Silas (A Playboy's Lair Novel Book 1)

by S. R. Watson

  Tory started as a housekeeper on my staff two short years ago. She made it very apparent that she was willing to serve more than just my cleaning needs. I’ve never mixed business with pleasure until her—my only exception. Her contributory fuck keeps us from being tempted to play with our guests. She ensures we’re well satisfied for the month we’re out at sea.

  She slows her stride even more as she gets closer, unsure if we’ve discussed our time with her. She runs a nervous hand through her silky blond hair, attempting to tame the flyaways.

  “Sorry, Silas. I wasn’t aware you had company. I can come back later,” she offers.

  “Oh, we’re company now?” Alistair speaks up. The other two look just as amused. Kassius leans back against the chair and crosses a muscled leg over his knee. Her eyes follow before darting back among us, unsure.

  “Why the formality, my dear Tory? Every single one of us has been ball’s deep in you with the exception of Kassius here.” I pat him on the chest for good measure.

  “No fret, sexiness. Sharing is what we’re into, so you’re in luck. You have nothing to fear or be ashamed of. Your pussy is an exquisite unicorn that we all enjoy,” Valentine assures.

  She is not at ease, and I know why. She is waiting for me to weigh in—for my approval. I wink in her direction and give her my genuine “I don’t give a rat’s ass” smile. She’s not mine. I don’t do mine. She visibly relaxes as she pushes those fake tits out in pseudo confidence. Kassius perks up at the gesture. He loves tits.

  “Don’t just stand there. Come have a seat,” he suggests.

  I can see the wheels turning in that mind of his. His devious thoughts are paper thin. We all give each other the look because we know where this is heading. When Tory attempts to sit beside him, he pulls her onto his lap. She doesn’t stop him.

  Kassius slides a dubious hand inside her dress to cup one of her breasts, looking for any indication that she doesn’t want this. She licks her lips in anticipation, and that’s all it takes. He slides her dress down to her waist and catches a taut pink nipple between his teeth. I sip on my Macallan, happy to look on. A low moan slips from her pursed red lips as he buries his other hand between her legs. Valentine gets up and joins me on my side of the sofa. He refills his glass and settles in for the show. Apparently, he’s sitting this one out too.

  Alistair isn’t sitting out, though. He stands and frees his cock before joining the scene. Kassius extends him the invitation to join by first lifting Tory enough to slip on a condom. He then wastes no time impaling her on his shaft while Alistair inserts himself in that skillful mouth of hers.

  Moans and the slapping of flesh pierce the air in a hedonistic flair. My own cock stiffens to a semi from the sight and sounds. I don’t play well with others, though. I’m a selfish son of a bitch. The guys know this about me because they’ve tried to get me to join their orgies before. Besides that, I’m into some way kinkier shit, and I prefer to explore with her later, once they’re done having their fun.

  I know my reasons for sitting out, but Valentine’s reason is unclear. “Had too much fun last night, fam? That mystical cunt gotten to you?” I nudge him, and he laughs.

  “Impossible, fucker. No, I have plans tonight once we leave here. It’s going to be a long night, so I’m giving my dick a break. That, and sometimes I just like to watch.”

  This from the guy hosting the exhibitionist-voyerism cruise. Again, no surprise there. That’s his kink. He likes to watch and be watched. No more words between us as we watch Alistair and Kassius bend Tory like a pretzel. They leave no hole unexplored, stuffing her full of their cocks. Her face flushes in an orgasmic glow as she takes everything they offer her. Every stroke has her cries of passion reaching new heights until she’s literally stuttering out the word fuck. They’ve worked her into a position of double penetration now as all three chase their impending orgasm.

  Tory’s legs begin to tremble just before she falls over the edge. I knew she would be first. Neither man would allow themselves to come until she did. It’s in our guy code. Kassius and Alistair piston their hips in effortless synchrony until they both give in to the nut that was waiting to explode. They ease out of her slowly, and I feel like I should applaud that performance. They help her to her feet as she tries to make sense of the dress that is still coiled around her waist. I should have known she wasn’t wearing panties underneath. She’s sort of a freak like that. They escort her off—to shower together, I’m sure. That’s their other MO. That way they can get her to suck them off for round two. In return, they will get her off with their fingers. Once the condom comes off, no more dick is involved. I know my cousins well.

