The TV screen flicked to life, and a beautiful woman’s face took up most of the widescreen; it panned out, and she was holding a bottle of perfume.

“Ladies, I use Clive Christian’s Number One, the perfect Feminine fragrance. Why? Because I’m worth one of the most expensive perfumes in the world. Aren’t you?”

The picture froze. The man behind the desk tossed the remote on the blotter and turned to the two men sitting across from him. The men gazed at the screen, mesmerized by her beauty. Sam Hardy turned from the television and returned his gaze to his current employer. With great reluctance, Ezekiel Smith broke away from the vision.

“That’s the bitch that cost me 68 percent of my company. While I wined and dined her, in Paris, Rome, and Madrid, her future husband took me to the cleaners. My lawyers were out of their league and couldn’t reach me. My company is private, and we’d leveraged ourselves pretty badly. He bought up all the debt for a song and then forced them to accept half of what half my company was worth,” the man stopped talking and looked down at something on his desk.

“I didn’t know she was his fiancée. I never even got inside the cock-teaser’s panties.”

“Sir,” Zeke said, “We know the score. At your behest, we’ve been following them for over a month. I’ve remotely hacked both laptops, one tablet, have hacked into his personal banking accounts, and cloned their phones.”

“We’re ready to wreck him,” Sam said. “It will hurt your company.”

“I understand you boys like to fuck-up bitches.”

The two men smiled and nodded.

“Well, I want her fucked-up but good. And I want the bastard to have to watch it. Once you’ve got their minds in a well of darkness, I want to enter the picture. So that Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Williams know who it was that fucked them up. At that point, he and I will talk while you, Mr. Smith, devastate him financially but not my company. At that point, maybe Andrew gets to watch Morgana die, and I let him live. Or it could be she’ll live, and he’ll die. Or it’s possible I’ll have y’all free the world of their misery.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Zeke said, “we can do that. Today’s Saturday, expect a call from us on Tuesday or Wednesday telling you to come up and claim your prize.”

“I’ll transfer the second two hundred fifty thousand into your account today. Once you let me know the two are at the location, I’ll put the third payment in.”

“And the final payment?” Sam asked.

“I’ll put that in after we do whatever we do to them in the end. I have a third man for you. He’s not as experienced as you men but very eager to learn, and I’ll cover his cost. We’re having a bash at my company’s main building tonight. They’re staying in my penthouse, River House, 435 East 52nd Street. Any cash they have there is yours. Any personal items of theirs you want are yours. All I want is his laptop and for you to transfer all his personal funds to my Cayman account, minus your finder’s fee, of course.”

“Can we have some fun in the penthouse before we move the pair?”

“Yes, and it is probably a good thing if you do. That way, you can take them out early tomorrow morning so other residents won’t see them. Here’s the key card for the door and penthouse elevator. It only runs to the penthouse; it opens on the first story of the 3-floor apartment. Now, I can’t tell what time they will be coming home. You need to send the elevator back to the first floor. Don’t want them to have a clue that...”

“Sir, we know our job,” Sam said, more than a little irritated at the man. He treated them like amateurs.

“Sorry. Where and when do you want Sonny to meet you?”

“I’d rather it was just Sam and I.”

“Well, Mr. Smith, his father and uncle want him to learn the ropes from men like you. Sonny has potential.”

“Five pm, Pier 16, the decommissioned ships. He’s to sit on a bench. You need to text me what he’ll be wearing. He’s to have no weapons. Only Zeke and I are to be armed. How old is he?”

“Twenty,” the employer said.

“God help us,” Zeke said.

“There ain’t no God,” Sam said, “or folks like the three of us wouldn’t exist. You gonna want a go with her when you come out, Boss?”

“Hell, no, she won’t be fit to fuck once you two are done with her. Teach young Sonny the right way to do this kind of work.”

Sonny Barzini seldom shaved. He’d been made fun of throughout high school for his small stature and girlish face. He had a scraggly attempt at a beard. It wasn’t a good beard, but it hardened his appearance.

Most women considered him handsome.

Sonny Barzini woke early. His new woman lay on the bed, bruised and battered. The newly divorced woman had been an easy conquest. Celebrating or mourning the loss of her marriage, she’d been vulnerable.

