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*As I’ve done before, I’m posting this short introduction as a preview to the full story; I’m currently finishing it off and it’ll be up on Literotica in the next week or so.*

**

In a city I won’t care to name there is a building. Modest, normal; it wouldn’t look out of place in any major hub in the world, and you’d walk past it every day without wondering about what was inside. And for the most part what’s inside is, well, normal too: offices, storage. But then there’s the top floor, and the top floor is different.

The top floor is the lavish, luxurious home of a very exclusive club. When I say ‘exclusive’, yes, I do mean that the contents of the bar would probably sell for more than the average house, but it’s not just money that makes it prestigious- you have to know the right people. No, not like that, nothing sinister. But it takes a certain type. Adventurous, voyeuristic, good at keeping secrets. Very good at keeping secrets. I couldn’t believe some of the people I saw there, and I doubt you would either, if I was brazen enough to mention their names.

So how could I refuse, when I was invited? Fresh out of school and not yet quite to grips with networking. I was flattered. It sounded fun. Besides, I had never played poker before.

My date picked me up at around ten. I was there as his guest. I wore a dress that didn’t hide much and the necklace he’d given me because he said it brought out my eyes. I felt amused as he gave me his tips on the way there. Give nothing away. People will be polite and affable, but remember, they’re out for themselves. I nodded along, privately thinking it was overzealous; I’d done my research ahead of time, naturally, I knew what I was doing- and besides, it wasn’t as if I had a great deal to bet anyway. I was there for the experience.

I was taken aback as we arrived at the building and went inside, through the foyer I had all the time assumed belonged to just another boring business. This didn’t exactly look like a chic night spot. We took the lift up to the top floor, I smiled a little abashedly at my reflection in the mirror, and then all of a sudden we were there. I caught my breath. The top floor was different. It was like stepping into a spy blockbuster; a throng of black ties and backless gowns, cocktails and crushed velvet. And gorgeous people, everywhere. I had imagined an older, greyer crowd- back when I hadn’t realised just what this place was for. These must have been heirs and heiresses, or social media stars and starlets, or people who’d risen meteorically to the top of their professions. They were all rather like the building, I wondered, in the sense that you’d never guess from a look at these suave exteriors the sordid secrets that were lurking underneath, although there was a difference. In the case of the building, it got by through looking drab on the outside, and prompting you to look no further. These people were so glamorous that you could get lost in the exterior.

I was a little intimidated, but I made myself at home. There were soft couches, *chaise lounges*, little tables bearing more drinks and, curiously, something tall at one end of the room under a long curtain-like cover, like a piece of art about to be unveiled. I deflected questions that probed much deeper than my interests or my hobbies, which nobody seemed to mind too much- they were all doing the same. What I did gather was that a fair few people were like me, however- plus ones, dates out for a new adventure in this ritzy new world. I made small talk and enjoyed my date introducing me, though we were similarly evasive when asked about our status together- we’d said so far that we were simply ‘seeing each other’, which I figured was code for us both being allowed to cop off with other people. Boy, did I not know the half of it yet.

Small talk and champagne and long-winded anecdotes until a sudden hush seemed to settle across the room, and the majority of guests migrated to a vast, long table for the main event of the night. The chips were laid out, and I waited with faint anticipation to be dealt in. But my cards never arrived. They were distributed only to around half the guests- both male and female, but in both cases the more stylish, more assured half, including my date. I looked up and down the table to see if anyone else was similarly confused, but the others seemed entirely unsurprised and were watching with unabashed excitement and intrigue of their own.

It took until a couple of rounds of the game had passed for me to start adding things up. Each player, my date included, had their own unique set of chips marked with their initials. There were other markings, too- some were marked with periods of time in minutes, whilst others bore silhouetted illustrations, some of them objects, some others people in numerous poses. But it finally clicked into place for me as one handsome player proudly laid out a straight flush of spades and swept up the pile of chips, a clatter with my date’s initials amongst them, and gave me a covetous look out of the corner of his eye. I looked again at the illustrations on the chips and, like that moment looking at an optical illusion when the hidden image finally jumps out at you, figured out just what I was seeing. Lengths of time, positions, accessories. Sexual forfeits. I- and from the looks of it, the other companions and plus ones around me- hadn’t been invited to this game to compete. We weren’t the players. We were the prize.

**

NSFW: yes

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