Chapter 1

by ambergris

Tags: #conspiracy #f/m #multiple_partners #actress #serial_recruitment
See spoiler tags : #assertive_bottom #dom:male #harem

Christine Marie Latour calmly watched over her executive meeting. Her fiduciary duty was to herself, and she wasn’t shy about it. A shift in her posture or a raised eyebrow was enough to make the point for her, and she never had to break her nice, pleasant disposition. She loved this game of non-verbal gestures precisely for the deniability they afforded her.

Three years ago, the heiress had decided she wasn’t going to waste one more moment in her father’s empire. She cashed out her stakes to start an interest fund devoted to a range of gender-related social causes. After all, if not now, when? If not her, who? Her father wasn’t very chummed about the unenterprising, profit-minimising endeavour. Charities were fine as quirky pastimes but, truly, letting a hobby take primacy over business was putting the cart before the horse. Needless to say, her father caved and made his peace with her on his deathbed. She loved him, but she knew he wasn’t her.

As its first and largest benefactor, Christine had unparalleled command over the Board at the Shelley Fund for Equity and Empowerment, which has inconspicuously grown into one of the world’s best-endowed. Her massive initial contribution had attracted many like-minded heiresses in her network and inspired their own sizable contributions. However, always one to avoid the spotlight, Christine never used Shelley to fund projects directly. Instead, she channelled her capital to other trust funds and investment vehicles, which in turn funded select foundations and NGOs, even PACs and intergovernmental organisations, that fund the organisations doing her work.

At 33, she resembled a perching hawk. Her mid-length brown hair was straight and impeccably groomed. It framed her pretty face and icy blue eyes, inscrutably set in stone. Her make-up was light, practical, and accentuating. She wore a standing-collar V-neck blouse and ankle-length slacks, both cleaned-cut and tailored. Her one-button suffragist-white blazer hung on her chair at the head of the table like some draperies or banner. She never needed her blazer indoors except to mark her ownership of chairs. The cold never bothered her anyway.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Margaret. I truly do,” she said. It was a rare Frenchwoman who, choosing to take up English so early, sounded like she was from Boston. That’s certainly where she “went to school.”

Of course, between the lines, her actual message reads: Shut up, Margaret.

“Truly, thank you. But I just don’t do very well in the spotlight. And unless someone is willing to take up that torch, I’m afraid this plan just isn’t going to be a good fit for us.”

Yes, Margaret, you’re not in charge for a fucking reason.

“Furthermore, I think that publicity is only a means to an end. As we still haven’t utilised all our endowment, it would be reckless for us, as a special interest fund, to accommodate more donors.”

This is my fund. What I say goes.

“Again, that is not to say I don’t see the merits of the proposal. We definitely came out wiser with more options.”

“Of course, Christine. We’re here to help,” said Margaret.

“Much appreciated,” said Christine smiling sweetly for a second.

“All right, unless anyone would like to bring up something else, I think we’ve covered the grounds.”

Puh-lease, bitches. Enough of this nonsense. Get out of my room.

After potshots of thank-yous, the executives filed out the door.

Emerging from her private room, Christine looked for her intern. “Patrick, could you check with Amanda about my afternoon schedule and get it to my office?” she said.

Everyone and their grandmother knew she was sending the poor sod for coffee. Why else would she send someone over to her secretary instead of just calling said secretary over?

It wasn’t ten minutes before Patrick was back at Christine’s office with her coffee. The kid was fast on the uptake, probably why she kept him around for so long. Young Mr Paterson had become the office speculation lately. Why would her majesty keep around a kid like him? He might be a bit bright sure, but he was nothing special. In fact, the boy was oblivious to the double-talk and the veiled pleasantry in Christine’s byzantine palace. Worse of all, he didn’t even stand to inherit a single billion dollar. What an absolute pleb! Clearly, Christine wasn’t doing anyone a favour.

Either way, the sod came back with her coffee not five minutes later.

“Oh, Patrick, you didn’t have to get me my coffee. Please, come in,” said Christine with a stevia smile.

What a goody-good boi who knows his place!

Once he closed the door behind him, Christine sang a different tune.

