Chapter 20
Victor Slayn leaned back into his seat and yawned.
He shifted his eyes away from the stage and gazed out over the crowd, who were watching the performance with rapt attention.
Their figures were dim and indistinct in the darkness of the theater, but Slayn’s ears told him that some of them were pleasuring themselves as they watched.
Meanwhile, others were engaging in more mutual forms of pleasure.
The air of the theater was laced with the warm aroma of sex, and not all of it was coming from the stage.
Slayn hoped the staff gave the seats a thorough cleaning between every show. Probably not thorough enough.
Of course, he didn’t have to worry about that.
He was watching from a private box at the side of the stage, and he had brought his own seating—ergonomic chairs, custom made to conform to the shape of his body.
To be more precise, his bodyguards had brought them.
A man of Slayn’s wealth did not trouble himself with such menial tasks as the carrying of heavy objects, though his intramuscular augmetics and hormone regimen ensured that he was able to do so, if need be.
Now his bodyguards were stationed behind him, protecting the entrance to his private box.
Two more apiece were stationed at either end of the hall.
No would-be assassins would be reaching him by that route.
There was always the possibility of a frontal assault, but naturally Slayn had considered that too.
A set of small devices attached to the inner wall of the box projected an invisible force field capable of repelling any projectiles aimed in his direction.
And, of course, he had Inga.
At the moment, the woman was positioned between his open thighs, her blonde head bobbing steadily above his lap, her wet lips sliding up and down the engorged shaft of his erection.
Inga’s oral skills were not the most impressive Slayn had ever experienced—merely adequate, truth be told—and yet there was something about being serviced by such a physically imposing woman, something about having her kneel before him like a slave, that made Slayn’s cock harder than the diamonds decorating the watch on his left wrist.
Based on the way Inga was moaning down there, it sounded like she was enjoying herself even more than he was. She had a thing for powerful men. And money. Of course money. Slayn paid her well.
She dragged her mouth off him to catch her breath, and she stared up at him with piercing blue eyes. Her mouth was rimmed with saliva. It glistened in the dark.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Slayn smiled and shook his head. “Not with you, my pet.”
That wasn’t strictly true, of course. The woman did have one glaring deficiency, but Slayn didn’t feel like bringing that up right now. Besides, in a few days’ time, it would cease to be a problem any longer.
“It usually doesn’t take this long,” Inga said.
“I’m holding it for the finale,” said Slayn. “For the seventh team.”
Even in the dark, he could see Inga’s face color with jealousy. Though she would never say so, Slayn knew she felt threatened by the woman he was talking about. The one from the restaurant last night. Her jealousy turned him on. It was, after all, a form of pain.
“Enough chit-chat,” he whispered coldly. “Get back to work. I want to be good and hard when the final team takes the stage.”
Inga obeyed without question, and dropped her face back onto his lap, slurping softly as she worked her mouth up and down his aching length. Slayn rested his hand atop her bobbing head and checked his watch.
Eighty-seven minutes.
It had been eighty-seven minutes since the show had begun.
It was a long time to keep one’s cum inside, and Slayn was growing impatient, but he knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The sixth team was performing now, and thankfully, their time was almost up.
Theirs was an erotic aerial silks routine.
The performers, one woman and three men, were suspended from hanging ribbons of fabric, spinning and swinging their bodies to and fro while they fucked in midair.
There was, Slayn supposed, a certain aesthetic appeal to what they were doing, and it was undeniably impressive from an athletic perspective.
But Slayn hadn’t come to watch an acrobatics show. He’d come for sex—rough, nasty sex—and from that point of view, the performance was unutterably dull.
The competitions were always like this, though. Too much razzle-dazzle, not enough hard fucking. Slayn had actually been considering skipping the show this time around. Then he’d overheard the woman at the restaurant last night.
The .
Hopefully, she and her three companions could deliver.
On stage, the sixth team performed their finishing moves.
The female executed a daring double fallen angel drop that elicited a collective gasp from the crowd.
She touched down light as a feather, straddling one of the males, who was lying on his back waiting for her.
His hard cock sheathed itself perfectly inside her, and she began to undulate rhythmically, riding him gracefully as he arched his back and they both started to come.
The other two males came spiraling down on either side and proceeded to jack off all over her face and tits, painting her skin with a half-dozen sticky ropes apiece.
Not bad.
Slayn deigned to applaud, though he did not rise from his seat as the rest of the audience did. If anything, he was applauding the fact that the sixth performance was finally over, and it was time for the part of the show he was truly eager to see.
The curtains swept closed, obscuring the stage. The audience members sat down again as the applause gradually petered out. A hush fell over the theater, broken at last by the disembodied voice of the digital MC.
“Alright!” the voice said with far too much enthusiasm. “Let’s hear it one more time for Velvet Synapse.”
More clapping. A few scattered whistles. The MC waited for the noise to die down before going on.
“…That brings us to our final team of the evening. Give it up for… Heat Index!”