  “I guess our meeting is adjourned; wouldn’t you say, cousin?” Valentine has always had a penchant for stating the obvious.

  “I would say so. I would offer for you guys to stay for dinner, but as you’ve already stated, you have plans.”

  We hold these meetings as more of a formality than a necessity to make sure we’re on the same page. Often, they also give us some time to catch up. Pussy has shortened this trip, but I’m confident we’re on track. I’ll get my tech guy the client list based on what we managed to discuss. Using his patented algorithm, he’ll match the guests from the waiting list per our criteria and their preferences for our upcoming cruises. I’m planning to ask Kassius to hang back for a bit longer than the other two. He is the perfect suitor for what I have in mind—for the task I omitted discussing during our brief meeting.

  This must be some sort of mistake. I slow blink a few times to clear the illusion in front of me as the limo I’m in pulls into an entrance that says Bahia Mar Marina. There are just so many boats … little ones and ginormous ones. We continue through the parking lot until only the ships are left. These are the biggest of them all. That’s it. I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep on the plane, heading toward Fort Lauderdale. That is the only explanation for why I’m staring at all these ships in front of me.

  Then realization creeps through like a wrecking ball, threatening to unravel my sanity. I’m going to be working on one of these monstrosities. A fucking ship! When Thomas said I was being transferred to work somewhere else, he didn’t say anything about working on a ship. What kind of fuckery is this? Now, I regret not pushing for more details about this new job. Who is going to clean that floating city? I still want to hold on to the dream theory, or that maybe we’re just picking someone up from here. This can’t be my final destination.

  My illusion bursts as the driver gets out and unloads my things from the trunk. I only have three suitcases. The wobbly wheels and worn fabric are at odds with the luxury surrounding us. The poor driver—Adam, I think he said his name was—has probably never had to handle such beat-up luggage. To me, it still zips and still rolls, so it’s good enough. Everything I’ve ever owned has been secondhand. I try not to focus on the unfairness of it all. Now, judging by all these ships, it seems I’m going to work for someone who has even more money they don’t know what to do with. Why in the hell else would someone buy a ship this pretentious? These aren’t like the regular boats we passed on the way in—these are another level of rich. I don’t know much about boats, but when I was younger and naïve, I foolishly let myself dream about one day being able to get on a ship just like these. In the magazines left in the Neumann’s parlor, I’d see people smiling and sipping champagne on ships like these. I used to sneak some of the magazines back to my room and spend hours studying the lifestyles of the rich and famous. I wanted their life. One week in a private school in Los Angeles cured me of such childish fantasies, though. I learned real quick that I wasn’t their equal and could never hope to be. Those who had the money held the power. I learned my place—bitterly so, but still a lesson all the same.

  An older silver-haired gentleman dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt meets us at the limo. He introduces himself as Atticus to the driver and explains he is here to take me on board. He turns to me and greets me with a warm smile. The vibe I
get from him puts me at instant ease for some reason, which is rare. He stretches his hand out for me to shake, and I take it.

  “Hi, there. You must be Brennan. Thomas has told me so much about you,” he says as he grips my hand firmly. Funny because Thomas left much information to be desired about my new “home” that’s not even a home. It’s a damn ship. “My name is Mr. Davenport, but you can call me Atticus. I’m Mr. Lair’s house manager, so to speak, but on a boat. I see to all the affairs related to his staff and oversee daily operations.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dav—I mean Atticus,” I correct myself. “I want to start by being honest,” I offer.

  Atticus arches one of his silver eyebrows at me in question. “Sure. Honesty is always the best way to go,” he assures.