“Lock it,” she said quietly. Pat put down her coffee and hurriedly locked the door.

“We have a problem,” she said.

She handed him a New York Times article print-out. The header read, “The Secret Donor behind AGE, EVA, and MEDE”, with a subtitle, “Social equality has a secret champion. No, you’ve probably never heard of her.”

“Fuck,” he said. Then, shifting gears, he asked, “is it positive at least?”

“At least they didn’t say dark money. But there’s no such thing as positive publicity, Patrick.”

“How much did they dig up?”

“Enough. They talked about Singapore.”

“Nothing illegal though?”

“Nothing illegal,” she said.

“Swiss accounts?” he asked, walking closer.

“I think you’ve been watching too many movies,” she said, annoyed.

“Panama, then?”

“No, but papa’s name was on the paper. It’s only a matter of time before they write about it. I might have to do some interviews. Spin this right. Still, any publicity is toxic for us.”

“What about Shelley?” asked Pat.

“Not yet. Most donations they mentioned came out of my pockets.”

“So, it’ll blow over, right? Sure, we’d prefer to stay hidden, but it’s not as if they have any dirt on us. Besides, billionaires and offshore accounts? Same old story. Seriously, they’ll move on to someone else in a month,” he said.

Christine clenched her jaw.

“You know what your problem is, Patrick? You’re sloppy. Your works are sloppy. Your plans are sloppy. Even your reasoning is sloppy. If I become a media darling, they will dig up everything they can about me just to sell the papers. That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Honey, my ‘association’ with ‘dark money’ isn’t a problem because it’s a bad look. There are a billion of reasons why I can afford not to care about a bad look,” said Christine, sounding as if explaining herself to a child.

“But, any insinuation of that nature complicates the narrative. Complicated narratives mean more public conversations. More conversations mean more stuff to write about. Those keep my name in the news cycle and keeps us in harm’s way.”

“How did they find out about all this?” Pat asked, changing the topic. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer, just from the fact that she hadn’t already mentioned it.

“Gosh... I do wonder if Alyssa fucking Shaw name dropping me at the Oscars last week had anything to do with this.”

Alyssa had thanked Christine for funding her charity. Christine had kept the stupid thing afloat after her stupid show flopped just because Pat had asked. Pat was a huge fan of hers.

“Which begs the question, what kind of idiot goes after a Hollywood A-lister if he’s trying to stay under the radar?” said Christine. “Clearly, this is your fucking mess, master.”

She looked at him meaningfully. Her piercing sapphires bore into his, challenging him. Then she looked away and folded into her chair exasperated.

“But you’ll fix the situation for me, slave?”

Pat climbed up on Christine’s desk. He sat in front of her and put both feet on her thighs, assuming the position, so to speak. He wished she’d worn her usual beige slacks today so the shoes could leave some footprints.

She looked askance at him but betrayed herself by scooting closer, allowing him easy access. That’s what he loved about her. She had an attitude, but she’s heeled-train and would communicate her submission somehow. It was... “aggressive-passive.”

“Don’t ask questions when you already know the answer. It doesn’t make you sound very smart, master.”

“Hmm,” said Pat. He thought wistfully back to the time they first met. He was so intimidated by her he sat there tongue-tied and literally shivering a little bit. Last year seemed so long ago now.

Digressions aside, something was amiss here. Christine had been stating facts, complaining, but she hadn’t pushed for anything. There seemed to be no point to the conversation, but that was impossible for Christine.

“So? What are you really saying?” he asked.

Christine frowned but softened. He had been catching on lately.

“Look, we need to talk ut Alyssa. I don’t mind if you want to take a pet or two without logging in. It’s really not my place to come after you,” she said.

“But I can’t be your secret purse if I’m in the spotlight. So, there have to be some ground rules, and I can’t go over them with someone if I didn’t know you flipped them. Master, if you’re not going to tell me about some of the slaves, that’s fine. But could you pretty please potty train your new pets? It’ll make my life much, much easier.”

Is that a play for more control over the harem? Is that what this is about?

“Take the jet, for example,” she said, unbuckled the pants in front of her.