Cute. Very cute.
The curtains parted, and the crowd started to applaud again like an army of trained simians, but the noise quickly dissipated into confused murmurings as the curtains opened fully, revealing… an empty stage.
Had the lost her nerve, Slayn wondered. Surely not.
Lights flickered on the stage, and a holographic set materialized out of the shadows. A dark and dirty-looking alleyway complete with rubbish bins and graffiti. A far cry from the pristine luxury of Calyxia.
Intriguing. Most intriguing.
The silence in the theater was broken by the tap of high heels on pavement, soft and distant at first, but louder and louder with each iteration, mimicking the approach of footsteps in the night.
Slayn felt his body tense with anticipation.
In his lap, Inga moaned wetly, sensing the quickening of his pulse.
At last, the footsteps took shape, and a woman entered from stage left.
The woman. She was dressed in plain business attire: knee-length sheath skirt, matching gray blazer, black blouse, string of artificial pearls, handbag.
The only details that were out of place were her shoes—five-inch stilettos better suited for a fashion runway.
But then, this was a fantasy. A dark one, Slayn suspected.
He leaned forward slightly to retrieve his opera glasses off the ledge where he had placed them earlier. Inga started to lift her head from his lap, perhaps wishing to see what had roused his attention, but he pushed her back down again with a gentle growl.
“No, no. Keep sucking, my pet. Keep it nice and hard. That’s it. Just like that…”
He raised the opera glasses to his face.
On the outside, the little binoculars appeared antique—all patinated brass and mother-of-pearl—but inside, they were state-of-the-art.
Stabilizing micro-gimbals compensated for hand motion, and digital magnification brought the woman in close enough to kiss.
Slayn scanned his way up her strutting legs to her hips and then her chest, studying all those delicious curves her drab office wear failed to conceal.
He reached her face just in time to see her eyes go wide and her lips part in a startled gasp.
A second figure had joined the woman on the stage.
A man. Slayn recognized him from the restaurant last night.
The one who had started all the ruckus after the drunk had propositioned his woman.
Tonight he was clad in a studded jacket, ripped jeans, and scuffed leather boots.
The attire of a common street thug. It suited him.
The woman recovered and started to sidestep.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The thug stretched out an arm to block her. Then he stepped in front of her.
“Slow down, honey,” he said with an edge of menace in his voice. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”
“I’m just trying to get home,” she said. “Excuse me.”
She tried to pass him on the other side, but the man grabbed her arms and stopped her. Slayn’s cock twitched inside Inga’s mouth. He liked where this was going.
“Let go of me,” the woman said. “I’ll scream if you don’t let go of me.”
The thug glanced around casually, as if he were taking in an urban alleyway at night, rather than a darkened theater. His acting was surprisingly natural.
“Go ahead,” the thug said with a chuckle. “Nobody around to hear you. Nobody that cares, anyway.”
The woman wrenched herself away from his grip and started to run back in the direction she had come from, her high heels clacking hard with every step.
Before she could make her exit, however, a second man emerged from the shadows offstage, blocking her escape.
He was dressed in a similar fashion to the other man, but with a burlier build, and a coarse beard lining his heavy jaw.
He slowly advanced, not saying a word to the woman, just staring her down with a look that made it clear he was no savior.
She backed away from him, breathless with fear.
She was trapped now, trapped between two massive thugs smirking with wicked intent.
It was all illusion, of course, an “insubstantial pageant,” as an ancient Terran dramatist had once put it.
If the woman really wanted to get away, she needed only to leap down from the stage, and Slayn sensed those athletic legs were capable of leaping quite far indeed.
Nevertheless, her acting brought the scene to life.
The tension in her muscles. The slight quiver in her lip, which Slayn could see when he looked through his opera glasses.
This was getting good.
A third man appeared behind the first. This newcomer was the dominant member of the little pack; Slayn had sussed that out last night at dinner.
Now, like his companions, the man was dressed in street clothes—leather and denim—and while, perhaps, he did not wear it quite as convincingly as his comrades, there was no denying his capacity for violence as he sauntered onto the stage with an easy, lupine grace.
The audience seemed to hold its collective breath. So did Inga, as she took the head of Slayn’s cock deep into her throat.
“Well, well,” the lead thug said. “What’ve we got here? You must be lost, sweetheart.”
The woman looked frantically back and forth at the men, who were slowly closing in around her like wolves.
“Please,” she said. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to get home.” She reached for her purse. “I—I have money.”
“It’s not your money we want,” the leader said.
“Then what…?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
The lead thug darted forward quick as a snake and seized the woman by her arms. Slayn’s cock began to throb with excitement.
In his lap, Inga began to moan as she tasted the precum that was suddenly leaking out of him in such vast quantities.
This was the part he wanted to see. Domination. Control. Taking without permission.
But the show took an unexpected turn. The woman did not scream or surrender as Slayn had expected she might. Instead, she did something even more arousing.
She fought.