  “Well, when Thomas told me he got me another job similar to the one I had, he didn’t exactly tell me it was on a ship. At the Neumann’s estate, I was only responsible for cleaning a fraction the house. I don’t have any experience cleaning ships,” I explain, pointing at the colossal boats surrounding us.

  “I’m sure I won’t be the only maid working for Mr. Lair, but I just want to be upfront about my experience.”

  Atticus chuckles a bit but quickly schools his expression.

  “I’m glad you were honest with me, Brennan. It speaks volumes about your integrity. The ship you’re referring to is called a yacht—a mega yacht. It’s a type of ship, though, since it’s four hundred feet long. With that being said, Mr. Lair doesn’t employ maids. I don’t much like the term myself. Seems derogatory. We prefer the term housekeeper.”

  He pats me on the shoulder, and his heartwarming smile is back in place. I’m glad I got that out even though I probably seem like a dummy for not knowing these boats were all yachts. Then again, that distinction is more familiar to the people who can actually afford to buy one. Or in Atticus’s case, having worked aboard one.

  “You will get the training you need, but be assured that the staff aboard The Playboy’s Lair is plentiful,” he continues. “We have a crew of fifty-eight.”

  For the first time, I see the name The Playboy’s Lair italicized on the side of one of the yachts at the end of a wooden dock. Mr. Lair’s “yacht” is called The Playboy’s Lair? What kind of boat is this? A better question would be what goes down on this boat? What has Thomas gotten me into? Is this why he was so nonchalant about the specifics of this job—why he didn’t offer any extra info? An onslaught of new questions rush me, and my legs grow weak. I was safe where I was. I hate the unknown. I hate meeting new people, waiting for them to judge me. Ugh.

  “Shall we?” Atticus asks after grabbing two of my suitcases from the driver. I grab the remaining suitcase in a death grip. I nod, but the flood of butterflies in my belly is screaming hell no.

  “Is this everything?”

  “Yes, I don’t have much.” He smiles in understanding and nudges me forward to walk down the dock.

  The three large suitcases had belonged to my mother. I stuffed two of them with as much of her stuff that I could. I needed to bring her with me since I would no longer have the pool we spent time in. That was a big part of my memory of her that I left behind. I’m grateful I was able to find her sacred shoebox full of the pictures she took before I left. The old shoebox even had an old Olympus camera she used and a few rolls of undeveloped film. I looked through it all but didn’t find a single picture of my father. She had a plethora of pictures of different flowers in bloom and statues from around the mansion as well as a lot of candid shots of me from when I wasn’t paying attention. Sadly, not many pics of her were in that box either.

  At some point, I bump into Atticus, who is walking beside me. Allowing my mind to drift back to better times momentarily warded off my sense of dread. Now each step feels laced with lead.

  “I know all this can seem overwhelming, Miss, but try not to worry,” Atticus says like he’s reading my mind. “Mr. Lair is really a great employer to work for. I have been with the Lair family for forty years.”

  Something about him puts me at ease when he talks, like when he introduced himself. He reminds of Thomas in a way—nurturing. Maybe the name of the yacht is an inside joke or a tribute to Mr. Lair’s older playboy days. It could simply be just a name and not an indication of the type of boat it is—like that of the Playboy Mansion of Hugh Hefner. That’s it. I’m jumping to conclusions. Atticus seems like a sweet grandfatherly type. Not the type to work on some sex ship … yacht … whatever the hell it is.

  “That’s comforting to hear,” I reply genuinely. We finally enter the massive “floating mansion,” and I’m taken aback by its opulence. It’s absolutely beautiful. It looks like we’ve stepped onto some futuristic spaceship. Gold speckled, black marble stairs wind down from above in the shape of an intricate snail. Hanging chandlers pick up the shimmering lights from the water just below the staircase. Unique looking golden furniture pieces add cohesion to the space. I’ve never seen anything like this in any of the magazines, and I’ve studied more than I can count. I don’t have to have ever stepped a foot on a boat to know this décor is not typical. The Playboy’s Lair is by far the biggest and flashiest yacht here in the marina, so it makes sense that the interior would be nothing less.

