Paradise Isle (Fades & Good Girls)

[As Day Fades]

The cameras couldn't stop snapping. From the moment he stepped on stage, Jeffrey Tremonti of Innovation Inc. had everything pointed at him, from the live feeds to the flashes. From the magazines, to MSNBC, to FOX, to members of talk radio - even YouTube was here, streaming the event. A thousand microphones were thrust into the air. A thousand voices rose in cacophony, causing none of them to rise at all. He smiled, that charming smile. He raised a commanding hand, palm extended. "You know," he said into a microphone, his own that was up at the classy, clear podium to one side of the stage, "if we're all going to talk at once, then everyone's saying, no one's listening." This got a round of light laughter. Most quickly quieted down, but a few quickly seized the opportunity to be heard.

"Mr.Tremonti. Gabriel Greene, Yahoo News. What do you think of all the rumors that this is a publicity stunt, or that slavery in 2019 is a human rights violation?"

"Well, it's not 'slavery,' though that may be an easy, quick word to define it. It's 'consensual servitude,' with consent being the most underlying part. And if this is all a publicity stunt, aren't you all just as guilty?" That brought another light round of laughs.

"Mr.Tremonti. Chelsea Amo're, Vanity Fair. How can you possibly call it 'consent' when and woman who accepts your terms is never allowed to change her mind?"

"Because that's what contracts are, sweetheart." He snickered, "And with fine, thick lips like that, if you raise up a step or two on the social ladder, maybe there's a contract sitting here for you too." He winked. Her face grew vibrant red, though out of embarrassment or fury, it was hard to say. Everyone had another chuckle. "No. See. Here's how it works. I was very clear in my initial interviews two weeks ago, and in that timeframe the talking heads and the Op-Ed pieces all managed to twist it into what they wanted, or needed, to make it out that this is something it isn't. Innovation is a company I started from the ground up when I was nineteen. I've been fortunate enough to amass four-hundred billion, and we're at a rate where we're making north of thirty-five million a day. We're on record as treating our employees great - look, we're the number six-ranked in the country for that, number six - and we donate to charity more than any other company in our field. I've accomplished an incredible amount. And I'm going to enjoy the fruits of that labor. My name is still on the checks, I'll still be involved in high-level decisions, but the day-to-day will be handled by other members of Innovation's board while I enjoy semi-retirement. In doing so, I'm going to use the money I've accumulated to purchase the companionship of the finest in the world, much as one would hire the best chef, or the best mechanic."

"Patricia Teller, New York Times. Why not just extend an invitation then? Why the need for 'contracts,' as you call them?"

He shrugged, "Because I want something more long-term. Look, this is something happening entirely of each person's own consent. There's no force. There's no coercion. My answers are now as they were when this was first announced, that I'm prepared to offer an excessively generous check to the charity of the lady-in-question's choosing in payment for her agreeing to embrace this idea together, the amount of which will be weighted fairly depending on her level of fame."

"Jonathan Harris, ABC News. Doesn't this kick wide open the door though, reintroducing the possibility of slavery again to the civilized world?"

"Well, I mean, Jonathan. I get what you're saying. I get what you're saying. 'Kick wide open'? No. Creak it? Nudge it a crack? That would be a fairer question, but even then I would argue that. I would argue there's a line, and we're all adults and we all understand that the line is at free will - something that, once they've signed on the dotted line, they're no different than a professional painter, or Broadway actor, or anyone else who's agreed to perform a very specific service for an allotted period of time."

"Michelle Yeoh, Playboy. Isn't 'one-hundred years' of allotted time bordering on insanity, though?"

"No," he said simply. "See, here's the thing - that's just lawyer-speak. In the same way someone can be on trial for 'ten lifetimes' and other such nonsense, it's to get the point across that this is 'going forward.' You can't really put 'for the rest of your life' into a written contract, it just doesn't work that way."

"Because that would be slavery, right? ...Christopher Murdoch, The Daily Show."

Jeffrey rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That would be. I'm sorry, what were you? Daily Show? I miss Stewart. Anyway, who left the window open? Aren't snowflakes supposed to be outside?" This brought a sharp round of laughter from some, even cheers, while a number of others all started talking into their microphones all at once. "Look, look, can you cut their mics? Cut everyone's but the podium," as he looked off to someone working a booth off to the side of the room. Jeffrey looked back to the crowd, "Listen, everyone, listen. Calm down. I've already given a number of interviews - that's not what today is. Today is a happy day, a fun day. Today is for the big reveal. Whether current 2019 culture likes it or not, I've decided to use my money to trade for the companionship of any high-end celebrity that wants to forego her current life and life in pampered luxury. You may say it's sexist, and by your definition, maybe it is. But isn't the Left all about two people being allowed to do what they want, so long as it's with consent, and no one is being hurt? We're actually here helping people, so if you really believe your base, you'd be putting your hands together in applause. Can I see some applause from those here to help celebrate all this great charity today?"

The crowd was split. Plenty did applaud. Others simply remained quiet, red-faced and obviously searching for a response.

Jeffrey stood there, up at the podium, smirking at the crowd. He glanced off to the side, off stage, to the first girl to make sure she was ready. He gave her a smile and a wink, then looked back to the crowd - they hadn't even actually 'met' yet, officially, he and any of his lovely volunteers, but they were all backstage now, and had had all afternoon to get to know one another leading up to this big reveal. He stood there, early forties, tousled dark brown curls atop his head and a light jawline beard and mustache. His clothes were respectable, professional, but not too official; silk burgundy collared shirt and black Armani dress slacks. The sleeves on his shirt were undone at the cuffs, rolled loosely to his elbows, and on his left wrist was a brown watch whose face seemed to shine with near every angle of the light. He smirked, reaching up, adjusting a matching-colored set of brown glasses. Inwardly, to himself, away from the microphone and with a smirk, he spoke, "I swear, stockholder meetings are one thing. A few more minutes of this shit and I'll be sporting my first wrinkle."

He stepped back to the clear podium. "Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that's enough questions. Remember, today is all about major life decisions, about respect and, most of all, a celebration! Whether or not you or your organization agree personally, I would like to think we're all adult enough to be professional, and that we're all human enough to understand...that eight-hundred seventy-five million is about to be donated, between four different checks."

There was a gasp. Following that, some broke into cheers. Others into questions, though with their microphones cut it was an easy enough din to speak over. "Ta-da! The big reveal, right? Everyone's been speculating, the last two weeks - who's it gonna be? Who would accept? I'm happy to announce that we have four beautiful young ladies here today, all stars in their own right, and that between them we're looking at a little shy of a billion dollars going to some really great causes. But that's enough from me, isn't it? Who, right? They're each going to share a moment with you in their own words. But who? ...Ladies and gentlemen, it's my distinguished honor, my pleasure, to introduce to you first...Miss Emilia Clarke!"

His arm gestured out to the far side of the stage, inviting her on. The flash of the cameras began before she could even appear.

 

[good girls]

Money can't buy you happiness.

That's what people who desperately wanted more money liked to say, anyway. And any number of people who made millions upon millions of dollars could even probably lay claim to saying that (while seeming a little bit out of touch to those who were less fortunate than themselves) given the sheer number of people in the public eye who tended to crash and burn spectacularly due to their various demons and vices. The human mind was incredible at finding ways in which more would never be enough.

But more money than you could ever spend in a hundred lifetimes? It might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell could buy a considerable amount of peace of mind. Four Hundred Billion was the kind of mind-boggling non-number that when attributed to a single person nobody could quite imagine what they would do with that much. It might as well have been a child with a jojillion dollars. Never mind that it was Innovation that was, technically, valued at that particular sum -- when corporations were people, the people were their corporations after all. And when it was in fact one person's sum to spend for all practical purposes, well!

That's when people were whatever you wanted them to be.



What could have lead to this, though? Yes, in the broad sense, the idea that there were women (and not desperate, impoverished, hopeless women who would have signed away everything they had and were just for a shot at their family getting to make it on without them, but famous, successful women who seemed to have nothing to lose) willing to put their lives in the hands of others wasn't so far fetched. How many young ladies married for status or security more than strictly for love? But there were divorces. There were insurance scams and accidental tumbles down the stairs. There were ways out. From the way Jeffrey Tremonti's proposal had spread across the media, there were no doubt individuals who genuinely believed that if he were to drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow, then anyone stupid enough to have signed up for this game of his would end up buried alive in his coffin alongside him like the pharaohs of old. One hundred years was a lifetime for anyone who wasn't currently a little too young for the sort of status being sought, after all. So why on Earth would any woman who in comparison to so many others had everything that she ever could have asked for sign her life away? Her very personhood?

Why would Emilia Clarke?

Write up the think pieces now: Solo was the least hyped Star Wars movie in franchise history, Terminator: Genisys was one more nail in the coffin of that series, and the sole cash cow to which she was tethered was taking its final bow. Bomb after bomb after bomb, followed by the singular success of her career? The desperate slut was going to grasp at whatever relevance she could find. Sure, she was a name, but in many folks eyes, the writing was on the wall from the first click of her heel on stage. She couldn't even finish the first turn of her wave before paragraphs were cemented in stone about how this grand experiment had been a honeypot for actresses on the cusp of failure grasping for whatever lifeline they might have seen dangled in their direction.

But she certainly didn't look desperate.

If anything, her smile was positively beaming, not quite enough to look nervous or manic, and just more than usual enough to seem a touch overwhelmed. Taken aback by the sheer amount of flashbulbs and mic-muted chattering to have her off her game, but .. well, ever so British enough to take it all in stride just the same, with each stride elegantly rippling the curtain of her gown around her unseen heels which made their presence known as much with the sound of them against the stage as they did by the tiniest bit of elevation to her height. The heels, the sleek contours of her gown, and the pull of her hair all lent a certain elegance to her approach from the wings, giving her that crucial something that always made it seem as though the screen could magnify a performer's presence. Here, there was nothing but herself to magnify that presence, and given the circumstances, she looked as though she were twice her height.

She was not desperate, defeated, or unwanted. She took to the stage proudly, but with a humble patience in the way she clasped her hands in front of her and waited for the initial furor and picture snapping to die down.

"She was wrong, she didn't fall on her bum the minute she got out there," hissed a whisper in curtains to another hidden away for her turn.

"Too bad," the same whisper decided after a heartbeat of silence for effect.

But then, Emilia's dress and careful posture did little to show off what she was more certain an utterly imbalanced quaking in her legs, which might well have purely been in her own mind come to think of it. To all gathered, she seemed like she was there for the red carpet gala, and not what was a massive violation of human rights in the minds of so many already.

"I can only imagine that there are a number of questions about what had lead me to stand up on this stage here today, and what could have possibly convinced me to sign my life away as so many have put it already. But I actually think it's important that I make a distinction about that right now, if it's alright for me to do so on Mr. Tremonti's behalf. It's not only that I myself, nor the other three women who may be taking this stage alongside me today, have not been pressured by him, his company, or anyone else in my own professional or private life to sign a contract that would for all intents and purposes leave my future entirely in the hands of this .. mind-bogglingly audacious individual," she said, her professional, almost casually disclosure-agreement style reading of her own introduction giving way to a bit of a broader grin as she lifted her clasped hands and gingerly used them to point in Jeffrey's direction while she stifled a laugh at her own description of him and this entirely mad escapade she had found herself a part of.

Just a little bit of broken ice, and the wobble in her knees felt much more manageable.

"But I want to make it clear it's that I haven't. I haven't signed any such thing. There is nothing coercing or forcing me to stand here before you, legally or otherwise, and introduce myself as the first to accept Mr. Tremonti's ludicrous offer," she continued with precisely the same smile that spoke of just how much she was in on the insanity of it all with each of his greatest detractors (and, frankly, many of those who believed in him as well) "because the simple fact of the matter is that I haven't accepted it yet. There is nothing to stop me from walking right over there and through the backstage exit," she added, pointing to the side of the stage behind her benefactor's podium, "should I change my mind. And now you're all tap tapping away on your phones about how he set the event up expertly to force us to set up that both he and we are of sound mind," she added with a little bit of a wiggle of her thumbs pantomiming the expected tweets about her opening statements.

Laughter was good. She warmed up, both with a slight shift of her shoulders and the tiniest addition of ruddiness to her cheeks.

"But I'm not going to change my mind," she said, as firmly as she could.

"I have come here today to request that Jeffrey Tremonti not only make a donation to the Anima Foundation in my name, a charity dedicated to nurses and doctors specializing in injury and trauma to the brain, but that he sees to it that my every last fungible asset be used to secure ongoing funding and expenses for the foundation for as long as my worth will allow. I have not come to this stage to be a curiosity or a headline for those attending, but to use my privilege and my wealth to insure that those who can best use my material assets will be able to do so to truly help others now and in the future. I know that there are those of you who will cluck your tongues at the flash in the pan actress who's best role has come to an end, and I welcome you to draw your own conclusions on my career and how it relates to my decision today. After all, to most of you, I will and would never be anything but Khaleesi."

Her smile was as easy as it had been since she'd taken to the stage, the tiniest bit of a spark of satisfied amusement dancing in her rich blue eyes. She reached up then, looping her hands up behind her neck and into her hair, where she undid the clasping barrette keeping her brunette locks in place until they came spilling gently down against the side of her neck and her shoulders with the tiniest shake of her chin.

"But that's not the totality of who I am," she said. "Mother of dragons, breaker of chains. One role, many roles. A daughter, a sister, an actress, a friend, I've been so many things." Still holding the barrette balanced against her thumb and index finger, Emilia continued to fidget ever so slightly as she removed each of her earrings (one on daughter, the other on actress) and then left all three pieces of jewelry held lightly in one palm. "What I want to say is that today, with this opportunity, I can be one more thing," she continued as she gently but deftly pulled off her rings from her balancing hand and added them to the small handful of accouterments.

"Everyone gathered here, to shoot this, to write about this, to question this, or to simply recognize this as an interesting way to spend the day, you have something in your head about who I am to you, and what it means for me to be a part of this. But it's not quite true. I'm Emilia," she said, partially by way of correction and partially by way of long-belated introduction. She rolled her jewelry loosely, able to hold it all in one palm, though the sounds it may have made did not pick up on the mic.

Surprisingly, her other hand singing the zipper at her back with a single tiny, short tug did.

The prayer that so often held up red carpet gowns gave way to a reality without model gum or double sided tape, and with a much quieter whisper, Miss Clarke's matching cream colored heels were revealed above the sudden elegant rippling of her dress down into a silken puddle on the stage. And without those heels, well, someone might have even made the claim that she was naked.

"And I reject that," she decided, a period not just on her introduction, but her existence.

She even managed to swoop down elegantly, nary a shimmy of her naked breasts unintentional in their motion as she bent just enough to recover her dropped dress onto the edge of her fingers and let it join her jewelry all clutched in her right hand. Some might have argued that she'd been overworking her personal trainer just for this moment -- there were surely going to be countless frame by frame comparisons and questions and arguments about the actress on stage now versus the last time she had seen sit to do a nude scene on television, and how much better or worse each metric might have been -- but none could argue that the stage lights didn't favor the pale peach of bare skin to give it just the right light, from the delicate kiss of lipstick setting her mouth off to the strikingly similar color of her nipples, peaked playfully whether from the nerves and adrenaline or the chill in the air with none particularly in a position to argue the cause when they could instead be capturing the effect with their too-lavish cell phone cameras. No doubt there would even be those who questioned if any particular shine around the well-kempt brunette curls beneath her abdomen was just a trick of the light.

Click! Click! Click! Both cameras and her heels as Emilia strode across the stage, her legs held sculpted and high in her seemingly uncomfortable footwear and the rest of her held with equal height as she locked eyes with Jeffrey and gave not a single look or thought to anyone else .. even as she made a humblebrag of her own existence by way of showcasing her sideways silhouette (the better for every angle for the tabloids, perhaps) when she bent at the waist in front of his podium and unstrapped too her heels, slipping easily out of them and managing to bring them up each on a finger, until everything she had been wearing genuinely fit in one hand.

"Let me sign your contract, and I will be nothing except what you make of me," she told him. "I will have nothing except that which you give me," she said, and with a forceful thunk, she nearly as an afterthought threw her entire beautiful ensemble directly into the trash bin next to his podium without removing her eyes from his. "I, being of sound body and mind," she said with a glimmer of a grin at the corner of her lips as she made certain to re-emphasize her consent in this entire affair, "would like nothing more than to sell you my body and mind for any amount that you might think them worth."

.. it would have been just too cruel to low-ball her a sum given those terms!

