Confessions from the Velvet Table

Part 1 - Arrival

12:36am — home, barely functioning but determined to document this madness before it fades

My darling diary, my treacherous confidante, tonight I was an absolute menace, and I regret nothing.

I’ve just flung myself onto my bed like a melodramatic Victorian heroine, except instead of swooning over poetry, I’m trembling from candlelight, mischief-making, and the kind of indulgence that should come with a warning label.

My pussy is soaking wet from the dripping cum. I have no idea where my favourite little g-string is…

Let me begin.

Leonard Ashbury, patron saint of decadent nonsense, hosted what he called a “murder mystery dinner”. That phrase does not do the thing justice. It was less “light entertainment after dessert” and more “an aristocratic fever dream disguised as a social event”. It was a ridiculous, delicious, outrageously indulgent dinner party, otherwise known as The Velvet Masquerade.

Honestly, if all men threw parties like that, civilisation would never have advanced past the chaise lounge.

There were eight of us in total: the butler (silent, efficient, unnervingly omnipresent), Leonard (our host, detective, and ego in a suit), and six women were each given cards with motives, alibis and clues. Think Cluedo meets burlesque cabaret porn.

I drew Delilah Thorn, which felt fitting. If you’re going to play a role, why not play one who enjoys being wicked?

The dining room felt like stepping into someone’s fantasy: dim amber light, candles flickering like they were trying to seduce the air itself, and a table that shone like polished temptation. Even the butler glided about like a rumour whispered between lovers.

The six women entered (admittedly I had invited each one) and they were each more dangerously glamorous than the last.

I wore a dress that, frankly, did not so much “cover” me as “gesture vaguely at the concept of clothing”. And I chose it on purpose. If I’m cast as a femme fatale, I am going to fatale to the absolute extreme.

Dearest Diary, let me introduce you to my friends before I continue.

It will make it easier to understand their deliciously wicked behaviour tonight.

The Women of The Velvet Masquerade (Aka: The most intoxicating chaos I could have possibly assembled)

• Delilah Thorn (me)An intelligent, BBW femme fatale with a taste for control, mischief, and beautifully dangerous games.Specialty: slow-burn intimacy, the girlfriend experience you wouldn’t take home to meet mother.

• Lady Violette TemptasiaA velvet-voiced seductress whose languid charm hides razor-sharp intuition.Specialty: Mistress energy delivered with an elegant smile that will leave you asking (politely) for more.

• Miss Scarlett FoxglovePlayful chaos wrapped in glamour, forever three seconds away from harmless catastrophe.Specialty: temptation disguised in a nymph like body, luring you into her world, capturing you with exquisite deep throat BBBJs

• Madame Aurelia NoirA mysterious, poised, richly-toned enchantress with a Caribbean accent, who turns every whisper into a secret you ache to hear.Specialty: an unbearably slow, sensual tease — she savours anticipation like it’s a fine wine.

• Bella SilkheartA soft-spoken, waif-like beauty with a hidden wildfire beneath her blushes.Specialty: a sweet ingénue façade masking a daring streak; she enjoys being watched far more than she admits.

• SerenaA serene, runway-sculpted goddess, flexible, lithe and gracefully dangerous with a spark of spice.Specialty: she has a reputation that precedes her — and she never confirms nor denies a thing.

I digressed, let me get back to the evenings entertainment:

The Victim Unveiled

Then came the moment the Victim revealed herself. Serena. 

Brave, serene, delicious Serena. Of course it was Serena. 

She surrendered to her role with a quiet confidence that made every one of us catch our breath. 

Serena didn’t simply accept the role, she abandoned herself to the role, surrendering  the way a flame arrives to a wick: silently, inevitably, with a promise of heat.

The music shifted before she took her first step.

A low, decadent thrum.Velvet bass.

Something designed to make the air hold its breath.

She stood at the end of the table, wrapped in a gown the colour of midnight spilled across satin, a dress that clung, draped, suggested, but never confessed. The fabric shimmered with each tiny movement, as though the dress itself was aware it was about to become irrelevant.

Her gaze swept the room, slow, claiming, amused.

She knew we were watching.

She began her unravel slowly, fingertips along her collarbone, a teasing sweep down the line of silk.

