Chapter 7: The Hiring.
Madison’s grip on Dean’s wrist was firm, proprietary. “On the floor, big guy. Right here.” She nudged the coffee table aside with her foot, clearing a space on the worn rug. He went down without resistance, his body a landscape of spent muscle. She didn’t give him time to settle. She straddled his hips, her small hands pinning his shoulders to the floor. Her pussy hovered over his revived cock, the head nudging her wet entrance.
“You feel that?” Madison hissed, lowering herself just an inch, letting him stretch her open. “That’s my tight little pussy saying hello. It’s so fucking hungry for you.”
“Jesus,” Dean grunted, his hips arching up instinctively.
“Don’t rush me,” she commanded, slapping a hand flat on his chest. “This tight little pussy is in charge. It decides how much of this fat dick it takes.” She sank down another devastating inch, her head falling back, a choked gasp leaving her lips. “Fuck… you’re stretching me so wide. You feel how tight I am? This little cunt is choking on your cock.”
“It’s… it’s unbelievable,” he managed, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into the flesh.
“Tell me,” she demanded, beginning a slow, grinding rotation. “Tell me how my tight little pussy feels.”
“Like a fucking vise,” he groaned. “Hot. Slick. So goddamn tight.”
“It’s gonna milk that dick dry,” Madison promised, picking up the pace, now slamming down onto him in a hard, vertical rhythm. Each impact was a wet slap of flesh. “It’s gonna suck the cum right out of your balls. You wanna fill this tight little pussy up? You wanna pump it full of your load?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!”
“Then fuck me back, you animal!” she screamed, riding him harder, her small body pistoning. “Ram that dick up into my guts! Make my tight little pussy scream!”
Dean obeyed, driving upwards to meet her downward slams, their bodies colliding in a brutal, synchronized pounding. The room filled with the sound of it: the slaps, the wet suction, their ragged, filthy promises.
“You like that? You like how this tight little pussy grips you?” Madison’s words came in sharp bursts, her breath hot. “It’s squeezing your dick like a fucking fist. It’s not letting go until I get what I want.”
“What do you want?” he growled, his face contorted.
“I want you to ruin it!” she shrieked. “I want you to fuck this tight little pussy so raw I can’t walk! I want your cum leaking out of me for hours! Give it to me! Give me every fucking drop!”
“Take it then!” he roared, his thrusts becoming frantic, losing rhythm. “Take my fucking cum! It’s yours!”
“It’s MINE!” she howled, her orgasm hitting her like a seizure. Her body locked, her internal muscles clamping around his shaft in violent, rhythmic pulses. “Oh god, it’s milking you! My tight little pussy is sucking your soul out! CUM! CUM IN ME RIGHT NOW!”
Her command triggered his own collapse. With a sound that was half-sob, half-roar, he erupted inside her. She kept riding him, grinding down, milking each pulse, her own climax prolonging with the feel of him filling her. She collapsed forward onto his sweaty chest, both of them gasping, utterly destroyed.
A low, continuous moan from the couch underscored their finishing breaths. Danielle was in her own world. She sat with her legs splayed, her head lolled back against the cushions. Both hands worked over her breasts, massaging, kneading, rubbing Dean’s cooling cum deep into her skin. It was a ritual. She smeared the sticky fluid across her areolas, over the heavy swells, down her sternum. She gathered pooling drops from her collarbone and rubbed them into the undersides.
“Mmm… yes….” she murmured to no one. “So thick… fucking perfect…” She pinched her own nipples, hard, gasping as the sensation shot through her. She was polishing herself with the proof of the use she’d gotten, her touch both worshipful and possessive. The smell of sex and salt and spent man filled her nostrils. She was lost in the tactile feedback loop of her own desirability, quantified in the drying streaks on her skin.
After a long while, Madison slid off Dean with a wince and a satisfied sigh. She left him lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. She fetched a towel from the bathroom, wiped herself casually, and threw it at him. “Hydrate. Seriously.”
She walked to the kitchen island, pulling her laptop from its bag. The sleek machine clicked open, a portal to a different kind of hunger. “D, get over here. We’ve got work to do.”
Danielle didn’t stop her rubbing, but she lifted her head, eyes dreamy. “Work?”
“The next session. The hotel.” Madison’s tone was all business now, the filthy temptress replaced by the ruthless coordinator. She tapped a key, and the screen lit up, casting a blue glow on her intent face. “The responses are insane. We need to pick.”
