Page 4 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

Bruce Sands was Christian’s father—a high school friend from back home. “I get the impression Chris is done accepting handouts from me.”

“It’s not a handout. It’s a job. He’s smart. Has a great memory. Discreet. I’d hire him.”

“It’s not about whether he’d be any good at it—I’m sure he’d be wonderful, it’s about whether he’d want it.”

“Do you want me to speak to him?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t want you having anything to do with it.”

She laughs again and turns around. Her dark hair brushes her lower back, and her ass sways temptingly as she leaves my sight again.

One minute of looking at her in lingerie, and I have a pounding erection.

In terms of sex, we have an open marriage, which she talked me into about ten years ago, a few months after we opened the club. She claimed we weren’t sexually compatible, and she was no longer interested in me or men in general. Instead, she’d developed an appetite for beautiful, submissive women. An insatiable one. But that was the first I’d heard about it.

I spent the following year miserable, celibate, and contemplating divorce, but when I finally mentioned I was considering one, she put her foot down, insisting she loved me as fiercely as ever. She convinced me we could have our separate needs met and stay together—because “we belong together.” The problem was, I neededher.

She’s kept her word, though, and I’ve grown used to the arrangement. Not happy, per se, but I’ve adapted. In many ways it’s better than the ten years prior where I waited and hoped and wondered, faithful to her and my hand. Now I get to look and touch, just—not her. Never her.

“I’m going to shower before heading upstairs,” I say.

“Have a nice night,” she calls back.

“Same to you,” I mumble, leaving her room and crossing the apartment to my own. While it’s tempting to get myself off in the shower, I decide to save my load for my new pet. She’ll be hungry. It’s been two nights since she’s been fed.

Someone puta sex chair in the amphitheater—one of those curved chaises that allow all manner of creative fucking. It annoys me because Marianne has one in her playroom. I can only imagine the way she displays her cunt for licking, and the women only too happy to cleverly position themselves to manage it.

On it currently, one of my employees Gavin is riding the CEO of a major airline. He’s recently divorced his wife, in his fifties, modestly hung, and sweating like a boar. But Gavin—my prettiest twink—is putting on a grand show like he’s never ridden better cock.

Pet nudges her forehead against my calf, and I stroke her hair absentmindedly. I stopped naming them after my third. This is my sixth, and I chose her for her neediness. And her tongue piercing. I do very much enjoy that, as well.

Emilia, the club manager, approaches and takes a seat on the arm of my chair. Her smooth, ebony skin is strapped head to toe in black leather, revealing much and hiding little. Her shaved head gleams in the reddish light, and her impossibly long eyelashes make her look like a deadly anime character. For a moment, we’re silent, surveying my side hustle from the raised VIP area along the rear side of the converted penthouse.

Catering to the needs of the rich and horny, The Penthouse is a secret sex club I started as a reminder of the good old days. While the amphitheater is for public performance and play, a dozen private rooms provide more intimate areas for my members to explore their kinks or indulge in illicit affairs. On the other side of the club is a full bar and lounge area for mingling, a dance floor for getting to know someone better, and a DJ to set the mood.

My employees run the gamut of experienced sex workers to open-minded college students who keep the drinks and service moving. My members include rappers, elite athletes, physicians,Broadway royalty, and CEOs. The only requirements for membership are the exorbitant dues, a non-disclosure agreement of sorts, and a residence on the Upper East Side.

“I’m told you were looking for me?” Emilia says.

I’m still scowling at the CEO under Gavin. “I don’t look like that do I? You would tell me.”

She lets out a rich laugh and runs a hand through my hair. “Not a single gray. I assume that holds true elsewhere?”

“It does,” I tell her.

“And if I brought over a walnut, could you crack it between those thighs of yours?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t know about that…”

“You’ve never looked better. Even the sad eyes somehow work.”

“I have sad eyes?”

Pet runs her pierced tongue along my wrist. I gently shove her face away, and she bows her head. “We’ve talked about licking. Do it again, and I’ll make you take a turn on the chair.”

She’s forbidden from fucking anyone else if she expects to fuck me, so it’s a threat as much as it can be.

“Is this about Marianne?”

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