Velvet Masquerade

Velvet Masquerade is the most deceiving night on the calendar. It begins with elegance. Masks. Candles. Laughter. The sound of heels on marble. A full formal dinner is served beneath towering chandeliers while classical music hums through the ballroom. Costumed guests sip wine, whisper from behind velvet, and try to guess who is hiding beneath each mask. But by the end of the night, those same masks are streaked with sweat and spit, and the floors beneath them drip with everything unspoken and everything denied.

This is not a costume party. It is full immersion. Corsets squeeze. Gowns shimmer. Breeches strain. Every guest arrives with a purple wristband. That means no one asks. That means no one refuses. The mask is your shield, your permission, your invitation to become what you have always hidden. No names. No judgment. No limits but your own.

The estate is designed for escalation. Ballroom. Pool. Spa. Garden alcoves. Cabanas. Private lounges. Secluded corridors. Wherever guests wander, the atmosphere follows. Dancing turns to grinding. Grinding turns to fucking. Moans slice through music. A man is pinned to the wall by two mouths. A woman rides a stranger in the middle of the garden while another guest watches and strokes himself. A couple drinks champagne off each other’s skin and never make it to a bed.

The night is real. The pleasure is real. But the people are not. Behind every mask might be a celebrity, a CEO, a senator, an athlete, a tech mogul. Or just someone who has never let herself be watched before. But here she is now. On her back. On her knees. Gasping into a stranger’s hand. The celebrity piss drunk and eating her own shit in front of a crowd and still no one knows who she is. That is what makes it beautiful.

For female celebrities in attendance we offer a private retreat from your life and an opportunity to be nude and act out your wildest fantasies. Your identity is fully secured and you operate under an alias tonight. This is your night to get eaten out by eighty men and be gangbanged until you drop.

For male celebrities in attendance we similarly offer false identities for the night and a chance to go wild. Try not to blow your load and enjoy fucking as many women as you want with no consequence. This is also a depraved unlocked event, so no one is judging you when let a group of women piss on you.

There are no introductions. No real names. No titles. No social order. You could be licking Selena Gomez's bald vagina or sucking the cock of a billionaire and you would not know it. You could be pressed between two politicians while someone whispers that the woman you just made cum used to sing on Disney Channel. The point is not knowing. The point is never finding out.

The staff blend in. Escorts move through the night in costume. Musicians. Dungeon facilitators. Service assistants. Everyone is in period, in character, and nude beneath the surface. Only the catering team remains clothed. Everyone else is in motion. This is not theater. This is indulgence. This is a descent. Every hour pushes deeper. By midnight, the only thing that matters is what your mouth can hold and how long your body can take it.

Phones are surrendered at check-in. Logged. Secured. Guests may access them in a separate controlled room if needed, but outside that space there are no cameras and no records. If your mask slips while you squirt into someone’s mouth or scream into a stranger’s lap, there is no evidence. No one can prove anything. There are only memory, friction, and ruin. A chance to try depravity on a level you never before thought possible.

Velvet Masquerade is not a fantasy. It is a purge. One night where shame vanishes and identity melts. One night where your urges are louder than your name. Some guests stay upright. Some are dragged out soaked and twitching. Some return next year already leaking. But no one leaves untouched.