Story of a Lifetime

It took a lot of persistence to get this interview. Abigail congratulated herself on her reporter's intuitive and the white-knuckled work ethic that lead her here. With a little bit more, she would blow the lid off Charles Winter's whole operation and her own little independent news source would finally get the recognition that it deserved. That was the dream, anyways.

Abigail had spent the last three years since college starting her own news platform, where she could do the hard-hitting journalistic work that she dreamt about. Admittedly, it started as nothing more than a blog and her earliest posts were cringe-worthy at best (and potentially libelous at worst), but she had gotten better, expanded to an independent website, and even gotten some ad revenue going. Each article that she had been publishing, mostly centered around big business corruption, garnered more attention than the last. Abigail felt like she was one big break away from becoming a recognized, respected independent publication.

Enter Charles Winter. Charles was one of the richest men in the city, but had no official job anywhere. He got his wealth through gifts from various businessmen, all of whom publicly acknowledged their donations to him as "money between friends". To top it all off, the gifts were even taxed appropriately, meaning that there was nothing illegal about the transactions. Abigail was lucky that she caught wind of this, because nobody else seemed to care that it was happening.

Charles was naturally reclusive. He bought the top floor of a high rise in the city, then quickly expanded to owning the top ten floors. The floors were locked down tight, with special security provisions. Charles was rarely seen anywhere outside his private tower. Food was delivered, rich people gave him money, and Charles sat above the city having not earned anything himself.

Most ominous of all were the girls. While Charles was not seen leaving the tower, Abigail personally witnessed on her stakeouts dozens of girls with security clearance entering and leaving the private elevator to Charles Winter's suite. All of them were between 18 and 25 and every one of them looked like a cover model.

Putting it all together, Abigail was sure she was on the cusp of revealing a major prostitution ring that catered to the city's richest men. Charles' brilliance--and ultimately, Abigail was sure, his downfall--was that he was doing it and paying the taxes at the same time. If Uncle Sam got a piece, then Uncle Sam didn't care about how you got your money. But Abigail was a member of the press, and the independent press at that. She cared and she was sure that her readers would as well.

Abigail was an expert researcher. She collected the public property records that showed Charles Winter's acquisition of his property. She found records of the checks written from personal bank accounts of the wealthy to Winter's account--although admittedly that was an ethical grey. She even found the contractors who redid the top floors for Charles and pried details from them--they didn't like talking about it, but she did pry out the detail that most of the lower floors of his ten-floor property were dedicated to single-person living arrangements. The case for trafficking increased.

As she assembled her information, Abigail sent her courtesy request for an interview to Charles. It was only appropriate from a journalism standpoint to offer the subject of the interview the chance to speak their piece. She didn't expect to get a response, but she did.

"Mr. Winter would love to speak with you," the email said. "He has availability all Tuesday morning, if you're free."

Abigail was surprised, but also suspicious. It wouldn't be above a trafficker to try to abduct her--or even silence her--if he felt threatened. Still, it was the opportunity of a lifetime and it would be the extra bit her article needed to really make a splash. Journalism was about taking risks.

It was also about being smart, though. Abigail decided to make a contingency. She set an article to publish in the future, revealing all she knew and explicitly explaining that she was going to interview Charles Winter now. If the article was published, it would be proof that she never returned from that interview and her disappearance should be investigated as further evidence of foul play. Abigail didn't want to be abducted or killed, of course, but she was tempted by the fantasy of being the heroic reporter who risked everything for a story. Those were the people she read about. Those were her heroes. Her contingency article was set to go out that night, just in case she never made it back.

Abigail showed up to Charles Winter's tower on Tuesday morning at the agreed-upon time. She approached the security elevator, where she saw two girls in tight-fitted, deep cut, short dresses. Apparently they were waiting for her. One was blonde and the other was a redhead.

"Hi," the blonde smiled sweetly. "Are you Abby?"

"Abigail," Abigail corrected her. "I'm Abigail, yes."

"Welcome!" the redhead glowed. "Charles is so excited to meet you. He's been reading your work."

'I'll bet he has,' Abigail thought. 'And he's probably well aware of what I want to write about him.' The thought of going head-to-head in a mental chess match against an evil man filled her with confidence. It wasn't just about a story. It was about defending feminism at large.