The word ‘hotel’ acted like a galvanizing charge. Danielle’s moaning ceased. She pushed herself up from the couch, her cum-smeared torso gleaming under the lights, and padded to the island. She left sticky fingerprints on the polished granite as she leaned over Madison’s shoulder.
Kimberly, forgotten in the corner, finally uncurled. She pulled her t-shirt on, a thin cotton shield. She hovered at the edge of the kitchen, watching the two women huddle over the screen.
“Scroll,” Danielle ordered, her voice clear now, all languid pleasure gone.
Madison scrolled. Dick pic after dick pic filled the screen. A grid of anonymous, veined shafts held in hands, against boxer briefs, on towel-covered bathroom counters.
“Ugh, pass. That’s a fucking cocktail weenie,” Madison sneered, clicking past one.
“That one,” Danielle said, a finger darting out to point. The nail was crusted white. “The thick one. With the curve. That’ll feel amazing between my tits. It’ll hit all the right spots when it pulses.”
“Noted.” Madison dragged the image into a folder labeled ‘PROSPECTS.’
They continued, a crude and efficient curation panel.
“Look at this motherfucker,” Madison chuckled, pausing on a particularly monstrous shot. “That’s not a dick, that’s a fucking weapon. You think you could even fit that between your tits?”
Danielle studied it, her head tilted. A slow smile spread across her sticky face. “I’d fucking try. Imagine the stretch. Imagine the load that thing must shoot. It’d probably hit the ceiling.” Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “Put him in the ‘maybe’ pile. I want to see him in person.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment,” Madison said, moving the image.
“I know what I like,” Danielle replied, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Skip the next few. Too skinny. I need girth. I need something that feels like it’s splitting me in half.” Her hand unconsciously returned to her breast, rubbing a slow circle over her heart. “I want that full feeling. That ache afterwards.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the tap of the trackpad and their occasional, clinical commentary.
“That’s six,” Madison said finally, closing the laptop. “Six good, solid candidates. I’ll email them the hotel info and the time. The Courtyard on 14th. Suite 812. Two separate entrances, like you wanted. Minimal front desk interaction.”
“Perfect.” Danielle finally straightened up. She looked down at the mess on her chest, now mostly worked into a thin, shiny film on her skin. “I’m going to shower. But I’m not washing all this off. Not yet.”
As she walked away, leaving a faint, musky scent in her wake, Kimberly found her voice. It was small, rusted from disuse. “A hotel?”
Madison turned, as if noticing her for the first time. “Privacy. Control. No roommates walking in. Two doors means they can come and go without seeing each other. Efficient.” She said it like she was explaining a logistics plan.
“How many?” Kimberly asked, though she dreaded the answer.
“However many she wants,” Madison said, her gaze following Danielle’s path toward the bathroom. “Until she’s satisfied.” She looked back at Kimberly, and her smile returned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You should get some rest, Kimmy. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
From the floor, Dean groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow. “I should probably go.”
“Yeah, you should,” Madison agreed, not unkindly, but with a firm finality. She handed him his jeans. “We’ll call you.”
The bathroom door closed. The sound of the shower starting hissed through the apartment. It was the sound of preparation, of one act ending and a much larger, more intricate production beginning. Kimberly looked from the closed door to the laptop, to Madison’s cool, satisfied expression. The hotel suite waited, empty and anonymous. And the grid of cocks on the screen seemed to multiply behind her eyes, an infinite, demanding gallery. The warm-up was truly over. The main event had just been cast.h
The shower’s steam peeled the dried remnants from her skin, but the ghost of the sensation lingered. Danielle stood under the scalding water, her hands sliding over the slopes of her breasts. They felt heavy, used, profoundly satisfied.She imagined the hotel suite, the two doors, the line of men. A shiver that had nothing to do with the heat traveled through her.
She towelled off slowly, deliberately. She pulled on clean black leggings and a tight grey tank top, no bra.The fabric clung to her damp skin, to the full, sensitive weight of her breasts. She ran a comb through her long, black-and-red hair, the streaks like wet ink against the terrycloth towel draped over her shoulders.Walking back into the living room, the aftermath was stark. Dean was gone.Kimberly was a silent shape under a blanket on the couch, turned toward the cushions. Only Madison remained, clicking through screens on her laptop, the blue light etching shadows under her eyes. The room smelled of sex and lemony disinfectant.Danielle scrubbed the towel over her hair. “You hire any fluffers yet?”
Madison didn’t look up.“No. Not yet.”
The clicking of the keyboard stopped. Danielle’s voice sharpened, cutting through the humid air. “Well can you find and hire some?”