“Off-handed mention in the NYT article, so no more hitching hiking for you, mister,” said Christine, nibbling his inner thighs and working her way to his balls. It was classic bait and switch. She gave him a toy but took away another.

“All right, fine. Oh wow... that’s more than alright.” He whimpered but then repositioned and grabbed her head.

“Keep going, slave,” he added harshly.

She pleasured him for a good while, nibbling on playfully the tip of his shaft. Obeying a direct order always felt so good, but just now, she was more interested in plying him with pleasure. Doing things that kept him safe felt even better than obeying. That’s how he’d wired her, and she loved it. She loved everything about how he wired her. Right now, though, she needs to stop thinking about how he turned her into his private sex kitten. Those are never good thoughts to have when she needed to focus.

Christine pulled back with a severe expression.

“We will see if this goes away,” she said, propping up her elbow on his thighs. “But if it doesn’t, it can plunge me into fame. Forbes or the Times might put me on one of their stupid lists, and then we’ll be in real trouble.”

“Hmm... I dunno, how about you stop being stingy with chip changes and just buy them all out?”

“Okay, intriguing idea, so let’s explore. I buy out some of the world’s most prominent newspapers when they are talking up a storm about me in a bid to avoid publicity. No yeah, that might just work. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Shell companies and nominees, Christine, for Christ’s sake. We have the best nominees, and you know it.”

“So you’re saying, let’s commit more of our limited strategic assets on fighting some ideologically-driven half-wits with a terminal case of Pulitz-fomo? Gee whiz, phenomenal! Master of the Year! You expect me to frame that up?”

For such high-profile acquisitions, they would have to tap into entities incorporated northside of the Atlantic. Those fronts took Christine years, if not decades, to cultivate and that put them squarely in the non-renewable resource category, at least within the timeframe of a shadow conflict.

Before Pat could retort, Christine silenced him with a finger.

“Tut tut.” It was the most patronising sound Pat heard this month.

“You are sounding more and more like those predictable, hindbrain critters coming right out of college. Oh wait...” she trailed off with a shit-eating grin, her once-cold eyes peered into his with mirth. The impish glee on her face was surreal and disorienting.

Pat just rolled his eyes.

“Real mature of you,” said Pat. To which Christine just shrugged. Sensing a retort forthcoming, Pat slid two fingers in her mouth and she sucked on it obediently.

He took the encouragement and got behind her, pushing her against the desk. He fumbled roughly with her buckle, ruining yet another one of her stupid Hermès belts. At least he thought the cute little gold padlock on it signified Hermès. Pat never got why she’d fuss so much about not having designer logos on her person. According to her, only plebs wear other people’s colours.

It does beg the question if she hated them so much, why did she buy designer products at all? It turned out to be one of those “the shoppers did it” situations. They had bought a ton of stuff on speculations, and she had to grudgingly endure the arduous task of pick out what she like from the pile. Needless to say, her trash pile could keep an entire used cloth store supplied year-round if someone bothered to resell it.

Details aside, the two sex addicts have been going through these belts like an allergic kid going through tissue papers. So at least less of the belt went to waste in the last year.

“You were saying something about maturity?” she said, looking at the torn accessory, then back at Pat.

Pat licked the sweat off the nape of her neck and bit down, eliciting an aroused whimper. Christine always smelled of the sea, crisp and fresh. It’s why Pat loved putting marks on her every time he smelled her. And though she would later cover them up with a straight face, it was an open secret that she loved it too.

“Look, seriously, I’m as action-biased as the next gal, but I cannot respond to innocent adulation with malice. That’s what guilty people do. And clearly, this seems like an innocent tabloid crush stemming from Ms Shaw’s indiscretion. Now, on the flip side, if there is a crazy conspiracy against us, I will not commit our high-level resources on whichever low-level jerkoff got fed the info to write this article,” she said.

“Most importantly,” she said, grabbing his cock and guiding it between her legs. “I can’t set up a board if my king is exposed.”

She locked it down with her toned legs, and they rubbed their crotches wantonly against each other, one painfully erect cock against one sopping wet cunt. Per usual, it was just another round of Chicken. Whoever loses their composure and put it in first, loses.

