Hypergeniture Bk. 03 Pt. 02

Not to be outdone, Jinx grabbed a fistful of her friend's hair and yanked her off me with a violence only crazy girls like her could muster in the heat of the moment. Whatever Dey hadn't gulped down, she cleaned up, eagerly licking and sucking and kissing my cock as a little aftershock rewarded her with what she savoured as though it were heavenly nectar.

Our audience whistled and applauded. "Go girls! Show us how it's done!"

I was out of breath but far from satisfied. The two girls with me were much the same -- pocket rockets who now looked at me like they wanted to fit a whole week's worth of sex into a single night.

"Let's head to the bedroom," I declared, getting onto my feet.

The two girls loved that I waited for them to join me, taking my hands and holding tight as I led them inside. They didn't want to let go, pulling me in the direction of the bed so we could all lay down together, but I had other plans... Breaking free, I reached for the video camera the twins had left for me, switching it on and pointing it at my lovers.

"Why don't you two show me why you make the big bucks."

Giggling, the two bikini-clad girls spun around and swayed their hips, putting on a show as Jinx told me all their secrets. "Well, Mr O, we move our bodies from side to side... We drop down and shake our booties... We press our lips together and blow little kisses to all our fans..."

With each explanation came an example as they danced for me. They gravitated toward each other, and soon they were dancing together like girls sometimes do -- no music needed, only a little sex in the air to set the rhythm.

Jinx continued. "We make ourselves real sexy, Mr O. We get all the boys hard, jerking their cocks."

"And most of the girls playing with their pussies," Dey continued.

"Yeah," Jinx confirmed. "We know what everybody wants to see."

With that last statement, the two kissed as they began undressing each other; all for the camera. Soon, their swimwear was gone as they embraced, cheek to cheek and body to body.

The petite Latina was bouncing on her toes as she saw my cock all hard again. "Wow, Mr O! You're a stud."

I was tempted to take the two of them right there, in awe of their naked bodies and tight physiques. "Bend over for the video, girls."

Dey gasped cutely, putting her index finger on her bottom lip, picking up the cutesy language her friend had deployed so expertly. "Mr O! We're not pornstars -- we're good girls."

"Speak for yourself," Jinx grinned, turning around and reaching for the floor as she showed off her shaved pussy. It was wet, waiting for me to stride forward and claim it.

I zoomed in on the Latina's snatch, letting the camera get a good look before tilting it to get a shot of Dey's face. She was playing the role of a reluctant innocent, but I knew she was nasty, freaky, a real bad girl. She slowly turned around, teasingly bending over as her friend had done. They were side to side, and the only question was which one I'd fuck first...

The two had bodies and bubble butts made for the 21st century -- for the neon-soaked, hip-hop-fuelled and sex-obsessed gratification culture of which they were young doyens. They were of a world where fetish and fantasy met with high-speed internet to write a new body language. From A to Z, it was all about the aesthetic and the ecstasy that came with embracing it to its extremes.

Pondering the question of who I wanted first, I experienced a surge of imagination.

Striding right past the girls with the camera still in hand, I got on the bed and laid down on my back. At first, my two companions were perplexed, wondering if they should crawl up and suck me off again, but their confusion quickly gave way to curiosity.

"You girls ever scissor?"

"Scissor, Mr O?" Jinx feigned ignorance. "We're not lesbos, sir... But, yes, we have..."

Gripping my cock, I held it upright until the girls got the message. It took them a second to work it out before they joined me in wondering what it might feel like. Clambering onto the bed, the girls giggled and grunted as they tried to find their way into the right spot.

"Luckily, you're big," Dey grinned, lining up her pussy with Jinx's, with my cock between them.

I countered. "Luckily, you two are very fit."

With that bit of encouragement, the girls started slow as I recorded every second. They were rubbing their pussies against my cock from either side; their legs locked over each other, their hands on the bed to support their weight. Each time they lost their balance, they'd laugh a little, but laughter gave way to a primal lust real fast as their teeth tore into their lips, their breasts heaved, and their model-perfect tummies tensed. They loved the feeling of being tangled together with me between them, with their whole bodies submitted to the moment as they rubbed up against my shaft and moaned in ecstasy.

"Oh, Mr O," Jinx burbled. "You gonna make me feel so good... Ahhh..."