 

[As Day Fades]

...Spectacular.

Breathtaking.

Everything about her was elegance and grace, was poise and well-mannered. Jeffrey watched Emilia's moment as taken as the rest of the crowd, giving no effort to hide a cheek-to-cheek smile. It was no random choice, having her go first, having Emilia be his very first official slave. While it was true that each of the women here today would be able to lay claim to such a thing, her claim would be the truest, as there had simply been a feeling about her that she would set the standard for what he wanted this to be, and the caliber of respect - and applicants - he wanted it to garner. In short, she hadn't disappointed.

He watched calm, quiet, but in no way made move to hide the approval beaming upon his face. Whereas the elegant Brit harbored a light smirk and an even gentler caress of red across her features, Jeffrey allowed a grin to stretch more notably at one side of his face in an almost trademarked fashion. He watched, quite surreally, as a kid on Christmas morning, as the Christmas present unwrapped itself, strode about, and proclaimed quite definitively that her new purpose was solely to be his toy.

This certainly beat a model train set.

As she came to stand beside him, beside the podium, Jeffrey looked deeply into her blue eyes. He held the gaze while Emilia spoke, while she proclaimed for everyone to hear, but mostly now proclaimed herself to him. He kept eye contact as she shifted to remove her shoes. He kept eye contact as she discarded of the outfit entirely, the noise of which making its own audible statement, that such was behind her. He kept eye contact even as a grin teased at the edge of her lips, which, looking to her like this, in this moment, just that tease of a smirk caused a new surge of warmth in the pit of his chest. He let her speak, and, when she was done, allowed the moment to linger.

Cameras continued to snap.

Flashes continued going off.

He stepped aside from the podium, and then another, stepping in close to her. With the loss of her heels their heights were even more defined. But still he leaned in, not breaking gaze with the brunette until he had to, not breaking gaze until this moment, where he leaned in, slipped the fingers of one hand into her smaller, more slender, gave them an affectionate squeeze, and he kissed Emilia, right outside the edge of her lips, right at that corner where it tugged endearingly into her cheek.

And then he whispered, something quiet, something private. Something just for them. "Magnificent," he breathed. "You are truly stunning, my darling." Another tender peck to what was technically her cheek. His lips rose after that, his words still coming privately, face nuzzled into that beautiful brunette hair from just beside her ear. "...For what it's worth, I loved your performances in those movies. If the world is too short-sighted to cherish you, then worry not over them, for that is my role now."

Jeffrey gave her hand another light, little squeeze, before letting go, his touch slipping away. He stepped back. "Oh, and worry not on your worth," he said with a smirk, his voice not loud per se, but not as private as before. The first two rows or so might have heard it. With a wink, "To me, that part was never in question." He stepped back a bit more. At the back of the stage were four large, black sheets, the closest one of which he stepped to now. Keeping eye contact directly with Emilia, he grasped the sheet with both hands, lifting it up, overhead with a flourish and a twirl, discarding it deftly off to a side as lights and cameras quickly continued on. The reveal was another, smaller podium, black velvet draped along its cylinder, with a black stand behind it. Upon the black stand was an oversized check, a sum of two-hundred and sixty-three million dollars made out to the Anima Foundation, the sum of her net worth being added to the amount an A-Lister would garner for embracing this bold offer. 'On behalf of Miss Emilia Clarke' was elegantly written in the Notes section of the check. In front of it, back on the circular stand of flowing black velvet, was the lofty presence of the contract, the details of which had been made public, and had already been thoroughly made clear to each volunteer here today. The contract itself was just as much a showpiece as anything else here on the set, made out more like a medieval scroll rather than a more modern stack of papers, complete with curled ends, and a long, feathered quill set beside.

He stepped back to Emilia, and once again that was in a light voice that perhaps only the first row or two would pick up on, "Forget the crowd," he spoke. A hand went back to hers, this time only loosely claiming two fingers betwixt a few of his own in what was a brief, light hold before letting go again. "For this moment, take as much time as you need. When you are done, kneel front-and-center on the stage, facing off to the side." For what would come then was the final part of this 'presentation,' this 'ceremony' that had been made clear to each of the girls beforehand, just as the particulars of the contract had been. ...It was to be a sizzling period, at the end of the sentence that was Emilia's offer of servitude, which would serve as a bold, surprise finish to all others in attendance, truly driving home the day's permanence.

 

[good girls]

How easy would it have been to give the interview in a day or two, were this your average tinsel town marketing stunt? "Oh, I hardly even noticed the cameras going off. When you're really connecting with someone in a scene, they're all you see. It's not until you pull back to the reality of the backstage bustle and the craft services table that it all falls away again and you remember you're just there doing a job, albeit one I'd never trade for the world." Emilia's words both humbly self-effacing and yet somewhat in awe of the entire process that they had managed to get away with, the politely interested and incredulous interviewer framing the amusement on her face through some bit of purple prose.

That was how events like these were supposed to work. Even the most off the cuff and improvised engagement, in front of the media, was one more scene in a play where all the world was a stage. And it wasn't working like that at all.

The world didn't fall away. The snapping cameras and murmuring voices didn't disappear into the black void over the edge of the stage. No matter how polished and shined it had been, the floor beneath the balls of her feet had an ever so slightly coarse texture to it from some falling of dust or grain in the wood that grounded her with a friction that was far too real, the air conditioning of a venue seating all those many, many people here to witness Jeffrey Tremonti's grand insanity felt on every tiny pinprickle bump on her skin that might have seemed immaculate from afar but might as well have been a roadmap of unaccustomed chills to a gliding touch up her arm. She felt cold to his touch when it came, like a cool sheet on a waiting mattress, but just the same she warmed so immediately and contoured to his touch so readily that any chill was immediately forgotten within seconds of their fingers touching.

Their positioning hid her behind him, as though he was protecting her from the cruel gaze of the paparazzi, and yet let her peek in a way that appealed to their thirstiest instincts. No one had missed whatever angle they might have liked of Miss Clarke's full frontal surprise, and yet it was the vision of his three quarters profile only allowing the sleek line of her hip and leg to show beyond his own, or the way her eyes seemed to be framed hovering just at his shoulder with the expression on her face otherwise masked by the same, that would be the kind of tastefully perfect metaphor for a cover story about a man literally subjugating one of his favorite actresses, controlling and protecting her in equal measure.

Emilia felt every snap. Realized her tits were already everywhere on Twitter (as if anything else had been the case for years, frankly, but these were fresh). Knew every picture was another comment about how she ought to have shaved even further, knew every angle was another from which she would be attacked for how her backside didn't hang just right for that person's particular perfect preferences, and she knew and felt -- immense relief. She wouldn't even have cell service anymore, she realized in a very real, grounding way. She didn't have a phone or a computer, or a newspaper or magazine opened before her. Going through with this meant she would never see anything like that again, knowing only what Jeffrey allowed her to know, in some ways. And the race of her heart and the realization of what she had really just done all seemed to melt away with the realization of what she was really about to do.

She'd known, or she wouldn't be here. And now she knew in a way that wouldn't have been possible until this moment. No matter what submissive fantasies she had harbored, no matter what dreams of a simpler life might have drifted between her ears, no matter what had lead her to now, it wasn't until he took her hands and held her eyes that she felt from top to bottom the weight and release of what she was doing here today. Today was when it was going to become real.

"I can recite lines for you later, if you like," she whispered like a sweet nothing that sounded as giddy as it did completely breathless in its near lack of audibility, a rush of amusement and panic blending together all at once. They're very bad lines, she didn't say, but definitely thought in a manner that contributed to that giddy thrill running laps up and down the bow of her spine. Her fingers followed his with nearly every motion, not quite stuck, but certainly wanting to linger in the warmth of his touch in a way that kept them grounded to one another. That gave her the one bit of cover she was currently afforded, the cover of giving herself completely to this man in this mad endeavor, even as she revealed herself utterly to the world one last time. Compared to all of that, it was hard to take much thrill in the reveal of her own worth. In a monetary sense, it seemed so very small to reduce her entire life to date and forthcoming to a number. Even, especially, to $263,000,000. Sure, that seemed like a lot. It was a lot. But what was a human life worth?

.. apparently, that.



"She looked like she almost wanted him to low-ball her. After all that talk about hoping she'd raised a good amount," whispered the curtains to the shadows.

"Maybe she's the kind of upper-class that likes the idea of the low-class. Maybe she'd have creamed herself if she'd gotten bought for a nickle," the shadows whispered back, more in good natured teasing than any cruelty to the first among them to go through this ordeal.

"Speculation usually starts with the self," the curtains taunted.

"Shh," the wings implored -- this was the good part. Or at least, the important part.



The part with the quilled pen in between her fingers. The appropriately gaudy contract before her. The promise of everything that had been determined prior, writ in as close to stone as it would ever be, with the dissolution of all that she had been. Her physical and financial assets. Her citizenship records. Her birth certificate. Her rights under known British and Global law. With a flourish, she would genuinely be His property and governed by no laws save for those of his little sovereign nation of an island, enforced world wide at his discretion for all those who were a part of it -- or something along those lines? The truth of the matter was that Emilia Clarke understood the weight of what signing the contract meant even if she couldn't recite every single legal reason why it worked. With the quill in her hand, his presence at her back, and the crowd finally drifting away into the blissful dizziness of there being nothing but him and the stage and the choice in front of her, she knew there were now only two steps. She could step away, back to her life, cold feet returning her to her career a little bit more infamous and surprising than she had seemed before she had set foot on this stage today.

Or she would go from person to thing.

Beloved, adored, cherished, pampered thing, but thing nonetheless. Property. Pet. Furniture. All at once, sometimes, one after the other at others. Whatever He wanted of her, always.

She had been many things in her life, and with an achingly simple scratching of script, she wasn't anymore.

Emilia on the line, not her signature, but elegant script nonetheless. Not even a surname to follow it, since as of that moment, she was no longer a part of the family to which she had been borne. She was of a different group, a different caste, a different taxonomy in some ways. The first of her kind, to the chagrin or relief of the others who had all wondered and jockeyed and speculated on who would have to go first and how it would feel to go last, or to be in the middle, or any other number of variables that could overtake the day. If she expected to feel relief, or to collapse as her nerves all reacted at once, or to, well, cream herself at the realization of what she'd just done, there was nothing quite so fancy as all that.

There was just Emilia, and she was still holding the quill until she put it down with a smile.

And then she wrenched eons of evolution to the task of getting her to turn her hip and place her foot behind her so that she could turn away, and another millenia of self-empowerment to get the other foot to follow suit. Like she was stuck in molasses, every ripple of her stripped curvature might as well have lingered for a fortnight in the eyes of those observing her .. even if in reality, she simply seemed to sign the contract and then begin to walk toward the front of the stage as though she had hit the catwalk. There was nothing leaden nor artistic in her stance when she approached the end of the stage and the sea of darkness that stared hungrily up at the Persephone who had just greedily taken as many seeds as there were years remaining in her life, no matter how it must have felt for her to force herself to walk that short length to the end of the stage.

Because she had regrets about what she had done? Absolutely not. What she had done was entirely in the smile and the locking of her eyes that she had shared with Jeffrey, of that she had no regrets. She had only one fear, one inextricable, dangerous, stomach-twisting fear of what was to come, and she was almost certain that that was why Mr. Tremonti had shared the details of what was going to be expected of them so thoroughly beforehand. She hadn't eaten anything prior to this, and she was very glad now as she looked down at the vague features of those in the front row and smiled prettily down at them as she stooped and placed her palm on the end of the stage, balancing elegantly with catlike grace in her downward swooping onto her knees, a position she held cleanly as soon as it was taken. She lifted her chin, and held it high and proud, shoulders back holding her posture with equal pride. And yet those in the front could see the tremble of adrenaline and fear coursing through her. Whether in the tremor of her shoulder beneath her hair or the delectably subtle quiver of her breasts with her breathing and trepidation alike, it was all too easy to assume that what they saw was the second thoughts rushing from a young actress's head throughout her entire body.

It wasn't that. Well, not really entirely.

It's just that .. yes, Emilia had submissive tendencies. But she didn't have masochistic ones.

She didn't enjoy pain.

Even if she of all of them knew best that it was through fire that one was truly reborn.

 

[As Day Fades]

Jeffrey watched, everything. The bravery. The nervousness. The nakedness, and complete vulnerability because of it. The emotional vulnerability in addition to the physical. But, no - she wasn't emotionally vulnerable, this one. He watched everything, and that included the triumphant rising above it. She was strong. Ferocious, even. Everything she did, she carried herself with an endearing humanity that others only wished, in their very deepest thoughts, they might be so bold one day as well.

She was someone who got it, Jeffrey thought.

His Emilia, he thought with a smile as he watched her own her moment like a champion.

With the signing of the document she made everything official. This was all pomp, everything around them, this was all circumstance - a circus of nudity and cameras, of microphones and opinions that didn't necessarily have to be part of this. Strip it all away, and truth was, the ink now drying upon that rolled parchment was very, very real. As were the words writ above it, creating a lifelong agreement between two consenting adults.

He'd listened to her talk. He'd watched her walk, conviction brimming, naked and yet fierce all the same. He'd watched her take her position on the stage, knelt at its front, at its center, presenting her body to the crowd in a submissive kneel - yet it was not a submission to them. Jeffrey took a slow, deep breath as she did this. This was part of the 'show,' part of the statement that the five of them were going to make together to the world this day. He had yet to meet any of his ladies officially, one-on-one, but an aide had walked them through the presentation part of this all backstage, everything from presenting their charity, to the token act of signing in front of an audience, to this, what would come next, perhaps the most meaningful presentation of it all.

The taller, fully-dressed man stepped off the side of the stage quietly, unnotably, whilst the bare and discerning beauty kept everyone's attention. Another aide brought him la touche finale - French for 'the finishing touch,' which was etched into the side of a branding iron. The rod was shorter than most, only about a few inches or so, with a dark walnut wooden handle that fluted at the bottom, and a top that already shone with an orange-red glow.

The brand? His initials. JT, joined at the top, encircled, in a sleek, elegant font.

Jeffrey returned to the stage with the tool in tow, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around its dark wooden handle. The glow of its head is what caught the eye of the crowd as he appeared, walking slowly toward Emilia from behind her and to the side, and it's what caused a distinct hush, followed by a just as clear din of mixed excitement and disbelief among all in attendance. Things had gone so quiet that his footsteps were unexpectedly audible, clicking heavy and slow against the stage. Walking toward her. Coming up, then, to stand directly behind.

Then he knelt. One knee to the floor, the other jutted forward, just behind her. In a flow his free hand, his left, swept around her head, brushed back he brunette hair, and turned her head to the side - which he met, leaning forward and to the side, bending down into a kiss. Their first kiss. Soft, yet meaningful. Quiet, brief, yet tender, even with the cameras clicking away. He whispered, breathing against her lips as he did so, his words once again just for her, "It's okay to cry, or scream, or clutch, or whatever else you feel you need to do. Just try to stay still." A second kiss, higher now, was placed on Emilia's forehead. "I'm already proud of you," the whisper continued. But it was immediately after that, unfortunately, the tenderness had to go away.

That left hand sifted into her beautiful brown hair, taking firm hold of a fistful at its base. He pulled Emilia back to an upright kneel, then urged her forward, then back, sharply, sending her loose hair flailing up in a show as he forced her back to sharply arch into his knee, the back of her head to lay atop his thigh, and her bare bosom to jut forward, prominently, on display.

Without further hesitation his right hand came around, the red-hot head of the branding iron pressing into the flesh above Emilia's left breast, searing her new master's initials right against her heart.

His own heart ached, there, in that moment, despite how the world thought him insane, or a monster, or simply an asshole for all of this. His own heart raced. His jaw held a slight quiver to it. But Jeffrey remained firm, seeing it through, holding the iron there for several seconds as he counted in his head. By the time the act was done and he dropped the iron to the stage, it landing beside them with a clatter, light wisps of smoke could be seen wafting if one looked ever so closely, and the smell of the marked flesh did the job just as well for anyone that was further away.

Jeffrey quickly grabbed her about the waist. He'd let go of her hair and his kneel quickly devolved to a sit as he pulled Emilia's back to his chest, holding her there in an embrace.

