by Amelia Wilde
How? How? He’s terrifying. Reya can’t truly be safe here. Can she?
“The uniform will do until Zeus sends more orders.” Reya reaches forward and pats my shoulder. “I’m not sure what he has planned for you. I’m not sure… well. Be ready.”
And then she leaves, the door shutting behind her with so much finality that tears gather in the corner of my eyes. I take stock of the hallway. Ten rooms, all of them with the doors closed except mine. Across the hall from my bedroom is a shared bathroom tiled in industrial-white with three shower stalls and two others. A stack of scratchy towels waits on a shelf by the sink.
In the shower, the water runs too hot, but I don’t care—I scrub at my face and my hair and the rest of me with combination soap and shampoo until my skin is raw, but I can’t get his touch off me.
I’m not sure if I want to.
I wash the lace panties with the soap too, wringing them out again and again under the water. Filthy. I made them filthy. He made me feel filthy. And something else too. God, it’s late. I wouldn’t be such a wreck if it weren’t so late.
The hallway is still silent when I tiptoe across the hall, back to my room. Nobody has occupied the other bed, so I hang up the bra and panties over the footboard and turn out the light. The maid’s uniform reminds me with every step that this was my best option. It clings to my skin while I spread out the blanket on the bed and get under the covers. It rides up to my waist, leaving me exposed to the sheets.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and pretend not to notice.
6
Zeus
People think that running a whorehouse the size of Olympus is all sex, but the truth is that it’s mostly bookkeeping. I’ve dismissed all my decorations from the room for the morning too, because I can’t get that new girl off my mind. Some focus on paperwork should help, so here I am, sitting in my desk in the sun, balancing my ledger.
One of the girls needs payment for a blowjob, and she needs it in cash this morning. I mark it off in the book and scribble the total on a slip for Reya. One of the others got spanked last night in a particularly involved session. She’s sought-after, so she gets a little bonus. This accounting could take up my life if I let it, and oftentimes I do.
Why? Because it’s easier than meditating on bullshit that’s already happened or the exquisite pleasure of killing a person. Fucked up, I know. But a man can’t rewire his formative experiences. He can only make sure everyone gets paid what they’re owed. That way, events like the one my asshole of a brother set into motion are far less likely to happen.
I flip to the back of the ledger to consider the bribes.
The police here are as corrupt as they are anywhere else, but they did raid Olympus recently, which might necessitate a heftier payment in addition to the concessions I’ve already made. The fuckers should forget a little faster, if you ask me.
The knock at the door is so light I almost miss it, but then it comes again, braver this time. “You don’t have to knock, Reya. It’s early.”
“It’s me.” Brigit is in the doorway, looking even younger than she did last night. Fuck me. There will be a run on her the moment I announce she’s for sale. “Reya said I should come here.”
“She’s correct.” I flip the ledger shut, tuck it into one of the desk drawers, and lock it. A person should always lock things away, especially when they think there’s no reason to be diligent. My father taught me that. “We’ll begin your training this morning. Close the door.”
“You don’t want everyone else to see what you’re going to do to me?”
Well, I’ll be fucked. The maid’s outfit was enough to make me hard. The stockings—Christ. But the nervous, defiant look on her face? The lifted chin?
She’s facing down an office made for fucking people in more ways than one, and this is how she’s going to begin our morning together.
“If you’d prefer an audience, I’ll gather everyone in the building.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
I stand up and cross the room, long strides, daring her to run down the hall. I wouldn’t mind the chase. But Brigit stands her ground, her arms pinned at her sides. She’s so fucking resolute that I go past her, leaning out into the hall. “Reya.”
She’s always nearby, so I don’t need to be this loud, but the effect is nice. Reya comes rushing out of her smaller office. “Yes?”
“Wake everyone up. Brigit wants people to witness her training.”
A hand on my elbow. “Wait,” she says.
“She wants people to see her pretty tits and her pink cunt. She wants them to hear her beg.”
“No. I was only—”
“What? Joking?”
She bites her lip. “Teasing.”
It makes me laugh. “You’ve been teasing since you walked in the door last night.”
“I was not,” she insists. “I was only trying to earn some money. An honest living.” Her eyes cut to the side. There’s no way this sweet, innocent thing wants to make a career out of fucking random men. “But if you want people to watch, then I guess I don’t have a choice.” Her eyes are delicate in the morning sun, and I can hardly breathe.
Challenging me, like this. Right now.
“I’ll give you a choice. This time, and never again.”
“What choice?”
Reya hesitates in the hall, waiting, a curious half-smile on her face. I don’t know what she thinks she’s seeing in this moment, but I’d rather not do this in front of her. I don’t know why. “Audience or no audience. You can choose this once. And then you’re out of teases, out of your little choices, done. Decide right now.”
“No audience,” she says. “Please.”
“Was that so hard?” I swing the door and push it closed with the flat of my hand. Reya will get the idea. I’m close enough now to touch Brigit’s face, dragging my fingertips down the side of her cheek and to the delicate hollow of her throat. Her pulse is a beating wing, and my own heart matches pace. “You’re so pretty when you say please.”
