Join my Patreon
GodofPleasure
(dot)com/GodofPleasure
*****
"However, our schedule for evening has drastically changed. We are attending a black-tie charity gala hosted by the Princess of Wales. You are accompanying me as my assistant."
Amy blinked. She looked at him, then down at her clipboard, then back up at him.
"A gala."
"Yes."
"Hosted by Princess Diana."
"Correct."
Amy let out a short, somewhat hysterical laugh. "Marvin, I am a twenty-two theater actress from Minnesota. I packed exactly one formal outfit for this trip, and it is a black polyester cocktail dress I bought at Macy's for a callback audition. I absolutely cannot go to a royal-adjacent charity gala in London. I don't have a gown."
"That is a trivial logistical error," Marvin waved a hand dismissively. "We will simply go to Harrods or Bond Street this afternoon. We will purchase a suitable gown, heels, and whatever accessories you require. You can charge it directly to my operational account."
Amy's Midwestern backbone instantly snapped to attention. She sat up straight, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. "Absolutely not."
Marvin paused. "Excuse me?"
"I said no, Marvin," Amy said firmly, her cheeks flushing. "I already let you buy me a Burberry trench coat because it was freezing on set and I needed it to work. But I draw the line at high-fashion evening wear. I am your employee. I am not letting an eleven-year-old boy's account money to buy me a designer ballgown. It's wildly inappropriate, and I won't take your money like that."
Marvin looked at her. For a normal child, this refusal might have been confusing. But the Incubus inside him found her stubborn, fierce independence incredibly charming; It helps that she herself is gorgeous even in her current getup.. She wasn't a sycophant. She had boundaries, and she defended them.
Marvin didn't argue. He didn't raise his voice. He simply shifted his posture, unleashing a highly concentrated, devastating wave of his innate charm.
The air in the office suddenly felt warmer. The sterile hotel lighting seemed to soften. Marvin looked down at her, his deep blue eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch in her throat.
"Amy," Marvin murmured, his voice dropping to that smooth, velvet resonance that completely bypassed her logical defenses. He reached out, gently resting his hand on the stack of financial textbooks she had been dutifully reading for him. "You are not just my employee. You are the woman holding my work together. You have barely slept since you landed in this city, deciphering Wall Street derivatives just to make my life easier."
He tilted his head, offering her a smile that was impossibly handsome, carrying the dashing, magnetic weight of a classic Hollywood leading man trapped in a boy's frame.
"It is nothing for me to spend money on a beautiful, fiercely intelligent woman who works as hard as you do," Marvin said softly, his gaze making her feel entirely seen, appreciated, and undeniably beautiful. "I am always open to investing in excellence. And this night, I need my assistant standing beside me, looking as formidable and stunning as I know she is. Please. Allow me this small courtesy."
Amy sat there, completely paralyzed by the sheer force of his charisma. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She logically knew he was an eleven-year-old little man, but the emotional frequency he was projecting was completely overwhelming her nervous system. It was the same terrifying charm she had seen him use on Elaine and Natasha, but directed entirely at her.
She swallowed hard, fighting through the magical fog with sheer, stubborn willpower.
"Fine," Amy breathed, her voice slightly shaky. She grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen, aggressively writing something down. "I will go to the gala. And I will let you expense the dress today so we can get it in time."
She ripped the yellow sheet of paper off the pad and slapped it onto the desk between them.
"But this is an IOU," Amy stated, pointing a trembling finger at the paper. "You will deduct the exact cost of the gown from my first month's paycheck. I am paying for it. That is my final offer, Marvin."
Marvin looked down at the hastily scrawled IOU, his lips curling into a deeply satisfied, victorious smirk. He had won the battle, and she had kept her pride. It was a perfect negotiation.
"Deal," Marvin chuckled, picking up the yellow paper and folding it neatly into his pocket. "Now, grab your coat, Amy. Let us go find you something spectacular."
---
The executive office on the top floor of EMI Records in Soho was soundproofed—a highly necessary architectural feature for a senior music producer. At this exact moment, the thick, padded doors were successfully muting the sounds of heavy breathing and the rustle of discarded silk.
Grant Brook, a man in his late forties with a carefully maintained tan and an expensive haircut, was sprawled back on the plush Italian leather sofa in his private office. His nineteen-year-old secretary was on her knees between his spread thighs, her blonde hair a wild mess as she eagerly worked his cock with her mouth.
She had one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, stroking in perfect rhythm while her glossy red lips slid up and down his length, taking him deep into her warm, wet throat with practiced skill. Soft, wet sucking sounds filled the room as she bobbed her head, her tongue swirling around the swollen head every time she pulled back. Drool glistened on her chin and dripped down onto her pushed-up skirt, which was bunched uselessly around her waist, exposing her lacy thong.
Grant groaned deeply, one hand tangled in her blonde hair, guiding her movements as he thrust gently into her eager mouth. "That's it… just like that, bitch," he murmured, his voice rough with pleasure. The rhythm was building perfectly, her head moving faster, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him harder.