Madison finally glanced up, a placating smile on her face. “Babe, I’m sorry—“
“Don’t fucking ‘babe’ me.” The words were ice.Danielle dropped the towel on the back of a chair. “I need this to run smoothly.You’ve been doing so good at running this show. What did I hire you for?”
A flicker of something hard passed behind Madison’s eyes. She closed the laptop softly.Her voice was low, professional, devoid of affection. “I’ll make some calls.”
For the next half hour, Madison’s side of the conversation was a quiet, efficient murmur. She paced near the window, phone tucked against her shoulder, her words a mix of scheduling, logistics, and blunt questions. Danielle watched her, the earlier irritation cooling into a knot of anxious tension in her stomach. She watched the way Madison’s brow furrowed in concentration, the way she nibbled her lip absently.Madison hung up after the tenth call and turned. “I’ve found some candidates. Do you wanna meet them?”
“Yes,” Danielle said, the word leaving her in a rush.Madison nodded, packing her laptop into her backpack. The bag was purple, like her hair, adorned with patches of anime shows Danielle didn’t recognize. Keychains—a Pikachu, Mark from Invincible, Goku—swung from the zipper, a burst of childish color against the room’s sordid atmosphere. They headed downstairs without another word.The parking lot asphalt radiated the day’s accumulated heat. Madison’s car stood out like a cool, metallic jewel: a baby blue 2025 Mercedes-Benz CLE coupe.It was absurdly pretty among the dented sedans and crossovers. Madison hit her fob.The trunk chirped open.She slid her backpack inside and slammed the trunk shut. The sound was a solid, expensive thud.They got in. The leather seats were cool against Danielle’s legs. Madison started the engine, and a conditioned, arctic breeze blasted from the vents, carrying the new-car scent of synthetic leather and clean electronics.
Madison synced her phone, and the mournful, auto-tuned croon of Juice WRLD filled the silence. ”Lucid dreams…” Danielle stared out the window as they pulled into the late afternoon traffic. The city blurred past, a stream of anonymous buildings and people.
“You okay?” Madison asked, her eyes on the road.Danielle looked at her profile, at the determined set of her jaw. The knot in her stomach tightened, then loosened. She reached over, her fingers finding Madison’s hand on the gear selector.She laced their fingers together.Madison’s skin was warm.
“Just stressed,” Danielle said, her thumb stroking Madison’s knuckles. “I’m sorry for being so short with you.”
Madison brought their joined hands to her lips, brushing a soft kiss against Danielle’s fingers. “It’s okay.”
The simple tenderness was a shock.It felt more intimate than anything that had happened on the rug. Danielle felt a pull, a gravitational shift deep in her chest.She leaned across the center console, the seatbelt tightening. She kissed Madison softly on the mouth. It was brief, closed-mouthed, a punctuation mark of something unspoken.Madison smiled, a real one this time, that reached her tired eyes. She didn’t let go of Danielle’s hand. They drove like that, connected, for twenty minutes until Madison slowed and parallel parked with smooth precision in front of a weathered brick facade.
A faded, neon shamrock glowed weakly in the deepening twilight. The sign above the door read SHANKEY’S. The door was heavy dark wood, slightly ajar, releasing a gust of beer-soaked air and the low thrum of a classic rock song. It was here.
The heavy door yielded to Madison’s push, and the scent of decades of spilled Guinness and floor polish enveloped them. The main bar area was dim, nearly empty in the lull between afternoon and evening. A bored-looking bartender polished glasses, nodding at Madison as if she were a regular. Without a word, Madison led Danielle past the long bar, through a narrower doorway marked ‘Private,’ and down a short, dark-paneled hallway.They emerged into a large, separate room. The space was dominated by a massive, twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot Irish flag draped across one entire wall, its vibrant green, white, and orange a stark contrast to the dark wood. The floors were wide-plank oak, polished to a soft gleam. Surrounding them were framed black-and-white photographs of Ireland in the 1920s, ‘30s, and ‘40s: cobbled streets, ancient castles, women in shawls, all lending the room a strange, suspended-in-time gravity. A pool table sat unused in one corner. In the center, eight women stood or leaned against chairs, a quiet tableau of expectation.They fell silent as Danielle and Madison entered.
Danielle’s eyes scanned the group, her professional mask snapping into place. Madison gestured to a sturdy table with two chairs already set up.They sat.The eight women were arranged in a loose semi-circle before them.
