Chapter Twenty-FiveWest
Chapter Twenty-Five
West
My knees weaken, and I quickly place my hands on them to support myself.
Here.
Somehow, I know they were not taken to the hotel part of here . They were taken to The Den. My father is behind this. I am sure of it. I don't know what he has planned, but whatever it is, he is doing it to teach me a lesson.
We needed to get in there. Now.
"Let's go," I demand, leading the others back to Brute. "Open the door, Brute."
Brute nods, "As you command, Master M- Baby Duke." He corrects himself quickly, but he knows who I really am, knows the power I hold over him. My attitude has suddenly changed, and the smart fucker knows not to cross me. He will bend to my wishes because I am the son of his boss, set to inherit his fortunes; this hotel , this foreboding fucking Den .
Without further ado, he opens the double doors .
The music that had been muted before suddenly thumps loud in my ears, my blood thrumming with the frantic energy. We step through, Brett, Law, Trent, and I. Brute remains on the other side as he pulls it closed behind us.
We stand in a huddle by the door, taking in the room. My already curdled stomach sours more and more as my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting, and I process what I am seeing.
The Den is a sex club. No, sex club doesn't even come close to defining the debauchery we are witnessing.
The room is occupied mostly by naked and semi-naked men, a mask upon each of their faces; the majority sporting beer bellies, greying chest hairs, and flat, sagging ass cheeks, their little mushroom cocks sprouting as proudly as cocks of that size can. Some are seated with a naked and maskless man or woman bobbing between their legs as they watch others rutting like old boars into other maskless people. They fuck on beds, against walls, across tabletops, and more.
A large variety of sex toys, ranging from nipple clamps and vibrators to whips and floggers, line a portion of the wall to our left.
A stage stands front and center, young men and women, the girls vastly outnumbering the boys, stand naked in a line with chains around their throats bearing numbers. As I watch, a man gestures to one of them, and one of the staff, depictable by his full-faced mask, unleashes the girl and shoves her toward the man. He leads her towards a hallway of closed-off, sheer red curtains, obviously small rooms for those who are modest and prefer privacy over voyeurism.
But what sickens me most is the expressions worn by the unmasked girls and boys, because that's what they are. Teenagers, some barely past childhood; scared, sad, vacant, and lifeless.
"Are you seeing this?" Trent asks numbly, turning in a wide circle.
"I think I’m going to be sick," Law says, his hand hovering over his mouth as he continues to look around the room.
"My father is a sex trafficker," I say, acid burning in my chest.
Half in a state of disbelief, because this is the man that made and raised me, half in bitter understanding because there is no doubt in my mind that he is capable of this. I bet he revels over it, laughs as he forces some innocent girl to choke on his cock.
The group who had entered behind us was making their way to the stage. The woman quickly calls out 2 numbers, and a boy and girl younger than us are handed over to her. She promptly leads them to a couch, where she slumps, spreading her legs to reveal her lack of underwear. The girl drops to her knees, and the older woman pulls her head in close until she is grinding against the poor girl's face. The boy is pulled to stand on the couch where his flaccid cock is sucked into the woman's throat, the powerfully erotic maneuver nothing but curdled milk in my stomach as the guy cringes, squeezing his eyes closed.
My father's voice suddenly calls from behind us.
"Ah, my son! Welcome to your inheritance!"
I spin on my heel and spy the man as he struts, arms wide, a grin splitting his face in two, completely maskless. The sickness in my stomach dims as red-hot rage races through my veins. My mind blanks out as I storm towards him. His grin never falters as I bump my chest against his, our noses inches from kissing.
"What the actual fuck is this place?" I spit at him. Impossibly, his grin only widens. "You’re raping children! Selling them! You have disgraced the Mazzuchelli name!"
At that, his mouth snaps closed, and he grabs me by the collar. "You know nothing about the Mazzuchelli name!" he all but screams. "You are soft. Weak. Everything the Mazzuchelli line despises! "
Brett is suddenly between us, shoving my father back a step. He crosses his arms across his chest before he stands by my side. Law steps up to my other side while Trent watches from a safe distance.
For some reason, my father finds Brett's intrusion hilarious, his hyena laugh setting goosebumps off along my arms. He is fucking insane.
"Ah, here comes the Spider," he grins. "Now he is what I'd call good Mazzuchelli stock! But instead, I get stuck with a fucking baby! Isn't that right, Baby Duke?"
Brett's hand wraps around my arm, somehow anticipating that I was milliseconds away from breaking the cunts nose.
Vincent suddenly claps, and the music quiets, the sudden loss of sound causing my ears to ring.
"Welcome to The Den, my friends!" his voice booms across the room. Belatedly, I realize he has a microphone clipped to his suit. He takes up his strut from before as a spotlight falls onto him. "What a special night I have planned for you!"
Cheers, jeers, and clapping echo through the room. I turn as my father passes by. I am not letting that fucker behind my back ever. I have no doubt he would stab me in the back the second I let my guard down.
"We have some breaking in to do! "
The crowd turns almost crazed, their excited energy almost vibrating through the room. My eyes narrow as people gravitate closer to the stage, pulling and shoving their naked conquests along with them. I take a few steps forward, too, but stop when I realize whatever is about to happen has been masterminded by my sick father, and I don't think I really want to witness it so close.
Vincent steps onto the stage, which has changed since I last looked. There is no longer anyone chained and on display. Now, a padded table is the only thing besides my father to grace it.
"Sir has found us some fresh meat to play with!"
The crowd roars at my father's words.
The curtains behind him are pushed open, and my stomach drops in despair.
Mr. Foster walks out from between the drapes. He wears nothing but an unbuttoned pair of slacks and a mad smirk that promises despicable deeds. Behind him, he leads with a chain, a struggling, naked figure.
A familiar figure.
Her face is white, and her eyes are wide as they dart around the room. Her face is streaked with dry tears, and the unmistakable blossoming of a bruise darkens her side.
I throw off my mask and rush towards the stage .
"Roe!"
Her eyes find mine as Mr. Foster steps behind her shaking figure and places a wide hand across her stomach.
"West!" she gasps. Pleads. Her lips twist into something desperate and ugly.
The sounds of struggle reach me from behind before suddenly I am restrained. Cursing, I pull against the two guys holding me in place. I recognize them as Rage and the other guy from the checking-in room. In my attempt to get free, I spy my friends in similar predicaments. Even Trent is cursing and fighting to get free.
Turning back to the stage, to Roe, I watch as Mr. Foster pushes her onto the table. The staff are quick to chain her arms in place as our teacher straps one end of a spreader onto her ankle before pushing her legs wide apart and attaching the other, her pussy on display to every mother fucker in here.
My father steps around from behind her and gazes between her legs as Roe struggles against her bonds, her face reddened in shame and tears rolling down her cheeks.
He turns back to me, a wicked smirk on his face.
"Now I can see how she has you so pussy whipped, son," he says into the mic .
"Mother fucker!" I scream, fighting against the guys holding me, but I gain little ground.
"Let's get this show on the road!"