 

[good girls]

"Fuck, fuck fuck, it's real." The hissing whisper turned excitable in a way that was impossible even for that small gathering to decide whether it was the result of sudden terror, overwhelming excitement, absolute fascination, abrupt cold feet, or most likely, an ever shimmering combination of all four wrapped up in one panicking burst of wonder that was accompanied by a clutching of the curtains so tight that fingers had to be gently grabbed by other slim digits to keep one of their number from spoiling anything by causing the stage drapes to come crashing down. "Did you think that of all things was an exaggeration?" a hush asked with fair incredulity. "Some things just aren't real until they're ..... real." the third quiet ethereally considered, and then, almost as one, three lower lips found themselves pinched by teeth in terrified, wondering anticipation.




And La Touche Finale had only just announced itself with its glowing presence on the stage, the only glow that could have hoped to have overshadowed the eyes and the smile of the actress who had decided to dedicate her life to the dedication of her living in service of another. But this was not the clear-eyed shine of submission realized on a grand stage. This was the angry glow of possession given wrought-iron existence.

Emilia did not so much as try to look up in his direction when the hush fell quite literally over the crowd, only to give way to their murmuring, questioning, indignant awe-dacity in the fact of what was so clearly about to happen. The heat of the moment was entirely mythological in her head. It was impossible to feel five hundred degrees from across the stage, from so small a source. It was impossible to measure months of time required to truly heal, when it was the heat that was going to renew in the first place. She remained beatific in her regard of the gathered journalists, pundits, and presshounds who were close enough to see the first prickle of a nervous glow making its way across the regal pale of Emilia's brow. Her smile quivered, but did not falter while they prattled on about their realizations of what the piece de resistance of the contract signing was to be.

She had had time to come to grips with this, even if now in the moment, she might as well have had no time at all.

The tap, tap, tap of his shoes seemed to be happening in slow motion compared to her heartbeat. Rather than the captive hummingbird in her rib cage, this was the steady promise of the true signing of their accord, and each thrum of his well-to-do footwear across the floorboards may as well have lanced straight up from where her knees kissed the same.

Throb, throb, throb went her cunt, in proper time.

Flip, flip, flip went her stomach in confounding concert with the same.

And then like that, she was his; in his hand, and in his lips, absolutely. There was something about the entire display of it, the entire display of her being entirely on display beneath and against him before the crowd, he impeccably dressed and carefully controlled in the winding of his fingers through her hair, that only reinforced the correctness of her decision. She showed all that she had had for him, and he would show as much as he liked in return, and she had no expectation or desire for those two things to be in league with one another. She wasn't his equal; she didn't desire to be. She was simply his. And maybe there was no need for that to be more properly sealed than in the feeling of that first real kiss, her lips soft, pliant, and warm to his own. She could tell him as much without a single word, the possession he had over his new possession. But what she couldn't share was the deep truth of what she was giving up and what it meant to her to the rest of the world He would know, and he was the only one who needed to know.

Except of course, that the entire world knowing was kind of part of the bloody point, wasn't it?

She exhaled sharp and shuddering when he broke from the kiss and whispered the last things she would ever hear as a free woman; the last thing she needed to hear. He was already proud of her.

For someone who, in slow self-realization and reckless desires built up over years and months and the prior weeks that had all lead to Emilia realizing what it was she truly needed, imagined that nothing more than his desires and his needs and his decisions would ever again matter in her life, that promise was the sort of thing that could shut the mind down in euphoric bliss that made it so much easier to endure any cruelty that could have come after.

I mean, it could. Maybe not so much when one was having her tit cooked.

She tried, oh good god she tried, to put on the stiff upper lip that Britain was so good for. It didn't even last for as long as it took for the iron to get close to her skin, the heat of it feeling like she'd already gotten far too close to the broiler when reaching in to recover some bubbling dish from inside the oven. A flit of utter panic danced against her eyelashes and then her vision went entirely white. Her throat clenched up with such severity that when her lips snapped open of their own accord, no sound came out but for a squeak of tightly controlled air, and her hands slammed down so quickly that the only purchase she could find with them was somewhere that might have been his ankle?

The pain was so immediately intense, so white-hot incredulously blinding, that she didn't transcend it with a kiss and warm feelings. She transcended it because her body almost went into shock. And that transcendent sensation nearly threw her into whatever distant light awaited her, only for the literally searing agony of her skin to snap her back into her body thanks to the residual curve of her chest squeezing back up against the iron to sweetly kiss the side of it, while the flesh around the point of contact gamely broiled itself pink in the siphoning heat of her blackening brand. And it was that yank back into her own body which snapped Emilia's tear-filled eyes open to a proper vision all over again, and somehow, she realized that sound in the air was in fact her own scream.

She stopped it as quickly as she could, which was to say, with monumental effort and a wailing, sobbing exhalation that she could scarcely calm or conduct with any sort of grace. She was still largely only thanks to the luck of her momentary shock and the knowledge that anything else could have been so much worse if she wiggled or jiggled too much, and left herself not only in smoldering pain, but with a misshapen promise forever staring back up at her when she looked down. Trying to control her breathing was impossible. She kicked the stage with her bare heels hard enough to worry about damage to her feet accompanying the damage to her sizzling skin. And she didn't even realize it was over when the iron kissed the stage and considered leaving a smoldering streak in its wake, even if it would have needed to be much hotter to blacken the boards the same way it had blackened the broad. It kept burning. It didn't stop burning just because he had taken it off, and that was a brand new fear to erupt through her guileless, wet breaths and wide eyes. What if it just never did? What if she not only bore the brand for the rest of her life, but felt it searing into her for all that time too? It was just that the nerve endings that hadn't died in the process remained all too aware of the fact that they were nonetheless suffering a variety of degrees of burns radiating out from his initials, and reminding her of how much that was going to be screaming for days at least.

She clutched his shirt and buried herself against him, never more small than when the brunette attempted to curl herself into the deadened center of her new marking so as to make it as painless to the rest of her body, to be burned away and promised like so much phoenix-ash that she would rise stronger and healthier than ever before. She rocked, she sobbed, and she tried desperately to feel her fingers and toes even while her nerves attempted to go on holiday in solidarity to their fallen brethren. An out of body experience would have been easier, but she was all too much in her body.

In his body.



"I think my pussy just turned inside out," came the first panicked squeak from the peanut gallery, who seemed to be collectively wondering if the woman who had seemed the calmest and most assured of them reacted like that to the finishing touch, what was it going to mean for their own performance?



"--kyou. Thankyou. Thankyou." She sobbed the words against his chest for several seconds, running them together, practically kissed into his chest rather than spoken aloud. Her spine shook like it was stuck in a run away massage chair, and her limbs refused to work save to keep her in the fetal position against his warm embrace. And so, it might have seemed somewhat alarming for her to .. tip. That she was about to collapse entirely, that it was going to be for the best that he hold her tighter and keep her upright. But Emilia tipped enough to put her hand flat on the stage, to bend her knees a tiny bit, and to suck in a deep, shuddering sob of a sound. Her other hand pushed him like the petulant child who wanted no comfort, forceful against his chest without being commanding (or really, enough to even budge him if he didn't wish to be budged) until she could nearly fall away from him to land on that same palm against the stage in a half-turn that left her hair spilling forward against her tear-streaked cheeks. She breathed in and out rapidly, and then looked at him through her swimming sea of tears.

"Thank you," she said with something approaching clarity.

She shifted her hips, and tucked her knees, keeping them closely together.

She put her hands at the side of them, lowering her shoulders to leave her palms flat on the stage.

And then Emilia arched her spine and pushed with her neck, lifting her chin and her head as high as she possibly could; leaving her arms down on the stage necessitated the long curve in her back, leaving her very nearly catlike in the pose that pushed her shoulders and chin forward to the mostly shrouded crowd who had come here to watch this spectacle in the first place. Moreso than any moment before, she all but thrust herself upon their gaze, pushing her arms tenderly inward until her biceps all but perfectly framed the pert attentiveness of her girls and more importantly the horror she had invited upon her chest.

Only at a distance, there was only a slight pinkish red visible around the edges of the pitch black stamp over her heart. It wasn't horror; it was a signature. A stamp. A statement.

One matched entirely by the way Emilia beamed from ear to ear, her teeth shining in the stage lights every bit as much as off of the sloppy rivulets of her tears down her cheeks.

 

[As Day Fades]

There had been no judgment of her screaming, of her writhing, of her grasping during that immense, intense moment. No judgment. None. None from him, and he would suffer no such thing from anyone else. His new pet, his official 'thing,' his pretty little Brit - she had proven herself true to her word, and none would be allowed to tease her for her humanity in such an overwhelming moment.

True to that thought, Jeffrey held her. In his embrace was both permanence and protection, keeping her close to him as she shook, as she sobbed. Protecting her emotionally perhaps more than physically as the moment had wracked her to a temporary, unpresentable state. There had been a slight rocking to the hold, knelt there center-stage together, and an affectionate pet of her long brown hair, otherwise allowing everything else to exist as it was. It simply, tenderly continued until her volition deemed otherwise, until she wished something else. At first it was by a delicate strength that she pushed out of it, and than a firmer desire to relocate that strength of her own, as she haphazardly crawled out of the hug, and into a new, subservient position, having recollected herself. Re-presenting herself to the world, shakily, but proudly.

Film was so cheap nowadays. Bulbs, even less so. Thus they never stopped filming, never stopped snapping, never stopped flashing so as to catch every millisecond, to be pored over later to decide which shot of ten-thousand was to grace the top of their article. If any were a frontrunner for that consideration, it would be this glory shot of the woman, now known as Emilia, tear-stricken but beaming warmth, hair all about, knelt in a slave pose with her naked breasts pressed together and forward to show off the new permanence upon her bosom.

And Jeffrey allowed it to happen, for a time. But just as Emilia had crawled away from him, the press given their moment for the photo-op, so too did he, mega multi-billionaire, dressed to the nines, lean forward from where he was sat on the stage, and crawl those two or so feet to where she was now. He pressed a hand, first, on Emilia's backside, followed by his leaning down, placing a truly intimate kiss upon her there. The pace was slow, and tender. His touch glided up and over her hip, masculine but not too rough, where his lips followed suit, rising along the back of her body, kissing her there now. Then it continued to her back, to the very base of her tailbone, where her cheeks parted, his touch, and his kiss both. Then up, along her spine, kissing every few inches of its contour, shaky as she was. Jeffrey continued up, on his hand and knees with her there, crawling over top Emilia's knelt body, until her spine gave way to her shoulder blades, and then to her left shoulder. He was over her wholly now, knee on either side, outside her own, carefully balancing himself as he held his weight up with one hand, trying his best to not put any of that weight truly atop her, only his presence. His other hand, his right, slipped beneath Emilia, wrapping around and encasing her stomach in its hold. In its hug.

"You are so fierce," he cooed to her. His smile erupted at the side of her head, pressed again to her brown-haired temple, just above her ear. "I can't wait to meet you, when things have all calmed down. The real you. ...There's a garden there, where we're going to live. It's beautiful. It's enormous. I look forward to the first quiet day where we can just lay in the grass, cuddled together in the sun, and I can learn all about you. ...Try to think on that, alright, my darling? Not the pain. The burn will go away, I promise."

Another kiss to those locks of brunette hair. Then the hug was over. He was shifting away from her, and up, rising to a stand - immediately another picturesque moment, billionaire Jeffrey Tremonti stood up straight, brushing off his pants, straightening his tie, while Slave #1 knelt naked at his feet, breasts pushed out in presentation of her brand.

He stepped away then, back to the podium. "Three cheers for Miss Emilia!" His voice rose, and bore a clear chuckle and a snicker as he gestured down to the young woman. It would break the ice, maybe, or at least allow a less-awkward transition. "The first of four I have invited the world to witness today. And it is, at this moment, I would like to remind this world, full of all different people, each with their differing beliefs, that it's alright to embrace a path which you feel speaks to you... While a doctor and a librarian will be paid different, of course, and require different paths in life, is one any less wonderful than the other? If both people are embracing that which they feel is their true calling? My 'slaves,' as everyone insists on referring to them, have all made a choice to be here today. This is what each of them wants, and I am just as honored to be receiving them as they are to be giving themselves to me. It is a lifestyle that differs from your own, unless you realize inside that it calls to you, too. But please. I ask that you applaud them for the bravery they display here today, in front of your very eyes, and in your conversations in the days to come, that you appreciate all the love that they feel in their hearts to be so willing to devote themselves to another. Would be that we could all know such depth of warmth."

He allowed the words to settle for a moment. Then, with a deep breath and an ever-present smile, he continued into the set of microphones at the podium, "It is now my pleasure to introduce to you the second woman here to take the stage today. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ariana Grande."

The crowd was split between a round of applause and a number of shocked gasps. Jeffrey simply stepped back from the podium, allowing his next lovely young lady her moment to come out and present herself and her decision to the world.

 

[good girls]

It would be difficult to overstate the allure of paradise. From the lowest rung of the socioeconomic ladder to those few who controlled the wealth of a vast percentage of the world in nothing more than their two hands, everyone sought the same basic needs. Comfort, happiness, to see their personal desires and drives fulfilled. The idea of having all the time in one's life to dedicate to their own pursuits, without need worry of income, of an accident in the road causing metaphorical and literal traffic jams, of being beholden to the pressures of a world that put everyone into a neat little box, that was worth an amount of money that no laundry list of zeroes at the end could hope to pay for. If there were four women here today who had given into that allure, the idea that each of them sought the same paradise was a mad one. The press could and would say what they liked about the charitable givings, the ease of simply shuttling off to a private island away from cameras and expectations, but they could never truly capture what paradise was for the women who gave everything to reach it today. Emilia -- she who had once been Emilia Clarke, she who was now and always simply Emilia, unless the owner of her body, mind, and heart found it pleased him to have her answer to another call, as stipulated in so many formal words among their peers on the contract which bore her signature -- didn't find paradise in her pain. She didn't find it in the promised garden, nor did she find it in the merest touch of comfort or the searing promise of pain that his touch could bring to her.

But when her brilliant blue eyes fluttered closed at the glide of his warmth across her naked back, both highlighting the glitter of tears on her lashes and cheeks as well as sealing away any illusion that she was truly bereft in her choice, she found paradise in his breath in her ear and his hand on her skin. "This is the first time I've been the real me," she whispered back to him, her words and voice as tight in practice as her throat felt in action. A woman without expectation, of career, of family, of society. He would expect much of her, she had no doubt, but equally doubtless in her mind was that his expectations were going to be her purpose. They were going to be who she was, the real her. She had dipped her toes in, circled the idea, twisted around the considerations, flirted with the apps, read the books. She had teased out, bit by bit, month by month, who she was. Fierce wasn't the word she herself might have chosen, though she smiled and understood how he meant it to distract her from the agony on her flesh. It looked fierce she was sure, though she hadn't the mind to currently gawk at her own tit and how it, and the rest of her, belonged to him now.

Paradise was submission. It was the garden in which she grew. And now, after as much water and sunlight as she could have thought to give the truth of her submissive nature, she had finally been given the fertilizer in which to allow it true bloom. Few got to answer their calling, should they have even realized it, but going through a trial of iron and fire proved to Emilia beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had made the correct choice. Even if ..

Even if there may have been a few thorns in the garden, so to speak. Oh, if it were a problem, then as she had said there was absolutely nothing to stop her from walking off the stage and out the fire exit even before she had ascended the stage in the first place. Thorns, after all, had their place in any and every garden, and it was not the other flowers that needed to be wary of their cut. Which honestly made the entire analogy a bit dodgy, but well, she couldn't much interrupt the number of camera clicks going off or Jeffrey's lovely reiteration of purpose by asking if anyone had another set of similes that might have been more like what she was after regarding the understanding that she was not to be the sole bonsai in his care. She'd known there would be others from the very beginning, and she was determined to be alright with that. There was after all still quite the chance that her pain might well have shaken another of them to her core such that her feet were too cold to trot out in front of the press today. But being alone in his gaze, his embrace, his lone recipient of such bolstering words whispered with warmth and masculinity that dripped so perfectly down her spine made her realize all the more starkly just how wonderful it would have been if this was the end of the day.

And it wasn't. And she would keep her eyes from turning green, god help her. If his paradise involved more than her, it was not then nor now her place to question that. She would -- she would simply live hers to its fullest.

And be his most favored for it. Yes. Emilia smiled most warmly, having at the very least contained her pain, and remained in the poised posing for the press as though no force on Heaven or Earth might have made her balance sway or falter.



But as a wise woman once said: thank u, next.

