."

"Shake your hips, Sexxy! I wannna see that thing dance!"

I giggle inwardly at their drunken cajoles and catcalls, satisfied with his continued humiliation.

"Okay, you're coming with us." the more severely **** lady says, before grabbing him roughly by the dick.

Wait, that's sexual ****.

Ahab, flushed crimson at the unsolicited sexual contact, freezes; allowing the two rapacious reprobates to drag him inside the hotel room without a hint of difficulty. Soon, a cacophony of feminine shouts and squeals from within the suite lets me know it's filled with women— rowdy, **** women who just got an eyeful of Ahab's everything.

There I stand, in the middle of the hall at a loss for words. Imperiled moans and panicked wails rumbling from within the room's depths imply that the women within are only beginning to torment the sexy man I swore to both publicly humiliate, and protect. I did not intend for that to happen!

Suddenly, I'm regretting my sophomoric attempt at vengeance.

Shaking myself out of shock, I shout at my Amazon friend, "Shit! We're going to have to rescue him from hammered, nymphomaniacal party-girls, aren't we?"

"I s-s-saw his penis." Natalie says, in 'blue screen of ****' mode.

"Yeah, for the fourth time today! Compose yourself!"

In a frenetic blitz, I wrestle with the room's entrance, only to discover the party-girls locked it behind themselves— my **** rush to get inside sounds like a serial killer rattling the doorknob to a cabin in the woods.

"No— Let me go!!— No, no, you wouldn't— *SMACK*—Aaahh! *SMACK*—Help!!—*SMACK*—Ming Zhao!!!" come Ahab's muffled screams from within what I assume is an **** fueled sex-dungeon. His literal cries for help aren't the least bit amusing to me, and prompt me to attack the door's handle with renewed vigor…

accomplishing absolutely nothing.