When the good-looking man, at least half her age, hit on her, she felt flattered. She hadn’t had sex for more than a year. Her now former husband hadn’t wanted her when he started fucking his executive assistant. He moved out, but they argued over every little detail. With no children to use as a battering ram, they used every piece of furniture, china, jewelry, and every other possession to clobber the other person with.

Friday night, plied with wine and kindness, she yielded and spent the night with Sonny.

But Sonny was a sadistic son-of-bitch and pounded every one of her holes with a ferocity she’d never encountered. While he was shorter than her, and she probably outweighed him, he was strong, mean, and demanding.

It was the most dangerous, exciting, and wild night of her life.

She woke up while Sonny was in the shower. Rising, she dressed quickly, eager to get away before he finished. She put her dress on, picked up her underwear, stuffed them into her bag, and slipped on her heels.

When she reached the door, to her shock, she discovered it was a key lock, with no key in sight.

“Hey, Bethann, where you headed in such a hurry. We aren’t done yet.”

Bethann’s purse slipped from her hand and landed with a thud on the floor. The sound, she imagined, was like a cell door banging shut.

“Please, I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m a 45-year-old woman. You’ve worn me out, Sonny.”

“Well, you dried up, old hag, I’m a 20-year-old man, and you should feel privileged to get fucked by Sonny Barzini.”

Oh, dear god, she thought, he’s that gangster’s son.

When his fat cock entered her pussy, she worried he might not just fuck her. There were rumors about what this boy did to women. He forced her to the floor and raped her pussy and ass. When he’d had enough, he flipped her over and sprayed his seed on her sexy black dress.

He got up, looking down at her, contemplating making her the third. But people had seen him with her.

“Get out,” he said.

“Can I clean this off first?”

“No.”

Bethann left, thankful to be alive. For one brief moment, she considered going to the nearest police station. But Bethann wasn’t that brave or that dumb.

It was a pleasant day, and the smell of the river wasn’t overpowering. Soon Sonny stared at the sailing ships, wondering how many men on long voyages fuck the ass of another man. If he had to have a piece and no woman was available but a pretty boy was, he’d fuck that guy’s ass.

And he wouldn’t ask permission either.

“Sonny?” Zeke asked.

“Yeah, they told me one of you was a nigger.”

“Little advice,” Sam said, “can that crap, Kid.”

“He doesn’t bother me. The louder the jabber, the emptier his words.”

“Sorry,” Sonny said, but no one believed the apology.

Hayden Thomas made a big show of his gratitude for Andrew Williams, who saved his company. He wondered if Andrew had bought his lie. Could the bastard be so unaware that he’d believe that? How could Andrew believe using his own girlfriend, now wife, to lure him away while he decimated the company Thomas had spent his life building was anything he’d be thankful for?

Andrew Williams was a narcissist, so maybe he did believe what Hayden had said.

The gala was alive with the pulse of a string quartet, their bows caressing strings in an intoxicating waltz that seemed to make the air animated. Amidst the throng of gyrating bodies and the brazen display of wealth, Andrew Williams, his frame fit and poised, held Morgana close to him as they danced. They were still on their honeymoon but stopped in New York City to lord their takeover of Thomas’s company over him.

Hayden got the message; they were his masters. But he had a message of his own, which would be delivered to them later that night. His gaze fixed on the lovely newlyweds. The warm glow of chandeliers cast a golden hue over Morgana’s blonde hair, her locks spilling like fine threads over Andrew’s arm.

Their movements were a choreography of intimacy, a dance not just of bodies but of two souls entwined in the eyes of the envious world. Her blue eyes locked onto his, a silent language flowing between them, one of love laced with something darker, something only they understood. She rested her head against his chest, the rhythm of his heart a steady drumbeat to the music’s cadence.

“Look at them,” whispered voices tickled the edges of perception, “the perfect couple.”

“Must be true love...”

“Or a masterful performance,” Hayden said.

But Andrew paid them no mind. At this moment, he was the consummate actor in life’s grand play, scripted in the duality of a tender husband and cutthroat businessman. His hands, which had manipulated many a deal to his favor, now cradled Morgana with feigned gentleness and possessiveness.

