Chapter 1: The Throne of Indulgence
The amber light from the single lamp bled into the room, thick and syrupy. It pooled in the hollows of the unmade bed and clung to the haze of smoke hanging in the air. Dub music, all slow, subsonic bass and echoing snares, throbbed from hidden speakers, a physical pulse in the chest.
Andrew let his head loll against the cracked leather of his chair, the rum glass cool in his left hand, the joint between the fingers of his right. The smoke he exhaled joined the ceiling’s cloud. On the large screen mounted opposite, two figures moved with a relentless, synthetic rhythm, the sound down to a whisper. It was just light, just movement, a visual anchor.
“My turn, my turn.”
Lyka’s voice, bright with a Czech lilt, cut through the bass. She nudged Kadie’s shoulder, her smile all mischief. Kadie, pink-cheeked and breathing hard, sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She shot Lyka a look that tried for annoyance but landed somewhere closer to uncertainty.
Andrew watched the exchange from behind half-closed lids. He took a slow pull from the joint, the heat sharp in his lungs. He didn’t speak. He just shifted his hips, a silent, kingly permission.
Lyka moved in, her dark hair falling like a curtain. She had a way of making it a game, all tongue and teasing glances upward. She was an enthusiast. He admired that. Her enjoyment seemed genuine, a sport she’d mastered and loved playing. He let his free hand rest on her head, not guiding, just a weight. A claim.
“Greedy,” Cathryn murmured from her perch on the edge of the bed. She was rolling another joint, her fingers precise. At forty-five, she had a stillness the others lacked. A watchfulness.
Lyka pulled off with a soft pop, grinning. “He likes greedy.”
“He likes quiet,” Cathryn said, not looking up from her task. Her voice was low, a smooth London cadence that held no real malice. It was just fact.
Andrew’s lips twitched. He took a sip of rum, the dark sugar and spice blooming on his tongue. Cathryn knew him. Knew the rhythm he preferred, the detached theatre of it all. She’d been around long enough to understand he was less a participant than a privileged audience of one.
Kadie, seeking to reclaim ground, crawled forward again. “I wasn’t finished.”
“You were taking ages,” Lyka laughed, but she shifted, making space. A shared look passed between them—a flicker of competition, then a shrug of alliance. It was them against the boredom, against the slow crawl of the night, and he was the altar at which they temporarily aligned.
They worked in tandem then, a dizzying, wet relay. The attention was a warm, constant pressure. He watched the screen, watched the frantic, edited passion there, and felt the more real, more devoted heat below. The disconnect was the point. The adoration was ambient, a feature of the room like the music or the lamplight.
His mind floated. The rum, the weed, the relentless, sucking rhythm lulled him into a pleasant void. He was a body being serviced. A statue being polished. It was perfect.
Cathryn finished rolling, lit up, and passed the new joint to him. Her fingers brushed his as he exchanged the old stub. Her touch lingered a second longer than necessary. A question. An old habit.
“You’re miles away,” she said softly, so only he might hear over the music.
He met her eyes. Hazel, flecked with gold in this light. Knowing. “I’m right here,” he said, his voice a dry rustle.
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, a small, private concession. She didn’t smile. She understood the miles he spoke of were the entire purpose. She turned her attention to the girls. “Pick up the pace a bit, loves. He’s fading.”
The order was gentle, but it was an order. Lyka hummed in agreement, deepening her efforts. Kadie, eager to please, followed suit, her hands fluttering nervously.
The intensity ramped up, a focused, concerted mission. The slick sounds grew louder, mingling with the dub’s exhaust-fume echoes. Andrew’s breath hitched, a purely physiological response. He let it happen, the pleasure a wave building at a distance. He observed it. The strain in his thighs, the tight coil in his gut, the desperate, mechanical fervour of the mouths on him.
He finished. The release was a shallow, emptying thing. A sigh more than a storm.
For a few seconds, there was only the heavy beat and the sound of labored breathing. Then movement.
Lyka collapsed back onto the rug with a gratified laugh, stretching like a cat. “Wow. Okay.”
Kadie sat up, subtly wiping her lips again. She looked at Andrew, seeking something—praise, a touch, a confirmation. He gave her a vague, closed-mouth smile and reached for his rum glass. Her face fell, just for a heartbeat, before she masked it.
Cathryn took charge. She rose and handed Kadie a towel from a stack by the bed. “Here.” She then picked up Andrew’s robe from the floor and draped it over his lap, her movements efficient, proprietary. “Alright, you two. Bathroom’s free. Clean up.”