“That’s not true.” She’s barely breathing, but her heart—her heart doesn’t know the difference. “You pretend, but you like the teasing.”
“The fucking audacity of you.” It is nothing to wrap a hand around that throat. It’s everything not to squeeze, to show her just how easy it would be to have complete control over her. I have it already, but she doesn’t know. She still thinks there’s a way out of her cage. “How would you know what I like? How would you fucking know?”
Brigit dares to glance down to the front of my pants.
“That’s nothing.” A dick gets hard for a nice pair of tits.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Brave words from a slim piece of flesh who’s trembling in my grip, which is the lightest possible grip, which is the gentlest touch. She has no fucking idea. I’m a body of fireworks, explosions in a dark sky, and she can’t know, because if she knows….
“I don’t find this particularly amusing.” What I do find amusing is pressing my thumb into that hollow, counting her heartbeats. “There are other things that would entertain me better. Things that would make you cry and squirm. Things that would shock even the women in this house.”
“Wouldn’t we need an audience for that?”
I laugh out loud, because otherwise I’ll combust, curling up into a suit briquet. “You’ve made your choice.”
“Did you make yours?” She swallows, and I feel it under my thumb. I’m surrounded by ledgers and sex twenty-four hours a day, and I’ve never felt anything as sexy as that nervous swallow. “About what you’re going to do to me?”
“With.”
“What?”
“When you’re with a client...” Fuck. I cannot even picture it. I cannot imagine another man between her legs, or with his hand on her neck, or kissing her collarbone. “Say with. What you’re going to do with me.” I trace my thumb down and down until I can slip it underneath the collar of her uniform. She’s sti
ll, or at least she’s trying to be and failing.
“What if he’s not that kind of man?” Another swallow, and the tip of her tongue peeks out between her lips. “What if he’s like you?”
“You’re assuming I’ll do things to you, then.”
“Yes.” A breath. In and out. Another. “I am assuming that.”
I lean down, because I can’t help myself, which is a rare situation to be in. I’m not fond of it. But I am fond—so fucking fond—of breathing her in. She smells like the plain soap we keep upstairs and a sweetness underneath that has to be all her. I don’t know her last name, but I know that. I’ll find out her fucking last name when it matters. And it doesn’t matter now. “Do you know what, Brigit? I know exactly what I’m going to do to you. I know what your first lesson will be.”
A small noise.
“You’re right.” I drop my hand to her wrist and pull her across the room. She gets a hitch in her step each time we pass one of the round sofa chairs. Those are for displays, not for her, and I can feel her wondering, pausing. “Those are only for—”
“The girls who pass inspection. I know.”
We go around behind my desk, and I lift her onto it, perching her there. It’s a desk made for me, so I shouldn’t be surprised at the frank obscenity of her bare feet dangling from the side, but I am.
Shocked.
And hard.
Harder.
Fuck.
I take my seat, her eyes following every move. She’s put on the same expression as last night, but it doesn’t convince me nearly as well this time. It’s a fake. A front. What taught her to make that face? I want to know, but I want other things more.
“Spread your legs.” Her knees press together instead. “You know that’s not what I want.”
All her teasing amounts to nothing, and she blushes, hands gripping the edge of the desk. “Here? On your desk? Shouldn’t we do this on a bed?”
“Stalling for time isn’t as cute as you think it is.” Brigit opens her mouth but says nothing. Instead, she closes her eyes and edges her knees apart. “For fuck’s sake, keep your eyes open.”
She keeps them closed. “I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I really think—”
“Don’t think.” She must sense me moving, because her eyes fly open a second before I have her jaw in my hand, forcing her head back so she has to look at me. “Your job is to do. To obey. So if I say ‘Brigit, spread your legs,’ then that’s what you do. Without hesitation.”
Her lips close as if to form the word but. And then she thinks better of it and spreads her legs.
“Wider than that.”
It’s hard, on the edge of the desk, and she has to arch her back to do it, which has the effect of hiking the uniform up so I can see the tops of her stockings. I go back to my seat and watch.
“Now what?” I can tell it’s an effort not to whisper, and a hint of admiration takes root at the pit of my gut. She’s gorgeous spread out on the surface of my desk, so much more valuable than anything locked inside. A flush makes her bright red from her cheeks down to her tits.
“Now, pull up your dress. Show me everything.”
This time, she’s quicker to do it, yanking up the hem of her skirt with a rough motion.
Lace peeks out between her legs. I have a brief vision of shoving her knees up, pinning her down, fucking her on the desk, but I maintain the façade that I am a gentleman.
“I said everything,” I scold. “Your panties are in the way.” She lets out an embarrassed groan but hooks her finger into the fabric anyway, pulling them to the side, unveiling her delicate curls and pink flesh underneath. “Good.”
And then, because I am not a gentleman in any sense of the word, I wait.
I make her stay like that, on my desk, eyes open.
She lasts a full three minutes before she squirms and five before she speaks. “How… how long do I have to stay like this?”
“As long as I want.”
