Page 23 of Shameful Addictions

Mamba folded his hands on his executive desk, smiling that unpleasant smile. “You aren’t fit to approach me. Tell me what it is you want and be quick about it. While I’m wasting time with you, I fall behind on more important matters.”

This is themostimportant matter tome, she thought. He had no sympathy for her. She hadn’t expected him to and it was still disheartening to see for herself.

“Speak,” he commanded.

She recalled how he had wanted her to beg before. It might well be her only chance to appeal to his ego. She forced herself to lower her head and spoke while looking at the gleaming white expanse of floor. Her voice echoed across the vastness of the room.

“Mamba, I can’t afford to keep paying you. I’ve done everything I can, but I’m absolutely broke. There’s no more money left in my bank accounts. I’ve sold all my jewelry to reach last month’s payment. Now there’s nothing left. Please. I’m begging you. Can we come to some sort of agreement? You won’t get any money at all if I go to jail for defaulting on the payments. Only you can help me.”

Mamba suddenly started laughing as she finished. His shoulders quivered with an evil merriment at her expense. His laughter cut off quickly and he leaned forward in his chair, glaring at her with his cold venomous eyes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that hardly anyone dares speak my name. They seem to think talking of me will summon me.”

That’s how this happened to me,she thought bitterly. She said his name too many times and he came at the summons, like a ghoul, a demon, rising out of darkness to ruin her.

“From now on, you will address me as sir.”

He didn’t elaborate on what would happen if she didn’t. He didn’t need to. The implications were clear.

Charlotte lowered her head. “Yes, sir.”

“Why should I prevent your life from being ruined when you attempted to do the same to me?” Mamba asked. “You tried to play a game in which you didn’t know the rules. You brought this upon yourself. You played with fire. Whether you burn yourself is none of my concern. Do you understand? I don’t care about you. Not at all. You’re nothing. A worm. An ant. An annoying speck of dust.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Then why,” she whispered, voice trembling, “are you doing this? If you really don’t care?”

“That’s business.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You are a demonstration of what happens when people try to mess with me. You’re a tool. Unfortunately, you are a very old and outdated tool capable of only one thing. I can use you, but only this once. You aren’t a real woman. You can do nothing more than this and soon your time will be finished. You’ll be broken. And then you will go to jail with the other pieces of garbage.”

Charlotte came to a realization while Mamba spoke. It was that one sentence in the middle that gave her true insight into the deeper meaning of what he was saying. She wasn’t a “real woman” in his eyes. The fake whores, more plastic than person, lining his walls were what he considered to be real women. He wanted tools. He wanted big-lipped and busty females who would perform whatever task he wanted and fill every role he required of them.

Despite all his claims to support the empowerment of women, he had just revealed himself to her as a complete and utter misogynist.

If only she’d been wearing a microphone or had a recorder in her pocket, she could have recorded him and fought back.

Maybe he’s right. I’m old. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Maybe this is what I deserve.

She risked a glance up at Mamba and saw him grinning, gloating, more than likely able to read every thought that crossed her face. This was what he wanted, for her to give up, for her to believe what he said about her.

The urge swept through her to show him her middle finger and storm out. Fuck him. Fuck everything he stood for. She’d find a different, less degrading way to get through this.

“What are you considering?” Mamba’s eyes narrowed to slits. He thrummed his fingers on his desk, the tapping echoing like gunshots in the cavernous office. “You want to pretend to be a bad bitch and storm out of here. How very noble of you to stick to your guns even in what is so clearly a desperate time for you. You’d have my admiration, except I can reassure you that you won’t make it very far and you will get very little done. You’ve learned nothing from this whole ordeal.”

“What am I supposed to learn? Sir,” she added, lamely.

“That you are no better than any other woman. You are no different, though you think you are and so you have pigeonholed yourself. But you are not different. You think I can’t tell you orgasmed recently?”

She couldn’t have been more shocked than if he’d thrown a bucket of ice water in her face. She sputtered, “What… How…” She shifted her clasped hands, subconsciously covering her pussy. She’d showered. She’d put on perfume. He shouldn’t know that she’d had an orgasm. It had to be a trick.

The confidence in his smirk told her that no, it wasn’t a trick. He really knew. He could really tell. She may as well have been naked and standing in front of him with her pussy wet for all she could hide from him.

“I will write off one month’s payment,” Mamba said in his slow hiss. “This month. You’d best do all you can to get back on your feet in that time.”

She was too relieved to argue with him about how he’d ruined her reputation so thoroughly she might as well not have feet to stand on. He’d chopped them off, amputated her foundation.

“In return, you will dye your hair my favorite color.”

His favorite color. Blue, like the sadness he inflicted upon others? Or red, like the blood of his enemies?

She was about to ask when it hit her. “No,” she breathed.

“Yes. Platinum-blonde. You will do it and you will send me proof. No sooner and no later than I receive your proof, I will write off the payment you owe this month.”

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