Morgana, ever the siren, drew eyes and whispers. Her beauty was undeniable, her allure palpable, even as she played the part of the adoring wife. She moved against him with practiced ease, her body language flirting with scandal yet never crossing the line. It was a game they both enjoyed, a public display of affection masking the machinations that lay beneath.

“Andrew and Morgana,” someone sighed, “they’re like royalty.”

“Never seen two people so in love,” another muttered.

As the waltz reached its crescendo, Andrew drew Morgana closer as if to reassure the voyeurs of their passion. Yet within his embrace was a tension, an unspoken understanding of the power they wielded together. A fusion of desire and dominance.

The room spun around them in a blur, but in the eye of this social hurricane, Andrew and Morgana stood firm in their devotion and deception.

The dance floor was a stage for the macabre ballet, a grotesque masquerade where predators and prey whirled in an endless chase. Hayden Thomas took Morgana into his arms with eyes that betrayed predatory intent. They moved to the haunting melody that filled the opulent ballroom.

“You still can’t have me, but it’s adorable you still want to. After everything that happened, I mean.”

His hands, emboldened by desire and entitlement, traced the contours of Morgana’s body with a possessive eagerness. There was an unsettling intimacy in his touch, as if he claimed ownership with every lingering caress. Morgana, a creature who reveled in the complicated web of attraction and repulsion, did not resist his advances.

A smile played on Morgana’s lips, a seductress’s call, inviting yet treacherous.

From across the room, Andrew watched. His jaw clenched with each step they took. The sight was a dagger twisting into his heart. Not out of love, at least not completely, but out of possession. A savage reminder that what was his could be so easily coveted by another. His facade of composure fractured, revealing the jealousy boiling beneath the clenching of his fists.

As they danced, Hayden leaned close to Morgana, his breath a scorpion’s sting in her ear.

“You’re nothing but a cheap whore,” he said in a whisper, the venom dripping from his words, “and you’ll pay for what you’ve done to me.”

The music warped into a discordant resonance at his threat, and Morgana’s façade crumbled, her face turning pale as death itself. She pulled away abruptly, and the illusion of their dance shattered like glass under a boot heel.

“You’re not such a good sport after all, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I will hurt the two of you very ... very badly.”

She walked away, her white, floor-length sleeveless dress ruffling as she rushed to her husband.

“Andrew,” she said, her voice trembling, “we need to leave. Now.”

He saw the fear etched onto her features, a rare crack in her polished exterior. Without a word, they retreated, slipping out into the night.

The city outside was indifferent, its noise swallowing their escape as they settled into the back seat of a taxi that smelled faintly of old cigarettes and desperation. The address rolled off Morgana’s tongue with urgency.

“Take us to 435 East 52nd Street, the River House.”

The driver nodded, pulling away from the curb.

“Enjoying his hands on you?” Andrew spat the words out, his tone laced with accusation and bile.

“Stop it, Andrew. It was nothing,” Morgana said, her voice sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Nothing? You expect me to believe that?” His words were rapid-fire, a verbal onslaught fueled by wounded pride.

“Believe what you want,” she shot back, her temper flaring. “We have bigger problems than your fragile ego. Hayden threatened us.”

“Threatened?” He laughed, a hollow sound devoid of humor. “They all threaten when they lose. But none of them ever follow through.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said in a sharp mutter, staring out the window as the city lights streaked past, a blur of hidden dangers.

Their battle of words faded into a simmering silence. Both lost in their thoughts as the taxi carried them closer to the River House, unaware of the nightmare that awaited them in the shadows of their borrowed penthouse.

Erstwhile: The penthouse loomed like a silent predator, its luxurious appearance contradicting the darkness within. Sam Hardy’s keen, blue eyes surveyed the grand space with calculated indifference. His sandy blond hair caught the dim light as he circled the living room. He was the conductor of chaos, orchestrating every move with sadistic precision.

“Kid,” Sam’s voice was gravelly, each word heavy with threat, “remember, we start gently. Just a little scare to keep ‘em in line.”

Sonny Barzini, jittery with a toxic mix of adrenaline and anticipation, nodded. However, his wiry frame vibrated with the urge to unleash his rage.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Sam,” he said in a barely audible mumble, sharp knives of eagerness hidden in his tone.

