Wednesday afternoon, a guy with the thickest British accent you've ever heard showed up at my hotel carrying a tape measure and the kind of calm that said he worked with royalty—or billionaires who thought they were.

He spent two hours taking every possible measurement of my body. Every. Single. One. Inseam, outseam, chest, shoulders, wrists, neck, hell, maybe even the circumference of my ego. The man had a tape measure for dimensions of existence. And he did it all with this poker-faced precision, jotting things into a little leather notebook that looked older than sin.

"The suits will be ready in six weeks," he said, all crisp vowels and zero emotion. "The Empress has chosen your fabrics—charcoal, navy, black, midnight blue, and a few tasteful variations. If you'd like to review—"

"The Empress has good taste," I cut in. "I'll trust her."

He nodded like that was the correct answer on a test I didn't know I was taking. Packed his kit, shook my hand, and vanished—like tailors retreat to some secret British portal the second they're done.

After that, I headed to Voyeur Wellness Center.

Now, this place… imagine if self-care went to college for architecture and cocaine. All glass, clean lines, soft lighting, zero ego but so much money it practically hummed. It was the kind of building that whispered, If you have to ask the price, you don't belong here.

I'd been waiting all week for a call from Meridian Agency—some new client, another eval, whatever—but it never came. So I had time. Too much time. And that meant more hours at Voyeur, which, at the time, I thought was harmless. Spoiler: it wasn't.

Ortega had immediately put me on the instructor roster, teaching whatever the fuck wealthy women needed to learn about their bodies and minds and the pleasure they'd been denied by inadequate men.

Ortega had already thrown me on the instructor roster. My job? Teach the kind of classes wealthy women signed up for when their lives looked perfect on paper but felt like dust underneath. Body alignment, breathwork, all that mind-body-soul jazz—but with a side of therapy they didn't realize they were signing up for.

And damn, these women.

Every single one looked like she'd walked out of a commercial for expensive heartbreak. Beautiful, confident, and carrying that specific brand of sadness that money can't fix. You could feel it when they talked, that quiet craving for something real.

I taught gym sessions—body anatomy, proper form, how to engage muscle groups most people didn't even know existed.

I ran therapy circles where women talked about their desires and frustrations while I listened and provided guidance that was somehow both professional and intimate. I did one-on-one consultations where we discussed everything from communication with partners to exploring fantasies they'd never admitted out loud.

And every single session was torture dressed in their desires.

The Taboo Aura didn't help. Even turned down low, it still pulsed—like background radiation that made people lean in a little too close, smile a little too long. Half the time I didn't know if they were flirting or just caught in the pull. Maybe both.

So yeah, I flirted back. Carefully. Professionally. Like walking on a wire stretched over a minefield.

There were male employees at the wellness center. Other instructors, therapists, trainers. But the moment I walked in, the women only booked me. Made excuses for alone time. Found reasons to extend sessions. Touched my arm when they laughed. Held eye contact just a little too long.

The Taboo Aura made it even better. Even locked down tight, even suppressed as much as I could manage, it still radiated that low-level pull that made women unconsciously lean toward me, seek my attention, manufacture opportunities for proximity.

I'd flirt back—carefully, professionally, never crossing the line—but it was like dancing on a knife's edge.

And then there were the two who made it genuinely difficult to maintain control.

Madison's mother.

And Mrs. Patricia Morrison. Jack's mother.

Both of them were high level clients with power over other clients. Both of them booked sessions with me multiple times throughout the week. Both of them made it very fucking clear what they wanted without ever saying it directly.

Madison's mom was the kind of beautiful that came from both money and good genes, mid-forties but easily passing for thirty-five. She carried herself like someone who'd been in charge her entire life—fundraisers, foundations, family legacies—all of it.

But underneath the control, there was a softness, a kind of lonely hunger that came out when it was just us in a private session. It wasn't even sexual, not at first. Just… someone starved for attention. For touch. For being seen.

