Downtown Manhattan, August 2022.

Christine Marie Évreux 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 any 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 it 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 most-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 might read: 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.”

“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.”

“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 after an awkward pause.

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

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 knew she was sending the poor sod for coffee. Why else would she send someone over to her secretary instead of just texting like a normal person?

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 seemed 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.

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

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 for us, 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.

“My money hasn't been there for a good while if you've paid any attention,” 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...”

“What about Shelley?” asked Pat.

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

“Then, it’ll blow over, right? 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. Suddenly parts of our operations might not be so secret anymore.”

“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.

“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” turned into a "stupid cash flow problem" 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?”

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 might 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 was heeled-train and would communicate her submission somehow. It was kind of… “aggressive-passive.”

“Don’t ask questions when you already know the answer.”

“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 in his seat. 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 about Alyssa. I don’t mind if you want to take a pet or two without logging into the system. 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.

“Yes?”

“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 a bait and switch. She gave him a toy but took away another.

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

“Keep going, slave,” he added.

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 complicated 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, 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? Phenomenal idea! Master of the Year! You expect me to frame that up?”

For such high-profile acquisitions, Christine would prefer to tap “legitimate entities” incorporated northside of the Atlantic. Those fronts took her decades to cultivate. She considers them squarely in the non-renewable resource category, at least within the timeframe of whatever game is being played out.

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

“Tut tut.” It was the most patronising sound Pat heard this month. Reasserting dominance, Pat slid two fingers in her mouth and she sucked on it obediently.

He 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. He remembered she said once that only plebs wear other people’s colours.

It does beg the question why did she buy designer products at all? Here he found out that a busy person like her has no principles, and it was one of those “the shoppers did it” situations. They had bought a ton of clothing items on speculations she’d wear some, and she had to grudgingly endure the arduous task of picking out what she like from the designer trash 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 unworn last year.

“My my, such savagery Patrick,” she said, looking at the torn accessory.

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. Pat loved putting marks on her every time he smelled her. 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 it ill behoves me responding to innocent adulation with malice. And clearly, this seems like an innocent tabloid crush stemming from Ms Shaw’s indiscretion. Now, on the flip side, if this is an opening salvo of a crazy conspiracy against us, I will not commit our high-level resources on whichever low-level drone 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 chess 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 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 even salivate a little in anticipation of a blowjob 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 as an intern, 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.

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 are hidden behind boring truths.

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 Eyes-Wide-Shut pilgrimage at Christine’s mansion, and they all hope that the master would deign to partake. Lately, the master sometimes just holed himself up in a tiny corner of the mansion, playing video games with their gamer daughters.

Nevertheless, 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 Master.

People praying together or fucking together is certainly the thesis for every tight-knitted community around the world. And if people can have both… let’s just say that for a shadowy cabal of power-hungry women, the backstabbing was minimal. Or perhaps there’s just something about being thoroughly mind-controlled that ensured proper incentive alignment. As with any unsolved mystery, everyone gets to pick their favorite 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. If a journalist asks what you are doing at Shelley next week, I just don’t think there’s a satisfactory answer. And when that happens, you will become the spotlight of this story,” she said.

This was probably the real reason behind the meeting.

“Here’s one proposal, just on top of my head. You’re young, so you go back to school. Just do a fancy MBA. Don’t do any of that sciency stuff you were doing, we need an empty-suit. 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. Go be a donkey, right? Party a lot, flip your pretty classmates and their grandma in secret. College campuses are already our usual stomping ground, and there is relevant infrastructure already built in place to hide your activities.” she said.

“When you graduate, get into a nice management consultancy. Again, stomping ground. Relevant infrastructure. So, most cases you got assigned, you get the partner, or the client, to make your deck. Then, you arrange a project pitch with us through your acquaintances in any of our foundations. Pick someone age-appropriate, call it an old flame you've met on Hinge.”

“Your deck will impress the execs. More importantly, it'll impress me,” she said, giving his prick an affectionate peck.

“In fact, once the project is done, I’ll be so 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?” He asked. “Four years? Five? It’s a completely roundabout just to create a backstory. Christine… if I have to go back to that rat race, then you’ve utterly run out of your usefulness.” said Pat.

Christine clenched her jaws again. She understood the threat. There’s a part of her that wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, Master or not. But apparently, she’d do anything to keep him safe even backing down despite knowing she's right. She softens.

“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 fifty thousand brainwashed slaves, 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.

“The first rule of a conspiracy is to keep it small and manageable. Since we already broke that, we need to clean up our act. Shelley has to be squeaky clean, and your illustrious mastery-ness have to be a million miles from this. I’m just suggesting the safest and fastest way you could come back. Now, if this publicity scare blew over halfway through the semester, you can just drop out and come back here. It will be no skin off your teeth.”

After a moment’s silence, Pat said, “How about Shelley itself? At the very least, we need to onboard everyone here now, don’t you think?” said Patrick. “And by we, I mean you.”

“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 off-the-book 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 an I did not have sexual relations with that 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.”

“That’s one way to put it. And, when you give people what they expect,” she said.

“They don’t dig deeper,” he finished.

Christine just nodded.

“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. Then in a few weeks if… 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 people 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. She has this sense of “savoir-faire” as the French calls it.

Even when she said things like “my cunt belongs to you, Master” or “make me your cum-dumpster, Master,” it’d be followed with a smug wink or a self-satisfied smirk. Only Christine could make being a sex slave cool.

Lately, since he moved in with her, he was reminded of her talents every single day. Now that he has lodged himself inside her room permanently, he had a feeling he could never be as productive, effective, or industrious as her even if he’d have all the upper-class grooming she did. Seriously, who the heck wakes up for exercise at 5 am sharp every day without an alarm clock, and where does that energy come from?

That’s the problem with social climbing. Eventually, everyone finds there are people with triple their talent, drive and access to opportunities.

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

“Now then, do you wanna gripe 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, featherless 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 gave a small smile, and people would know to shut-up and yield. You see, she owned most everyone in her life.

The reverse of that dynamic was lost on neither of them. And Pat always enjoyed being the exception in all things.

***

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 breaking eggs.

The person in the mirror looks nothing like Christine Marie. 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. As they say, 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 won’t bring it up with him again, but you guys need to work him slowly. And tell that bitch Alyssa to pitch in. This is her mess.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“No.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I know Alyssa, and I had a feeling he’d… flipped her. I should’ve at least try bringing her to speed.”

“It’s not your fault Kenzie. I should’ve anticipated this when I signed that check, but we both 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, she needs to clean up her act and help us dissuade him from his Hollywood proclivities. For starters, 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 multi-million-dollar 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 now multiples of theirs. Clearly, an unconventional career doesn’t mean slumming it out.

“She needs to know that as it stands, she is a liability,” said Christine. “We’re all sisters now, and I’m harshest on family. Be sure to tell her everything I said,”

Christine hung up. Little that she knew Alyssa was far from up to speed.