FOUR of us crammed into a teeny, tiny elevator. A tall, handsome, besuited man with wavy dark locks and a 20-something Asian girl I presumed to be his girlfriend smiled at my male friend and me.

“This elevator is really small,” I said.

“Isn’t it cozy?” the man asked, a Cheshire cat smile forming beneath a black mask.

We were on our way up to the sold out Killing Kittens sex party. As The New York Post reported last week, the London-based club for the “sexually elite” made its NYC debut on Saturday night.

The carnal fellowship was founded by 6-foot, blond, 36-year-old Emma Sayle — a friend of the Duchess of Cambridge, whom she met when the Duchess joined Sayle’s for-charity rowing team, the Sisterhood, in 2007.

(Despite rumours, Sayle says Middleton has never been a member of the sex club. But she does insist that the royal “knew all about Killing Kittens. She thought it was funny. She was fascinated. Most girls are fascinated by it.”)

After the article ran, demand was so overwhelming that Killing Kittens founder Emma Sayle organised a second bash for this Saturday to accommodate the city’s throngs of randy revellers.

The opulent orgy was held at a swanky West 23rd Street loft with exposed-brick walls where, for $95 per woman and $295 per couple, kinky New Yorkers could have sex with strangers (or sex with loved ones while strangers watched).

The house rules, which were emailed out in advance, are simple: Men must not approach women, men must not talk to women (unless invited), men must wait to be invited, no means no — and only the kittens can break the rules.

A woman in thigh-high leather boots and a black miniskirt checked in patrons before they headed up to the fourth-floor, where the 120 or so guests were greeted with a glass of bubbly (after the Champagne reception, patrons could purchase drinks from a bar).

There were three flat-screen TVs playing “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and Bond movies — “Women don’t like porn, so we don’t play it,” Sayle told The Post — and, yes, plenty of oysters. The loft was split into two rooms — one of which was dimly lit and outfitted with two black-sheeted beds pushed together with a spectator ring of couches and chairs. Condoms filled two Nat Sherman wooden cigar boxes.

As for the crowd, it was … surprisingly normal and good-looking. There were dapper men sporting well-cut suits and pocket squares (a handful were in tuxedos). There was a young lady in a white silk blouse and knee-length leather skirt; another wore a floral, preppy sundress with a Chanel bag.

If it weren’t for the mandatory masks and the one 46-year-old woman — Gweneth Romein, a self-professed “Killing Kittens VIP” who sauntered around in a revealing Agent Provocateur get-up while demanding that people slap her bare derrière — one might mistake the gathering for any typical Manhattan cocktail party.

Until things started to get weird.

One man who looked in his early 30s approached my pal and me.

“I’m a principal at a major hedge fund and my wife is a media magnate. She is 100 times more successful than I am,” he volunteered as he inched closer and closer.

I asked why he and his wife of 10 years enjoy going to these parties. “We’re fit, we have good bodies and we like sex, and want to share our sex with others,” he said.

“But if you’re not feeling the chemistry,” he said, eyeing my crossed arms, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

By now, it was 10:30pm. The couple we rode the elevator with were making out by the bar while she enthusiastically groped his nether region.

I asked Sayle when the, you know, sex was going to start.
“If it doesn’t start by 11 organically, I’ll have Gweneth get it going,” she said.

Like clockwork, 11pm hit, and Romein grabbed a finance-looking guy by his striped tie, pulled him to a bed plopped adjacent to the bar and pushed his head down toward her crotch — while she chatted with the woman seated next to her.

Next to me, the Asian girl from the elevator had disrobed into a slinky black negligee that was essentially three ribbon-sized strips of fabric. Two couples were now half-dressed in the front room hooking up. People were eyeing each other like pizza at an office party. All the while, Sayle, Killing Kittens’ 6-foot blond matriarch, sat perched on a couch — smiling, with a glass of Champagne in hand.

I decided to call it a night. My adventurous friend did not.
He texted me at 1:15am.: “Wow. Lot of sex.” (And yes, he already purchased a ticket to next week’s event.)

“Even though most people had never been to a Kittens party before, it was a very confident crowd,” said Sayle, who says 80 per cent of the partygoers were participating by the time she bowed out at 1:30am. (The party raged until 4.)

“The girls came and got heavily involved quite quickly,” said Sayle, who recalled three girls naked atop the pool table at one point.

“Quicker than in London. Every surface was being covered.”

Source: news.com.au

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