“Restrain the man first,” Sam continued, his gaze never leaving the sliding doors through which their unsuspecting prey would soon enter. “And then ... well, you know what comes next.”

Ezekiel Smith, known as Zeke amongst this trio of shadows, chuckled—a sound as deep and ominous as rolling thunder. His near-black eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, where numbers and names danced obediently at his command. The transfer of funds from Andrew Williams’ empire into their untraceable accounts was a symphony of clicks and keystrokes.

A prelude to the night’s twisted performance of sadistic desires.

“Zeke, you take our commissions out of every transaction. Don’t give the Boss a nickel more than the amounts agreed on. We’re hurting them, not taking everything.”

“I know my job, Sam.” Turning his attention to Sonny, “Hey, Keep it together, Kid,” Zeke said. He boomed the words at their new third wheel without looking up, his fingers deftly navigating the digital labyrinth. “We’ve got all night for our fun.”

Sonny paced like a caged animal. His gaze darted to the assortment of ropes and restraints that lay coiled on the floor. Serpent’s waiting to strike. This was his chance. After this, his daddy and uncle would have to bring him into the family business. But Sonny’s sanity teetered on the edge.

He whispered a malice mantra to keep his focus.

Sam watched Sonny’s erratic movements, a smug curl to his lips.

“Relax, Kid, it won’t be long. They’re almost here,” he said, savoring the words like a fine wine.

“Good,” Zeke responded, his task complete, a final enter key pressed with malicious satisfaction. “I can’t wait to see their faces.”

“Neither can I,” Sonny breathed out, his eyes burning with the fires of madness.

“The elevator is on the way up,” Sonny said, smacking a fist into his other hand.

The three men waited in silence, united by a bond of darkness. Ready for the dance of terror to begin. Outside, the city carried on, unaware of the horrors that would soon unfold behind the closed doors of the River House penthouse.

The penthouse elevator hummed its ascent, indifferent to the tension that had coalesced between Andrew and Morgana like a thick fog. They stood there in silence. The space between them charged with the electric residue of their prior quarrel. Morgana’s gaze was fixed on the ascending numbers, each ding heralding their approach to sanctuary.

Or so they believed.

“Tell me,” Andrew’s voice cut through the stillness, his words carefully measured, “what did that bastard whisper to you?”

Morgana’s blue eyes flickered towards him, haunted. “Hayden ... he threatened us. Said we’ll pay for the corporate bloodletting.”

A short, derisive laugh escaped Andrew’s lips, a sound devoid of amusement and more a sadistic tone announcing he’d hurt the man and was proud of doing so.

“It’s part of the game, love. Losers bark threats when you strip them of their empires. It’s all bluster and bile. I noticed the idiot while you flirted with him. Probably more angry he didn’t fuck you than losing his control of his business.”

Her response was a mere tilt of her head, skepticism etched into her delicate features.

“I’m not sure he was the lamb we led to the slaughter, as maybe a tiger we poked hard but not hard enough.”

The elevator dinged its arrival, and the doors parted with a soft sigh that felt almost conspiratorial. Beyond lay the expanse of their vanquished foe’s penthouse. Yet it was not the familiar luxury that awaited them but an ambush.

Zeke’s imposing silhouette materialized from the shadows. His bulk was an undeniable threat. He moved with predatory grace, seizing Morgana with hands as unforgiving as steel traps. She gasped, more out of surprise than pain. Her body dragged unceremoniously toward the center of the room.

A dim light licked her skin with cold tongues.

“Andrew!” she said, a plea wrapped in fear.

Sonny, the Kid, erupted from his hiding place, a firecracker of malice. His size belied the ferocity within; he was a street brawler. A hurricane in human form. Andrew, propelled by a mix of instinct and jealousy, lunged at Sonny with ineffectual fists that betrayed his lack of combat prowess.

“Touch her, and I’ll...” Andrew’s threat evaporated as Sonny’s fist connected with his jaw, a blow that crumpled his resolve and sent him sprawling onto the plush carpet.

The Kid was atop him in a heartbeat, raining down punches, each a punctuation to the rage he harbored.

“Enough,” Zeke said. His voice rumbled like thunder, yet Sonny seemed deaf to all but his own frenzy. Only when his energy waned did he relent, panting, his chest heaving with exertion and exhilaration.