If Emilia had walked to the stage like she was ready to accept an award, gracious and understanding of both the attention and the prestige and the lunacy of what was to be expected of her, Ariana strode from beyond the dark edge of the curtain as though each and every one of them had arrived there to see her and her alone. Not out of any misplaced sense of arrogance or pride, nor even with the same wistful hope of being the one in the way her soon to be sister-in-servitude might have gently desired, but with the confident presence of a girl who had known how to keep a crowd on the palm of her hand for over a decade despite barely having even spent more than two on this Earth. After all, a certain brunette spent most of her time in front of cameras, going through wardrobe, talking through downtime with her co-stars, and not hearing the raves or the jeers until months after her filming was finished and pre-production finally gave way to premiering.

Miss Grande had been doing it live for years. She took time, if not more than a few seconds that she could stretch to feel like they had lingered for a few more, to hit the corner of the stage and give both herself and her appearance to the waiting press and cameras that had been anticipating her. It hadn't been practiced, because none of them had truly been able to practice in front of the crowd they were going to be performing in front of, and yet she was quick to give them any number of ready-made images to use for their sites and their stories without needing to comb through a reel of frames that might as well have been footage. Brilliantly standing out beneath the lights in nearly head to toe white, it might have been easy to forget for a second just how bite-sized she actually was given that her co-star on the stage was scarcely but a pair of inches taller than herself. But then, she was on her knees, and Ariana was on heeled boots that more than made up the difference.

Kissed in lace from the flare of her blazer, and equally kissed in lace of her hair both teased out and twisted up, Ariana Grande was homage and original at once, somehow all the more appropriate for coming to the stage second. She started as far from the podium as she possibly could, and when she spoke to those in the audience, there were those she responded to with words that could only be heard by those nearest to her. Yet she even recognized a few, her memory sharper than her bubbly appearance sometimes lead people to expect, and was able to greet them by name. And if they really wanted a photo op?

The leather at her knee creaked only the tiniest bit when she went down on one, artfully showing the skin of her thigh without letting any one camera go beyond (time for that enough soon) and threw her arms around Emilia's shoulders to give her a big sideways hug and a peck on her earlobe. "Oh my god I don't know if you made me more nervous or more excited or more horny," she hissed into Emilia's ear with girlish pitch, the words practically all coming out in one breath, and never to be known by anyone but the two of them. She had been very careful to not even so much as hint at brushing her sleeve anywhere near her brand.



Emilia caught her grinning teeth in the corner of her eye even before she fully turned her chin to give her a smile and pat her elbow encouragingly before she returned to her pose and Ariana gracefully returned to her feet.

Alright. Paradise didn't need to be all that lonesome. She lifted her eyebrows slyly at the younger woman, and then gave them a singular, saucy little wiggle. They were in this together it seemed, because she had most certainly not been scared off by her own crying and carrying on over the most searingly pointed moment of this introduction, and knowing that didn't resign Emilia to her realizations so much as it helped her cement her decision that even if she would like to be a favorite, there might not be such a thing as the favorite. And none of them would be here if they weren't deserving, right?



Ariana's lace tickled between Emilia's shoulderblades as she moved past her, which got a little shiver out of the brunette and an amused titter from the few who were focused on her rather than the picolla songbird who continued her sweep of the front of the stage all the way up to the podium.

It took her less than thirty seconds, even including time to hug and thank and commiserate with Emilia, to go from the curtains to smiling at Jeffrey with eyes as clear as Emilia's had been, even if her lips were far more made up with glittery pink gloss and the sparkles in her eyelashes were placed there artfully rather than by the onset of agonized tears. She plucked a handheld microphone off of the podium, flicking the switch up with her thumb and letting her little finger ever so briefly caress up the underside of the flared head of it while being a very good girl and maintaining eye contact in the process.

She spun on her heel with such neat quickness that had she been about a foot taller, her ponytail might have even slapped him playfully in the face rather than briskly brushed the other side of the podium, as how dare he think an improper thought about what she could do with her little hands. "Oh yeah, he's ready for me to take it off too," she said into the microphone, the warm silk of her voice both hitting every part of the room and seeming as though she was only talking to herself without any concern for the he in question, much less the audience, overhearing her. She got at least enough of a laugh that, well, mission accomplished, and it fed all the way into her beaming, confident, tight-lipped smile when she took center stage and held the microphone at her core in both hands, her matchingly-glossy pink nails standing out against the mic.

She waited patiently, even if it wasn't clear what she was waiting for. Because again, she knew a live crowd.

And by doing nothing but waiting, even for just thirty-one seconds, it was going to seem like an eternity compared to her entrance to the stage and Emilia's eased introduction. People were going to start squirming in their seats. They were going to think that she was, in fact, too nervous to actually begin talking now that she was face to face with the choice she'd made. They might have even started asking questions.

But more importantly, they were going to sear those thirty-one seconds into their memory as surely as if they'd all gotten kissed by iron, so that her taking to a stage for the final time wouldn't be entirely forgotten by everything that was going to come after.



"What a diva," a huff huffed. "Well if that isn't the pot," the murmur murmured. "I'm not mad. Just taking notes," the response responded.

 

[As Day Fades]

The going-ons were still early, and the embarrassment of riches had only but begun to overflow. One young woman, a fantastic actress, traditional beauty incarnate, had only but vowed her unending devotion to him, having bared herself naked to the world and accepted the intimacy of his brand directly upon her heart - this had only just now happened, and out walked another, a brown-eyed brunette clad in white lace décor, assumedly to repeat the process, as if somehow the singular devotee would not be enough. No, he was to receive a pile of pretty things today, each of them a treasure in their own right. And there were two others to come, should their decisions hold - soon enough he would be like a dragon, curled atop that embarrassment of riches like the treasure hoard they would be.

Well. It was more like they'd be sprawled out atop him; piles of soft, giggly, pretty things, boobs and butts everywhere.

Paradise indeed.

He watched, for now, Jeffrey did. This was Ariana's moment. His Ariana, soon enough. It was an immense feeling, all the money in the world aside, seeing someone literally step on a stage that was being broadcast across the globe with the intention of declaring theirself yours without catch. He took in the loveliness of her outfit, innocent in its color, girlish and alluring along with the wavy cascade of her hair, yet mostly covering at the same time still, showing off only strategic bits of skin. He watched everything, how she owned the stage, how she posed and smiled and waved and simply became a beacon that everyone's eyes transfixed to, as if there wasn't some A-List actress naked and knelt at the front of the stage, the air still smelling with the scent of her vow of slavery. Rather, Ariana took control of it all, he observed, with poise and precision he wondered if the young girl fully realized she had, if it were a conscious thing or pure personality. Those were the best sorts, he knew, when they were just so smooth that you couldn't even tell.

And he watched her take a moment with her soon-to-be sister, minutes away from joining Emilia in matching kneel. The exchange was brief, but interesting. In the two weeks since this whole crazy scheme had been announced the names of the volunteering women had been kept from him until very recently, and he hadn't a chance yet to spend time with any of them in private. Before all this was a thing, Jeffrey Tremonti wasn't a workaholic per se, but he also wasn't a huge Hollywood socialite, so he didn't know any of these women at all yet beyond their public personas. The thought dawned on him, though, in this moment as he watched, to wonder if any of the four knew one another before going into this. Were these two friends? Or was this a simple moment of congratulation?

But as little Ariana came to him, his thoughts shifted focus to her entirely. Her brown eyes gazed into his blues, and his blues gazed right back, matching her warm, lingering smile with one of his own. She took the microphone. She whipped her hair about. She joked, and many laughed. Then she went to stand off a bit on her own, as if she was going to do something, and...didn't seem to do anything.

Was she controlling the moment? Setting a tone?

Jeffrey waited. A good fifteen, twenty seconds. His brow furrowed. This was her moment, but her also couldn't shake the worry of cold feet - and while many would assume that to come of greed, of a want for his 'pretty pile' to grow, it was honestly moreso a concern that Ariana was certain she wanted this decision, that she wouldn't harbor a degree of heartbreak or regret later on. So, he took a breath, and he broke script.

He walked over to her.

A set of hands settled upon Ariana's shoulders, fingers encompassing their sides. Whereas she was short, he was tall, 6'2" to her 5'0". Even with her trademark topknot ponytail he was still a good foot in height above. Male to her female. Average, slightly thick, slightly muscled, to her more lithe, lolita-like girlish frame. Early forties to her early twenties. Even his clothes were in stark contrast, his shirt, visible as he stood behind her, a deep burgundy-colored silk as opposed to her all-white. They both had brown hair, but beyond that it was a cute moment of juxtaposes, the visual of him standing behind her like that.

Jeffrey leaned down, just over her ponytail, and placed a slow, firm kiss to the top of Ariana's head.

Against her tightly-pulled brown hair he whispered, "Look at you, Little Miss Talented...you've got them eating out of your palm." He smiled. He took a breath though, just in case this length of pause was something more than 'part of the act,' searching for words of encouragement. "I've only ever seen you on TV. So gentle-hearted. So humble, despite all you bring to the table. Despite all your success. Yet look at this here. I can't even look straight forward, all the flashes - they can't get enough of you. This is your moment, right now. Do with it whatever will make you happiest, no matter what that is. You have my full support." His palms smoothed up and down her shoulders and upper arms. His lips and nose stayed against the top of her head, where he just closed his blue eyes a moment, taking in her scent. "When you are ready, talk about why you decided to be here today. Talk a little about your charity, too. You own the stage; we'll take it at your pace."

There was another simple kiss to the top of Ariana's head, and another comforting squeeze of his fingers around the tops of her arms. Then they let go, and his presence backed off(though not without somehow managing a brief, private pat of her backside, due to the angle of being immediately behind her). As promised, the moment was hers. Jeffrey stepped backed, and he stepped to the side, back toward the clear podium and a bit behind it, allowing the silken songstress to once again be the sole focus of the room.

 

[good girls]

"Oh," she breathed into the microphone, as much a surprised and delighted little exhalation as it was a word, in the same instance that eyes more kittenish than catlike found themselves at their very corner. A glimmer of the sly among the glitter of the innocent, she stood stock still as her quiet seconds ticked on, having only lifted her arms so as to be certain her gasp was not mistaken for something accidental when her voice caught the attention of the crowd's growing restlessness. They got her voice the same moment his shoes touched the stage, his concern carrying him from hither to tither. "He's impatient," she stage whispered, the sticky warmth of her caramel voice marred by the electronic fuzz of her lips nearly kissing the machinery and leaving an artificial hum around the edges. Her eyes ticked from catching his motion just on the furthest edge of her periphery, tocking to the polite titters that her observation got from those gathered. As though to prove she was not merely commenting on the kettle's dark sheen, she lowered the microphone to her center and very patiently waited for him to come and see what was wrong. Cold feet? Curious showwomanship? A lack of prepared remarks?

Ariana waited, because she liked to keep people waiting. Just a bit. Just a smidge of, yes, diva. Ariana also waited because she hadn't actually met the man she was quite literally signing her life away to. She hadn't had the opportunity to look him right in the gorgeous eyes until, well, today. You could read up on someone rather extensively in this day and age, but you couldn't really know them just from scouring interviews and social media .. something that he clearly understood. So if they were to pledge their lives to a man on the same day, in the same hour that they walked on stage in front of him, did they really have a way to know what kind of man he would be? Emilia had quite clearly been ready to take that plunge; all four of them had to be at least a little willing to make that particular risk. But until she signed the contract, as her predecessor had pointed out, there was nothing to keep her or any of them from deciding to walk off the stage and out the door instead.

From her ascension to the stage to the signing of her name, those were the moments she had to learn who Jeffrey Tremonti was.

In a lot of ways, it was the same for those attending. For the press it might have been just another opportunity for a wild story from a recklessly idiosyncratic billionaire, but if he was truly intending to retire away to his paradise island after this audacious parade, it might have been their first opportunity for something real and unburdened by the ideas of what would or wouldn't be best for his brand, his name, his stock. But then, maybe they should have been assuming he was telling them the truth all along if Emilia's kneeling repose was any indication. Ariana waited, breath bated, and let her eyes fall shut like little glittering waterfalls when his hands encircled her shoulder and his warm breath swept down against her tightly coiffed hair. Them?, she nearly asked, to put that same coy whisper far above the microphone so only he would hear it. The press had been eating out of the palm of her hand since before she could articulate just why that gave her power, before she understood what that kind of attention-grabbing could be. It was also before she understood just how devastating it could be, to be a pop-culture lightning rod, when others tried to turn that power toward something for themselves. Could that power be turned to a single man, simply with the promise that it would all be given up?

He had three others, he didn't need her. He could have simply called her bluff, if it even was that, and if she even would have considered it that. But instead he came to her, and the timbre of his voice tickling the top of her head and somehow reaching the tips of her toes crackled like a fire in winter. It could have been bullshit, whispered into grapefruit, mint and honey shampoo yet lingering. But it wasn't. He wasn't just trying to talk her into something that had already ostensibly agreed to do. He was encouraging her to do what was going to be best for her.

And without skipping a beat, he was telling her that being his was going to be best for her, because there was not even a sliver of doubt presented between his encouragement to make herself happy and then to explain why she was here. They knew why she was here.

"Mm," came a breath that didn't even part her lips this time, an acknowledgement that she had heard him even if the playful twist of not exactly answering him remained in the quiet little hum. This one was all for him, no microphone required; what was left for those who wondered what was being said was nothing more or less than her lips suddenly parting, a perfect O framed between her cheeks with a scandalous widening of her eyes. So much for the privacy of his little pat. .. or whatever those assembled might have then assumed he had said or done behind the petite pop star's backside from her coquettish reaction.

"Thank you so much," she added quickly thereafter, wiping the faux-shock from her face before he had made it all the way back to the podium. Instead, she graciously spoke into the microphone her thanks to his unheard words of encouragement even as her smile made one wonder how the actress had been so nakedly open in her emotion before him and yet it was the singer who treated all the world as a play. "So, my life has been a little crazy for the last few years," she began, every bit the young woman starting a story over a frappe in a quaint little mass-marketed coffee shop rather than the poised, rehearsed pontification that might've been expected of someone expected to explain how they'd gone from the top of the charts to signing it all away. One hand left the microphone, gesticulating with measured and yet girlishly uncontrollable shifts and dives as she spoke and walked back toward the front of the stage. "I don't think I need to rehash it all here (I'm on Wikipedia, if you didn't know), but two years ago was probably the lowest point in both my professional and personal life, and it's been something of a roller coaster ever since.

So aha, she's afraid that all of her successes are tenuous and she better cash out?" she said, as though anticipating at least one of the attendant bloggers deciding. With a casual grace, she slid down to sit on the edge of the stage, right beside Emilia, her boots dangling into the dark below. If anything, sitting at her side, fully dressed, compared to her compatriot's nude and practiced kneel, was as much a show of contrasts as Jeffrey coming to stand at her back. "She still feels guilty and responsible for the bad things that have happened in her life, and she wants to atone!" she suggested, before her hand made a sharp little gesture to the side, metaphorically silencing her strawmen.

"I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep my career going when someone used it to deplorable ends, that's true. I've had personal tragedy in my romantic life. That's true," she said, a little more somber, even as she tipped a bit to one side and pressed her shoulder against Emilia's, favoring her with a quick little smile. Emilia nudged her back with her own shoulder, smiling at her on the corner of her eye and the corner of her lip. "But if I was here because I was running away from the possibility of bad things happening, I wouldn't be here for the right reason. Bad things are always going to happen. Even tropical islands get thunderstorms." Ariana kicked one of the heels of her boots up onto the edge of the stage, and her deciding to sit down became a matter more practical than conversational, unzipping the long zip up the back of her shoe so she could wiggle out of it and leave it standing just beside her. She repeated that with the other, and then hopped up onto her bare feet (on point, the toenail polish matched the rest in pedicured pink), both boots lifted up in one hand while she worked the mic with the other like she was slinking away from a dorm room at 4AM. But there was no slump of the shoulders or dragging of posture while she did so.

"I've been in charge of my life and my career pretty much since before I knew what that would mean, and it's been the best and the worst thing I could have ever dreamed of. I've managed my brand, I've pep-talked myself, I've berated myself, I've written and co-written, I've sung and I've harmonized, and I've been excited and I've been tired. That's a lot for someone as small as me!" she exhaled all at once in a burst of barely-exaggerated girlish exasperation, her foot making barely a sound when she stomped it with all the force of a tantrum and the bounce of her teased-out ponytail to prove it. She lit up, unsurprisingly, at getting another laugh. As tired as she was of Venti jokes, playing up people's assumptions of her was something that rarely got all that old.