Lyka hauled herself up, pulling Kadie with her. They disappeared into the en-suite, their whispers and the sudden rush of the tap cutting through the music.
Silence settled, thick and companionable. Andrew took a long drag from the fresh joint, holding the smoke until his lungs burned. Cathryn stood beside his chair, looking down at him. She didn’t speak.
“You’re good at that,” he said finally.
“At what?”
“Managing the circus.”
She gave a soft, humorless snort. “Someone has to.” She watched the bathroom door. “Kadie’s going to ask you for money soon. For a course. Or a car. Something.”
“I know.”
“And Lyka just wants the photos for her Instagram. The pool. The car. His ‘wild life’.”
“I know that, too.”
She finally looked at him. “And what do I want, Andrew?”
He met her gaze. The miles between them felt very short for a moment, and dangerously deep. He knew the answer she wanted. The answer he could never give. The intimacy of being known was one thing; the obligation of knowing in return was another.
“You want another drink,” he said, his voice flat, offering her the empty rum glass.
A shadow passed over her face. It wasn’t disappointment. It was the resignation of a confirmed truth. She took the glass. “I do.”
She padded barefoot towards the kitchen. Andrew stared at the paused screen, the frozen, grinning strangers. The afterglow was just a chemical ebb, a cooling in his veins. The hollow was back, familiar and welcoming.
From the bathroom, he heard a giggle, then Kadie’s voice, thin and plaintive over the water: “Do you think he liked it? I mean, really liked it?”
Lyka’s reply was muffled, then clear. “Who cares? I liked it.”
Andrew closed his eyes. The bass line dropped again, deeper. He waited for the next thing to happen.
He waited for the next thing to happen. It always did.
Cathryn returned with his refreshed drink, the ice clinking. She placed it in his hand and didn’t move away. Her presence was a quiet demand. From the bathroom, the water shut off. The door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and the two younger women.
They had changed. The towels were gone. Lyka wore a sheer black chemise that ended high on her thighs, the outline of her nipples dark and visible through the fabric. Kadie was in a corset of cheap pink satin, straining over her breasts, paired with matching panties that barely covered her. They’d touched up their makeup; lips darker, eyes smudged. They looked like expensive confections, slightly melted.
“See?” Lyka said, striking a pose. “We dressed for the main event.”
Cathryn, still in her silk robe, shook her head slightly but a faint smile touched her lips. She understood the assignment. She untied her robe and let it slide down her arms. Beneath it, she wore a lace teddy, the colour of burnt cream, hugging the mature curve of her hips. It was more sophisticated, more knowing. The comparison was stark.
“On the bed,” Andrew said, his voice rough from smoke and disuse.
They arranged themselves like a bouquet of flesh and synthetic fabric against the rumpled sheets. He didn’t join them. He remained in his chair, a king on a worn leather throne. He picked up the remote, thumbed a button, and the frozen pornographic image jerked back into frantic life. The sound remained low, a ghost of grunts and slaps.
He took a long swallow of rum, set the glass down, and undid his robe. He was already half-hard again, the interest purely anatomical, a response to the visual feast before him. “Come here,” he said, not to any one of them, but to all three.
They slipped off the bed, a whisper of nylon and lace, and knelt on the thick rug before him. The hierarchy was instantly fluid, volatile. Lyka went for his cock first, taking the head into her mouth with a confident groan. Kadie, not to be outdone, nuzzled at his balls, her hands trembling as she cupped them. Cathryn watched for a beat, then moved to his side, her tongue tracing the vein along the length of his shaft, her hand stroking what mouths couldn’t cover.
It was a tangle of limbs and warm, wet pressure. A mess of tongues and lips and fingers. He let his head fall back, but kept his eyes open, trained on the screen.
“Look at that,” he said, his voice a flat drone over the music. His hand found Cathryn’s hair, not pushing, just resting. “Blonde one’s taking it in the ass now. Rough. You can see the spit dripping down where he tried to lubricate it. He doesn’t care.”
Lyka pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his glistening skin. “Does she like it?” she breathed, before diving back down, taking him deeper into her throat.
“Irrelevant,” Andrew said. His hips gave a slight, involuntary thrust. “She’s being used. That’s the point. Look at her face. It’s blank.” He described the clinical details—the angle of penetration, the redness of the skin, the way the man’s hand gripped the back of the blonde’s neck like a vise. His words were cool, precise, a narration for a nature documentary.