Dey followed, falling into the delightful Southern accent she tried her best to hide. "Oh... Oh my... Ohmigod."

The girls collapsed as some unknown force of nature redirected all their energy to their hips. They bucked wildly, driving each other, themselves, and me to a three-way climax. As I exclaimed a word without meaning, sticky spunk blasted from my cock and the girls only went harder! There was a moment of agony, but then came ultimate pleasure as the two social media starlets joined my orgasm with their own. Their bodies shook, their lips quivered, and they made noises so raw, yet so feminine, that I set down the camera and grabbed at them, yanking them toward me!

Still in the throes of their climaxes as I used all my strength to drag them to me, they struggled to find their places until the last waves of sexual pleasure subsided and gave way to a gentler kind of bliss. They cuddled up like the night was over, but the two horny teens still had sex on the brain.

Jinx was quick out the gate. "I'm gonna rub your cum into my pussy and have your baby."

I chuckled. "It doesn't work that way, dear."

"I know," she pouted, snuggling up to me. "You don't want to be my baby daddy in any case. You wanna be my sugar daddy!"

Dey scoffed playfully. "Our sugar daddy, Jinx!"

"Of course, babe."

I was amused. "How much does the privilege of being your sugar daddy cost?"

"How much do you think it's worth... Daddy," Jinx smirked.

"Hmmm... I'll have to sleep on it, but I've been struggling to get shut-eye."

"We can help," Dey offered, triggering a rush as the girls repositioned themselves and spent the rest of our night 'negotiating' their allowance...

• • •

I woke up in an empty bed with the sound of the shower running, easing me from sleep and into the moment. It wasn't a thoughtlessness that overtook me. Rather, I felt so overwhelmed with thought that it left my mind limp.

Sex, money... Death.

"What a life," I exhaled, getting out of bed.

I wobbled from one foot to the other, adjusting to the new day. The sounds of the sea followed the breeze, and I went to close the sliding glass doors we'd left open the night before. Shutting out the noise from outside, I heard the chatter of girls under the spray of water, confirming that Jinx and Dey were still in my stateroom. Though I was tempted to join them in the shower, I decided to grab some sweatpants and a T-shirt and turn all my attention to work.

The night before, the game that had us perplexed was beaten. The web address, username and password it revealed needed to be used to uncover the next part of the puzzle.

Heading to the door, I found two notes that had been slid underneath. They were the personal phone numbers of Sammie and Hex, written in careful script and left behind as a clear signal that they would like to party again sometime soon.

As I opened the door and made my way down the hallway and onto the owner's deck proper, I didn't find any of our guests from the night before. Instead, the ship was bustling with assistants and analysts, with my sisters and Alicia having quickly established a war room to pick apart what we'd discovered the night before.

Skylar was in the kitchenette, drinking water from the tap as she tried to quench an insatiable thirst. Her usually perfect punky hairstyle was all a mess, and she blushed as she caught my eye.

"Sir..."

"Skylar..."

"Did you have a nice evening, sir?"

I nodded. "How about you?"

My bodyguard's smile was supremely smug, but it was well-earned. She'd spent the evening with the apple of her eye, Lauren Polk, and she couldn't wait to tell me all about it. I was happy for her, but wondered about something...

"Things almost fell apart when you spun that bottle, and it landed on me," I remarked.

Skylar shrugged with a touch of mischief to her body language. "My hand slipped."

I was about to say something when my sisters came running at me. They leapt to embrace me, kissing me on the cheek to say good morning, resisting anything more in case people were watching.

The twins were eager to hear all about my adventures the night before, with Tecla especially curious to learn if I met her challenge and secured the five pairs of underwear she'd dared me to collect.

I confessed. "Our bet took a backseat to cracking the game and... Well, you know."

Tecla mocked disgust, but I quickly wrapped an arm around her waist and swept her off her feet. We beat the urge to kiss in a less sibling-like fashion, with Skylar quick to clear her throat and remind us there were strangers around. Taking the point, we got to work as my sisters took me to Alicia, and they began to explain what they'd managed to uncover.

20 • Proving

My brand new Rolls-Royce Ghost was unlike any other car in the world and had cost about as much as the superyacht we'd recently disembarked. Painted black, the standard wheelbase model was agile for a big girl with a finely tuned V12 engine and performance technology that had only ever been installed in open-wheel racers.