"So I'm ready to let someone else make my decisions for me," she said, swinging her attention to the crowd while she reached center stage, and swinging her boots in an idle little two-foot chorus line at the side of her leg. "I mean, I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes jump into long-term commitments without fully thinking them out," she said, getting a small buzz of amused recognition at her recent and very public return to bachelorette-status, "but again, that's because I'm the one doing all the thinking for me! You're all starting to see the problem," she said with a knowing little sweep of her pointer finger from the microphone.

"I pride myself on being independent. I'm a dangerous freakin' woman, you know," she said matter of factly, bobbing her head to what she figured must have been common knowledge. "I've spent the last several years with basically nobody even trying to tell me what to do," she added with a distinct note of pride, that her personal power and brand had lead her to be surrounded by suggestions and help, but almost never the presumption of authority over her own decisions or her own career or life.

Her eyelashes fluttered, her head turned just so, and she peeked at Mr. Tremonti across the stage as though she were ever so gently leaning around a corner without really trying to let him notice her. But she made eye contact with him with a ferocity that wasn't at all unlike Emilia's fervent gaze into his own. "I honestly don't know if that makes me more or less likely to listen if somebody tried," she invited. Her signatory sister might have been all too thrilled to give herself up on a silver platter, but he had encouraged her to do what made her happy. "I might actually be kind of a brat," she suggested in more of a stage whisper, bringing the mic a little closer to her lips for emphasis. What made her happy, clearly, was seeing if she could push his buttons just the teensiest bit. And genuinely enough for a girl who had never had any reason to submit even metaphorically, there was something to be said for getting even the tiniest taste of it before she made her final decision, wasn't there?

 

[As Day Fades]

Even tropical islands get thunderstorms.

That was her line, and one that, for some reason, made him smile a bit more than the rest.

There was an immense feeling in his chest as he watched little Ariana control her crowd, as if it were a thing to be held betwixt one's fingers, dancing deftly between one and the next. Admiration? Attraction? Pride? It was hard to say. Maybe a bit of each. Admiration, at watching her so skillfully keep everyone enraptured, from her stage whispers to the manner in which she sat with Emilia while removing her boots, every moment of body language and tone was well-practiced, not a drop of it placed there through accident. It reminded him of many a boardroom meeting, watching the young girl tug and weave her audience in whatever manner she wished. It reminded him of himself in that manner. A bit of attraction next, because how could one not be drawn to an alpha? Even in a situation where she was about to become a beta, a clever personality like that was and would ever be a draw, giving her even more value in his eyes. And pride, as it was assumed, reasonably so, that she would more likely than not choose to solidify her role in this, and that it was alright to start enjoying that swell of pride his next 'pretty thing' inspired his chest with.

It was through hope, perhaps, rather than foolishness, or anything more untoward, that he was allowing himself to assume each woman that day would do so until the moment came otherwise. Jeffrey was invested in this wholly - emotionally, professionally, socially, and as he had with Emilia when she was still Emilia Clarke, he watched Ariana Grande with a warmth building inside him that everything he was watching right now - soon enough this young woman would be his Ariana.

His kitten. His coquette.

His brat, apparently.

Just as she gave him that lingering sideglance, a set of soft chocolate brown eyes that were somehow both doe-like and sultry, he stared back, his icy blues calm, inquisitive, but yet unable to stop a smirk that broke across the rest of his features after a few seconds of this together. Was the moment rhetorical, or was Little Miss Perfectly Petite toying at poking the bear for a response? Jeffrey allowed another moment to gap, where he glanced down at the clear podium in front of him, pulled his glasses forward a bit with one hand and brushed back some hair with the other, then placed the glasses back on again. He didn't need that moment, not to concoct anything. He was as swift as she in these regards, and more tenured as a fact. But he also didn't want to take from her moment, much as he'd given his Emilia the stage until it was time for otherwise, lest he was certain it was what she wanted.

After that playful, merely two-second lapse, he assumed as such, and upon returning the brown glasses to the bridge of his nose, a brown that matched the brown on a watch on the wrist of the same hand, Jeffrey exhaled in a show of a breathy chuckle against the podium's microphone. Keeping his blue-eyed glance held straight with Ariana's, "That's alright. If you're enough of a brat that, later on once we're at our new home, you still need help submitting, my palm and my lap will help get you the rest of the way."

There was an immediate gasp in the crowd. This was followed by an immediate, more rousing round of laughter. This was accentuated by even a whistle or two, and one guy clapping his hands visibly above his head, most there getting a kick out of it.

Jeffrey just smiled over to her though. "Can I tell you something? In all seriousness. It's tremendously brave, what you're standing here talking about right now. Not just your triumphs in life, but revisiting the times where the roll of the dice didn't do you any favors, and you had to unfortunately live those moments out in public view once already. Would that we could all be so brave, to let ourselves be so vulnerable." He paused a moment, letting that thought settle with the crowd, just as people had quieted down from their amusement. "Everyone has different needs. Everyone. All of us. This is precisely why I wanted to have you speak today, Miss Grande - and thank you for that. Many people don't understand what we're all doing here today, and think and speak poorly of it because of that. My desire was to show them that we are each here to fulfill something different, within ourselves - myself included - and that none of which are wrong. ...As you said, you've lived largely without rules, without boundaries, betting big multiple times and multiple times it's paid off to an astounding degree - and others, it's burned you just as badly. In all seriousness, if structure is what you need, then you would have it. Rules and expectations, in an environment where you would be rewarded with warmth, affection and adoration for embracing them. And a firm, almost fatherly spanking for when you get out of line," with a renewed smirk, and another, albeit quieter chuckle than before from the crowd, everyone fixed on listening.

"If you entrust yourself to me, you would be within my care. And I would endeavor to take the greatest, most cherished care of you, every single day; protecting you, whilst desiring you to grow into the best version of yourself, one big girl step at a time."

He stood back up straight, removing himself from the microphone, allowing the tiniest of divas the floor once more.

 

[good girls]

Her laughter was like music.

Not like her albums, with bubblegum and R&B and energy borrowed from a thousand sources to be swirled into a technically competent and highly marketable sound that was both uniquely hers and calculated to be as broadly appealing as possible, as soulful she could make a soulless industry (as could only be said of any artist, in any field, working in any medium). When she laughed, like that, it was an unguarded sound. The kind of pretty-little-thing laughter that tended to make octogenarians smile wistfully and comment on how someone like she could make them "feel so young again", a clear-as-a-bell sound that came in just a little too hot on the mic. Nothing else she had said had managed to leave that kind of speaker-fry echoing among the audience, a tiny little detail that either made her amusement a result of honest shock or her having found the wrong industry. It seemed an impossible thing for her to roll surprise, delight, and the tiniest touch of embarrassment into that sound with any kind of intentionality.

Even without the microphone held so near and dear to her lips, it wouldn't have been lost among the rest of the crowd's laughter and the catcalling whistles. If anything, Miss Grande managing to so guilelessly giggle at his threatening to bend her over his knee and spank her on such a grand stage (well, threaten her on the stage, as his words sounded far more good natured in their delivery and intent than how they felt in the manner in which he deftly repurposed a classic of just you wait until we get home, young lady) only encouraged the reaction from the crowd.

Her laughter was like music, honest from the heart, and more revealing than it usually seemed on the surface. His charisma was sufficient to draw every eyeball in the room away from her with the anticipation of how he'd respond, a game of press junket tennis for every eye in the room, so it was easy enough to overlook her cheeks going ever so gently darker, her grip going ever so gently tighter, and her thighs tensing ever so slightly closer to one another.

It was also painfully brief, as the loveliest things sometimes were, because she no more wanted to interrupt his address to her than anyone in the crowd wanted to exit from what they had assumed would be a farcical afternoon only to find that -- well, it was a farce in so many ways, wasn't it? But it wasn't the sort of fiasco that they had been expecting, taking on the tenor of an improvised play between two parties at a time. Not the scripted, gilded lines of c-list names explaining how they had cared more about throwing away any semblance of respect for themselves than they cared for one shining moment of attention in front of a monstrous man's ideals, but something where each party was both seeking and saying precisely what they wanted out of a negotiation in a context that went far beyond a boardroom's sterile interior. For Emilia, it was surrender to submission. For Ariana, it seemed to be boundaries.

Even now, she had none. She did not wait politely while he spoke and finished his thought. Almost as soon as she had composed herself and he offered to tell her something, she began walking back toward him. She was not any more rushed in this than she had been in anything else, her tempo only barely faster than she would have been had her lacy skirts been a veil on her wedding day instead, and it made the stage feel and seem even bigger than it already had to approach his podium while they watched one another with canny appreciation that had not yet tipped over into the subsequent roles that the afternoon expected of them. Still, she could only slink so casually, and reached him far before he had finished speaking. Like a kitten who had heard the can opener far before it was ready to be opened, she might have even looked for an instant like she was going to continue by sliding around the podium and winding around his legs with an eager impatience, but then that might have all been in the eyes of those seeing their hopes rather than true reality. She stood instead directly in front of him, the glass between them, yet so close that she had no choice but to artfully angle her chin to maintain eye contact.

Another display in the disparity between them, one taken purposefully.

She was a consummate professional, and left no microphone feedback when she slipped her stolen device back onto the podium's stand where it belonged while he continued speaking, and set her boots down on the stage beside her with only the tiniest bend of her knees. She didn't interrupt a word of what he said, no give impression to him or anyone else that she wasn't listening intently just because she was multi-tasking.

"I'm not such a big girl," she admitted to him in a way that was with a taste of the coquette, a promise that she didn't always know what was best, and just a little bit literal. Her fingertips parted her jacket so subtly that from the crowd, she would have merely seemed to be peering up at him with quiet admiration for his words of encouragement, holding herself around her midsection as she had been holding the microphone. But for him and him alone, for the moment, she exhaled and did her very best to make the impossibly pert swell of her breasts seem as though she could have hoped to have stacked up to what had already been shown on stage today, and indeed still curvily displayed themselves to all who cared to continue taking in Emilia in all her branded repose. Ariana privately flashed him the triangle of warm flesh from her sternum upward, her lack of any kind of bra beneath perhaps suggesting she may not have been as on the fence as she had indicated, but perhaps also simply because it would have ruined the delicate line of teasing skin that had already gone down the front of her top. But now the tease was entirely in the youthful height of her tits, at a glance the kind of torso that would likely never have to even dream of knowing what it was like to age a day. Enough to nearly fill a palm, and peaked enough to beg to feel each contour of the same shifting and stroking across her attentive nipples. Instead, in merely a breath of time, their exposure only highlighted the tiny clench in her tiny jawline when she equally quickly covered herself again, drawing her jacket back inward and highlighting how it affected her to have her sensitive breasts teased even by the whisper of fabric dragging back across her chest. And it may have been only in imagination that the way her hands folded her top open and then closed wasn't to make it more apparent he was being given a glimpse the audience wouldn't see, but that she was deliberately exposing where fire would kiss such pristine and perky flesh should their tango reach its climax.

From the audience, the slight way she lifted one knee, standing on the ball of one foot and angling herself forward just so, her words took on a promising tease even if they weren't privy to her private promise that she had been fibbing ever so slightly prior.

Ariana wasn't thinking that she might be kind of a brat. She knew herself better than that.

"And I'm not so brave," she continued without missing much of a beat, her head turning delicately toward the crowd from her place at the podium. Without a microphone, her voice might have been lost in he darkness, but Jeffrey had a first row seat to the way she projected her voice with a little set of her shoulders and a minuscule extra tightness in her throat. She would be heard, even if those furthest back were going to need to strain to make sure they didn't miss anything. "Choosing something that will be with you for the rest of your life isn't usually because you're brave, it's usually because you're not really thinking everything through, or because in the moment you don't necessarily care about what's going to be happening in five years because you might lose out on what's happening right now if you do."

She rested one hand on top of the other right there on the podium, and up close, the fine ink that dotted her fingers from numerous little tattoos stood out more prominently against her skin in the lighting. But among the little phrases and designs on her elegant fingers, there was a simple little black heart that was filled out in a way that most of her ink seemed just a bit more ephemeral and subtle. She could well have been saying two things in essentially inviting him to examine her tats, or perhaps two versions of the same thing. The heart covered up her former fiancee's name, after all, which meant she hadn't been worrying about the possibility of five years from the moment that she had gotten it in the first place. And the presence of multiple such little markings and sweet nothings, from the venus symbol to a simpler outlined heart, to baby doll femininely written on the inside of one finger, suggested that Ariana wasn't all that afraid of marking her body in all manner of tiny, permanent ways.

That she was looking before she leapt this time suggested that her consideration was a little more serious, didn't it?

She turned then, all tight-lipped smile for the crowd, as she conversationally changed the subject. As if that was a thing she was allowed and expected to do, to keep changing the subject, never confirming nor denying what she was doing until they were all so maddened by her that they'd practically beg for her to either just shut up and be a slave or get off the stage and go home. But it was nonetheless effortless the way she dropped a marketer's dream and nightmare all at once. "My new album is out today," she told everyone.

This got a reaction from about half the crowd; the half who knew she hadn't even announced a new album, even as she'd been releasing a few singles here and there. They were the ones who understood just how off-handedly she had tossed what should have been an absolute bombshell for any artist with her clout. "It's called Sweetener, and I promise that I didn't just come up here to advertise it on a stage that was going to make sure everyone knew about it," she said, theatrically holding up her elegantly double-crossing crossed fingers behind her back in a way that made it seem like she was showing them only to Mr. Tremonti rather than all assembled. "Not just," she clarified.

"I'm really excited about it. I think it might actually be my best one, but well, we always say that," she added with an effortless show of teeth in her grin, "Honest to god knock me out, it is my most important one, because this will be my final album," she told everyone brightly when she hit the middle of the stage, walking a few feet forward into the spotlight while pretty much everyone connected the dots. Those who didn't might have nonetheless noticed that much like Emilia before her, she paused in an uncharacteristically candid little moment to remove her earrings and gently slip them into the jacket pockets of her ensemble.

"A portion of all proceeds from Sweetener for the life of its release, thanks to an agreement between Republic Records and Innovation Inc., will be donated to a fund benefiting the Entertainment Industry Foundation who are always working toward awareness and support for a wide number of causes, including cancer research, education, and so many other important things. So you know, bangers for a good cause," she promised with an affirming nod to that way of putting things. She damn well thought that her album was full of total bops, biased or not. On the laugh line, she finished running her fingers up through her hair, untwisting the tie and pinch of the twisties keeping her ponytail so high and tight. "All proceeds for myself will be going to the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, who are so vital and care so, so much," she added.

She might have buried the lede slightly, but hey, if they couldn't put two and two together as to why it was her last album then that wasn't necessarily her own fault. The way her massive wave of hair seemed to unspool behind and around her for emphasis, settling lower than some might have actually expected from the many folks who thought it was all nothing more than smoke and mirrors and extensions, nonetheless framed her face in a way that almost seemed to take a few years off her already youthful demeanor, going from the buttoned up business of a professional who owned her career and her audience and her stage to a young woman who was just a little bit wide-eyed over how quickly everything was moving. As though she herself wasn't the one who was doing that moving. As though she didn't know precisely what she was doing with each continuing step of her current leg of the performance, moving just fast enough now compared to her deliberate ascent to the stage as to keep the gathered press just a bit off guard while her fingers trickled through her voluminous hair and teased the waterfall of silk just a bit forward.

It meant when she slipped her thumb against the button at her midsection, and the one below it, it seemed like an entire house of cards came tumbling down. And yet as she shrugged her shoulders and let her jacket come off of it, the attached skirts and lace and dress all very much a part of a singular piece of clothing, it fell to her feet with an elegant whisper of cloth and delicacy to leave Ariana standing in its pool as naked as Lady Godiva -- and as artfully draped, her torso just as hidden by the forward sweep of her tresses as it had been by her jacket prior, denying crowd their defiantly proud money shot of a denuded superstar in favor of a fairy-tale tease, of a Rapunzel who still needed the sanctity of her tower even as she was revealed to the world.

Of course, it was not enough to do anything to hide the completely bare, girlishly perfect seam of her sweet little cunt.

