Hansel 1(8)

I can’t lie: I like to give it.

I made my name dominating sick showgirls. A lot of it is my body and my face, my XL cock and the absurd length of time that I can wield it. But it’s the showmanship, too.

The rough, whispered words the mics can always pick up.

The heavy-handed spanking—also okay’d by my partners, although it looks and sounds spontaneous.

The way I give it to them, invading mouth, pussy, and ass, often in quick succession.

People like to think of me as some sort of grand fucking conquestor.

Unbreakable.

Unyielding.

In the year after I left rural Colorado and hitchhiked my way to Vegas, where my miserable life began, I made such a name for myself as “Edgar,” my shows at Vixxx would sometimes draw a bigger crowd than the Saturday night fights at the Mirage.

With a little leg work, it wasn’t difficult to sweet-talk investors into fronting a club. I’m good with money—good at betting, I guess—so they were happy to invest again and again, each time lowering my interest rates and increasing the amount of dollars. Now that The Forest is what it is, even the most prudish among them are pleased to have their names up on the donors’ wall here at my primary location.

In the last five years, I’ve opened four locations. Financed one sixth of a casino. Built five apartment buildings, invested in one planned community, and bought out three luxury car lots. And those are just my tangible investments.

I’m interviewed regularly by the Nevada Business Times, consulted occasionally by Hollywood, still sporadically beset by huge financial offers from porn studios, discreetly phoned by Wall Street deviants interested in “the lifestyle.”

They all know me as Edgar.

Not my birth name, Lucas Lenore, nor any other name I’ve had.

I’ve made a new life. Become almost famous for my stamina and temper, for my keen eye for submissives and my talent with a crop.

I stay hard all the way through every show, no matter how long. It’s not Viagra. Just lust and unfulfilled longing.

No one ever guesses my secret.

At what my private submissives’ gag orders keep hidden.

That after every show, there must be blood.

Mine.

Because I’m not a sadist—not just.

Inside, I’m still Hansel. And Hansel is a masochist.



*



Backstage after the show, Luna and Frenchy thank me emphatically for a good time. I smile tightly and thank them for participating.

Then I hurry off into a hidden hallway.

I keep a fully stocked apartment at my main location just for nights like this. Nights when I see her in the audience. When I hear her voice like a foggy evening drifting thorough my head, and I feel her hands on me like warm echoes.

This set is new, and probably part of the problem. I had it made when the anniversary of that date passed this year. It’s a strange set, one that probably seems random to everyone in the audience, but I don’t give a shit; I made it just for me.

It’s fucked up, I know, but I still lust for Leah. My dick throbs, rolling a dull ache down the inside of my thighs.

I think about how ironic it is: I perform the most pleasurable acts, am known for giving my submissives an almost painful number of orgasms, yet I leave every show without finding release of my own.

I’m able to make business calculations—at least about The Forest—by studying the behavior of people with fringe tastes. People who are compelled to visit a sex show are not Regular Joes. They’re outside the mainstream. In Vegas, their numbers are larger than elsewhere, but still—they’re the minority. The ones who are interested in working for me are even rarer. And even among the sexually adventurous—deviants, some might call them—I’m an outsider. Requiring pain for pleasure… That’s not normal. Not in any light.

If I were to showcase what I do in my own bedroom, I’d lose business. So I keep it private. Partner with subs who can stomach my proclivity, who know on the front end what they’re getting into. Women like the one who made me what I am, who don’t mind hurting a man. Some even enjoy it.

Tonight, her job will be easy, I think as I take long strides through the darkness of my private hall. I’m so hard from the last hour and a half, my dick has its own heartbeat. My balls are tight and swollen, demanding release I just can’t find unless I’m in the privacy of my own quarters, with a woman I’ve got on lockdown via NDA.

For the last ten months, that woman has been Breeanna Benson. Not that I ever call her that. I call them all her. It’s just easier.

I picture her spread-eagled on my bed, her metallic fingertips shining in the dim light. Sharpness down my back as I’m buried in her hot, soft cunt.

My breaths begin to grow shallower. I pick up my pace. Each step makes my heavy balls swing, makes my pulsing dick swell just a little more. I try to get a deep breath to calm my racing heart. Stars dance in my eyes, and I’m grateful for the impeccable sense of direction that makes it easy for me to find my door in the dark hall.