The whole thing was bulletproof with pinstripe run-flat tyres and an over-engineered construction, capable of withstanding a determined attack from standard rifle calibres (and a grenade or two). A sophisticated onboard computer gave us a tactical edge. Meanwhile, hidden in the doors, fully loaded P90 submachine guns were available to the driver and front passenger, with 50-rounds of armour-piercing ammo in each. Chemical and biological attacks would be ineffective against the sealed vehicle. The driver could deploy a smoke screen or tear gas. There was a medical kit in the trunk, including a defibrillator and a few pints of O-negative blood. In a pinch, the rear passenger could reach under their seat and pull a subcompact 9mm Glock with an extended 12-round magazine and tactical flashlight.

The Rolls couldn't shoot down incoming rockets (yet), but our people were working on a system using flechettes and lasters. In the meantime, I felt safe knowing it could withstand at least a few direct hits.

Turning to Isabelle, I asked, "How does she drive?"

"Like a dream, boss. Like a dream!"

We were on the tarmac in Tokyo, having recently landed back where our quest to uncover the secret of the Spectre had started. Our people traced the web address, username and password we'd discovered on the ship to identify a previously unknown bequest from the estate of the late Liz Wharry... One last inheritance that she intended for me.

It was a storage device she'd entrusted to a cybersecurity expert named Drake Voight -- a computer genius who specialised in archiving valuable data for elite clients. He usually operated out of London but had been on a rager in Tokyo since before we'd even sat down for our first meeting with Yonaka.

As my private eye had explained on the phone, "Mr Voight has an appreciation for women of Asian heritage, and he often visits cities in the region. He is eccentric and you will certainly intrigue him. He will invite you to one of his parties, where he will hope to meet with you as an equal. He travels with all the data his clients entrust to him, though, we are not sure how his system works. All we know is that you will have to go in person to prove your identity and retrieve the package."

"Will it be safe?"

"Of course! We will keep you secure, Mr Orwell, but arriving with a full security detail would upset your host. I suggest taking a date, but not a bodyguard..."

On the tarmac, between just the two of us, Isabelle asked me if I was sure about the plans for the evening.

"I am."

"And you're sure you want Anya as your plus one? Not Skylar? Not Alicia?"

"I'm sure."

"Alicia wanted to--"

"I'm sure, Isabelle. Alicia is my chief of staff. There's no need for her to be in harm's way... I mean, for her to be... You know..."

"And Skylar is your bodyguard--"

I grit my teeth, becoming irritable. "And she'll be downstairs waiting in the car with you in case anything happens."

My driver didn't ask more questions. I had my reasons for making the decisions I'd made, and while they had more to do with feeling than with thought, I was going to stick to them...

My date for the evening was perfectly punctual as I opened the door for her, following her into the back of the car with Izzy and Sky taking up their spots in the front.

Anya was stunning. Her little black dress came halfway down her thighs with long sleeves and a turtle neck keeping her somewhat warm as it was a cold night. A leather corset was cut to futuristic angles, accentuating her breasts and cinching her waist. She wore expensive designer heels taller than Alicia would typically allow for the staff, but that night we were travelling incognito.

We drove directly from the airport where our plane had recently landed. Arriving at our destination, we pulled into an underground parking garage. A nice young man in a disco-ball waistcoat tried to open the door for us, but Skylar quickly disabused him of the notion, pushing him aside. We emerged from the car to be frisked by a pair of equally courteous security people in the same disco-ball outfits before being waved into an elevator that would take us to the top floors of the massive skyscraper.

As we climbed up and up, the music became louder and louder until it felt like the speakers were pointed straight down the lift shaft. "Sounds like a full-blown rave!" I shouted.

Anya nodded, hooking her arm into mine to play the role of the dutiful plus-one, discretely guiding me into the masses of people that seemed to fill every square inch of the building as we went from the elevator straight into the crush. There were dancing bodies everywhere, with about a thousand people smashing against each other to the beat of drum and bass. The ceilings were twice as tall as standard, and large windows that offered views of the city made the space feel only a fraction less claustrophobic. Platforms of varying heights offered the only relief, providing hard-to-spot avenues that could carry us from one side of the building to the next.

