The air in the penthouse was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive bourbon and the sharp, metallic tang of arousal. As the six of us filed into the room, the sight of her stopped us dead—a visceral punch to the gut that had every one of our hearts hammering against our ribs.

There she was. Our "innocent" little waitress, stripped of every shred of modesty, laid out on the cold floor like a feast prepared for kings. She was exactly where we told her to be, her thighs spread wide in a vulgar, beautiful invitation that showed us every glistening inch of her.