She cupped the crotch of inky-dark panties. Touseling the fringed vanity of lacy flocculence that emerged at the apex.

Constance next checked the seam of her sloe-colored silk stockings.

Examined the elastic fastenings of her high-rise black garter belt.

The lady’s tapering toes were secured within the scaffolding of jet lizard skin stiletto-heeled fuck-fuck-fuck-me pumps.

She gave out with a bump to her rump.

Fiddled with her fish.

Observed the fuckfray in sway across the ballroom floor.

Her heart began to thump at the display.

Debutante whores.

Fatuous, amoral bores.

Evening dress in disarray.

Pubes piled in the bodices of evening gowns.

Simpering satyrs prancing arrogantly in tattered top hat, white tie, and tails wailed in the oral embraces of cocksuckering blueblood wenches.

Constance leapt upon a marble pedestal carved in the form of a truncated lonian column. She crouched as she brought an opened bottle of Lafitte Rothschild 1963 up between her knees.

Her spike heels lifted from the marble as her asscheeks cracked open.

Constance took the bung of the wine bottle into her blowhole.

Twisted it in past the rim.

“Enough!”

She chewed her lips to strips as she assfucked herself. Juice of the vine, of fine vintage, sluicing her thirsting innards.

Constance saw through the bay window the arrival of a yellow Ferrari with her alleged escort, Sir Lance Fondulac trailing his chamois-kid glove in a wave toward the self-flicking Constance.

She got down on her haunches and drove the bottle of vintage wine farther up her ass. Wiggling her clit, she observed still more revelers as they arrived.

A dark Daimler limousine ejected a party of men in Middle Eastern garb.

A female chauffeur in open-breeched livery opened the door to the coach of a sky-blue Rolls Royce Phaeton convertible.