One hundred and forty

The transition from the cavernous, echoing hall was like stepping from a primal sea onto the shores of a more refined, yet no less sinful, paradise. This new room was smaller, intimate, its opulence a stark contrast to the raw stone of the orgy room. Damask wallpaper in a deep crimson swallowed the sound of moans, transforming them into a hushed, luxurious symphony. Thick, Persian carpets cushioned our bare feet, and the air hung heavy with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, spilled wine, and the unmistakable, musky tang of sex. People were everywhere, draped over velvet chaises, leaning against mahogany bookshelves, their bodies glistening in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.

A nun with magnificent, grape-like clusters in her hands giggled as a priest plucked one from between her bare breasts, his mouth closing over the fruit and her nipple in one greedy motion. In another corner, a sister was bent over a gilded chair, her habit pushed up to her waist as a man behind her f