 

[As Day Fades]

He was no actor, of movie screen or of television screen, of a carefully practiced performance on Broadway or something down a few streets from that on the stage of Madison Square Garden. To the women each here today, he could not relate quite as seamlessly as all that, but he could nonetheless relate. Between the famous Broadway and the famous Garden in New York City were numerous top-floor boardrooms he'd been in at some point, giving some speech or making some important business decision, whilst acknowledging yet paying no mind to some little distraction, like any performer surely would when she looked at the front row, or any actress surely did when she saw past the set, to someone off-stage, with the camera still filming. For him it was one person leaning to another while he addressed them all on a business matter, showing off some new, impressive tech, yet meanwhile they whispered amongst themselves. Perhaps it was something rude, perhaps it was something warranted, but still. A little distraction. For him it was the person beside him bearing a nagging cough, or someone who thought they were too far down the table to be noticed as they glanced downward, the glow of their phone unmistakable. Little distractions. Right then, as Ariana had come to him, stood in front of him and stared upward in an almost cute, kitten-like manner while he finished speaking, to her, to the crowd, he had carried on without the slightest hitch to his voice, practiced and professional. Of all these things, she could certainly qualify as a 'little' distraction. One with such lovely brown eyes he wondered might melt in one's mouth like the smoothest of chocolates.

The tease of her bared flesh, a tease wholly for him, did not go unnoticed. Jeffrey took in her words with it, understanding in that moment what they meant as he looked from her decorated fingers to her teased chest, to the bit of skin there that, shortly, would never again be quite as it was now; untouched snow, a field of beautiful powder. He made no hesitation of letting Ariana see that he gazed, either, looking to her body even as she looked to his eyes - would anything else have been acceptable? Truly, in that moment, it would have been impolite to not visually gorge oneself on the perky, private display.

From then on he was just as the rest of the crowd, in that moment where she turned from him and went back to addressing them all - he watching from her back and off to the side a bit, and they from the front. He listened as she spoke about a new album, an announcement that gave him an immediate curiosity of thoughts, and a just-as-immediate fear hitched in his chest. What if this had all been a marketing ploy? This moment, everything until now, nothing Ariana had done couldn't be undone. For what had she done, but appeared here today, smiled for a few cameras and had taken off her boots? Her devotion wasn't so final yet as a certain actress whose bosom bespoke the initials of her new master, solidifying the suggested idea that there actually were women out there who could find as much meaning in servitude as the eye-rolling social mental image of someone who wished to be served. It was, in that moment, the rich and important Jeffrey Tremonti was the one to feel both naked and vulnerable. If it had been the plan of this five-foot-even girlish grown woman, she could have simply used his stage today to announce her newest piece, say something defiant and empowering into the mic, and walk off, taking all of his thunder with her.

But she didn't. It was when she announced it as her final album that Jeffrey allowed himself a relaxed smile, and felt himself again breathe.

When the crowd clapped, both for her announcement of her new album's proceeds going to the Entertainment Industry Foundation, and then for her proceeds going to the St.Jude Children's Research Hospital, he allowed himself to applaud with them.

Watching Ariana then carefully remove pieces of jewelry, setting them safely into pockets, and undo and let down her hair in a gorgeous earth-toned waterfall of curls, Jeffrey allowed himself to become enraptured to her once again, reassuring in his mind he needn't be guarded around this one, even if she was proving a tricky little thing he'd need to keep an eye on. But no, when he could see from behind she was undoing the series of buttons at her front, and when the last shred of white, Heaven-colored lacey protection melted down her skin into a pool at her feet, his chest swelled with pride. Because there she was, number two. His second 'pretty thing,' hair covering her breasts, belly and hips bare, pretty little vagina on display for the benefit of all those with flash photography that day. He couldn't see any of that, actually, from his angle, but he could tell from the way her hair went down past the front of her shoulders, from the very clear lack of clothing she now wore, and the quick stand and murmur of excitement all in attendance put out. Jeffrey watched her from behind, instead. He watched her bare back and shoulders. He watched that firm little ass he'd stolen a touch of before. He watched those slender, firm legs, and felt various parts of himself swell with various manners of desire.

He took note that only a few feet in front of and to the immediate left where Ariana currently stood was the discarded brand, its head still orange-hot. There was an excitement in his chest at the thought of snatching it up now, of branding his bratty new slavegirl in her mermaid moment like she'd risen from some clamshell, gorgeous tresses covering her just-under-a-handful breasts. But no. Proper order. One thing at a time.

Jeffrey claimed one of the microphones from the glass podium, walking backward as he spoke into it, eyes still on Ariana - same as everyone else there, save her soon-to-be slave sister. "And speaking of her proceeds for the St.Jude Children's Research Hospital, I am happy to announce, my offer today, in addition to Miss Grande's net worth, will see an additional three-hundred thirty-million dollars allowing them to do many, many wonderful, many amazing things." With this he pulled down the fabric covering a second oversized check, set on a separate podium a few feet aside of the one from before. She was an A-Lister, that part was never in doubt even if the young lady's status before her was something of a lip-biter right to the moment of its reveal. It was the combination of her own net worth, though, that had seen the number swell with such considerable difference.

The eccentric billionaire returned his microphone to its stand and casually stepped over to the lithe songstress. His steps were heavier than hers, of course, clicking on the stage till he came to stand directly behind her. Once again the juxtapose returned, though now it was not merely tall and short, not only male and female, but clothed and nude. Without so much as a hesitance or the feel of a need for permission from the not-quite-his-yet young woman, Jeffrey reached around her at both sides, catching those many strands of cascading hair in splayed, crooked fingers, and pulling the curtains aside, revealing Ariana Grande's full nudity to the crowd before them. He brought the hair around her shoulders, to her back, and immediately left it there, both his hands now seeking out her body. One slipped beneath the pit of her right arm, wrapping all the way around the collarbone at her front till his fingers settled just short of her left shoulder. The other slipped over her left hip, around the left side of her waist, coming in equal measure just beneath her smooth belly, just above her equally smoothly-kept crotch, fingertips touching at her right hip. Jeffrey stepped in close, letting his body press up against hers, letting hers press back against him, and simply held.

"...Take away all the lights, the glamour, the stage - everything," he spoke in words purely for her, "I get the feeling you're still someone very, very special. As exciting as this day is, I look forward to some point later, where it's just us, and every cute little thing is something done for me, rather than the world." His left hand left her waist, traveling upward, fingers spread, caressing over the bare expanse of Ariana's stomach. "But we've got a few more things to finish first, sweetheart. We're almost there. ...If you're certain, this is what you want, there's a scroll back on the podium behind us you need to sign. Do that, and then go kneel at the front of the stage just like you saw Emilia do, and I'll handle the rest. ...Mm, have you thought about what you'd like to serenade me with most, later on when it's just you, me and a crisp, starry night?"

Hopefully that would get her to smile. Maybe, in some small manner, it would help take the edge off, as unlike when it had been Emilia's turn, there was now no doubt as to what was coming up shortly. Both of Jeffrey's arms released from their affectionate places in that back-hug around her exposed body, settled on each of her shoulders briefly again, then dropped down, finishing with an encouraging pat on her now-nude butt that was notably less subtle than before.

 

[good girls]

If a siren's song was supposed to be irresistible, then who might he have been to resist it? Ariana had no need to now kittenishly peek at him as though she had accomplished something sly and twisty across her moments on stage, because she could practically feel him without sight in a way that almost made her wonder if their own personal magnetisms had become so attuned in such short order that she might have been able to find him across any plane of time or distance. Even while his voice echoed through the auditorium with his microphone firmly in hand, he couldn't disguise the way he maneuvered himself back toward the hiding showmanship of the charity checks. She could almost feel each step he took through the stage on which she stood, though if that was the source of quivering in the taut line of her belly then he had a heftier step than she could have imagined.

For all the nervous little flutterbys that took residence at her center, she knew he wasn't resisting, and that he was staring at her as surely as the entire crowd was. She didn't need to see it or know it to know it. She simply did, as certainly as she knew the heat of the sun before it could hope to make her sweat, or the way the ozone tasted before a truly monstrous thunderstorm on the horizon. Both happened in paradise, as she had so pointedly pointed out, but now there was another utter inevitability that came part and parcel with that nirvana; she would need to be as riveting as she had been today if she wished to feel that certainty that his eyes were upon her.

She and Emilia, for their differences, had more in common here and there than the choice they were making today. One needed a certain level of narcissism to believe they could be cherished for a hundred years, didn't they?

Sidelong, she might well have been drawn by some artist's brush. Not a lurid splash of digital color and neon linework, but by the styling and suggestion of a truly memorable design, neither too cluttered nor too simple. A piece removed from some sketchbook deep in the Disney vault somewhere around the late eighties, with the limber line of her legs too long by imagining and the balance of her body too balletic to persist. The proudly bashful river of her hair both obscuring what he had been privy to see and accentuating her frame by the way the silk fell and pooled gave her some manner of chastity which proved matched only by the careful folding of her hands in front of her, the flat lacing together of her fingers not precisely hiding her and yet requiring just a bit of creative stretching or ducking of the necks to return the vision of her complete nudity to the gathered crowd. She had to at least make them work the tiniest bit to zoom and flash with their lenses and determine if she was shining under the lights or simply wet. A peekaboo princess to those in front of her, but feeling her own magnetic draw continuing to spin his gaze toward her, she almost dared not even move. Her hair was enough that it could still spill down her back and shoulders from the vantage of the checks, but he had certainly noted that even so much of a good thing had its limits.

She had practically framed the little heart of her backside for him, as high as the rest of her curves in its youthful aversion to gravity, and with just the tiniest suggestion of give in the plush of her warmly hued flesh to make certain that it wasn't only her own darkened cheeks from before that would appeal to a slight course correction for a diva gone bratty. If she hadn't invited those reminders of her new station before, then she certainly did now, and would again, and would forever. She couldn't help that her ass was probably best summed up as spankable, could she? She very nearly thought she might have earned that now, in point of fact, and tensed ever so gently when she felt his steps tremble up into her tummy and then his hands twist into her hair.

Her lips and eyelashes fluttered in time. His gentle pulling back of the curtain to expose her wholly to the crowd, from the upright, high curve of her smile to the equally descriptive quiver of her slight breasts to the slightly inward tuck of her toes, very nearly drew something else entirely from her, but she was saved the indignity of a barely-caught moan when he relinquished her hair almost as soon as he had played with it, her racing heart and mind competing with one another for what she thought might have been about to come, for what was truly about to come.

(She wasn't certain that didn't mean her.)

She leaned back into him readily, trading her precarious balance over simply being for the security of being his, in that instant and moment, if not ever again. There was still that matter to genuinely decide upon after all.

She hadn't been certain this wasn't going to be a perfect marketing opportunity and nothing more when she'd woken up this morning. Lifelong decisions and impulsive ones had almost no span between them in her nimble fingers, and the day truly could have gone any number of ways. It still technically could, but she knew that in this very moment, she didn't want them to. And in an hour, if she changed her mind, then she couldn't do so if she followed it now.

"It was already done for you," she whispered in a pitch that lifted her voice to that special range which would show nothing but her lips moving to anyone else, but still sounded like barely more than a breath in his own ears from her turned-around vantage. She wore nothing but his hands, her slight smile, her bubble-gum hues and sparkling femininity, the linework of more tattoos than most could count yet placed in such subtle and delicate areas that even the dark spots behind her ears hadn't been obvious until he had come up directly behind her each time, but she also tried on the vulnerability she felt as a persona in the instant that she thought it could be protected should she have made the wrong decision. "Or isn't the whole point of this for you to be my world?" she asked, her private breathing only highlighting that young vulnerability when she turned her head back, back to the point of near aching, an arch in her back letting her peek up at him upside down and highlighting the semi-chaste lines of her naked body angling down in front of him. She placed her hands behind her, ever so lightly touching his hips.

And as though she anticipated his hand not being able to help itself, she preceded by so subtly twisting the knife that the people in the audience would likely never even notice her shifting herself back with the perfect precision so that they both knew how she was practically born to fit against his lap. She pressed with the tiniest bend of her knees, and then her smile became so much more radiant. "I'll think about it," she promised him while relaxing her own posture from grinding her tight little rear directly against him and giving him the opportunity to pat her for her troubles in a way that would have derailed everything if she truly earned what she had hoped to with one more tease. The pat only seemed to spur her into taking a step forward and adjusting her hair herself behind her, flicking it with such casual air that it was almost hard to say that she had done so precisely so he and those gathered couldn't oggle the little trilling tick-tock of her hips when she made her way to the all too symbolic and yet all too real contract that awaited her. She made no big show of the way she delicately bent or turned in the process to retrieve her dress; nor did she linger too long on her oh-so brief detour toward the podium so that she could deposit it in into the trash atop Emilia's own things, symbolic and ever so slightly thrilling in its own right for how it signified what was becoming of everything of her life before now in favor of after now. Much as that intimidatingly intricate scroll laid before her with only a few more steps did as well.

It's just a hundred years, basically decided upon a whim, she told herself.

With a prim smile, Ariana flourished across the bottom of the scroll, and Ariana flourished with a twirl of her too-voluminous hair to face the audience again. She took a surprising, for her, breath. Surprising in just how clear it was that she was taking it, a deep inhalation of steeling oneself for a girl who seemed to never require even a second to do so. It wasn't hard to notice the briefest flicker of her gaze, landing on the branding iron still waiting on the stage, but that was all that it was; a thought for it. Not exactly a needle, that, but not so different in the end either.

She kept her confidence, her catlike grace, and her smile alike as she took herself to the end of the stage, and all too easily bent to one knee and then the next, kneeling for what was to come next. But unlike Emilia, she did have some small element of understanding of exactly what was going to be expected of her, carefully sweeping her hair back behind her again while she assumed the position and then resting back upon her palms. She formed a petite, pretty little triangle, her flat belly pressed upward alongside her hips (no hiding her girlish wax job at this point), and lifted her breasts proud and high, as anticipatory as the continued fluttering of those little worries in her stomach for what happened next. But it was only going to happen once, after all. And then she'd truly be in his hands.

 

[As Day Fades]

And there it was. That name. Etched upon parchment by ink-dipped feather, a manner that admittedly was more for show than doing it in some sterile lawyer's office somewhere, the quaint display was a crossroad in not only her life, but his. Ariana Grande was no more. Ariana was his, simply.

As was the allure of her hips. Of her lovely hair. Of her perfect-for-her-frame breasts. Of her taut little rear end that, yes, had perfectly fit against his lap in that tease a moment ago; a round hole upon a round peg, so to speak. And of a rear end that, not lost amidst any of this, was indeed wholly and utterly spankable, if not encouraged moreso by her youthful demeanor.

Something told him that in the days to come, his Ariana might not take like a fish to water in the same way her new sister might. And that those moments, perhaps, would be entirely on purpose.

He watched her, all of her, as she leaned over and signed, no true hesitation shown in that final act of her freedom, legally binding herself into slavery for the rest of her life. The brand was just symbolic. Jeffrey stood still, his chest swelling with pride as his second pretty thing rose from her bend against the table and walked back toward the crowd, her naked form now on full display. This made two-for-two, so far. He watched her, making no desire of hiding his warm, wide smile as she walked on by him, took the stage front and center, not terribly far from where Emilia remained obediently knelt, and knelt herself. He watched her display herself at a closeness only lovers had ever been privy to before. He watched her lean back, forming a triangle, vulnerably, obediently putting herself on display.

La Touche Finale glowed like a sore, orange thumb.

Everyone got very quiet then, breathing, just watching. Jeffrey took slow, heavy steps then, black Armani shoes clicking against the stage with a weight he couldn't hide as deftly as his more slender counterpart. He leaned. He bent. He retook the dark walnut handle in his grip and let out a slow, heavy breath before standing again.

More footsteps, making no effort to hide them. Measured. Not too fast. Not too slow. A pace that saw everyone present grow heavy with seriousness, not least of all his Ariana and he.

She'd first be able to feel his shins pressed against the backs of her shoulders and arms.

As he had with Emilia, Jeffrey took a seat on the stage directly behind Ariana. He even placed a hand on her shoulder as he sat down, temporarily pushing her forward from her triangle so he could more snugly fit behind her without having to pull the brunette back into him, which would have robbed even inches from the up-close view being put on offer. He let her move back into that position right after he was in place, which saw her head near his right shoulder, her body back into a perfectly-formed triangle, the light from above leaving no curve to the imagination. "I will tell you the same thing I told Emilia before," he whispered, for her, for them, for them alone. A hand slipped around her side, his left hand going underneath her arm, around her back, and tracing a fingertip just around the pretty little nipple, that sat upon a pretty little breast his touch indented. "Don't be afraid to be human, in this next moment. If you need to scream. Cry. Drool. Beg. Whatever ear-piercing shrieks or embarrassing spasms... You're already my girl," with a gentle kiss to the side of her face, just in front of her ear. "We're about to enter into a new life together." The fingertip left her breast, traveling down the expanse of her tummy. "You're a very special part of that, Ariana." It went down to her waist. He leaned against her some as it went further, going from her hip to her thigh, from her thigh to her knee. "Now as you take your final bow, what say we give them a show?"

