I should have called this shit off a long damn time ago.
When I arrived in Vegas seven years ago, I didn’t know any better than what I was. Than what I did. I needed things I haven’t needed in a fucking long time now. Dominating women…it was the air in my lungs.
Now it’s goddamned boring.
I’ve cut back—way back; maybe two or three times a year, like tonight, when we have investors in the house, and my submissives are Luna Trois and French Kitten, a famous porn star and a celebutant bitch who, combined with me, draw a pretty decent crowd.
But this shit is all for show. We don’t do real-time domination at The Forest. Not when my submissives are so notable, and there’s a crowd ten bodies thick behind the Plexiglas wall. Luna and Frenchy had to sign off on the cat I’m palming. On the thick plugs in their puckered holes. On the tight cuffs around their wrists, and the spreaders I’ll use when both their asses are good and welted.
They were happy to agree to the nipple clamps I like to use: the metal ones that can do real damage if left on too long—though, of course, they won’t be.
Neither woman objected to the dual blow job they’ll give me after I spread them wide and use my fist on them, where Luna will deep-throat me and Frenchy will tea-bag my balls. Luna is thrilled that, after she stuffs her throat full of my cock, she’ll spread her legs for Luna’s tongue while Luna lets me fuck her from behind. I’ve got a nine-inch cock, and she told me before the show, she’s shallow, but Luna likes the pain. They all do.
I can’t lie: I like to give it.
I made my name dominating sick showgirls.
A lot of it is my body and my face, my pretty cock and the absurd length of time that I can wield it. But it’s the showmanship, too.
The rough, whispered words the mics can always pick up on.
The heavy-handed spanking—also okay’d by them, although it looks and sounds spontaneous.
The way I give it to them, invading mouth, pussy, and ass, often in quick succession.
People like to think of me as some sort of grand fucking conquestor.
Unbreakable.
Unyielding.
In the six months after I left Colorado and hitchhiked my way to Vegas, where my miserable life began, I made such a name for myself as “Edgar,” my shows at Vixxx would sometimes draw a bigger crowd than the Saturday night fights at the Mirage.
With a pedigree like mine, it wasn’t difficult to sweet-talk investors into fronting a club. I’m good with money—good at betting, I guess—so they were happy to invest again and again, each time lowering my interest rates and increasing the amount of dollars. Now that The Forest is what it is, even the most prudish among them are pleased to have their names up on the donors’ wall inside my primary location on The Strip.
In the last five years, I’ve opened four locations. Financed one sixth of a casino. Built five apartment buildings, invested in one planned gated community, and bought out three luxury car lots.
I’m interviewed regularly by the Nevada Business Times, consulted occasionally by Hollywood, still sporadically beset by huge financial offers from porn studios, discreetly phoned by Wall Street deviants interested in “the lifestyle.”
They all know me as Edgar.
Not my birth name, Lucas Lenore, nor any other name I’ve had.
I’ve made a new life. Become almost famous for my stamina and temper, for my keen eye for submissives and my talent with a crop.
I stay hard all the way through every show, no matter how long. It’s not Viagra. Just my lust.
And no one ever guesses my secret.
At what my private submissives’ gag orders keep hidden.
That after every show, there must be blood.
Mine.
Because I’m not a sadist—not just.
I’m still Hansel. And Hansel is a masochist.
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