I get up and pull the chair to the desk then sit back down between her spread legs. She’s wet—I can smell it—and her face goes scarlet. I put a hand on her thigh, and she jumps, a squeak escaping her, but she doesn’t close herself off. Impressive. Next on my agenda: inch my thumb closer to that lace, so close I’m nearly touching it, and spread her open so I can see all of her.
All. Of. Her.
It’s perfection. She’s perfection, and she doesn’t have any fucking idea. She’s so embarrassed she can hardly breathe, sucking in sharp gasps of air. What an actress, except this is real—what a fucking show.
“Stay still.”
Some of the tension goes out of her—responsive—but she can’t get rid of the quake at the core of her. Her knuckles are white around the lace, and I can’t stand it any longer, so I bat her hand away and do away with the panties. They’re cheaper than they looked, and they rip easily, leaving only a faint line at her hips. Brigit pants but tries not to, which is my fucking favorite thing, and I put both hands on her thighs, locking them open for me. It changes her angle, and she puts her hands back to catch herself, knocking over a holder of pens in the process.
“You’re killing me,” she says.
“No, sweetheart. I’m keeping you alive..”
Brigit grits her teeth like I’m going to bite her. She’s right—I am. But first, I lick her, a long, searching lick that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her body wants to fold forward, but I told her to stay still, and it’s fucking delicious, feeling her fight for it. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, and I take more of her, exploring with my tongue. Everything. Everything. Down below the sweet opening of her pussy. Brigit’s nervous about that, squirms harder—yes. Around her little hole.
But it’s when I work my way up that she goes completely still, completely tense. Her thighs are shuddering in my hands, and I can tell it’s completely involuntary.
“Tell me.” Casual. Like she’s just another whore. “Has a man made you come like this before?”
She is staring up at the ceiling, so I can only see the curve of her cheek and the neat point of her chin. I can see the way her chest heaves before she answers. “No.”
Not a lie.
“Has a man touched this pretty little cunt?”
“No.”
“Have you?”
A whisper this time. “Yes.”
I take her clit then, sucking it in and worrying it with my teeth. Pressure. More pressure. A lap at her juices and she loses it, her body bending forward, hands wild on my hair. Her fists clench tight at the same time her pussy does, and if it weren’t for my hands, she’d be trying to crush my head with her thighs.
I’m stronger.
I’ll always be fucking stronger. It makes me feel very nearly tender toward her, this little desperate whore.
But it almost undoes me when she lets out a sob into the open air, and then a second, and then shuts her pretty lips tight to keep them in while she comes and comes and comes.
7
Brigit
I’m dead.
He killed me.
It’s the most pleasant, mortifying death I could have imagined, and now it’s over and I’m on the other side, if the other side looks like the ceiling of an unbelievably opulent office. It’s one of those tiled ceilings. It makes me think of Versailles, but I’m not sure why, since I’ve never been there, but I think I saw pictures of it once. Gilded patterns. Gold, everywhere. Gold on white on gold on white. Angels, singing. I can’t possibly be near an angel, because Zeus is still touching me, his hands warm on my thighs, and that tugs me down toward reality but doesn’t finish the job.
Still touching me.
And I’m still breathing, so I’m not as dead as I thought. Still alive, with heat in the air and an electric warmth between my legs, and I don’t know what the hell just happened, but it is like nothing that’s ever happened before. There are still tears on my face. They haven’t had enough time to evaporate.
/>
Oh, God. What do I do now? There’s no good exit to this situation, no way I can primly put my legs together and climb down from the desk. Zeus is in the way. I can feel him there without looking down from the Versailles ceiling. Feel his hands on my legs. Still pushing them apart. He hasn’t let them close. And I know, deep in my soul, that if he wanted to hold them apart forever, then I’d have no choice.
Once, when I was out walking and walking—one of my father’s only approved activities—I went into a small, unassuming store with the name painted on the door. The Fates. It didn’t mean anything to me until I went inside, and I realized what it was—one of those new age stores, with things like crystals and cards. The whole space smelled like dust and the faint breath of sage. I almost went out, almost, but a woman there in a gray dress—it was beautiful, but I can’t remember exactly how, only that it was—offered me a reading. A single card. What was the card? I shut my eyes tight and try to remember it, try to center myself on it so I can catch my breath, but it’s hidden from me.
Zeus laughs, like he can see inside my head, and closes my legs for me. They come together in a wet slap that is so embarrassing I could cry, but crying out of embarrassment isn’t a good idea. Not here. I won’t.
He’s watching, eyes golden, eyes like fire. Where, in my life, did I go so wrong—or so right—that I’ve ended up here? Zeus wipes at his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, and yes, I am dead. I don’t know how to come back from watching a man do that. His mouth was just on me. Between my legs. And now I’m on his sleeve.
I slide off the desk for lack of the strength to hold myself up any longer and put my feet unsteadily on the floor, shoving my dress down. It’s over. This is over, at least, and I can escape. The attic room looked so plain last night. It’s paradise. Or it’s hell. I can’t make up my mind.
There’s a charge in the air, like he’s about to speak, but instead, a door opens.
The sound yanks all the air into itself and pulls it out of my lungs and out of the room. I wish I didn’t have to look, but I do—I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.