Then, at her knee, he pulled her legs apart, keeping her in that triangle form yet forming a second triangle within it - her feet beneath her butt, her knees splayed, perfectly bare vagina on display.

Her pussy. Her cunt. Her box. Her snatch. Her flower. Her hole.

Something about the v-word seemed to fit her more adorably in his mind. Emilia, too, through her ladylike demeanor. The next two women were probably p's. The last one, maybe even a c.

Bulbs flashed. In seconds images would automatically upload to various streaming news sites on the internet, and the former Disney princess' perfectly smoothed crotch would 'break' them all, as such was the bragging right these days to do.

"By the way...you are too a big girl." Another kiss, just as gentle, to the side of her face.

His left hand came back up, suddenly hugging tight around Ariana's waist. His right brought in the branding iron, just as he'd done before, pressing it to the once-flawless skin above Ariana's left breast, directly overtop her heart.

One one-thousand...

Two one-thousand...

Three one-thousand...

Four one-thousand...

It was pulled away, steam rising from the skin in its wake.

 

[good girls]

If she had been confident before, now the flaws in her perfectly coiffed facade began to spill around her like so much of her curling volume of hair. It formed a backdrop to her posing, curling and twisting where it had been crimped as it gave shade to her calves and her hips alike, and ensuring that the light scintillated off the Sicilian in her such that with the wood beneath her and her hair behind her there was not an inch of her naked flesh that was not entirely for the viewing pleasure of the audience before her. Yet here and now, that was not for them, as so much of her career had been. Her voice, her looks, her movements, they had all been for them for years at a time. At her most vulnerable and exposed, she had given up their access to those things as surely as a rowdy turnstile-jumper at a concert hall would be turned away. She resented them in a way she hadn't when they had been eating out of her palm just moments ago. She wanted to be like this for him and for no one else, if even for only a few more minutes. She wanted to tease and flash him all over again.

Instead, she was flashed again and again in the lighting of the phones and cameras gathered before her, the tautness of her balancing arms and her artfully arched thighs revealing as much about the work that went into her poise with the lean, feminine sinew of her muscles maintaining what could have been an uncomfortable repose in which to wait as it did reveal the effortlessness of her beauty in balance of the Madonna Whore that was every successful pop star. Of playing young, but not too young. Of being sexy, but not too sexy. Innocent, but not naive. Accessible, but not overbearing.

Pornographic, artfully nude. She was both. She was neither.

And she was not calm, as the highlighting of her muscles in the light of the stage and the tensity of her posing only served to make it visible with each breath that traced down the entire line of her torso just how her nerves began to finally take hold with each. thudding. quivering. step. he. took.

He was behind her, and then down upon the stage with her. She'd watched Emilia go through this, Emilia who was only subtly watching out of the corner of her eye, her lower lip captured between her teeth in empathy and rapt attention alike while she remained as still and patient as he could have asked of her now that her shared spotlight was reaching its second climax. Soon enough, Ariana would be beside her as an equal, and they could whisper to one another while the third took the stage, but for now she could only breathe her commiseration for what was the hardest, most wonderful part of the entire situation.

It still burned so, and it would never stop burning in her mind how and to whom she forever belonged.

But Ariana, for all her tattoos, for all her time in the eyes of others, was still untouched in that most pertinent way. She was touched in the way she craved, her hips lifting only subtly higher and her eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly when he traced his hand across her skin and teased the sensitive attentiveness of her nipple to threaten it to go even higher still (if it had been possible, it might well have). She hadn't whispered her sweet nothings to Emilia for, well, nothing. Something about watching her give up everything and be marked had been intensely erotic. And intensely terrifying.

"I can get pretty loud," she both promised and warned on a breath that sounded like it should have had some music of her laugh, and yet which rasped like a music box at its end thanks to the tightness in her throat. She was being so brave, in her own opinion. It wasn't even remotely enough! But his kiss there at the side of her cheek made it feel as though the spreading warmth from that act alone could shield her from the worst of what was to come, only to focus on the best of it. Just another tattoo; just another permanent addition to her body, like the bellissima writ across her left ribcage, to the nearby always beneath her left breath. Always beautiful, far enough from one another to not be a mere statement of narcissism, but worn proudly for what they were and what she was, and what she would always be. Always his bellissima. It was easy to get enraptured by the intimacy and romance of the moment, to let the cameras slip away entirely.

Which was precisely what left her so entirely off-kilter as he spread her wide, her eyes going just as open in almost comical timing with the drop of her jaw to make an O of her bubble-gum gloss. Because certainly less glittery, but no less pink, Ariana proved to have the matching accessory for every part of her make-up when he forced her off the line of artful and entirely into the realm of utterly pornographic. She could hear the shutters more than she could see them, the phantom clicking of mice and tapping of touch screens sharing what had been a sensual but largely chaste event and revealing just what he had revealed to the world at large. Her skin darkened furiously from cheek to collarbone, her quivering gasp of protest just shocked and girlish enough to make it clear how little she approved of the moment -- and likely, just a bit, how much she understood the price she had just paid for her torment and teasing.

Act like a brat, get treated like a brat.

"Meanie," she whimpered with all the force of a curse behind it, the question of how wet she must have been no longer in any sort of glistening question beneath the lights of the stage. And had she any time to focus on her pretty little vagina ending up disappointingly blurred in so many news stories (and not at all blurred in ninety-five percent of the rest of the internet) and the come-comeuppance that she had earned, she might have even thought of a few other choice cusses to throw his way.

Words weren't what came out of her, though. She opened wider still, unbidden, until her jaw ached with the first sizzle of iron on skin, a silent squeak threatening to make its way past her constricting throat while her rich brown eyes went as wide and wet as other pieces of her already had. She desperately tensed her fingertips like the cat being dragged from its perch, forcing her knees and palms to support her acute little bend with as little motion as possible. And then she hit the high note. She had both warned and promised him. She let out a wail that could have been a track on the album all itself (two one-thousand) which pitched and wavered with the scream of someone who almost hadn't even known what pain was prior, a girl all too used to the jabbing of the needle into her skin entirely unprepared for the precision agony of the final touch's kiss. She screamed as beautifully as she laughed, the trilling (three one-thousand) sound of it dancing effortlessly between the points of pent up pleasure and powerful pain to make a symphony of something entirely new.

She was trying to be so brave. So strong. But she couldn't. She couldn't endure it.

(four one-thousand) she fell to the stage, just barely avoiding residual burning and singing and searing from her abrupt motion by the sheer luck of doing so at the same time he finally pulled the iron away and left her sizzled, seared, and stamped as his property. She collapsed between the curve of her own legs, her bent feet kissing her hips in a display of flexibility that was both unsurprising in the limber little pop star and yet still surprising to see for how she might have gone entirely flat back onto her shoulders if his lap hadn't been there to catch her.

Emilia had almost had no choice but to grab for him to seek the comfort of her confirmed submission, and likewise through her wailing agony and searing subjugation, Ariana was forced to clutch.

Her delicate fingers had never clutched at her little seam so sweetly.

She was still crying, hiccuping sobs and whimpers little succor against the pain on her breast, while she laid on his lap and furiously rubbed herself for all to capture for their salacious stories of the day's events, those close enough to the stage able to capture the slick sound of tiny, capable digits performing a disappearing act into a body that had been trapped in a performative guise for so long that it scarcely seemed to know what to do with being freed.

If there had been any, even her slender little fingers seemed to have a tight fit. Even two at a time, like so. "I'm--I'msr--'msorry--f'r--for actin'--up," she whimpered ever so softly to him, for so many reasons to whimper, but most of all so she could try something on for size that she'd been considering and flirting with via her youthful image so many times and yet had never really seen how it fit. It was, ugh. She was a trailblazer. She was a mold breaker. All that good stuff, right? She didn't want to ever be a cliche.

But it felt like it might have felt right, and she had to try it while her voice was privately squirming up to him from his lap and she could almost even pretend that an entire auditorium (and the internet through them) wasn't watching her vigorously masturbate to her signed away freedom and the boundaries that had just branded themselves upon her breast. "Daddy," she breathed.

.. maybe it was a cliche, and it was too much, and she was going to feel really dumb for going there.

But it made her sing in a third, different cadence than her laughter and her pain had, so it definitely fit just right for her then and there as the build-up from Emilia's first stroll onto the stage while she'd clutched at the curtains in the shadows to her own folded submission against Him reached its inevitable, perfect, showstopping climax. It didn't stop the livid pain burning on her skin, but it was a lot easier to ignore when the rest of her body bucked upward on her knees and quivered her petite frame into a panting, mindlessly moaning little mess that left her the exact opposite of the complete control she had shown when taking her first steps onto that stage. And that too fit just right.

 

[As Day Fades]

It was such a unique, endlessly interesting situation, this. This knowing nothing of a person other than her public persona, then 'meeting' her on stage in what was still very much a show, lights, cameras and a live audience to boot, and having to read between the lines of her demeanor to glimpse at the true her. Then, moments later, she was stripped naked in front of that public audience and pledging herself to him, mind, heart and body. If he was lucky, maybe even soul.

Twice now.

The only thing that had been tighter than Ariana's white-knuckled grip in those intense, four forever-long seconds, was Jeffrey's grip around her, and the carefulness in which the searing brand had been held against her naked chest. Her body would react, he knew, in the most basic ways a human could, but if even the slightest mar would be allowed to happen, it would not be her fault, but his. So he held her. Tight. Close. Furiously firm, in wordless appreciation of the one-time-only canvas she was giving him right then. His blue eyes had been closed the whole time he held her, from right before hot iron kissed upon perfectly tanned Sicilian-American flesh, to all throughout, to the end, where the walnut-handled branding iron was dropped to the stage in just a haphazard manner as before, rolling away whilst she whimpered, hiccuped and cried in a manner more befitting little girls than big ones. But she had every right to be so, in that moment, and just as he'd done with Emilia before her, he held Ariana in his arms, both loving and protective.

After those first few seconds of just holding her close, Jeffrey opened his eyes. And the world...was cracked? He blinked. There were lines going across the crowd, horizontal and diagonal and- oh. Oh! He blinked a few times. He smirked. His smirk grew into a smile, and even as she melted back into his hug, pathetically sobbing out an intimate apology, Jeffrey's face beamed with pride. For during her branding, it seemed as if his little Ariana had, with no exaggeration, cracked his glasses with the immense pitch of her musical, siren-like shriek.

But before he could say anything, even as he'd parted his lips to tell her the words, it was her mouth he'd heard a single, soft, very vulnerable word slip out.

Daddy.

And it was then that he noticed the rest, that his little Ariana was knuckles-deep in her pretty vagina, unabashedly masturbating for the world to see as pain like she'd never known surely throbbed upon her breast. He said nothing, initially. He let it happen. Right to the end of her 'performance,' it was clear this whole time that it had been Ariana's stage and she wouldn't be one-upped on it, so like a good roadie, Jeffrey set about his next task in a way that would hopefully draw the eyes of none to him, and allow them to all be on her. The hand freed by having discarded the iron went down the smooth, beautifully-hued skin of her thigh, guiding her legs further apart at the knees as best he could, putting the former princess' lewd act on display to the fullest. His other, having been in a hug around her waist, no longer needed to hold so tight. As she laid into his embrace he brought that hand up, up over her ribs, over that always bellissima, fingers spreading enough to loosely cup around her perky breast, and one reaching further than the others, teasing at the softness of her nipple.

Again, all eyes were on her. All lenses were on her. His touches, simple as they were, were wordless means of encouragement. This moment had been unexpected, yet thoroughly interesting, and something he would bank away for later. For now, he held his newest pretty thing, even as the climax of her self-teasings saw her buck and whimper in a way that highlighted her vulnerability all over again. He held her, letting her ride it out. Caressing her nipple. Not allowing her knees to close in a bout of last-minute modesty. Cyclops-eyed cameras were everywhere, feasting on her lewd display. One woman had even come right up against the stage, holding the microphone right at its edge, not more than a foot from Ariana's slippery digits, allowing their schlick schlick schlick to be captured for posterity.

When it was over, it was over. His touch on her breast went back to a hug around her waist, letting her tired body lay against him as it wished. His touch on her knee closed her legs up, took her by the wrist, and brought that more slender hand out from her perfectly-kept crotch, glistening lewdly with a sticky spider web of her own shiny lust dangling between its digits. "We'll have to talk about this later," with a husky chuckle. The one arm left her waist again, letting her lay against him, and reached up past her, to his own face. "For now, though," bringing his hand back forth. "Daddy's girl has earned herself a trophy." He took off the earth-tone brown Armani designer glasses, the lenses still held together but notably cracked in several ways, and set them upon the bridge of Ariana's nose, sliding the arms back atop her ears, disappearing in her hair. "Do try to not make a habit of it, though, my dear?" Another chuckle.

The Ariana Show wasn't quite, quite quite over just yet, though. Jeffrey still held a very lewd, slender hand at the wrist, and he hadn't gotten so far in life through being wasteful. He lifted her touch just past her head, to his, to his mouth, where he wrapped his lips around one of those perfectly-manicured fingers, slipping them, his lips, his tongue, his warm breath, down all the way to her knuckle. Then back up. Then back down. Then up again, and he sucked at it briefly from the side, and licked at the little crevice of space between two fingers, enjoying every drop of Ariana's cum-covered hand that he'd determined was 'his.' Not all of it was, though, and no sooner was he done than he was 'offering' it to her, bringing that second slick, slimy finger to the brunette's own lips.

"You did wonderful, honey." He kissed at the back of her head. "But you're not done," explained in a voice that was almost apologetic. "You're almost almost, okay? You have one last thing. Just one more. I know it hurts right now, but you've got one more thing to do. Just like Emilia. See how she is? Knelt, showing off her new mark? ...You're a slave now, and I want you to show off that choice you made proudly." Carefully, but purposefully, he placed both hands on the back of Ariana's shoulders and held her up enough that he could slip out from beneath her, before either laying her down or letting her prop herself up. He slid back, a bit gracelessly, shifted to a kneel, and stood back up straight, straightening his deep burgundy silk button-down shirt as he smiled to the crowd.

Jeffrey kept his smiling gaze out toward their audience as he backstepped, and sidestepped, until he could lean over the podium and exclaim, "Miss Ariana, everyone! ...In case anyone didn't catch it with the unannounced performance going on, that little banshee cracked my glasses when she screamed!" This brought out a round of laughter from all in attendance. But akin to perfect clockwork, as the laughter settled and he kept adjusting his shirt, fixing his collar now, an aide stepped out from backstage, holding out a black case with its top flipped up, which Jeffrey reached in to pluck up a spare pair. "But ah, two can play at that game - I was an Eagle Scout in my youth, and we always come prepared!" Another chuckle from the gallery as he set the new pair upon his features, the aide stepping to the side, back to backstage.

"...And can you believe we're only halfway in?!" Having finished adjusting the glasses, his arm shot out in a flourish. "Introducing the next that yearned to be here this day - to promise something to me, and proclaim it to all of you - Miss Madelaine Petsch!"

 

[good girls]

The lyrics to Ariana's latest were a little simple. A little repetitive, perhaps. But when working on something new, it was often those closest to its production who got to truly know what it was like to undergo the creative process at its messiest and least refined. For now, her swan song for the slaving stage and slavering streams capturing every second of their performance might have been the inelegant spread of her legs giving way to the girlish touch of knee to knee whilst Jeffrey hid her away from her most public appearance yet, but for him it was the musical elegance from somewhere 'round his belly.

"Haah .. haahn .. hnnn .." the breathless, staccato panting of the squirming songstress was the climax of this particular set, the crescendo giving way to the final track. Her attempt to draw in breath, to still her heart, and to find herself precisely where she was meant to be. Drawn up against his lap, the eyes of the world faded away from her, she could have disappeared into sleep right then and there but for the racing of her pulse and the adrenaline kiss of her agonized skin. Like an artfully crafted marionette, no one would have been gauche enough to cut her strings, but they had been carefully wound after having been so tightly strung before and now left her temporarily devoid of any dancing. Her limbs moved only when posed, her legs closed by a warm touch and her wrist brought aloft with one warmer still. Her shame and pride (one and the same) gleamed in the lighting onstage.

She had definitely gotten a little carried away.