First was a tall Black woman in her late thirties. She had close-cropped, platinum-dyed hair and wore stylish, thick-framed glasses. Her attire was smart-casual: dark jeans and a crisp white button-down.She stood with a calm, observant stillness.
Next to her was a white woman who looked about fifty. She had shoulder-length, graying blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail and kind, tired eyes. She wore a simple lavender sweater and khakis, her hands clasped politely in front of her.Third was a Latina woman in her early twenties. Her long, jet-black hair fell in waves over her shoulders. She had a pierced nose and a full sleeve of intricate floral tattoos on her left arm. She chewed gum casually, meeting Danielle’s gaze with a hint of defiance.Fourth was an Asian woman in her mid-forties. She was petite and impeccably dressed in a navy blazer and slim trousers, her dark hair cut in a sharp, chin-length bob. She held a small notebook.
Fifth was a white woman in her late twenties with fiery red curls piled in a messy bun. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and wore a vintage band t-shirt under an open flannel shirt, shifting her weight from foot to foot with nervous energy.Sixth was a Black woman in her early twenties. She had her natural hair in large, golden-blonde box braids that cascaded down her back. She wore oversized hoop earrings and an expensive-looking tracksuit, her expression cool and appraising.
Seventh was a white woman in her early thirties. She had mousy brown hair cut in a pragmatic bob and wore minimal makeup.Her clothing was forgettably corporate—a beige cardigan over a grey shell. She offered a small, tight smile.
Eighth and last was a mixed-race woman who appeared to be in her late teens. She had beautiful, tawny skin and long, caramel-colored dreadlocks.She wore a hoodie and ripped jeans, looking simultaneously bored and intensely alert.
Madison opened her own notebook, her pen poised. “Thank you all for coming on short notice.” Her voice was clear, cutting through the quiet.“We’ll speak with each of you individually. We’re looking for specific qualities. Discretion, reliability, and a understanding of the… nature of the work.” She looked at the first woman.“Let’s begin. You, please.”
The tall Black woman with platinum hair stepped forward. She moved with a quiet confidence and sat in the empty chair they gestured to.“Name?” Madison asked.“Simone. Thirty-eight.”
“Experience?”
Simone adjusted her glasses.“I’ve worked event coordination for ten years. High-end corporate retreats, private galas. I’m versed in managing talent, logistics, and ensuring client privacy is absolute.I understand you require a certain… climate control. I can provide that.”
Danielle leaned forward.“Talent.You mean the men.”
“I mean the assets,” Simone corrected smoothly. “Their readiness, their punctuality, their compliance with rules. Their satisfaction is a metric, but the primary client’s experience is the product.” She looked directly at Danielle. “Your experience is the product.”
Danielle gave a slight, approving nod.Madison made a note. “Thank you, Simone.Wait outside, please.”
Simone rose and left with a quiet efficiency.
Madison called the next one.The older blonde woman in the lavender sweater sat down. Her name was Maureen, fifty-two.“Experience?” Madison asked.
“Oh, I’ve done a bit of everything,” Maureen said, her voice warm.“I ran a B&B for twenty years. I’m good with people, making them feel comfortable. I imagine you’d want someone to… tidy up between… sessions?Keep things fresh. Make sure the gentlemen have towels, maybe a drink to keep their energy up.” She smiled, motherly. “It’s all about hospitality, really.”
Danielle’s expression was unreadable. “This isn’t a bed and breakfast, Maureen.”
“Of course, dear.I just mean the principle is the same.”
Madison smiled thinly. “We’ll keep that in mind.Thank you.”
Maureen left, looking slightly uncertain.
The young Latina with the tattoos sauntered over next, dropping into the chair. “I’m Rosa.Twenty-three.”
“Experience?” Madison repeated.Rosa popped her gum. “I bounce at a club downtown. I know how to handle drunk, horny guys who get out of line.I can spot a creep from across the room. And I don’t scare easy.” She looked at Danielle, her eyes dropping to the prominent swell of Danielle’s chest under her tank top.“I get what you’re doing.I can keep the pipeline moving. Make sure the ones who perform get paid, and the ones who fuck around get shown the door. Literally.”
“You’d use force?” Danielle asked.“If I have to. Mostly I just use my voice.And my rep.”
Madison wrote quickly.“Good. Wait outside, Rosa.”
The Asian woman in the blazer was next.She introduced herself as Linh, forty-four. Her experience was in pharmaceutical sales. “It is about scheduling, quotas, and performance enhancement,” she stated precisely. “I can manage the inventory, track performance metrics—duration, output—and ensure supply meets demand.I am exceptionally organized.”