Always a sucker for power moves, Christine finally turned around and pushed Pat into her executive chair and she knelt down to jack him, occasionally teasing the tip of his prick with her nails. Teasing him always got her so wet. She began to salivate but bit down on her tongue because this was an important conversation despite appearances. There were points to be made, and having him inside her mouth-pussy again wouldn’t exactly help.

“Since you said I should discuss all important concerns with you, well... here’s one: you can’t be an intern at a famous feminist interest fund, get exec perks, and remain anonymous. Doubly so since you have that,” she said, pointing her chin at the thing in her hand.

‘That’ was undoubtedly the reason Pat chose Shelley as his oyster. How else could he exclusively hire so many gorgeous and capable women without controversy? Originally established with the best intentions, Shelley – and Christine – now use its considerable endowment to ‘buy out’ women’s rights organisations worldwide and flip its leadership. This allowed them to establish a clandestine base of operation in every major city, with innocent fronts and natural access to more recruits. A harem in every port, so to speak.

The trick was to ensure that not every employee is privy to the true nature and extent of Patrick’s shadow empire, and that the average grunt does her job in earnest. After all, great evils are banal, and great lies hid behind the inanity of truth.

True knowledge, on the other hand, is a privilege earned by the select few: the brightest, the prettiest, and the most well-connected. Once initiated, the inner circle baronesses are invited for an annual pilgrimage to Christine’s mansion. Naturally, Christine herself was merely the high priestess to the Eyes-Wide-Shut orgies that ensued.

This particular brand of team-building exercise help fosters an absolute sense of camaraderie. It sends a message that no matter who they are, where they’re from, what religion they used to worship, they are united under their new godhead.

People praying together or fucking together is certainly the thesis for every tight-knitted community around the world. And if you can have both, well... let’s say that for a shadowy cabal of power-hungry women, the backstabbing was minimal. Or perhaps there’s just something about being thoroughly mind-fucked that ensured proper incentive alignment. As with any unsolved mystery, everyone gets to pick their favourite theory.

Pat stroked Christine’s head thoughtfully. It’s become his go-to meditation aid of late. After a tender moment, she broke the silence.

“Patrick, listen, it’s only a matter of time until they come looking. It pains me to even say this, but you really need a better reason to be here, to be in my world, and to even be around me. If a journalist asks what you are doing at Shelley next week, I just don’t think there’s a single satisfactory answer. And when that happens, you will become the spotlight of this story.”

“Here’s one proposal, just on top of my head. You’re young, so you go back to school. HBS, Wharton, do an MBA. Don’t do any of that sciency stuff you were doing. I’ll build them ten libraries the size of the Empire State Building in your parents’ name if you can’t get in through the front door. Just go be another donkey, party a lot, flip your pretty classmates and their grandma. Whatever floats your boat.” she said.

“When you graduate, get into a management consultancy. Do your time in the brig. Then, you arrange a pitch with us through ahem... acquaintances in our foundations. I’ll feed you the materials.”

“That way, you will impress the execs, but, more importantly, you will impress me,” she said, giving his prick an affectionate peck.

“In fact, once the project is done, I’ll be so fucking impressed I’ll buy out your whole team, and you can return to the fold as my overpaid burnt-out beta-male secretary.”

“How long would your plan even take, four years? Five? It’s completely roundabout just to create a backstory. Christine... if I have to go back to that life, then you’ve utterly run out of your usefulness.” said Pat.

Christine clenched her jaws again. This time just to show him that she understood the threat. Apparently, she’d do anything to keep him happy, even if it meant pandering to his ego.

“Honey, you tell me an easier way to scream ‘I’m boring, ignore me,’ and we’ll do it your way. You see, if you weren’t hiding the mind control bomb, then we can just tell people your mom sat next to me on a plane. Anyone gets suspicious? Fuck ‘em, they don’t matter,” said Christine.

“Since you are, we need to clean up our act. Shelley has to be squeaky clean, and you have to be a million miles from this in case anything blows up. I’m just suggesting the safest and fastest way you could come back. Now, if this publicity scare blew over halfway through the semester, then you can just drop out and come back here. It is no skin off your teeth.”