Kadie moaned, the vibration against his perineum electric. She was losing herself in the performance, rubbing her own thighs together. Cathryn switched her attention to his balls, drawing one then the other into the hot cavity of her mouth, her tongue lapping firmly. The sensation was incredible, a deep, rolling pressure.
Things got very sloppy. Spit shone on his skin, on their chins, in the dark hair at his base. There was no technique anymore, just a hungry, collective devouring. Lyka’s cheek smeared with Kadie’s lipstick. Cathryn’s elegant fingers were slick as she worked him. The sounds were obscene—wet, sucking gulps, choked gasps for air, the raw slap of a tongue against flesh.
“He’s switching holes,” Andrew continued, his breath catching slightly. “Back to her cunt. It’s gaping. Loose. He’s pounding her like he’s trying to break something inside her.” He gripped Cathryn’s hair tighter now, a fistful of dark strands. “Faster.”
They obeyed. The rhythm dissolved into a frantic, hungry competition. Lyka deep-throated him until her eyes watered. Kadie licked and sucked at his balls like she was starving. Cathryn focused on the head, her tongue flicking the slit with ruthless precision. The porn on the screen reached its grinding, noisy climax. Andrew’s followed, a surge he didn’t fight but didn’t embrace. He came in Cathryn’s mouth with a low grunt, his body taut then slumping.
For a moment, there was only the heavy beat of the music and the sound of three women swallowing, catching their breath, wiping their mouths on wrists and the backs of hands. They were a beautiful, ruined tableau at his feet, makeup smeared, outfits in disarray, soaked with sweat and spit.
Andrew reached for his rum. He took a sip, the alcohol biting through the fog. He looked at them, at their expectant, glazed eyes. He felt nothing but a profound, familiar emptiness.
“Good,” he said, the word hollow as a drum. “Now get me a cigarette.”
“Now get me a cigarette.”
Cathryn rose first, her movements fluid where the others were stiff. She fetched the pack and lighter from the bedside table, placed a cigarette between his lips, and lit it. The first exhale of smoke was a curtain drawn across the scene.
Lyka stretched, arching her back until her spine cracked. “I’m bored.”
Kadie, still on her knees, looked up at Andrew. “Your phone buzzed. Earlier.”
He ignored her, watching the smoke curl. “Boredom is a failure of imagination.”
“Okay, philosopher,” Lyka laughed, crawling onto the bed. She bounced once, testing the springs. “I have an idea. A contest.”
Cathryn, leaning against the bedpost, raised a brow. “What kind of contest?”
“A deep-throat contest.” Lyka’s eyes glittered with competitive fire. She looked at Kadie, then at Cathryn. “See who can take him the deepest, hold it the longest. No hands. Just throat.”
Kadie paled slightly, but a hard, determined set came to her jaw. This was a currency she understood. A way to win.
Cathryn sighed, a soft, weary sound. “Childish.”
“Afraid you’ll lose?” Lyka taunted. “The old throat might not be as flexible.”
A flash of something cold passed behind Cathryn’s eyes. She pushed off from the bedpost. “Fine.”
All three looked at Andrew. He took another drag, the ember flaring in the dim room. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Permission. The only prize was his attention, and it was a prize he knew was hollow. That was what made it interesting.
They arranged themselves on the rug again, a semicircle before his chair. He was still soft, spent. That was part of the test.
“Ladies first,” Lyka said, but she was already moving, nudging Kadie forward. “The rookie.”
Kadie swallowed, her throat working. She leaned in, her pink-lacquered lips parting. She used her mouth to coax him back to life, her tongue fluttering. It took time. The dub beat counted the sluggish seconds. Finally, he was hard again, jutting up thick and veined.
She took a breath, steeling herself. Then she opened wider, and began to sink down. She made it about halfway before her gag reflex hit, a sharp, convulsive jerk. She backed off, eyes watering, a string of saliva breaking.
“Pathetic,” Lyka murmured, not unkindly. “My turn.”
She didn’t bother with preamble. She locked eyes with Andrew, winked, and took him in one smooth, practiced slide. Her nose buried itself in the coarse hair at his base. She held it, her neck stretched, tendons standing out. Her eyes stayed open, triumphant. She held for a ten-count, then slid off with a wet, gasping inhale. “Beat that, grandma.”
Cathryn didn’t speak. She knelt, her posture regal. She didn’t look at Andrew, but at his cock, as if assessing a task. She opened her mouth, her jaw seeming to unhinge, and took him not with a slide, but with a slow, deliberate engulfment. There was no hurry. Millimeter by millimeter, she took him deeper than Kadie, deeper than Lyka, until her lips met his skin at the very root. Her throat worked around him, a powerful, swallowing muscle.
