Chapter 6: The Job and the Money

The next day, Mike found himself alone in his room, the walls closing in around him like a vice as he sat in front of his computer. He couldn’t resist the temptation to search for the video from the day before. His heart hammered in his chest as the thumbnails popped up on the screen, each one more obscene and tantalizing than the last.

Finally, with trembling hands, he clicked on the link. The video loaded, the screen flickering to life with the image of Kate and Roxie, their oiled bodies stretched out on the bed, the camera’s unflinching gaze capturing every intimate detail. Mike watched, his breath catching in his throat, as the scene played out before him. He could almost feel the heat of the lights, the weight of the camera in his hands.

And there it was: “Cameraman: Mike Price.” His name, in bold letters, forever linked to this twisted tapestry of lust and debauchery. It was a declaration of his new identity, a badge of honor in this perverted world. He felt a strange mix of pride and revulsion, knowing that his contribution to this scene was now immortalized for the world to see.

As the video played, Mike reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing against the crisp bills Ishawna had handed him as payment. The cold, hard reality of the cash was a stark contrast to the heat of the scene on the screen. He counted the money again, feeling the weight of it in his palm. It was more than he’d ever made in a single day, a testament to the power and allure of their dark arts.

He knew what he had to do. The camera he’d used the day before was a temporary loan from the studio, a tool to get the job done. But he wanted more, craved the control that came with being behind the lens. He needed his own camera, a high-quality piece of equipment that could capture every sordid detail in high definition.

The cash in his pocket was a start, but it was just that - a start. He knew it would take time, patience, and a whole lot more of filming to amass enough to make his dream a reality. Each bill was a symbol of his commitment to the kinky community, a promise of future endeavors and creations that would push the boundaries even further.

With newfound determination, Mike made a decision. He wouldn’t spend a dime of the money on frivolous things. He’d save it all, tuck it away in a secret stash that grew with each shoot he did. It was his ticket to freedom, his means to control his own narrative in this depraved world of pleasure. The thought of owning a camera, of being able to call the shots, to direct the action, made his cock throb in his pants.

And just as he was lost in his thoughts, his phone rang, the sound jolting him out of his reverie. He glanced at the screen, and his heart skipped a beat. It was Roxie. His mind raced, wondering what she could possibly want from him.

“Mike,” she purred into the phone, her voice thick with a seductive urgency. “I need you to come to the ‘Pussy’s Playpen’. It’s an underground women’s wrestling gambling club. Can you be there in an hour?”

Mike’s heart raced. Roxie had never called him outside of work, and the mention of an underground club was the last thing he’d expected. “What’s going on?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s about your mom,” Roxie said, her voice low and urgent. “I’ve some information for you.”

Mike felt a thrill run through him at her words. Trust. It was a heady feeling, knowing that someone like Roxie, a woman who had seen and done it all, had faith in him. He nodded, his mind racing with the possibilities. “I’ll be there,” he said, his voice firm.

He grabbed his bike from the hallway, the metal frame cold and solid under his hands. The ride to the Pussy’s Playpen was a blur, his thoughts racing with what he might find. The night air was cool, a welcome respite from the heat of his own desires that had been simmering all day. The city streets were quiet, almost eerie, the only sounds the occasional distant siren and the rhythmic thump of his bike’s tires on the asphalt.

Mike’s heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the nondescript building, the neon sign flickering in the darkness like a beacon of sin. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

The burly bouncer at the door looked Mike up and down, his arms folded across his chest in a clear sign of disapproval. “You’re too young for this shit, kid,” he growled. “Turn around and go home before you get hurt.”

Mike’s heart sank, but he didn’t move. He knew Roxie had called him for a reason, and he wasn’t about to back down now. Just as he was about to protest, a familiar figure sashayed through the crowd, her hips swinging with a confidence that could only come from knowing she owned every pair of eyes in the room.

“Let him in,” Roxie purred, her eyes never leaving Mike’s as she approached the bouncer. She wore a tight black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. The bouncer’s gaze flickered from Mike to Roxie and back again, and then, with a grumble of acquiescence, he stepped aside.

As he passing the door, the sound of female grunts and the slap of flesh on flesh filled his ears. The smell of sweat and sex hung in the air, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. The Pussy’s Playpen was a dimly lit den, the walls lined with plush velvet and the floor sticky with the residue of countless battles.

Mike’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. A ring, surrounded by a sea of leering faces, most of them male, all of them eager for the show goes more cruely. The women in the ring were barely naked, their bodies gleaming with oil, their eyes feral and hungry. The atmosphere was electric, a tension that thrummed through the air like a live wire, waiting to be touched.

In the center of the ring, a red-haired woman had her opponent, a brunette, pinned to the mat. Her hand was clamped firmly around the brunette’s crotch, fingers digging deep. The crowd roared as the brunette’s eyes squeezed shut, her face a mask of pain and humiliation. The redhead grinned, her teeth gleaming in the harsh lights, her hand moving in a rhythmic, punishing squeeze that made the brunette’s body buck and writhe.

Mike’s eyes were glued to the scene, his cock growing hard in his pants as he watched the raw, unbridled sexuality on display. This was more than just wrestling; it was a battle of wills, a demonstration of power and dominance that was as erotic as it was violent. The crowd was enthralled, their shouts and catcalls fueling the fire that burned in the redhead’s eyes as she continued her merciless assault.

The brunette’s body convulsed beneath her, a silent scream etched on her face. Her legs were spread wide, her pussy exposed and vulnerable to the woman’s relentless fisting. Each time the redhead’s hand plunged deeper, the crowd’s cheer grew louder, their excitement palpable. It was a sight that was both repulsive and utterly captivating.

Mike felt his heart racing, his cock straining against his zipper. This was a level of depravity he hadn’t anticipated, a world where the boundaries of pleasure and pain were so thoroughly obliterated that they became indistinguishable. The redhead’s hand was buried to the wrist in the brunette’s pussy, her knuckles white with the effort of her brutal assault.

And then, with a final, desperate spasm, the brunette’s body went limp. The crowd erupted into a roar of applause and cheers, their collective excitement reaching a fever pitch. The redhead, her own body shaking with exertion and arousal, pulled her hand free, a glistening stream of cum trailing from her fist. She held it high in victory, the crowd’s adoration washing over her like a wave.

Mike watched in shock as the bouncers lifted the brunette’s lifeless body from the ring, her legs dangling limply. They carried her away, disappearing into the shadows of the club, leaving behind a sticky, wet stain on the mat. The air was thick with the smell of sex and defeat, a scent that seemed to cling to Mike’s very soul.

The redhead in the ring took a victory lap, her hand still gleaming with the brunette’s cum, the crowd showering her with money. Dollar bills and coins rained down like confetti, sticking to her sweaty, oiled skin as she basked in their depraved adoration. Her eyes locked onto Mike, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she bent down, scooping up the cash with her free hand.

Roxie’s hand on his arm brought him back to reality. She guided him through the sea of bodies to a quieter corner, her hips swaying with purpose as she navigated the maze of tables. She sat him down at a small, round table, the plush velvet upholstery sticking to his skin. “You okay, baby?” she asked, her voice a gentle caress against his ear.