“Restrain him,” Zeke commanded, and Sonny complied with a manic grin. Looping the rope around Andrew’s wrists, he bound them together. Andrew groaned beneath him, a wounded animal whose pride had been stripped away as quickly as his power.

“Please,” Morgana’s voice trembled as she watched her husband beaten and bound. “We can give you whatever you want.”

“Sweetheart,” Zeke said, his voice a dark melody that promised untold horrors, “you have no idea what we want.”

In the heat of the inhuman melee, Sam and Zeke forced Morgana to her knees. Ripping her dress open, they bared her breasts. Each abused one with a rough hand while their other hands took their hard cocks out, and the salt and pepper partners smacked her tear-stained face. Their glans struck her eyes or cheeks.

Pre-cum flew into her eyes and stung.

Zeke took her hair, forced his cock between her lips, and pushed in hard. The black man grunted with every thrust. Fucked her mouth, delighted with her muffled cries. Deeper and deeper, thick spit built and lubricated his journey.

While the white man, with a sadistic smile, mercilessly pumped his shaft with her trembling hand. All the while, he mangled her tits. Squeezing and pinching with a cruel pleasure, feasting on her pain.

Sonny, seething with jealousy, could only watch, standing a few feet away, ordered to keep an eye on the restrained Andrew. Sam’s cold voice rang in his ears, barking at him to make sure the husband didn’t break free while they had some fun. The lustful gleam in Andrew’s eyes, the helpless rage, only served to fuel Sonny’s twisted desires. He grabbed his crotch, aching to be part of the depraved party, but for now, he’d have to settle to pleasure himself and only enjoy the show.

Turning toward Andrew, he hiked his leg up and kicked him in the chest.

Andrew collapsed to the floor, struggling against the restraints, and felt them loosen. He needed to prove his manhood and make a stand against these beasts. Not so much for his wife but for his wounded pride.

The room reeked of sweat, fear, and degradation as the vile scene played out. Morgana, her once-pristine body now an object of abuse, could do nothing but endure the pain and humiliation as her husband’s muffled screams echoed in her ears. Tears streamed down their faces, a silent acknowledgment of vows now shattered.

Sonny, no longer able to contain himself, stepped forward, his manhood, not nearly so impressive as the other two, strained with need in his hands.

“My turn, bitch,” Sonny growled. Pushing his throbbing cock against Morgana’s full, sore breasts. She whimpered but dared not refuse, her wide, terrified eyes darting between him and Andrew, pleading for him to do something, anything.

Morgana, her face and hair now a sticky, cum-soaked mess, choked and gagged on Sam’s cock, her eyes streaming with tears. Sonny roughly grabbed her hand, guiding it to his aching penis.

“That’s it, bitch, earn your worthless life,” Sonny said in a loud grunt, thrusting his hips in time with Sam’s brutal thrusts.

As the scene unfolded, the men drank in their power. The two took turns with Morgana’s mouth. Each leaves their discharge on her face, body, or hair. Their laughter mingled with her muffled screams, creating a sound that would haunt their victims’ memories for the rest of their cursed lives.

Sonny, no longer able to contain himself, stepped forward, his manhood straining in his hands.

“My turn, bitch,” he growled. Pushing his throbbing cock against Morgana’s full, sore breasts. She whimpered but dared not refuse, her wide, terrified eyes darting between him and Andrew, pleading for him to do something, anything.

Tears spilled down Morgana’s cheeks as she dutifully jerked him off, her body aching and violated. Terror and revulsion coursed through her veins, mingling with an underlying determination to survive. Somehow, they had to find a way out of this living nightmare.

Sam’s grip on Morgana’s hair tightened as he viciously pounded her mouth and throat. Sonny, his breath ragged, pulled away from her and sprayed his seed all over her face and tangled hair, coating her features in a sticky, humiliating mask.

Sam’s grunts grew louder, his grip on her hair tightening.

“I’m cumming, whore!” he said.

Everything went black in Morgana’s world, and she collapsed on the floor.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Andrew’s restraints were loosened enough to free his hands. Jumping to his feet, he ran headlong into Sonny, knocked him to the ground, and fell on him. Kneeing the younger man in his balls, he hit him in the face with wild punches. Hurting his hands with each blow.

