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Victor
We’re unsure how, but not a single one of us—myself included—can hold back against Orchid’s natural allure. There’s just something about her. Whether it’s her generous curves, brave tears, her defiant attitude, or the way she begs so, so sweetly... Who can say? Perhaps it’s all her charms combined? Either way, one after another, my three chosen playmates for my little blow their loads in no time flat—uncharacteristic of us all as seasoned Doms and Dommes.
And while none of us manage to hold out long, the fun is in the build-up, the exquisite foreplay and tortures my PA is put through. Seeing her writhe, buck, cry, and moan against the St. Andrew’s Cross, leaking cum down her pale legs is enough to keep the whole damn club hard for days. It’s like she’s a natural. As if she was born to be used and abused—and thrive on it. It blows my mind. I find her strength and demeanor as she takes it all in her stride enthralling.
The poor little fuck slut will be sore for days. And the best or potentially worst part, depending on who you’re asking, is that we’ll be going back. Often. Orchid has captivated The Red Room, and I’ve been asked to put on a show once a week. Not that I need the cash, but it pays well, and my darling little will prove useful beyond her wildest dreams. With someone like her around, Mitchell and Associates will thrive like never before.
No client, judge, or cop will be off limits. I’ll have them all wrapped around my little finger, along with all their darkest secrets. Knowledge is power. I’ll have them all in my pocket, and the firm will be fucking swimming in more money than ever before. I’ll be untouchable and unstoppable. I’ll go global and represent internationally. And when people hear the name ‘Mitchell’ it’ll be synonymous with winning and unquestionable success.
My beautifully, chunky minx is like a gift from the Heavens that’ll keep on giving and giving until she’s of no further use to me. When she loses her strength, her looks, or her fire, I’ll either pay her enough to shut her hole for the rest of her days, or if she even thinks of causing me any headaches, I’ll just have her silenced for good. I’m not saying I won’t look after her in the interim. While she’s benefitting Mitchell and Associates, I’ll treat her like the fucked up little slut queen she is.
There won’t be a day that goes by where she doesn’t cry in pleasure, pain, or abject humiliation. I’ll make sure of it.
Wrapped in a red towel—courtesy of the club—and wearing my suit jacket, I bundle my exhausted and cum-drenched little into the limousine. She can’t even keep her eyes open. The sheer amount of dopamine and adrenaline flooding her system has knocked her for a six. She sleeps hard all the way back to her sad little apartment building. I don’t think she’ll be able to walk. Her entire body is covered in lash marks. They look hot, angry, and painful. For such a soft looking young woman, she’s stronger than I gave her credit for. She really did prove herself, tonight.
I tell Carl not to wait. Then carrying Orchid in my arms up the stairs, I buzz myself in. While it’s true that I love all manner of luxury and wear suits more expensive than most people’s monthly rent, I do know what it’s like to claw my way to the top. I wasn’t always who I am, today. So, sacrificing my jacket, and carrying her into a dodgy apartment building still fits well within my wheelhouse. I’d never let my equals see my softer side, but it does exist. I simply guard it behind an armored wall that few ever get to peek behind.
After decades of blood, personal sacrifice, and making deals with proverbial devils, I grew Mitchell and Associates from the ground up. And I’m sure as hell not going to risk my empire by being Mr. Nice. But tonight? I’ll take that risk. No one I know frequents this area. It’s beneath them all. This is where hope goes to die. But I grew up in a neighborhood worse than this one, which is why a fragment of my icy soul melts as I turn the key to Orchid’s apartment.
Flicking on the lights, her living space is revealed to me. One bedroom, a small kitchenette, toilet, and shower. That’s all there is to it. But even though it’s pathetic by my current standards, seeing it quirks my lips into a small, appreciative smile. There’re little expressions of her personality littered throughout the space.
A miniature cactus sits on the windowsill overlooking the street, while a poster of a cat desperately clinging to a branch for dear life over her fold-out bed reads: ‘Hang in there’. Her crockery—what little she has—is mismatched. Most likely hand-me-downs or picked up at thrift stores. A bouquet of faux orchids decorates her bedside table, along with a small lamp shaped like a mushroom, the hallucinogenic and poisonous Fly Agaric. The adorable, bright red toadstool with white spots most often seen in fairytales and children’s fantastical artwork.
For such a tough little thing, she really does have a sweet heart. So, why the hell does she want to be a lawyer? She hasn’t got the stomach for it. With a sigh, I lay her down gently on the bed and start looking for something to clean her up with.