  Atticus gives me a few minutes to look around before redirecting me to a set of gold elevators behind us. He places a black key card in a slot near the illuminated numbers before pressing the number three. It’s the last floor before the one marked TPL. I’m guessing that stands for The Playboy’s Lair.

  “Is this the floor where I’ll be staying?” I ask as the elevator dings on the third floor.

  “No. You’ll be staying on the first floor. Staff stays on either the first or second floor of the forward of the boat. This floor has the meeting room, a lounge, an indoor pool, and the dining area. A few suites are located on this floor, but they are for the senior leadership staff. You’re the only new hire among us, so I’ll go over the layout of the floors, your assignment, uniform, area restrictions, and most importantly—the nondisclosure agreement.”

  That last bit piques my interests. Area restrictions? Nondisclosure agreement? The sinking feeling that this is more than I bargained for returns with a vengeance.

  “You’ll meet most of the staff tomorrow. As they arrive, they have separate preparations to complete before we cast off. Some are already on board, but they’re situating the incoming guests. We cast off in a little over an hour.”

  “And go where?”

  Of course, it’s a boat. I didn’t even think of it actually going anywhere. It’s all starting to seem fishy, pun intended. Thomas had me apply for a passport long before the pool incident. Did he know the Neumanns were looking to get rid of me? He said that having a passport was better than just the regular ID that I had. I trusted him. What was he keeping from me?

  “I will explain everything, but first I have to explain some expectations and have you sign an NDA.” After a brief pause, he shares a little tidbit more to pacify me. “We’re heading to St. Maarten first with stops at several Caribbean ports to follow. We will return in a month.”

  Okay, that tidbit somewhat distracts me from my conspiracy ideation. I’ve never been out of Los Angeles before now, let alone the country. This would have been a wonderful experience for my mother. I can only imagine all the pictures she could have taken. Then again, if she was still alive, we’d still be at the Neumanns. They probably just kept me around for an acceptable amount of time after her death in an effort not to appear harsh. I can’t help the animosity I feel toward them now. They made Thomas tell me they were letting me go on the anniversary of her death. I try not to think about that sad fact. I have a chance to see the world, and I know just how I can pay patronage to my mother’s memory. First, I need to get my hands on a new camera—one of those digital ones.

  “This way,” Atticus says, leading me into a room with a large table in the center.

  More gold decorates this room with black and white
marbled floors. The chairs are white with golden legs to bring the continued color scheme full circle. Mini screens peek from the confines of the long oval table. High tech yet sophisticated. I notice the manila folder at the head of the table as Atticus pulls out a chair for me. I take a seat and pull it closer. My name is scrawled across the top in bold black letters. Atticus takes a seat beside me and takes the folder from me. He grabs a document out of the folder before handing it back to me. Suddenly, an air of business has made us more formal. No heartwarming smile to ease the seriousness of this moment.

  “I’ll summarize the contents of the agreement while highlighting the most crucial aspects in favor of time,” he says, waving the document he just took from the folder. “Stop me if you don’t understand or have questions about something. It’s very important that you know what you’re signing. You will not get a copy. It’s confidential and must remain in Mr. Lair’s possession.”

  It’s gone as quick as it appears, but I see it. Weariness. Whatever the cause of it, I’m embarking on foreign territory.

  Atticus discusses the NDA. He explains that there is no need to venture further if I don’t sign. He rips the Band-Aid off my naïvety without warning. This is a SEX boat! Two floors in the aft are not accessible to staff unless they’re designated to work those floors. My duties will be limited to the middle part of the boat, called the amidship, and is where the guests of the Lair mainly interact. The restricted first and second floor of the aft is accessible by two different colored key cards. Atticus doesn’t go into specifics about what is on each floor, only that it’s adult … i.e. sexually related. Guests take this cruise to experience whatever kink they paid for. They can’t visit both restricted floors; they can only visit the one they signed up for, hence the different colored key cards.