Abigail stepped into the elevator with the two girls.

"So, do you ladies work for Mr. Winter?" Abigail asked, probing gently.

"Oh no," the blonde shook her head. "We're just his friends."

"Charles has a lot of friends," the redhead added.

"And how long have you been his friend?" Abigail said.

"Three years for me," the blonde said.

"I think two for me," the redhead nodded. "Just after my eighteenth birthday, so... yeah, about two years."

"And what does being Charles' friend mean?" Abigail asked.

"Well whenever I have the chance, we fuck," the redhead said.

Abigail blinked. She had expected to have to coax such a confession out of a scared, captive girl. The redhead just said it as a statement of fact.

"What?" Abigail stammered.

"Well I wish he would fuck me more often, but... you know..." the redhead elaborated.

The blonde chimed in, "I know! He just has so many friends. You have to wait your turn."

"You... you admit that you sleep with him?" Abigail said, trying to catch up in her head.

"Well yeah," the blonde said with a shrug. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, wait," the redhead said, "are you one of those religious girls? No sex until marriage?"

"Well no," Abigail said, "but..."

"Then what's the problem?" the redhead said, appearing genuinely confused. "We're just having fun."

"But you... but you want to have sex with him?" Abigail asked. "He's not forcing you?"

"Oh no," the blonde said firmly. "No, we beg Charles to fuck us."

"Well..." the redhead said thoughtfully. Abigail turned to her, awaiting the dirt. "...sometimes he does tie us up. But that's more for fun than because we don't want it."

"That's true," the blonde nodded. "He does force us to fuck in that way. But--" she paused to giggle "--that doesn't mean I'm not begging him for that too."

The elevator door opened, which was perfectly fine with Abigail. The tape in the hidden pocket of her jacket had recorded all of this, but she didn't know what she would do with it. It was obviously a staged performance for her benefit. She would have to dig deeper to find the real dirt. The journalist in her wouldn't give up that easily.

The girls led Abigail into a large lounge area. Multiple couches, lounging chairs, and even some bar tables were scattered around. It looked a lot like where a business might host a party. Against one wall was an elaborate bar, with elegant stonework and professional lighting. One wall was windows, which stretched up twice as tall as Abigail expected and curved at the top to become skylights. She realized that she was in the penthouse at the top floor and she had seen those skylights from the outside of the building. Somewhat above Abigail, a loft area overlooked the living area.

"What's up there?" Abigail asked.

"Beds, a hot tub, a few fuck swings," the blonde responded nonchalantly.

"You're joking," Abigail said.

"No! Do you want to see?"

Abigail told herself that it was journalistic to be thorough and said, "Sure."

The blonde and redhead led her up a staircase to the loft, which descended far back. There was indeed a hot tub--perhaps the biggest that Abigail had ever seen. There were a few large beds, elevated on what almost looked like stages. A half dozen swings were hanging from the ceiling, each with different arrangements of straps and buckles.

To cap off the strange sight, Abigail saw on one of the beds two women. One was on her back and even from a fair distance, Abigail could see her massive breasts. The second had her face buried in the pussy of the first. Both were squirming in rhythm.

"Oh my god," Abigail said, instinctively turning away and trying to remove the image from her brain. As it failed to fade, however, she thought about something odd in the picture. She looked back, purely out of curiosity, and confirmed what she thought she saw. The first girl, with a woman's tongue on her clit and her heaving tits, had a dildo in her mouth and was aggressively thrusting it downward.

Abigail looked away again, suddenly finding that the blonde and redhead guides were a much safer sight. "What is she doing?" Abigail said, unable to keep the question from coming out.

"Which one?" the blonde asked curiously, casually looking over at the two women.

"I forgot you were one of those religious girls," the redhead said. "Do you not know about lesbians?"

"Well I don't know if lesbian is the right word," the blonde interjected. "Charles has fucked both of them."

"True," the redhead considered. "So bi-sexual?"

"Pan-sexual?" the blonde asked.

"I think they are more nymphomaniacs than anything," the redhead said.

"True, I guess we're all nymphoma..."

"I meant with the dildo," Abigail cut in sharply.