Just as the afternoon was reaching its peak and Grant felt his balls tightening, ready to flood her throat, the heavy brass phone on his mahogany desk began to ring. It wasn't the standard line. It was the private, unlisted red phone.
Grant froze, cursing under his breath. He pulled away, hastily buttoning his dress shirt, and grabbed the receiver.
It was Diana.
For three excruciating minutes, Grant paced behind his desk, expertly modulating his voice to project the warm, charming, utterly devoted persona of a loyal friend. 'Yes, Ms. Diana. Of course, the charity gala tonight. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I look forward to meeting your young American friend.' The moment he placed the receiver back onto the cradle, the charming smile slid off his face like wet clay, replaced by a deep, cowardly grimace.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, the lingering scent of his secretary's cheap perfume suddenly making him nauseous. The phone call had triggered a visceral, terrifying memory from just two weeks prior.
He remembered the dimly lit, velvet-draped private room of an exclusive Mayfair gentleman's club. He remembered sitting across from Camilla Parker Bowles. The woman who now held the undisputed ear of the future King of England had looked at him over the rim of her teacup, her eyes flat and unforgiving.
"Grant," Camilla had said, her voice a quiet, aristocratic rasp that sent a chill down his spine. "I know you have cultivated a vast network of connections in the English music scene. And I also know you contributed a great deal to that woman's charity galas—introducing her to your elite circle. But times have changed. I want you to understand that she is no longer a Royal Highness. Neither Charles nor I look favorably upon those who continue to bolster her public crusade. The Crown is the future. You need to make a choice."
Grant Brook had made his choice before the tea was even cold.
In his calculating, self-serving view, Diana was dead weight. She had been stripped of her royal protections. She was a rogue operative constantly hunted by the press, and she could no longer offer him the institutional safety of the Palace. It was absolutely not worth offending Prince Charles and Camilla for the sake of a divorced woman's charity projects.
However, Grant didn't have the spine to openly fall out with the "People's Princess." He knew that in the eyes of the British public, he was one of her favored circle. Years ago, when Diana was still securely married to Charles, she had elevated Grant from a mid-level studio manager to an industry titan by formally requesting his presence as a VIP guest at the Royal Concerts.
Grant Brook's current massive wealth and fame in the music industry owed almost everything to the spotlight Diana had generously shined upon him.
But selfish, ambitious men possess a remarkable psychological defense mechanism: they simply rewrite their own history. Grant convinced himself that he didn't owe Diana a single thing. 'I introduced her to the real rockstars,' he rationalized to the empty room. 'I gave her credibility with the artists. He completely ignored the fact that without the sheer, blinding gravity of Diana's royal patronage, those rockstars wouldn't have given a mid-level producer the time of day.
And now, she was asking him for a favor. A personal favor.'
'Asking me to mentor some random American kid,' Grant thought, his indignation rising to mask his guilt. 'She wants me to produce an instrumental EP for an eleven-year-old child? And she expects me to put my professional reputation on the line and claim this kid has 'extraordinary musical talent'? Is that woman completely insane?'
He scoffed, adjusting his belt. He felt insulted.
He convinced himself that Diana was just using his hard-earned reputation to curry favor with some wealthy Hollywood family. 'Does she think I'm her subordinate? Her errand boy?' It was a pathetic, transparent excuse for his own hypocrisy, but it allowed him to sleep at night.
He still intended to attend the Savoy charity gala tonight, of course. Not to support her hospital, but because the room would be packed with billionaires, politicians, and useful European elites. He would simply avoid Diana and the American boy in the crowd.
"Well? Are you coming back or not?!"
The shrill, impatient voice of his secretary broke through his internal monologue. She was lying on the leather sofa, her arms crossed, looking thoroughly annoyed by the interruption.
Grant exhaled sharply, walking back over to the couch. He bent down, fully intending to finish what they had started. But his mind was entirely poisoned by anxiety. The looming threat of the royal family, and the stress of the impending gala swirled in his brain.
His body betrayed him. The psychological stress caused his manhood to completely give out.
After several embarrassing, frantic minutes of failing to perform, his anxiety violently mutated into rage. He pushed himself off the sofa, his face burning with humiliation. He angrily slapped his secretary's hand away from his chest and roared, his voice cracking, "Get out! I'm working! Don't bother me!"
The secretary scrambled off the leather, sobbing in shock and humiliation. She hastily pulled at her skirt, grabbed her heels, and fled the office, slamming the heavy door behind her.
Grant Brooke collapsed onto the sofa, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles, cursing Camilla, cursing the American kid, and above all, cursing Diana.
---
Under the heavy, fog-choked cover of the London night, the entrance to the Savoy Hotel on the Strand was a chaotic explosion of popping flashbulbs and roaring engines.
This historic, unparalleled luxury hotel was the undisputed haven for the English royal family, elite politicians, and the globally wealthy. A closer look at the hotel's more than one-hundred-year history revealed a staggering collection of private files on the most powerful people of each era. Claude Monet had painted the Thames from its balconies. Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, and Marilyn Monroe had walked its halls. Winston Churchill had taken his cabinet meetings in its dining rooms.
*****
Join my Patreon
GodofPleasure
(dot)com/GodofPleasure