Serena raised her hands and gathered a single shoulder strap between her fingers.She didn’t tug.

She merely considered it, letting the possibility ripple through the guests like heat from a candle flame.

Only then did she begin.

A slow glide of fingertips along her collarbone.

A teasing sweep down the line of the strap.

The barest tilt of her head — an unspoken command for the room to lean closer.

And we did.

Every one of us.

The first strap slipped.

A sigh moved through the table like a tide.

The second followed, but not before she paused. Statuesque, wicked, letting stillness do the seduction. Serena understood the golden rule of tease: what you don’t show has more power than what you do.

With a gentle roll of her shoulders, the gown spilled downward in a soft cascade, pooling at her feet like obedient silk. 

She stepped out of it slowly, deliberately, the arch of her foot elegant, the candles flicker.

He pert breasts shimmering in the glow, nipples erected, inviting, beckoning. The curve of her body, gently giving way to her sweetest treasures. Her long limbs positioned for to tease, not tell. 

She stood poised, adorned in far less but somehow commanding far more.

Then she lifted her chin, like a queen accepting adoration, and placed one knee, then the other, onto the edge of the table. The butler was there before any of us registered the movement, offering a hand as though assisting royalty into a carriage.

Her ascent onto the table was a performance in itself:a slow unfurling, a sensual prowl, a choreographed surrender to gravity and spotlight. She lay back with a dancer’s precision, limbs arranging themselves like a painting she had stepped into.

The candles cast shifting honeyed light across her form.Her breathing softened into something theatrical and inviting, her expression serene but with that unmistakable spark — the one that said she was fully aware of her effect and enjoying it.

And the entire room felt it.

By the time she exhaled, settling deeper into the pose, the women were leaning forward, and Leonard… well.Leonard’s pulse was visible in his throat.

Serena had not simply taken her place on the table, she had claimed it.

The butler moved the way candle smoke would, if it ever decided to grow hands and learn etiquette.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Just… inevitable.

As soon as Serena lay back on the table, the butler stepped into the glow of the candelabras - silent, immaculate, expressionless in that way only the profoundly trained or profoundly mysterious manage to be.

Every gesture was a ritual.

Every placement, a vow.

They began by adjusting the fall of Serena’s hair, sweeping it to one side with a soft, reverent stroke, as though preparing a shrine. The room barely breathed; even the candles seemed to still themselves so as not to disrupt the symmetry.

They inspected the table first. A final check, a guardian ensuring the stage was perfect.

Then they turned to Serena.

From a lacquered tray they lifted the first item: a single sugared fig, glistening faintly under the light.

They placed it just above the curve of her hip, their gloved fingers so precise it felt like choreography.

Next came a cluster of dark cherries, their stems intertwined.

They arranged them near the line of her ribcage, spacing them as though composing a still-life painting.

A petal.

A slice of peach.

A curl of citrus zest.

Each laid down with a measured pause in between. A heartbeat’s worth of stillness where he seemed to assess the moment before moving on. It made the arrangement feel intentional, ceremonial, almost sacred.

At one point, the butler tilted their head ever so slightly, observing Serena’s breathing. They adjusted the placement of a delicate chocolate shard so that it aligned perfectly with the rise and fall of her inhales. It was artistry, not service.

They never touched more than necessary, and when he did, it was through the impeccable barrier of white gloves, respectful, dispassionate, and yet somehow humming with significance.

Then came the wine.

They lifted the decanter and poured only a thread’s worth into a tiny crystal cup.

They placed it beside Serena’s hand, not for her to drink, but simply because the ritual called for it, a symbolic offering in a performance built on suggestion.

They wiped the rim of the glass with a linen cloth, aligning the cup parallel to her arm. The precision bordered on supernatural.

Finally, they stepped back, giving the table, the tableau, one final, sweeping inspection.

Not a glance was wasted.

Not a moment rushed.

When they seemed satisfied that Serena had been transformed into the perfect centrepiece: feast, art, and muse in one breath, they placed the linen cloth over their forearm, bowed shallowly to Leonard, then faded into the background like a secret withdrawing itself.

It was as though the ritual had summoned them, and once complete, they slipped back into whatever exquisite silence they lived in between such performances.

The room exhaled only once they was gone.