Culliver had his papers in his hands again.
He was reading from them now. Mechanically. Numbers and names and dates, in the flat, recitative voice of a man choosing between two varieties of terrible. The numbers were damning. The names were recognizable. The dates stretched back four years.
He read them all.
One by one, the seven men talked.
And Viktor fucked the mistress of their territory against her own desk, his cock flooding her walls with each thrust, her pussy soaking the floor below her, Rihana's weight behind him making each impact count double, the morning light laying the whole scene in gold across the wood and the paper and the ruined, perfect, ongoing meeting.
The mating ground and the meeting ground.
The same room.
The same morning.
