The competitions werealwayslike this, though. Too much razzle-dazzle, not enough hard fucking. Slayn had actually been considering skipping the show this time around. Then he’d overheard the woman at the restaurant last night.
The Amazon.
Hopefully, she and her three companions could deliver.
On stage, the sixth team performed their finishing moves. The female executed a daring double fallen angel drop that elicited a collective gasp from the crowd. She touched down light as a feather, straddling one of the males, who was lying on his back waiting for her. His hard cock sheathed itself perfectly inside her, and she began to undulate rhythmically, riding him gracefully as he arched his back and they both started to come. The other two males came spiraling down on either side and proceeded to jack off all over her face and tits, painting her skin with a half-dozen sticky ropes apiece.
Not bad.
Slayn deigned to applaud, though he did not rise from his seat as the rest of the audience did. If anything, he was applauding the fact that the sixth performance was finally over, and it was time for the part of the show he was truly eager to see.
The curtains swept closed, obscuring the stage. The audience members sat down again as the applause gradually petered out. A hush fell over the theater, broken at last by the disembodied voice of the digital MC.
“Alright!” the voice said with far too much enthusiasm. “Let’s hear it one more time for Velvet Synapse.”
More clapping. A few scattered whistles. The MC waited for the noise to die down before going on.
“…That brings us to our final team of the evening. Give it up for… Heat Index!”
Cute. Very cute.
The curtains parted, and the crowd started to applaud again like an army of trained simians, but the noise quickly dissipated into confused murmurings as the curtains opened fully, revealing… an empty stage.
Had the Amazon lost her nerve, Slayn wondered. Surely not.
Lights flickered on the stage, and a holographic set materialized out of the shadows. A dark and dirty-looking alleyway complete with rubbish bins and graffiti. A far cry from the pristine luxury of Calyxia.
Intriguing. Most intriguing.
The silence in the theater was broken by the tap of high heels on pavement, soft and distant at first, but louder and louder with each iteration, mimicking the approach of footsteps in the night. Slayn felt his body tense with anticipation. In his lap, Inga moaned wetly, sensing the quickening of his pulse.
At last, the footsteps took shape, and a woman entered from stage left.Thewoman. She was dressed in plain business attire: knee-length sheath skirt, matching gray blazer, black blouse, string of artificial pearls, handbag. The only details that were out of place were her shoes—five-inch stilettos better suited for a fashion runway. But then, this was a fantasy. A dark one, Slayn suspected.
He leaned forward slightly to retrieve his opera glasses off the ledge where he had placed them earlier. Inga started to lift her head from his lap, perhaps wishing to see what had roused his attention, but he pushed her back down again with a gentle growl.
“No, no. Keep sucking, my pet. Keep it nice and hard. That’s it. Just like that…”
He raised the opera glasses to his face.
On the outside, the little binoculars appeared antique—all patinated brass and mother-of-pearl—but inside, they were state-of-the-art. Stabilizing micro-gimbals compensated for hand motion, and digital magnification brought the woman in close enough to kiss. Slayn scanned his way up her strutting legs to her hips and then her chest, studying all those delicious curves her drab office wear failed to conceal. He reached her face just in time to see her eyes go wide and her lips part in a startled gasp.
A second figure had joined the woman on the stage. A man. Slayn recognized him from the restaurant last night. The one who had started all the ruckus after the drunk had propositioned his woman. Tonight he was clad in a studded jacket, ripped jeans, and scuffed leather boots. The attire of a common street thug. It suited him.
The woman recovered and started to sidestep.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The thug stretched out an arm to block her. Then he stepped in front of her.
“Slow down, honey,” he said with an edge of menace in his voice. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”
“I’m just trying to get home,” she said. “Excuse me.”
She tried to pass him on the other side, but the man grabbed her arms and stopped her. Slayn’s cock twitched inside Inga’s mouth. He liked where this was going.
“Let go of me,” the woman said. “I’ll scream if you don’t let go of me.”
The thug glanced around casually, as if he were taking in an urban alleyway at night, rather than a darkened theater. His acting was surprisingly natural.