But in private sessions, away from her public persona, she was... vulnerable. Hungry. Desperate in ways that made my chest ache because I knew exactly how long she'd been unsatisfied.

Nearly two decades, according to what Madison had told me. Twenty years of mediocre sex with a husband who'd forgotten how to see her as anything except his wife, the mother of his child but he never treated her bad at all.

Mrs. Morrison, though—different story. Ice queen with perfect hair, gym-sculpted body, and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

The kind of woman who walked into a room and immediately raised the emotional temperature by ten degrees just by existing. She had history with my family—bad history—and she looked at me like I was the ghost of every mistake she'd ever made.

She hated me. Hated that I existed. Hated Peter Carter. Hated that her husband still probably thought about the escort who'd ruined him for normal sex.

But she also didn't know Peter was Eros she wanted to fuck. Wanted to fuck the son of the woman who'd destroyed her marriage, wanted to feel desired by someone young and virile, wanted to prove she was still desirable even if her husband didn't see it anymore.

The dynamic was toxic and complicated and absolutely irresistible to the Taboo System.

Throughout the week, they'd both pushed boundaries.

My mother in-law would lean too close during stretches. Mrs. Morrison would find reasons to touch my chest when adjusting her form.

Both would hold eye contact while biting their lips. Both would wear workout clothes that left absolutely nothing to imagination—sports bras that showed underboob, leggings so tight I could see everything, the kind of outfits that said "I'm technically dressed but barely."

The wellness center women weren't looking for immediate sex. That's what I'd learned quickly. They wanted connection. Being seen. Feeling desired. Intimacy that went beyond physical. The buildup. The anticipation. The slow burn.

So I didn't rush. Let the tension build. Taught classes where my hands would correct their form with touches that lasted just slightly too long.

Ran therapy sessions where we discussed desires they'd never admitted to their husbands.

Created atmosphere where they felt safe exploring what they actually wanted instead of what they thought they should want.

When the temptation got too difficult—when Patricia's perfume was too intoxicating or her frustrated-lust combination was too potent—I had relief valves.

Victoria, Anya, Ortega.

My women from the harem who understood what I needed. Who'd meet me for lunch or after sessions, who'd let me fuck them in the office, my Phantom that I was using as my only ride to the wellness gigs, they'd drain off enough pressure that I could go back to the wellness center and maintain professional distance.

But Thursday changed things.

Thursday, Patricia made her move.

I was cleaning up after a body anatomy lesson—forty women learning about muscle engagement and proper breathing and how to actually enjoy physical activity instead of just enduring it for results—when Patricia approached me.

The others had left. We were alone in the wellness center's main hall—all mirrors and mats and equipment that gleamed under soft lighting.

"Eros," she said, and there was something different in her voice. Resolve. Decision. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see her weighing how to phrase this. How to ask what she wanted without being too direct, too vulnerable, too honest about needs that society said she shouldn't have.

Is it wrong," she finally said, voice quiet but steady, "for the leader of the women's committee to be unsatisfied?"

The question hung in the air like a forbidden invitation, wrapped in layers of professionalism. General. Detached. But I heard the raw hunger beneath: Would it be okay if I fucked you senseless right here?

I smiled—slow, predatory—and stalked toward her, setting the clipboard aside with a deliberate clink. My gaze locked on hers, stripping away the pretense, letting her see the filthy promise in my eyes.

I stopped inches from her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, the faint tremor in her breath. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as I invaded her space.

Her breath hitched sharply, eyes widening in shock and dark desire. She hadn't expected me to close the gap so completely, to claim the air between us.

I reached up agonizingly slow, giving her every chance to retreat, and let my fingertips graze her cheek—soft, flushed skin burning under my touch.

She quivered, a full-body shiver that made her thighs clench involuntarily. I traced lower, fingers dancing along her jaw, then down the elegant column of her neck where her pulse thundered like a war drum, betraying how soaked she already was.

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