Danielle almost smiled.“Output?”
“Volume.Consistency. Quality, as subjectively defined by the client.” Linh didn’t blink. “Data informs better recruitment.”
“Wait outside, please,” Madison said, seeming impressed.
The redhead in the flannel was next.Her name was Chloe, twenty-eight.She was vibrating slightly. “Okay, so, I’ve never done anything like this officially,” she started, words tumbling out. “But I’ve been to a lot of parties.I know the vibe. I’m great at, like, breaking the ice, making people feel loose. I could be, like, the welcome wagon.Get the guys… ready.You know?” She winked.
Danielle stared at her.“How?”
“Oh, you know.A little touch.A little dirty talk. Maybe a preview.” Chloe’s eyes were bright, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’d suck a few dicks to get the party started, sure. Anything to help the main event.”
Madison’s pen paused.“Noted.That’s… specific. Wait outside.”
Chloe bounced up, clearly thinking she’d aced it.
The young Black woman with box braids was next.She sat with relaxed grace.“Aisha. Twenty-one.”
“Experience?” Madison asked.Aisha smirked.“I’m a student.Economics. I understand resource allocation. But personally?” She let her gaze travel slowly over Danielle again, more brazenly than Rosa had.“I love watching.The messier the better. I’d be here to make sure you get what you need. If a guy’s slacking, I’d motivate him.Tell him what a fucking privilege it is to glaze tits like that. Maybe slap his balls if he’s too slow. I’d worship the product, too.” Her voice was a low purr.“I’d clean you up afterwards, if you wanted. Lick every last drop off those perfect fucking 32DDDs.”
The room went very still. Danielle held Aisha’s gaze, a faint flush rising on her neck.Madison broke the silence, her voice dry. “Motivational techniques.Good. Wait outside.”
Aisha stood, her smirk unwavering, and swayed out.The woman in the beige cardigan was next. Her name was Susan, thirty-one.Her experience was in administrative assistance. “I’m excellent with calendars, screening communications, and maintaining boundaries.I would be the gatekeeper. All logistics, no direct… contact.” She said the word “contact” as if it were a hazardous material.
“Would you be present in the room?” Danielle asked.“I’d prefer not.I could manage from a separate area. Ensure timers are set, supplies are stocked, payments are processed discreetly.”
Madison nodded. “Thank you, Susan.”
Finally, the teenager with dreadlocks sat down. She gave her name as Jess, nineteen.“Experience?” Madison asked, though it seemed a formality.Jess shrugged. “I need the money.I’m strong.I can carry stuff. I don’t talk much.I see things, though. I notice details.” Her eyes, sharp and old for her face, locked onto Danielle.“You don’t just want to be fucked. You want to be ruined.But only in the way you choose. The men are just the brushes.” She shrugged again. “I can help you control the painting.”
Danielle felt a chill that wasn’t unpleasant.She glanced at Madison, who was studying Jess with renewed interest. “Wait outside,” Madison said softly.The door closed, leaving them alone in the large, flag-draped room. The scent of old wood and distant beer hung in the air.
Madison looked at her notes, then at Danielle.“Well.We have a spectrum. From clinical management to aggressive facilitation.”
Danielle’s mind was churning, the images from the interviews superimposing themselves on the planned hotel suite. The efficient Simone, the violent charm of Rosa, the unsettling devotion of Aisha, the sharp perception of Jess.“We need more than one,” she said finally, her voice hollow with wanting. “We need layers.A system.”
“Simone for overall command.Rosa for security and pipeline. Aisha for… motivation and cleanup,” Madison suggested, ticking them off. “Linh for tracking.Jess as an all-around assistant.The others…”
“Are not right,” Danielle finished. She stood, walking to the giant flag, running a hand over the thick fabric. The emotional stakes tightened within her, a coil of need and dread.This was making it real. This was building the apparatus for her hunger. “Tell Simone, Rosa, Aisha, Linh, and Jess they’re hired.For the first event.The hotel suite. We start tomorrow.”
Madison didn’t ask if she was sure. She simply began writing down names, her pen scratching decisively on the paper.The machinery was now fully assembled, each part selected for a specific, brutal function. The main event was no longer a fantasy scrolled on a screen in a cum-stained apartment. It had a staff, a location, and a furious, singular purpose. Danielle turned from the flag, her eyes meeting Madison’s across the empty space, charged with the momentum of what they had just set in motion.