After a moment’s silence, Pat said, “How about Shelley itself? At the very least, we need to hunker down at home, and by we I mean you.” said Patrick.

I have the board and the execs, except for Margaret, who we’ll have by end of day. Tomorrow I’ll start on their families and the rest of the staff.”

“Good girl.”

Christine gave Pat a wry smile.

“As for me, I’m just an intern with no formal contract. So, I’ll quit, and I’ll stay at home.” That is, Christine’s penthouse, which they now share.

“Patrick, you’re my live-in intern who, let’s face it, I’m fucking. You put six figures on my credit card just last weekend, even though I keep telling you – and this is true – to use the other one. There are paper trails and there are digital trails connecting us. I don’t think things are quite that simple.”

“Come on... let’s do one of those I did not have sexual relations with the intern bit. Retro is so in right now.” said Pat with a smirk.

“No one likes a smartass, master,” said Christine. “Listen to me, if someone starts connecting the dots, if they stumble on your tech, if they re-flip me...” Christine looked more vulnerable in that moment than Pat ever imagined seeing her.

Christine sighed.

“All I’m saying is that people expect a billionaire with liberal guilt and an obscurity-phobia, not...” said Christine.

“Christine Gate.”

“I was going to say an international sex scandal, but yes, that’s one way to put it. And, when you give people what they expect,” she said.

“They don’t dig deeper,” he finished. “Hey, I get it. At least there are no minors involved.”

Christine just shook her head exasperated.

“Look... alright, fine. I was careless with Alyssa. It’s my fault, and I know I’ve not been at my best lately. I’ll tie up that loose end, but let’s just wait and see before we jump into things, okay?”

Never one to needlessly reply, Christine, shifted her focus to his cock and start bringing it up to speed. The shop talk had killed the mood earlier, but her soft, warm hands raised it back to half-mast. These were the hands of someone who never did the dish or swept the floor a single day in her life, and anyone who touched them could tell. Her tongue felt even better. Despite Christine’s best effort, her sweet moan leaked out. Evidently, she was getting as much pleasure as she was giving with her mouth pussy.

She worked her tongue on the tip of his cock and working her way down the side, teasing him slowly. Then, she swallowed him whole without gagging. She wouldn’t let him finish, though and soon went back to nibbling his thighs. She gave him the ebb and flow, preparing him for new heights with every iteration.

Her priorities were clear. First, get the master off. Second, make it better than every other time she did it. Always an overachiever this one.

“Never in a million years would I have imagined a lady like you being so good at this,” said Pat, almost too eager to change the topic.

Christine choked on it, laughing. “You know you’re the only person I’ve ever blown,” she said with a smirk.

“Yeah?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Think about it,” she said, “did I blow you the first few months after you... you know?”

“Clearly, I’ve practised, and gotten good,” she said.

Pat shook his head, annoyed that the woman seemed perfectly talented at just about everything. From politicking to finance and sexual servitude, it all seemed effortless. And her slick, savoir-faire attitude made it just that much more obnoxious, even when she was doing him a favour, like begging for it like a right proper slave.

Suffice to say, Pat had first-hand experience that the phrase “my cunt belongs to you, master” shouldn’t be followed with a smug wink or a self-satisfied smirk. They generally undermine the sincerity behind the message.

At any rate, he was reminded of her talents every single day since he moved in with her. The reminders have only become more acute now that he has lodged himself inside her room permanently. Seriously, who the heck wakes up for exercise at 5 am sharp every day without an alarm clock?

That’s the eternal problem with social climbing. There are people with double your talent, triple your drive and quadruple your access to opportunities. That’s how you fall out of the sky burning, your ambitions smouldered to ash.

The annoyance must’ve shown on his face because just then, Christine smirked and said,

“Now then, do you wanna moan about something, or can I go back to sucking your cock?”

He was just too easy.

Humanity has an in-built instinct to conquer anything larger than themselves. We discovered fire and conquered the earth with our weak, featheless bipedal bodies. And as it is in war, so it is in love. We valiantly attack the largest target, the ones with the most power over us. The more enthralled we are, the more we yank at the chains.

