Vice(21)

Ocho makes a low rumbling noise, but he doesn’t argue with the guy. He backs out of the room, closing the door behind him, and the tuxedo guy is suddenly grabbing hold of me by the arm and dragging me off to one side.

“Who are you? Where have you come from?” he demands, talking out of the side of his mouth. He’s smiling, eyes wrinkling at the corners, as if he’s reacting to something funny I’ve just said, but his voice is low and urgent.

“I came from New York. My name is Sam.” Giving him any further information than that would be foolhardy. I don’t know who the f*ck this guy is, after all.

“New York, New York,” the guy chants. His fingers continue to dig into my arm. “Nope. I don’t know anyone in New York. Fucking awesome.”

He has no accent, well trained to make it sound as though he could have come from anywhere, but as he talks I hear a hint of a Southern twang slip through, giving him away.

“Did he mark you, yet?” the guy asks.

“Mark me?”

“Yes. Y’know. Did he brand you?”

My look of confusion must speak loudly enough, because he rolls up his sleeve and holds out his arm, showing me what he means: a small, angry, red burn mark in the shape of a wolf’s head, with a large V underneath it. “He marks his property,” the guy tells me. A shadow of doubt flies across his face then, appearing out of nowhere. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you’re a player, not a member of the Servicio.”

“I don’t have a f*cking clue what you’re talking about right now.”

“Did you pay to come here? To f*ck? Or are you one of us, one of Fernando’s servants?”

I take a step back, putting a healthy amount of space between us. “I’m neither. I just came to buy drugs.”

The guy in the tux visibly calms. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants and rocks back onto his heels, a manic light flickering in his pale blue eyes. “You have no idea where you are, do you?”

I refrain from answering. I don’t like the madness hovering over his head, this strange Southern, dark-haired man; I’m beginning to think he might be a little crazy. He tips his head back and laughs.

“You’ve strayed far from the path of civilization. No one just comes here to buy drugs. He’ll have you playing this game soon enough, or he’ll turn you into a pawn in it, Sam. You’d better clue yourself into your surroundings and quickly, otherwise you might end up the used instead of the user.” He steps back, a quirky, unsettling expression on his face. I think he’s going to go and stand back by the door, but before he can reach it a tall, blond-haired guy with neck tattoos places a hand on his shoulder and stops him in his track. The blond guy already has a woman on his left arm. She’s completely naked, apart from what looks like a necktie looped tightly around her throat, biting into her skin. Her dark brown, almost black hair is arranged into a perfect mess of curls, which fall way down her back. Her breasts are perfect, nipples peaked and standing to attention. The blond guy hugs her to his side as he reaches out and strokes his fingers down Tux Guy’s cheek.

“Care to introduce yourself?” the blond guy asks.

Meeting my eye instead of the newcomer’s, Tux Guy smirks, a false air of confidence rolling off him. He sighs. “Of course. I’m Plato. I see you’ve already met my friend Persephone?”

Plato’s fingers skate over the creamy, perfect skin of the woman on the blond guy’s arm; he traces them over her stomach, up, so that he’s skimming the swell of her breast. The girl doesn’t move. She remains glued to the spot, allowing Plato to explore her body, seemingly unfazed, as the blond guy watches on.

“Oh yes. She’s f*cking perfect. And so are you.”

Plato looks hungry, but it seems false. Like he’s acting. “Would you like for me and Persephone to put on a show for you?” he asks the blond guy. He steps closer to the man, so close that their chests are almost touching. The blond guy’s eyelids droop as he looks from Persephone to the other man.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want you to f*ck her good for me, man. I’m going to watch.”

Plato pouts. “Is that all? I was hoping…” His hand disappears between their bodies, and suddenly the blond guy is stiffening, his shoulders growing tense. He makes a low, warning growl in his throat.

“I’m not f*cking gay,” he hisses.

“I never said you were,” Plato offers. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t suck your dick. And it doesn’t mean you can’t f*ck my ass, either.”

I stand back as the three of them move toward a low couch in the center of the room, where Plato begins to slowly strip out of his suit. His attention is fixed on the woman and the man in front of him, but his gaze flashes to me every so often. He’s trying to see if I get it now. And I do. This place is full of rich bastards, willing to pay to have their deepest, darkest desires fulfilled. It is also full of people, held here in this room against their will, who are forced to submit to whatever is asked of them. On pain of…I don’t know. I’m not sure what the punishment would be if any of these “workers” refused to do their jobs, but I’m sure it can’t be good.

In no time at all, Plato is completely naked and he’s inside Persephone, f*cking her hard and fast while the blond customer watches, stroking his hard cock through his black pants. I can see the desire in his eyes. I can see violence, too. This whole thing has started off pleasant enough, but I know men like this f*cking blond dude, and I know what he really wants to do. He wants to hurt them. He wants to watch the pain in their eyes—pain that he causes—and he wants to get off on it.