Chapter 8: Human Buffet
The polished boardroom table was gone. In its place, a long, low platform draped in black velvet stood under the harsh fluorescent lights. Betty lay on her back upon it, her body oiled and utterly still, a living centerpiece. Her skin gleamed under the corporate lighting, a stark canvas for the elaborate display being arranged upon her.
Thin slices of sashimi were fanned across her flat stomach. California rolls lined the delicate ridges of her collarbones. A small mound of glistening caviar rested in the dip of her navel. Her breasts were adorned with precisely placed pieces of nigiri, the rice still faintly warm against her skin. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound with invisible silk cords to the corners of the platform, her legs spread and bent at the knees, her feet planted firmly on the velvet. Between her spread thighs, another, smaller mound of black caviar sat directly on her shaved pubis.
She wore the same black mask, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of soy, wasabi, and the faint, expensive scent of her own perfume.
The executives filed in, their laughter and booming conversations dying abruptly as they took in the scene. Ties were loosened. Throats were cleared. Mr. Harrison, his face flushed with anticipatory glee, clapped his hands. “Gentlemen! A new approach to client engagement! Our host has outdone himself.” He gestured grandly towards Betty. “The ultimate serving platter. Help yourselves. Don’t be shy.”
Roger lingered near the door, his stomach a tight knot of confusion and a strange, unwelcome thrill. MRI had told him this was a crucial meeting, that playing along with the eccentric client’s “theatrics” was key to securing the account. He saw the woman, the mask, the familiar curve of her hips, and his mind flashed to the live stream, to the masked whore he’d jacked off to in his cubicle. A sick excitement coiled in his gut.
“Quite flexible, isn’t she?” a man next to Roger chuckled, nudging him with an elbow.
Roger forced a laugh. It came out strangled. “Yeah. The… the hired help is very professional.”
He moved closer, drawn against his will. He watched as Harrison leaned over Betty, using chopsticks to pluck a piece of tuna from her sternum. The man’s fingers brushed her nipple as he did so. Betty didn’t flinch. Her composure was absolute.
“Roger!” Harrison boomed, his mouth full. “Get over here! Try the uni. It’s exquisite.”
Swallowing hard, Roger approached the platform. His eyes were drawn to the caviar nestled between her thighs. It looked like a cluster of dark, wet pearls against her pale skin. Harrison followed his gaze and grinned, a predatory, knowing look.
“Go on, son. Don’t be a prude. It’s all part of the experience.”
MRI, standing near the projector, gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. His expression was one of cool appraisal.
Roger’s hand trembled as he picked up a mother-of-pearl spoon from a nearby tray. He knelt beside the platform, the carpet rough against his knees. The proximity was overwhelming. He could smell her, a familiar scent of jasmine and clean sweat cutting through the food aromas. It was a scent he knew from his own pillow. His mind recoiled, refusing to make the connection.
He leaned in, his face inches from her spread sex. He spooned up some of the caviar, his knuckles accidentally brushing her labia. He felt a jolt, a static shock of recognition. She was so warm.
He put the spoon in his mouth. The caviar burst, salty and rich. He fed his wife from her own cunt.
“Good, isn’t it?” Harrison laughed, pouring a stream of chilled champagne directly onto Betty’s stomach. The liquid pooled in the hollow of her belly before cascading in cold rivulets down her sides. She gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound, and her abdominal muscles clenched. A piece of sushi slid off and onto the velvet.
“Needs a refill!” Harrison declared, and he tipped the bottle again, this time aiming the bubbling stream lower, directly over her clit.
Betty arched off the platform, a choked cry escaping her lips as the cold, effervescent liquid hit her most sensitive flesh. The men around her roared with laughter, their voices a blur of encouragement and crude jokes.
Roger stood frozen, the spoon still in his hand. He watched the champagne foam and drip from her body. He saw the way her back arched, the way her bound fists clenched. The memory of the pool, of the masked woman’s legs around Harrison, crashed into the present moment. The line between the anonymous slut and the woman before him blurred, then vanished.
He was hard. Achingly, shamefully hard. He wanted to shove Harrison aside. He wanted to bury his face between her legs and lick the champagne from her skin. He wanted to be the one making her arch and cry out.
The meeting dissolved into a decadent, predatory feast. Men used her body as a plate, their fingers slick with soy sauce and oil as they grabbed pieces of food from her skin. They dripped wine onto her tongue when she opened her mouth to breathe. One man, particularly bold, fed her a piece of tempura from his fingers, then slowly sucked the grease from his own thumb while maintaining eye contact with his colleagues.
Through it all, Betty endured. But behind the mask, her mind was not on the humiliation. It was on the look in Roger’s eyes. The confusion, the arousal, the pathetic, eager compliance. A cold, sharp clarity settled over her.
When the executives had finally staggered out, sated and loud, leaving the boardroom stinking of food and sex, MRI began untying her wrists. His touch was clinical.
“A resounding success,” he said. “Harrison just verbally agreed to the full campaign. You’ve earned your bonus.”
Betty sat up slowly, her body sticky and cold. She pulled the mask from her face, her hair damp with sweat and champagne. She didn’t look at MRI. She looked at Roger, who was still standing by the door, looking lost and guilty.
“Roger,” she said, her voice hoarse but clear. “Could you get me a towel from the bathroom? I’m a mess.”
Roger jumped at the sound of his name, his wife’s voice slicing through his daze. “Oh. God. Yes. Of course.” He practically fled the room.
The moment the door hissed shut, Betty turned to MRI. Her eyes were not those of a victim. They were flat, calculating, and burning with a new kind of fire.
“That was nothing,” she said, wiping a streak of soy sauce from her breast. “A party trick.”
MRI raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“He was right there,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “On his knees. Eating from me. And he had no idea.” A slow, cruel smile touched her lips. “I want more. I want him to watch you fuck me. Right in front of him. I want you to make me come so hard I scream, and I want you to make him hold the camera.”
She stood, her nakedness now an assertion of power, not vulnerability.
“I want him to see what his ambition has bought him. I want him to see everything.”