Page 133 of Dominance

“Gloria, what have you done?”

“I had to, Sandra. I’m sorry,” I reply, bowing my head in shame.

“This is the worst, most horrifying, mortifying, thing that’s happened to me in years.”

“And it’s only going to get worse.”

Two bright-red, bulging pouches swing back our way, the tan, rippling muscles above and below them bumping to the beat of the blasting speakers in the party bus.

The most trashy. Sparkly. Oil-drenched stripper-packed bus in the history of sleaze.

“Come on Gloria! Put a dollar in his thong!” Lita laughs, licking the stomach of one air humping blonde.

“Better, grab that thang and give it a squeeze!” Tanya squeals, chugging another glass of bubbly. “Get you some girl! Before you have to keep it a secret from your husband!”

“Non-stop cock ’til we drop!” Lita screams, holding up a thousand-dollar bottle and spraying her immediate area with the foam.

At least it’s entertaining.

“Is there such a thing as too much cock?” Sandra mutters just loud enough for me to hear, her eyes widening as two hammocks swing dangerously close to her face.

“This is the definition of too much cock,” I snort, pretending to sip my drink and pretending to dance just enough to keep the hags from hassling me. Thank goodness he didn’t say anything to them at the restaurant.

Not that I don’t appreciate the effort. I might even enjoy doing something like this if it wasn’t planned and executed by Dom’s hand-picked gaggle of mob wives and daughters, who kidnapped me from having lunch with him.

A plan he helped put in place before he knew what I was going to announce to him over the bottle of wine he ordered at Le Bernadin. A bottle he didn’t fail to mention cost $500. Fortunately, he was so overjoyed by the news of my pregnancy that he overlooked the fact that I didn’t and couldn’t have any.

Sadly, it didn’t get me out of the silicone press gang that burst in a few minutes later to drag me to this strawberry-body-spray-scented hell.

“I will never be able to make this up to you, huh?”

“Oh you will. It just might take the rest of our lives.”

Ha. Little does she know that my life might not last much longer than it takes Dom to figure out I’m not really pregnant.

The first stop on our tour-de-slut is an upscale bar club in midtown.

At least it’s a break from the confines of the bus.

A few dances and a dozen guys trying to hit on us later, and we’re right back at it, cruising to another locale. I have to give them credit. These girls know how to live it up.

Of course, that’s kind of all they do, from what I’ve gathered.

Socialite seems to be the number one job of every mob-related woman.

Two more stops later, and Sandra’s giggling a little, giving over to some of the wacky games. Mostly to egg the other women on, daring them to more tawdry feats.

Tanya doing a champagne stand on two naked men’s backs will forever be ingrained in my memory as a highlight of the evening.

Only because the bus stopped abruptly, sending her flying into a face full of man meat headfirst.

A phone call and rendezvous with an ambulance later, the gals shouted for the driver to take us to the “Grand Finale” location.

Where they promptly forgot I existed or was the focus of this fiasco.

Slumping back on the bench at the back of the bus, Sandra downs her glass of rosé and lets her head fall to the side, giving me a look.

“That. Was?—”

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