8. The Green Room Broadcast
eight
The Green Room Broadcast
Charles has me booked into the green room off the main floor. Two days. Athletic roster. Feed goes live in ten minutes.
No punctuation to soften it. No context.
Just the facts she’d decided I needed. I read the words again, confirming their shape, then propped the phone against the water glass at my elbow.
The screen sat upright and steady, the only light I needed.
My collar was already open. It had been for two days.
The login page blinked once and resolved into four tiles stacked across the small screen, each one smaller than I would have liked, but rendering in a resolution sharp enough to catch every detail that mattered.
An overhead wide shot looked down on a plain institutional couch, the kind you’d find in any corporate break room, flanked by two metal folding chairs.
A second angle sat low, aimed flat across the couch cushions from floor height.
A third channel held tight on face level, framed for close work.
The fourth covered the door, a single flat gray door with a lever handle, nothing on it to say what the room was for.
Unlike the amber luxury of Charles’s suite, this room was pure function.
Fluorescent strips buzzed, washing the institutional couch and cinder block walls in a flat, unforgiving white.
A mini-fridge hummed in the corner. Against the far wall, a water station with plastic cups stood beside a frameless mirror bolted directly to the block—a raw sheet of glass someone had insisted on.
Sara walked into frame at 12:01, the timestamp ticking in the corner of the overhead feed.
The dress was tight through the hips and cut so low I could see, even at this resolution, she wore nothing under it.
Her hair hung loose down her back, no twist, no clip, nothing holding it in place.
She carried nothing in her hands. She crossed to the metal chair beside the couch and set her phone face-down on the seat, then rolled her shoulders back once, a small private adjustment, and turned to the mirror bolted into the wall.
She studied herself with a flat, assessing look, her eyes moving down her own reflection.
Not vanity. It was pure inventory. She smoothed one hand down over her hip, checked the line of the dress, and her nostrils flared once, sharp, the second the door handle on the rear-angle feed began to turn from the outside.
I moved my hand under the desk without deciding to.
The door opened and the first man came through it without knocking.
A man who’d paid didn’t need to. He was tall, broader through the shoulders than Charles, wearing a convention lanyard that swung against his chest with each step.
He reached up, pulled it over his head, and let it drop to the floor without a glance down to see where it landed.
“You’re mine for the hour,” he said. Flat. No preamble, no name offered, nothing that suggested he needed one.
“Then use what you paid for,” Sara said, and her voice came through the speaker raw, direct, with nothing performed in the delivery at all.
He crossed the room in three strides and had a hand fisted in her hair before she’d finished the sentence, tipping her head back, and she went with it, her whole body angling into the pull instead of away from it.
I toggled to the close-up channel with my thumb, chasing her face the second his hand closed around her jaw, and the screen resolved her wide open eyes, bright, unfixed, her lips already parting.
He didn’t waste time on her mouth first. He turned her, bent her forward over the arm of the couch, and shoved the hem of her dress up past her hips in one rough motion, no thong underneath it, nothing between his hand and her skin.
She braced both palms flat against the cushion and arched her back, offering the angle before he’d asked for it, and I watched the low front-facing feed catch every inch of what he did next, his hand pressing between her thighs first, testing, finding her already slick, and then he was inside her in one hard stroke that punched a sound out of her loud enough that the fluorescent hum in the background nearly vanished under it.
“Harder,” she said, her voice already thick, her fingers digging into the cushion. “Fill me. I’m here to be used, that’s the whole point, don’t hold back.”
He didn’t. He drove into her with a rhythm that had nothing patient in it, one hand still fisted in her hair, pulling her head back at an angle that arched her throat into full view of the overhead lens, and I cycled between the wide shot and the close-up, my mouth gone dry, my collar sticking damp against my throat even though I hadn’t moved from the chair in an hour.
Her nostrils flared wide with every thrust, held there, her eyes gone glassy and bright in that unmoored way that had stopped surprising me and started, somewhere in the last four days, becoming the only expression of hers I fully trusted anymore.