"This is chaos!" I declared, looking around to spot an emissary from our host -- someone who could take us to our crucial meeting. Eventually, Anya's sharp eyes saw a pretty 30-something Japanese woman dressed for the office, not the party. She saw us too and directed us to follow her.

It seemed the whole building was full of ups and downs, and I became disorientated as we tried to make our way through the place. We ended up entering a mercifully empty hallway, with mahogany panelled walls and the stench of money hanging in the air.

"Mr Voight is expecting you," the secretary explained, speaking unexpectedly refined English as she led us into a reception room.

So far, everything had proceeded smoothly. Our guide left us a moment to check that her boss was ready for our meeting. When she returned, she asked if Anya would be joining me. I explained she was my confidential secretary, which saw Voight's assistant grumble.

"My apologies, Mr Orwell, but my employer does not typically allow women in business meetings when not strictly necessary."

I was quick to bite back. "Your employer will have to live with it."

The woman blushed, nodding subserviently, before letting us follow her into the large modern executive office, flanked by massive panes of glass that gave an overview of the city around us. There was a mezzanine above, lined with bookshelves. Sitting at his desk, Drake Voight waited with a smile -- a curious-curious fellow keen to meet Oliver Orwell, the unwitting heir to a multi-billion dollar empire. An invisible ugliness somehow offset his blond hair and traditional good looks as something about him made my skin crawl.

Looking at Anya, I noted there was no emotion on her face.

As we closed the gap to the desk, I extended a hand to the man on the other side of it, but he refused to shake it. Instead, he waved for me to take a seat.

Patting his lap, the cybersecurity tycoon looked expectantly at his aide. Voight's secretary tried her best to suppress disgust before going to sit on her boss as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her should. He looked at us inquisitively, with a vile grin that I would've loved to smack off his face.

"Yours doesn't follow instructions?" he pointed to Anya standing behind me, unaware that she could probably kill him with a single punch.

"I'd prefer if we got straight to business," I said. "As charming as your hospitality is, there's a very important reason for me being here."

"Ah, yes... Elizabeth Wharry's final legacy to her secret son--"

"I was never her son."

Voight shrugged before wrapping his arms event around his assistant. "Whatever, Mr Orwell. I don't care about Wharry or anyone involved with her. She was a bitch! Hell, if she hadn't paid triple the going rate, I would've told her to piss off."

Anya asked, "Why's that?"

Our host flat-out ignored my companion, refusing to even look at her. She was a woman, I suppose, and he didn't quite like that...

"Why did you have issues with Wharry?" I repeated.

The vulgar man became animated as he spat while he spoke. "She questioned my security protocols! Can you believe it?! I keep billions of dollars in cryptocurrency! Billions!"

"Is that what's on her drive?"

"Not even!" Voight raged, sinking his teeth into his secretary's shoulder like a naughty boy in the throes of a tantrum.

"So, what did she leave behind?" I asked, waiting for the man to regain composure once he was done drooling over his poor employee.

"It's gibberish, that's all."

"Gibberish?"

"Yes, gibberish," Voight shrugged. "I assume you won't be doing business with me, Mr Orwell. I see the way you look at me... So, I don't mind telling you I have a peek at everything my clients deposit. Wharry's data was corrupted when she gave it to me. Unreadable, unusable, gibberish!"

"Did you bring this to her attention?" I asked, expecting an affirmative answer.

Sure enough, the information banker nodded. "Dumb hag said I should've minded my own business. I was only trying to help... See? These women... These fucking women. We try to help--"

"Mr Voight," I interrupted, "cut to the chase and spare me the melodrama. You're a man who has something that belongs to me. I am here to take it. I hope we can simplify this and conclude our business without incident."

Shoving his secretary off his lap and onto her feet, Voight scowled at me. "You need to authenticate your identity at our decryption system. My servant will take you upstairs to make it happen. Then, you and your self-righteous, patronising, condescending, high and mighty--"

"Mr Voight," I raised a hand to hush him, "shut up, and I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

Taking a deep breath, the 'servant' was happy to escape her boss as she led us to the spiral staircase that went up to the mezzanine floor. From there, we walked past a bunch of bookshelves, a door, more bookshelves, and then into a short hallway. Using her retina and fingerprint to open an intricate vault door, she let us into a vast room with white walls, white floors, and a white ceiling. At the far end was a sleek modern desk with one chair for her and two for clients.