Christine never gave anyone else the sass, no one in this building and no one outside this building. The centi-billionaire was a dignified sovereign to her subjects and a quiet menace to her enemies. At the end of her patience, she would smile, and people would know to fuck right off. You see, she owned most everyone in her life.

Pat always liked being the exception.


Christine splashed herself with cold water in her office’s restroom. She needed to make a call, but she wasn’t in the mood to make it. For her service, she’d been pleasurably rewarded, even as he aimed his load all over her blouse. Then, seeing his release brought her over the edge again, more strongly. Afterwards, she cummed a third time the hardest when he patted her tousled head and said the magic word. Good girl.

It was the cost of doing business. If she wanted to be a good girl for master, then she had to grudgingly accept the firework between her legs. If she was master’s favourite slave, as she suspected from the way he cradled her and smelled her hair at night, then she had to bear with the occasional butterflies in her stomach too. She can’t make omelettes without eggs and so on.

The person in the mirror looks nothing like Christine Latour. She was just some flushed face teenager with shit giggles and a grin that wouldn’t go away. If it’s always the quiet ones that turn out slutty, then the ruthless, sociopathic ones always turn out giddy and love-struck. Growing up a cadet to her father’s hundred-billion-dollar empire hadn’t exactly prepared her for a life of love and humanity. And, when the dam broke, all the mushy scum came flooding out. In fact, it was a legitimate concern that she was going to leak out the three slimy words in the throes of her passion. Brainwashing has a way of bringing out the worst in people: it gave them permission to do fuck-all.

Christine wiped her face and changed out of her soiled clothes. Walking into her office dressing room, she dialled Mackenzie Conway, CEO of the Alliance for Gender Equality, Shelley’s biggest beneficiary.

Together, the two bosses were nicknamed the Auld Alliance, with the Scot being the public face for a hidden French powerhouse. Ironically, the number one person on her payroll also introduced her to her master and consequently her sexual slavery. Every professional relationship is a give-and-take.

“Kenzie, it’s me. I just talked to him.”

“How’d it go?” said the voice on the other side, audibly concerned.

“He’s not very receptive yet. So, I can’t bring it up with him again, but you guys need to work him. And tell that bitch Alyssa to pitch in. This is her mess.”

“Got it. Anything else?”


“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I knew Alyssa, and I had a feeling he’d flipped her. I should’ve brought her up to speed.”

“It’s not your fault Kenzie. I should’ve anticipated this when I signed that check, but we didn’t want to overstep.”

“Yeah...” said Mackenzie, trailing off. “It’s easy to forget that he’s just a kid sometimes.”

“Yes, well...” said Christine, trailing off with a contented sigh. Then she stopped herself and repositioned.

“Actually, Kenzie. Tell her that if she’s half as smart as she thinks she is, then she needs to clean up her act and help us dissuade him from his Hollywood proclivities. At least no more A-listers, for Christ’s sake. I know he’s going through something, but enough is enough. And please no more attention-grabbing divorcee. I’ve... heard enough.”

They both knew how good it felt when other women fall under the master’s control. The brainwashing harem trade is like multi-level marketing, except sexy and actually profitable. They’ve lost count of the many heiresses and divorcees who have quietly made ten-figure contributions to Shelley’s “equity and empowerment” causes in recent months. Those donations go a long way to fuel the master’s off-shore war chest and shadow empire, where Christine was regent, chancellor, and steward.

Christine often wondered if her old self would willingly submit to her fate if she had known the power and profit to be had. Her reach and control had finally eclipsed her brother and even her father in his prime, her net worth multiples of theirs. For her master’s shadow empire may be smaller than her father’s corporate one, but she had a hundred percent stake, at least legally speaking. Like they said, an unconventional career doesn’t mean slumming it out.

“As it stands, Alyssa is a liability. Either she clean up her act, or she can take that bullet for him now, and she can call me 24/7 if she needs help with the trigger,” said Christine referencing a portion of their “enhanced learning exercise,” nicknamed Valkyrie. They would all willingly take a bullet for Pat.

“We’re all sisters now, and I’m harshest on family. Be sure to tell her everything I said,”

Christine hung up.

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