Peak asset utilization, I thought. The phrase arrived, thin and automatic, exactly per contract terms. But the words were useless now, a flimsy cover for my own pulse hammering in my ears as my hand worked steady beneath the desk, watching my wife take a stranger’s cock on a couch three states away.
He finished with a low grunt, no words to go with it, and pulled out of her fast, already reaching down to scoop his lanyard off the floor.
He looped it back over his head, straightened it against his chest with two fingers, and walked out the gray door without a backward glance, the rear-angle feed catching the door swing shut behind him and settle.
Sara straightened slowly, pushed her dress back down over her hips, and wiped the back of her hand once across her mouth. She crossed to the water station, filled a plastic cup, and drank half of it before she sat back down on the couch, legs loose, chest still rising fast.
She glanced toward the rear-angle camera once, toward the door it covered, waiting.
I sat there with my thumb hovering over the toggle, my mouth gone dry and my whole focus narrowed to the toggle, so that I almost missed the sound of the door handle beginning to turn again.
***
The handle turned all the way this time and a second man stepped through, dark-skinned, thick through the chest, his frame filling the doorway before the door had swung fully open.
He didn’t bother with a lanyard at all, must have left it somewhere else, and he crossed the room already working his belt loose, his eyes on Sara the entire way like she was the only fixed point in a room built otherwise of fluorescent light and cinder block.
He said nothing. He didn’t need to. He caught her by the wrist, drew her up off the couch, and turned her to face the arm of it again, and I watched on the overhead angle as he freed himself from his slacks, thick and dark against the pale line of her hip when he pressed close behind her.
My own pulse thickened in a way I didn’t examine too closely, and I toggled to the low front-facing feed just as he pushed into her, and the sight of it, his skin dark against hers where their bodies joined, hit me somewhere low and immediate, sharper than anything the first man had managed.
He filled her at a steady, punishing pace, his hips driving forward in a rhythm that had nothing gentle in it, and she took every inch of it with her spine arched and her mouth open, sounds coming out of her that had stopped being words somewhere in the second minute.
When he finished he pulled back fast, and I caught it on the close-up channel, his cock withdrawing from her already slick and coated white, and he tucked himself away without ceremony and walked out without saying a single word.
After him the rotation didn’t slow. A third man came in, lean and wiry, dark-skinned like the one before him.
“Bend over,” he said, and she was already moving before the second word left his mouth, hands braced on the couch cushion, and he took her from behind with short, hard strokes that had her rocking forward with each one, her cheek pressed flat against the leather.
A fourth man, broader, paler than the others but still darker than the first, walked in and said only, “Open your mouth,” and she turned to him on her knees without hesitation, taking him to the back of her throat while her hand worked between her own thighs, chasing something for herself now that nobody had asked her to chase.
“Take it all,” a fifth man told her, his hand pressed flat against the back of her head, and she did, her throat working around him, her eyes wet at the corners but still holding that same wild brightness that hadn’t dimmed once across four men and counting.
I cycled through the angles on my phone screen with my thumb slick against the glass, overhead to front-facing to close-up and back again, chasing every version of her at once.
On the overhead feed she was on all fours, her hair fallen forward to curtain her face, her back arching under whoever’s hands currently held her hips.
On the rear angle I watched relentless, unbroken penetration, one man after another finding the same angle, the same depth, like each of them had been given the exact same instructions before walking through that gray door.
On the close-up channel her face filled the frame, flushed, slack-jawed, her nostrils flared wide and staying that way now instead of flickering, a fixed state that had become, four men into the day, simply the shape her face made.
“Don’t pull out,” she told one of them, her voice thick, unbothered by how many men had already come and gone through that same door. “I want to feel it. Give it to me raw, I don’t care where.”
He obliged her. They all obliged her. Nobody in that room seemed inclined to argue with a woman who met every command before it finished leaving a man’s mouth.