The elevator hums silently to the penthouse pinnacle of the citadel. Glass walls frame the central garden below: perpetual blooms, iridescent butterflies swirling in engineered breezes. Catherine’s domain. Smooth marble floors chill my bare feet. She greets me nude, skin flawless, ageless at 130. Her hand traces my emaciated frame, lingering on heavy breasts, pert nipples hardening under touch. ‘Welcome, Sandy,’ she purrs, voice low. Caviar pearls glisten on a silver tray—black beads bursting salty on my tongue, first real taste since the collapse. Champagne fizzes, crisp bubbles exploding like forgotten stars. We sip on a balcony, city lights mocking the zombie wastes beyond electrified walls. Her fingers weave my long brown hair, pull me close. Elite air thick with jasmine, her engineered scent. No men here. Only us, preserved women, bodies sculpted eternal. She shows alcoves: women entwined, vibrators humming, geysers of slick release arcing. ‘Join us,’ they laugh, vulvas gleaming. I hesitate, hunger twisting—not food now, desire.