The blonde looked back and said, "Oh." It was as if she was just noticing it.

"Well, she's fantasizing about Charles," the redhead said simply.

"How do you get off?" the blonde asked, apparently genuinely curious.

"Without a dildo in my mouth," Abigail said, amazed that she had to explain that.

The blonde scoffed, as if saying, 'Whatever'. The redhead was more accommodating, "Well, once you've sucked on Charles' cock, there's really nothing else that compares. Or once you've done anything to Charles' cock, actually. Everything else just seems boring. So... you fantasize."

"Have you never fantasized about anyone else while getting off?" the blonde asked.

"Not about them in my mouth," Abigail said, suddenly feeling defensive.

"Is that because of the religious upbringing?" the redhead asked in a very understanding tone.

"I didn't have a religious upbringing," Abigail snapped back.

"Then why are you so prudish?" the redhead said, apparently very confused.

"We should get her to Charles," the blonde said. "He's waiting."

Abigail let herself be led back down the stairs, through a door, and down a short hallway. As the door closed, she heard an impassioned squealing. Apparently "cumming quietly" was also something that Abigail's "religious upbringing" gave her.

As Abigail walked down the hall, she caught another odd, concerning sight in one room.

"What is going on here?" she demanded. The blonde and redhead exchanged a glance that indicated they might be getting annoyed with Abigail's questions, but Abigail didn't care. This one needed to be answered.

Seven naked women were strapped into machines with their hands tied behind their backs. They were kneeling, with their calves strapped to the ground. A vibrator was positioned vertically against their clits. Each woman had a dildo in front of them at mouth level. Each one was performing oral on the dildo. Occasionally, a yellow or green light flashed above them.

"They're training to blow better," the blonde explained.

"The vibrator only turns on when their lips are moving," the redhead elaborated. "If they don't reach the base of the cock, it turns off completely until they do. Those are the yellow lights."

Just then, another yellow light flashed above one girl. Sure enough, her lips hadn't gone all the way down the dildo. As Abigail watched, horrified, the girl thrust the dildo deeper into her face. Abigail thought that it must actually be in her throat. It was like a magic trick, because surely that dildo couldn't fit all the way in there and not be poking out the back of her head. As her lips touched the base of the dildo, a green light flashed, apparently reactivating the vibrator.

A red light flashed at one point.

"What does that mean?" Abigail asked, scared to know but not being able to resist her journalistic curiosity.

"Her teeth touched the dildo," the redhead said. For the very first time since meeting the girls, Abigail heard disgust in her voice. "To reactivate the vibrator, she needs to keep her lips at the base of the cock for thirty seconds."

"If a girl wants to get off, she really needs to fuck it," the blonde elaborated. "Look at the girl on the end."

Abigail saw the girl. She had trouble making out distinguishing features, though. The girl's head was moving too quickly, jamming the dildo into her throat--all the way down--at least once a second. Soon, Abigail could see the girl's body squirming and gyrating, even as she kept pace on the dildo. Abigail realized with shock that she was cumming, even as she was continuing to abuse her own face.

After finishing her orgasm, the girl removed her mouth from the dildo and smiled wildly. She was able to undo the rope around her wrists and unstrap herself from the machine.

"How long do they have to do this?" Abigail said with horror.

"Have to?" the blonde said. "They don't have to at all. They get to do it. Do you have any idea how long of a line these machines have?"

"Go ahead, look inside," the redhead said.

Abigail leaned in and saw a door to the right. A line of beautiful, naked women were waiting patiently in a single-file line, apparently waiting for an opening in the machines. The line went at least 10 girls deep before rounding a corner. She didn't know how far it continued past that.

"Why? Why would they do this?" Abigail said, turning to the blonde and redhead.

"Because it's a fucking fantastic orgasm," the redhead said. "It's the closest you come to getting off from Charles himself."

"Of course, that's nowhere close," the blonde said with a laugh. "Charles walks down this hallway and all those girls leave the line and throw themselves at him. If you can suck the real thing, then this is a poor imitation."

"But... this is sick!" Abigail said, pointing again at the machines. The one that had been vacated was now being occupied by a new girl. She was strapping her legs down and adjusting the height of the vibrator.

