Anton stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the stiff collar of his crisp white shirt. The suit Luna had picked for him fit perfectly, but it felt like a costume.
It was.
And he felt like a performer.
He was.
"Why do I feel like I'm about to walk into my own funeral?" He muttered to himself trying to fix his tie.
He was adjusting his cufflinks when the door creaked open, and Luna strolled in like she owned the place— well, she kind of did.
She was dressed in a tight fitting black dress - she always wore black, and she was holding a glass of red wine in one hand and her phone in the other.
"You look good," she said, checking him out. "Reeeaallyy good," she reiterated in a seductive drawl as she walked closer and massaged his dick softly, exciting him a little. But Anton resisted.
"Not now Luna," he said irritably, removing her hand.
"Oh you're such a bore," Luna said, backing away.
Anton sighed. "What exactly am I walking into tonight?"