She didn’t gag. She didn’t even flinch. She held. Her eyes closed.
The room was silent except for the music. Lyka’s smirk faded. Kadie watched, fascinated and horrified.
Cathryn held. Twenty seconds. Thirty. A faint, gurgling sound came from her throat, but she didn’t move. Her hands were clenched into fists on her thighs. The veins in her temples stood out.
Andrew watched, detached. He saw the strain, the physical cost. It meant nothing. It was just biology meeting willpower.
At forty-five seconds, a tear escaped from the corner of Cathryn’s closed eye, tracing a path through her powder. She held for a second more, then retreated, the withdrawal slow and excruciating. When she was free, she doubled over, coughing, a deep, raw sound that shook her whole frame.
Lyka stared. “Fuck.”
Kadie just looked stunned.
Cathryn recovered, sitting back up, wiping her mouth and the tear away with a sharp, angry motion. She looked at Andrew, her gaze a challenge. See? See what I will do?
He met her eyes. He took a final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in a full ashtray. “Lyka’s turn again,” he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. “Try to beat the record.”
Lyka’s competitive spirit warred with a dawning understanding of the sheer, brutal physicality of the challenge. But she leaned forward again, her earlier bravado tinged now with desperation. She opened her mouth, aiming to replicate Cathryn’s slow descent, but her body betrayed her halfway down. She choked, pulled back, coughed violently.
“I can do it,” she insisted, her voice hoarse. She went again, forcing it, her body trembling with the effort to suppress the gag. She held, her face turning a deep red, eyes bulging. At twenty seconds, she jerked away, vomiting a thin, clear liquid onto the rug beside her.
“Disgusting,” Andrew muttered, without heat.
Kadie was crying now, silent tears mixing with her smeared makeup. She looked at the vomit, then at Cathryn’s stoic face, then at Andrew’s impassive one. This was the game. This was the price.
“Your turn, Kadie,” Andrew said. “Unless you forfeit.”
Forfeit. The word hung in the smoky air. Forfeiting meant losing, meant being less. She shook her head, wiping her nose with her wrist. She moved on her knees through the mess, avoiding the sour puddle. She positioned herself, took a series of short, panicked breaths, and then took him into her mouth.
She couldn’t deep-throat. She barely made it past the head before she was gagging, but she didn’t pull away. She held what little she could take, her body wracked with dry heaves, her throat constricting in painful spasms around the tip. She held through the humiliation, through the burning in her nose and eyes, for a pathetic count of maybe eight seconds before collapsing sideways, retching onto the floor.
Andrew looked at the three of them: one victorious and hollow, one defeated and soiled, one broken and weeping. The air stank of sex, vomit, weed, and cheap perfume.
He felt a distant stirring, a twitch against his thigh. He was hard again. The spectacle, the abasement, it functioned where mere pleasure had failed.
Without a word, he stood up from the chair. He stepped over Kadie’s shuddering form. He grabbed Cathryn by her hair, not gently, and pulled her towards the bed. She didn’t resist. He pushed her face-down into the mattress, her lace teddy riding up. He didn’t look at Lyka, still gasping on the floor.
“Watch,” he told the room. “Learn.”
He spat once, roughly, onto his hand, slicked himself, and drove into Cathryn from behind in a single, brutal stroke. She cried out, a muffled sound eaten by the duvet. He set a punishing, mechanical rhythm, his eyes fixed on the headboard, on the wall, on nothing. He was fucking the victory, the surrender, the emptiness itself. Cathryn’s fingers clawed at the sheets, her face turned to the side, her eyes squeezed shut. Each thrust drove a choked gasp from her lungs.
Lyka, from the floor, watched with a kind of horrified arousal, her hand drifting between her own legs. Kadie curled into a fetal position, her sobs quieter now, just hitching breaths.
It was over quickly. He came inside Cathryn with a grunt, his hips stuttering then still. He stayed there for a moment, buried, before pulling out and stepping back.
He walked to the bathroom, leaving the door open. The sound of the shower starting filled the sudden quiet.
On the bed, Cathryn didn’t move. On the floor, Lyka lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. Kadie uncurled slowly, staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide and blank.
The dub music rolled on, a heartbeat with no body attached to it. The competition was over. There were no winners. Only varying degrees of loss, and the man in the shower, washing all of them off his skin.