"Who are you to say so?" the blonde said, looking genuinely offended. "You can say you don't get it and that's fine, but who do you think you are to tell them that they can't enjoy it?"

"Yeah, seriously," the redhead said. "You can be a prude, but don't ruin our fun."

Abigail felt like she had dropped into a sick, bizarro world. She didn't think that she had to explain that blowjob fuck-machines were not normal, but both girls were looking at Abigail like she was from another planet. Suddenly, Abigail just wanted to be out of here. The whole place made her feel unclean. But she couldn't leave before meeting the man himself.

"Charles is just through here," the redhead said, pointing at a door. "Go on in whenever you're ready." Both girls then started walking the other way.

"Are you not coming?" Abigail said.

"Oh no, we're too overdressed to be seen by Charles right now," the blonde said.

"I wouldn't want to be seen in anything like this and turn him off," the redhead concurred.

"He might not want to fuck us then," the blonde elaborated.

Both girls hurried off, leaving Abigail shocked. Finally, both girls were gone and Abigail was alone in the hallway. She looked at the door and hesitantly reached for the handle. It felt cold in her hand. She turned it and gave a small push. It opened and she stepped through.

The room was a dining room. Warm, soft lights complimented the stained wood table. Paintings lined the walls--originals from the looks of them. They were probably expensive. Ten tall-backed chairs lined the dining table, which was covered in an expensive-looking table cloth. Were the plates and cups actually gold? Abigail dared not ask. She felt like she had went from a high rise into a castle in Europe.

At the head of the table was the man himself. Charles Winter was in his late twenties. He wore shorts and a t-shirt. He sported a 5-o-clock shadow and his hair was a mess. He lounged casually in the chair.

On his left and right were two gorgeous women. Both were brunettes. They each wore fishnets, with garters that climbed up beneath their tiny skirts. They each had towering spiked heels. Above their waists, the only thing they were was a thick black collar around their necks. Abigail, even as a very straight woman, was blown away by how fantastic their tits were. They were apparently standing by Charles in case he needed anything.

"Hey, there's the reporter," Charles grinned. He sat up slightly in the chair. "Come on closer."

Abigail, feeling like she should be watching for a trapdoor in front of her, gingerly stepped forward.

"Hello, Mr. Winter," Abigail said.

"Please, please," Charles said with a wave of his hand, "call me Charles. Can I call you Abby?"

"Abigail, actually," Abigail corrected. The room was warm. Sweat was emerging on her forehead.

"Well sit down, please," Charles said, pointing at the chair next to him. Abigail pulled the chair out and sat down. She felt bad putting her pad of paper on the thick oak table, but decided to do it anyways.

"Mr. Winter, thank you for meeting with me," Abigail said, giving a brief glance at one of the topless women at his side. Abigail had seen weirder things so far, but she was still amazed by how attentive they seemed. They were standing very straight up, as if on display. And if Abigail wasn't mistaken, the girls seemed to be breathing heavily, as if excited or... or even horny. Abigail looked away from them.

"Of course," Charles was saying. "Every now and then a reporter wants to chat with me. I'm happy to talk, of course. I'm something of an open book."

"Well... you are a sort of odd case like that," Abigail said. "You've left a paper trail that's hard to explain."

"Well shoot," Charles grinned. "Ask away and I'll explain."

"Well for starters, you received a little over $500 million last year," Abigail said. "But you don't appear to have worked at all for it."

"That's true," Charles nodded. "I have a lot of generous friends. They take care of me. They want me to be happy." He paused, thinking. "Actually, it seems almost everyone wants me to be happy."

That was hard to argue with. Virtually everything she had seen so far were just people whose lives seemed to be dedicated to Charles' fantasies. The twin monuments of sexual servitude at his side were testaments to that. She had little doubt that there was little they wouldn't do to "make Charles happy".

"So you claim that you provided no services in exchange for that money?" Abigail asked.

"That's right," Charles nodded. "Just friends, that's all."

That actually seemed a lot more reasonable than it had this morning. Frankly, everything she knew about Charles Winter seemed a lot more normal than it had in the lobby. How does "friends give me money" hold a candle against "women who could stop traffic strap themselves in blowjob training machines to get a hint of what it feels like to touch my cock"?