Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Sure, yes. I’ll be certain to include piss play.”
“And tit punching.” Paul jabs the air. “I want to bash her black and blue.”
My palms feel sweaty as I notch up my smile. Group meetings used to be so much fun in the early days. We’d be coming up with ideas for hours on end, concocting filthy scenarios that suited us all. What used to be a simple sharing of a whore through an evening edged further to the extreme, little by little. Now it’s almost a competition. Who can we push the hardest? Who can take the most? Which of us can come up with the most hard-hitting proposal of the year?
I’m relieved when the attention turns away from Tiffany and how Paul wants to punch her tits. If it went on much longer, I’d want to be punching him.
We have another proposal lined up before then, in just two days’ time. Seb has chosen Harlot, and tells us how he wants to bind her on all fours for twelve hours straight, while we all take turns in her asshole. Cocks, then fists. He wants to use the electric wand to shock her pussy into spasming, and clamp her nipples with pincers so hard she’ll bleed. It won’t be the first time.
Harlot enjoys filth, I’ve no doubt of that, but she’s come close to tapping out on the last two occasions, and Seb seems on a mission to goad her further.
He’s revelling in spilling the details of his proposal, banning us all from shooting our loads for at least 24 hours prior, in order to get the most out of her, but for once the idea makes me anything but horny. The thought of fucking Harlot’s ass while she’s being electric shocked makes me feel nauseous, in fact. And it’s not because of Harlot.
It’s because of Tiffany.
“What’s up with you, Reuben?” Bryson asks me, out of nowhere.
I straighten up in my seat. “Nothing, why?”
“You look like Scrooge, not Santa Claus. Did someone take a dump in the grotto?”
Bryson thinks he’s fucking funny. Sad thing is, I used to think so, too.
“Shipment delays are causing some strife,” I lie. “Over six of my malls are running low on premium items. It’s a nightmare.”
“I feel your pain,” Seb picks up. “One of our couriers has been an absolute pain in the ass this week. We’ve had a five percent increase on refund requests.”
The guys around the table wince, because we’re talking big figures here, and I sweep in on the opportunity like a hawk.
“It’s ridiculous, truly. I just don’t have enough hours in the day.” I pause. “You know, I might not even be able to make it to the Harlot gig. I might be too busy shifting suppliers.”
You could hear a pin drop. They all stare at me in shock.
“Miss out on Harlot?” Bryson finally says. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m well aware of what I’d be missing, Bry,” I reply. “But these may well be extenuating circumstances. Business does always come first.”
“Yes, it does. But I’m certain if you can make time for playing Santa, you can make time for ploughing Harlot’s ass.” He laughs. “Lighten up, Scrooge boy. Harlot will cheer you up a little bit, if nothing else. Seb might even give you first dibs as a founder favour.”
“Shut up, Bry,” Seb says. “I’m not handing out a founder favour when it comes to this one.”
Their laughter is back, but mine is empty. I feel nothing as I look around the faces of the men who I would call my friends. I’m betraying them as well as scathing their manner. A Judas amongst them, drinking wine.
The code of conduct was set up around this table. I remember it well.
We’re all in this together, or not at all. The damned drink with the damned, always.
We could never levy accusations, or use power plays with each other if we are all committing the same ‘sins’. That’s why we are forbidden to have personal interactions with our entertainers. The power of association is too wealthy to be gambled with.
Everyone is still laughing when Bryson’s eyes land hard on mine. He knows me better than anyone else here, since it was him who brought me into the circle. He can probably smell my unease.
“Extenuating circumstances only, remember?” he says and I hold up my sweaty palms.
“Yes, of course. Extenuating circumstances only.” My fake smile feels like a crime. “Shipping delays or not, I’ll do my very best to be here.” I hold up my glass of wine. “Cheers to Harlot, I can hardly wait.”
I hang around for as long as I can stomach it, trying my best to join in with the conversation as we discuss Agency figures, but my heart is pounding all the way through. There’s an impending sense of doom that won’t go away. Part of me wants to confess my sins and face the disciplinary standoff head on, rather than carry the thorns of guilt. But I can’t do it.