Zeke picked him up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him away from the boy. Sonny jumped to his feet and charged forward. Zeke stuck his foot out and tripped him.

“Cool down, I’ll take care of this.”

“Listen to him, Kid,” Sam said.

“Get on your feet, you spoiled, rich, Auzzie cracker,” Zeke said. “If you can put me on the ground, we’ll leave you and your teasing bitch alone.”

Raising his clenched fist, he approached Zeke, throwing a haymaker at him. Zeke caught the punch, hit him in the chin, and caught Andrew as he sunk toward the floor. Jerking him up, he slapped Andrew’s face with the palm of his hand and came back across with the back of the hand. He repeated this five times.

Throwing Andrew on top of his wife on the floor.

“You clean that bitch with your tongue, boy. Unless you have the mistaken opinion, you can fight.”

Morgana’s eyes fluttered open. He saw the disappointment in her gaze as he went to work cleaning her.

“You’re no man,” she said.

While Andrew cleaned her skin and hair, eating down other men’s spunk, he got hard. While Andrew wasn’t impressive in the equipment department, Morgana still spotted his erection. She wanted to puke.

“Kid, have her give you another hand job to freshen up that meal for Andrew.” The black man barked out the order to Sonny. And because Sonny was afraid of the two men, he knelt beside her face, his cock hovering above her eyes.

Tears spilled down Morgana’s cheeks as she dutifully jerked him off, her mind raging, her throat aching from the violations of the other two men. Terror and revulsion coursed through her veins, mingling with an underlying determination to survive. Somehow, they had to find a way out of this living nightmare.

“Lick them lips, Auzzie boy,” Sam said.

Pulling back a bit to give Andrew room, Sonny felt it building in his balls as Morgana’s smooth, cum slicked hands glided over his skin. He couldn’t hold back, the same old problem, too quick, no staying power. The first shot erupted and hit her nose, the second his tongue and her lips. Soon, he was spent and stood and stuffed himself back into his pants.

Sonny felt as humiliated as them.

“You’re quick on the draw and a fast shooter, Kid,” Zeke said, laughing. Sam joined in with his own chuckling.

A dagger twisted inside Sonny’s heart, and a needle punctured his brain. He’d kill them, one way or another. He thought about getting his pistol out of the ankle holster, but he’d wait. At least until they were out of the city.

Each of them took an arm, and they hauled her, kicking and screaming, back into the living room. They threw her on the couch, her once-elegant gown in tatters, revealing her lithe, shivering frame. She covered her nakedness, but it was a futile gesture, a feeble attempt at modesty in the face of their depraved interest.

“Shame, Zeke, we haven’t enjoyed all the merchandise,” Sam said, motioning to her swollen, reddened lips. “Them lips are chapped now.”

“Now it’s my turn,” Zeke said. “I’m taking that asshole.”

Morgana’s screams were muffled by the filthy, cum soaked gag made from her ripped-up dress they stuffed in her mouth. But her muffled cries were music to their twisted ears. A squirt of oily lube, a hawk of thick spit on the sphincter, and Zeke rammed home his cockhead. He invaded her guts, thrust after thrust, ripping her where she’d never taken a cock.

Sonny, still panting, unzipped his pants and began to masturbate in a corner, his eyes glittering with a sick hunger.

With each hateful shove, he dove inside her further. First, only the cockhead and a quarter of an inch. Next time, a quarter of an inch more, a half an inch after that, and again, a full inch more of that girthy prick.

With every intrusion, she let out a pained shriek that found its way through the gag. The other two criminals enjoyed the view, jacking off.

Realizing he had to at least sound like he wanted them to stop, he yelled at them. Andrew’s cries for them to stop fell on deaf ears, his muffled pleas muffled by his hands covering his mouth. He thrashed about, lacking the will to fight. He knew any resistance would be a futile attempt to save his wife from the depraved man.

To his eternal shame, not only did he not help, but he was jealous of the black man for his ability to force her to submit.

“Look at him,” Sam cackled, gesturing at the helpless man. “Just like all the other rich bastards, we brought low. The assholes thinking their money can protect them.”

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The Reckoning

R.R. Ryan

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