But you couldn't be carried without being held, and being held like this was just what she needed right now. She closed her eyes, her arched back and heaving breaths making a taut display of her angled torso across his lap. Still, nothing could have wiped the glittery pink smile from her lips when he echoed back her own little slip-up (because sometimes, an "accident" was the best way to ask forgiveness rather than permission) and gave her a gift. A trophy. An award. She'd earned it, however you sliced it, and she knew that it had nothing to do with the simple fact that she had agreed to his contract. After all, Emilia most certainly hadn't gotten anything extra for her performance. For a moment of time so brief as to be immeasurable, Ariana felt the tiniest bit of smug pride seep throughout her still-quivering little frame. But then he had to go and suck on her finger.

She probably wasn't going to be able to respond teasingly or affirmingly to his gentle chide to begin with, but that really managed to take things off the rails. She sucked in a breath sharply and held it (so at the very least his little cleaning ritual managed to shock her system away from its cute little mimicry of hyperventilating), the heel of her right foot stroking down against her left calf in an almost involuntary struggle. A kick in slow motion, coinciding with the lifting and twisting of her hips up off of the stage, only to come back down while she focused and tried not to let the motion of his lips and tongue across her (naughty) finger send her into another spiraling paroxysm. "No habitttt - not fair -" she managed to breathe out, her eyelashes fluttering sweetly open beneath the cracked lenses giving her a most distinguished look in her naked, sweat-kissed sprawl while she desperately tried not to let the convulsing shudder down her spine from his ministrations convince her that she needed to get back to it again already. "notfair" rushed out of her lips a second time, ending on a squeaking gasp of a sound that might have been the most petite of all little deaths. Or at the very least, a shiver enough to make her toes curl. (Certain blogs were going to love those pictures. Don't visit those blogs.) It was the preamble to her taking his suggestion and doing something that she'd honestly never done.

She wasn't sure if she particularly liked it, actually. Certainly not with the same verve and interest he had shown without need for a single word, given how his tongue wrote its story all around and in between her fingers. But just as that particular story suggested an all too entertaining sort of follow-up, she nonetheless hinted at her own sort of sequel after a brief motion of her lips and tongue, her eyes only amplified through the cracked lenses in ways more subtle than certain art kitsch but with a distinct uptick in pantomimed naivety while she tasted herself upon herself. She pursed her lips and sucked, until the pout of her lips against her finger was as undeniably tight as it had been before. Once in, once out, twice in, and then done.

.. not quite done, as her tongue devilishly seemed to think she was doing nothing of note and nothing at all wrong as it slid so small and pink around the tip of her equally pink nail in a final flourish before her smile returned, uncharacteristically vapid in its neatness. None of that reached her ingenue eyes, which spoke all too loudly that the adrenaline-exhausted former pop-star might not have been sure if she liked the taste of herself - but she was one hundred percent certain she'd be more amicable toward his flavor, given the opportunity. Just as at the podium, she did not linger with that suggestion; it was a whisper just for him, and then gone as every little secret ought to have been in its time. Because following the flirtation of her finger and tongue, she felt just settled enough that she could actually rise up anew, if not quite a phoenix, then at the very least reborn in her own way.

"Of course I'm not done. We're just getting started," she told him, her chaste smile threatening to become something genuinely beaming while she tucked her feet beneath her and reoriented herself into something nearly like a vertical position, letting her tresses tickle at her ankles for a moment before she made it entirely upright. But she didn't let him get away quite as easily or neatly as he tried to, his professionalism as resolute as it had been since she'd seen him from so far offstage to begin with. While he got his bearings and extricated himself to stand up, she reached back abruptly just to give him an instant of pause, her smile seeming to have cracked the tiniest bit.

"Your slave," she corrected sweetly, and squeezed her hand down just hard enough to palm his dick through his slacks.

He wasn't going to get up gracefully in the best of circumstances, but that minx seemed determine to make likelihood into truth.

While he made his way back to the podium, regaining his composure and regaling the press with his amusement over her high note, Ariana planted one hand in front of the other. Even trying to stand would have been foolish right now, so she didn't. She prowled like a house-kitten, one hand in front of her other, one knee painfully pressing down into the hard wood underneath her slight weight after the other, and dragged her slender frame the short distance from where she'd been branded to where Emilia proudly displayed her own with the patience of a saint. Hip to hip, she gave her new sister in servitude not so much as a centimeter of space to call her own, tickling her bare skin with her hair this time as she leaned in and whispered beneath the audience's laughter at Jeffrey's nudging of the show back on the road.

"Does it still hurt?" Ariana half hissed, half whimpered.

"I think it might actually be worse now; a bit itchy," Emilia whispered back, her voice rich with good humor while they took their private time to themselves. Not that she had or would do anything so unladylike as to sit there massaging or scratching at her newly anointed brand even if it hadn't been threatening agony if she even so much as thought about doing so. She felt Ariana sigh against her shoulder with trepidation, as the more her high was wearing off the more she could truly feel it there on her breast.

"Wish I'd done like you now, actually," Emilia then admitted quietly, knowing her tiny flash of a grin and the turn of her eyes to behold the former Miss Grande out of the corner of them would be taken by the only woman they were meant for. She didn't really need to say more than that. Ariana giggled as softly as she could manage (which at the moment, was quite softly!) and nudged her shoulders upward, tucking her elbows inward so as to not give her brunette "co-star" too hard of a nudge in the ribs for her commiseration that she hadn't taken the opportunity to masturbate on stage and was now being forced to wait interminably through the rest of the program. But Ariana wasn't just giving Emilia a little ribbing for amusement's sake.

The tips of her index fingers touched one another, and the tips of her thumbs did the same. While Mr. Tremonti extolled the Eagle Scouts, Ariana formed a perfectly neat little heart by turning and brought the window between her delicate fingers up until it framed her brand just about perfectly. Only one person in the audience had the exact vantage with their camera to get the pristine shot of her adorably showing off the newest permanent addition to her silky skin, but Ariana had always insisted on being photographed from her good side. She beamed, content.

.. but she lowered her hands back down to her knees before long, lest she be expected to keep her arms stuck in that position through the rest of the ceremony. Elbow cramps were not a good way to start paradise off.



"Break a leg," came the final encouragement from the wings. Because then there was one.



Though on stage, there were three.

Madelaine entered the stage as though she had been born to walk a red carpet, and not simply because she was accompanied by the matching crimson drape of her voluminous hair. While her predecessor in professing the finality of her freedom might have technically beaten Maddie when it came to sheer silky ringlets by inch, it was pretty hard to argue that when it came to the deep, natural magma at sunset hue that practically basked in the stage lighting as much as the girl it was attached to did that redheads didn't have a certain advantage in turning eyes toward them. A girl on fire in book or on screen could own a capitol's attention, but Madelaine carried a torch for herself alone.

It wasn't hard for her to do so, either. She moved with a confidence completely unlike Ariana's practiced ownership of the live stage. The runway model, the beauty pageant hopeful, the politician with nothing to prove, she was one hundred percent professional in her emergence to the (painfully obviously) muted applause. She missed no more of a step than she would have had it been thunderous or silent, because well, nobody in their right mind expected to get a bigger pop out of a crowd than Ariana fucking Grande. More impressive was how she didn't miss so much as a step even on the polished hard wood despite the fact that her feet were angled dang near vertically down toward it, her golden heels clicking in expert elegance as though she'd been born to strut in stilettos as long as her own fingers.

(She hadn't. It had taken far too much practice and self-questioning before she'd ever felt ready to walk an actual red carpet in heels, truthfully.)

Granted, few eyes were going to be that far down when the song of ice and fire that was the young woman's tresses and absolutely porcelain skin was being showcased by what may have been the flimsiest, tissue paper excuse for a little black dress that could still technically be considered clothing.

What was red and white and black all over? Miss Petsch.

She did not stalk to the audience, to take their measure and to control their interest in what she would do astride the stage in the way that Ariana had.

She didn't walk to the center of the stage, microphone in hand, to introduce herself and her charity the way that Emilia had.

For all that she came onto the stage like a lioness utterly unconcerned with the cackle of the hyenas off stage or the pride of the king at his podium, very nearly reflective of literally any judgement or praise that might have come her way, the truth of the matter was that Madelaine was simply young and driven. She was a far cry from the character she most famously portrayed who, being fair, was outside of the demographic of most of those attending (hence her somewhat more sedate introduction from the peanut gallery) - she was not about to burn down the stage to make her point, positive or negative, no matter how the little curls of fire at the pale snow of her back might have bounced with each expert step on the balancing act that best described her heels. But though Cheryl might have been driven in her own way, her actress was driven in another way.

Without a single word of introduction beyond Jeffrey's announcement, Madelaine Petsch walked onto stage with crisp, quick, but unhurried strides that sent her skirt dancing back and forth in the slit up her skirt that might have been more appropriately referred to as a gash. It seemed dangerous, aside from how the rhythm of the press conference seemed to suggest the temporary nature of her state of coverage, to have a dress cut that high up the hip and to walk with such swift purpose. One lucky camera shutter probably caught, in the vigorous sway of her skirt, the answer that everyone asked of a redhead before she could reveal the answer herself. Nonetheless she didn't pause until she reached the table, at which point she delicately bent forward and lifted the quill enough that its feather could be seen to dance at her side by those left watching beyond the shadow of the stage lights.

Madelaine, she wrote in neat script, before spinning around on her heels with a crispness that seemed dangerous on such footwear, expertly returning the quill to its place behind her without needing to glance over her shoulder to do so.

One hand went up, her striking ruby lips literally and figuratively painted into a smile while she touched her collarbone and proved that the flimsiness of her dress was no mere illusion. With an audible (but nonetheless soft, given the .. overall lack of substance) snap and pop, Madelaine snapped and popped the tiny little strap on her little black dress, and threw her entire arm down with a flourish that accompanied a greater (but still somehow delicate) sound of ripping and popping as though it had been designed to break away. Like a magic trick with a tablecloth and a full setting, the former Miss Petsch's dress ended up dangling from her fingertips with a very near ta-da like pose in the way her hands angled out from either side of her body.

If Emilia had suggested a personal trainer, Madelaine guaranteed one. The redhead's sloping, widening, dipping, widening, and dipping again figure screamed about the effect of beauty regimens, instagram expectations, and what it took to be a young woman in Hollywood these days; good genetics, vegan diet, and thankless primping and sweating leading to an end result that nonetheless had to seem worth it to the young lady who had been certain to trim out every single ounce of fat that she could while not eradicating it entirely from the widening gyre of her settling hips or keeping any of the excess, overlooked heft from settling in her breasts. She was neither zaftig nor petite. She was fit without being a gym-bunny. She looked as though she had never shown her skin sun a day in her life, but her pale was sumptuous rather than sickly.

And yes, there was an unapologetic but far from unruly, downy-soft tangle of equally magma-kissed crimson leading down beneath her trim tummy.

But while she flourished with one hand to drop her now useless dress to the stage, clad in only her lipstick smile and her improbable heels, her other hand remained held out toward Jeffrey even without looking in his direction.

She wiggled her fingers just the tiniest bit.

Ahem. Microphone? she said without saying.

 

[As Day Fades]

His first was a lady faire here to make an announcement, elegance and loveliness emanating.

His second was a coquette here to make her final performance, crescendo and all.

His third, apparently, was a spitfire, erupting onto the stage to make a statement.

It was easy to forget that he was on stage, and thus part of the show as Madelaine strode across, rather than simply being an audience member with a tremendous seat. Were there ever any two things as dueling for attention as the gorgeous flow of her ferocious red tresses and the taunting, whipping slit of an already generously bold black dress? So many things were lost in that moment in the shadow of those two, little things that were just as deserved of attention and admiration, from the sheer talent of walking so deftly in such sky-high heels, to the way her breasts bounced against the looseness of her top. Rather, Jeffrey's eyes, as were of all those in attendance, were forced to split between the flow of her hair and the flow of her dress' slit, commanding the crowd's attention equally.

That said a little something of how sexy red hair could be.

It was what came next that brought out the hushed gasps that eclipsed the camera shutters and the calls for her name, in hope she'd turn a certain way, face a certain photographer and end up giving him or her a choice photo op. No, it was what came next that startled even Mr.Tremonti himself, creating a wide-eyed moment of surrealism as Miss Madelaine Petsch strode past everyone, skipped her own introduction, and made very, very clear she was simply Miss Madelaine now. No hesitation.

While one could assume the crimson-haired starlet was writing her name, in general it was near impossible to tell what someone was writing just by watching the flourish of their pen, pencil, or in this case feathered quill. But it was easy to tell when they were done, lifting the tip from the paper but an inch, holding it there a moment as one surveyed their work. It was in this moment that two slaves became three, and Jeffrey took a full breath, feeling his chest swell with both interest and intrigue. She was official. The brand was still to come, but the young woman had been on stage for but seconds and had already made her move, legally binding herself to a life of submissiveness, servitude and respect. Was it she was brimming with confidence, a cup spilling over, unable to contain it all? Or was it a moment of boldness meant to push past her butterflies? He wondered. ...Perhaps it was an effort to compete, that survival instinct to exceed that brought her through every step of her career awake from the caliber of company she'd shared a backstage with, recognizing she'd need to shine like the sun itself.

Perhaps she was the sun itself, her bare, milk-white skin summoning all eyes to it as rip and snap acted as the exclamation point on her three-syllabled Ma*de*laine statement. Flashes of lighting and shutter snaps accompanied every micro-second, to the point where, later on, the Washington Post would have to round-the-clock print extra copies when their papers would sell out, purely due to releasing a frame-by-frame recreation of this very moment that acted much like a children's picture book, quickly-flipped pages combining every fraction-of-a-second shot with silken smoothness.

And then there was the matter of the unabashed hot lava, erupting upward out of her molten core.

From the angle they both stood Jeffrey could see the young woman's firecrotch quite unmistakably, and of all her things, of her bared stomach, her bared breasts, her bared shoulders, her bared legs, of it all that's where his eyes went. It was only through the corner of his gaze that he took sight of her extended hand and wiggling fingers. He might have stared at that southern flame forever, if otherwise uninterrupted. But he responded, actions instead of words, claiming one of the three microphones from the podium and bringing it over to Madelaine's slender, red-tipped hand.

She wasn't just handed it, however. He handed it to her, but then his palm continued just past, holding Miss Madelaine by that extended wrist. He continued until he'd come behind her, still holding that arm extended outward, and whispered at the left side of her face. "Captivating...I wonder, could that torn dress be my trophy?" Already, inwardly, there was a quickly-formed fantasy in his mind of having her wear it again, haphazard state as it was, and fucking her fiercely in it. Jeffrey's free hand went to Madelaine's right shoulder first, then to the right side of her ribcage, just beneath her arm. He shifted his head from her left, to behind her, to her right, at which point he finally let go of her extended left hand with his, and brought that touch to her chin, three fingers guiding her face to the right, where he kissed her. Slow. Firm. Several, back to back. "I could have sworn," spoken against her lips, "that I owned this building. That I assembled this crowd. That it was all my idea. ...But, apparently, you own the stage."

And he let go. And he stepped back, to stand by the unrevealed check and the signed contract behind her, allowing the newly anointed Madelaine to continue her moment in whatever way she pleased.

 

[good girls]

"Oh, sweetheart," Madelaine let her eyes go shut for just a moment when his warm grip took hold of her wrist and her own took hold of the proffered microphone, unable to see him at her back but nonetheless knowing each inch of his slide around her. Emilia and Ariana may not have been quite ready for his tactile mannerism of approach, but she had all but been counting on it. She didn't tense or flinch, or even unnecessarily lean into his touch with the idea that where his palm first found itself against cool flesh would be its final resting place. She was instead a posing work of art, letting him linger and touch without explicit invitation to continue, allowing him his pleasure and his fill for the current display. But that didn't keep her bright smile at bay, and for all the scheming and tight-lipped looks her most popular character may have indulged in, Madelaine herself was quite proud of her dental work. Her expression was one of glee-not-quite-giddy, just oh so very happy to be where she was. "I think it would be a little condescending to give someone something I have no further need of and pretend it was a prize."

She turned her head, just so, in feeling his breath on the right side of her neck. She followed his fingers even just before they reached her chin.


"Alright," Ariana murmured, managing to make a perfectly innocent word of agreement sound a little more something like "bitch." while she nudged her slightly oversized glasses against the bridge of her nose and then resumed her proud posing.


"Toys do come with all their accessories though. The good ones. The really good ones," she breathed up before their positioning had come to a rest, her deeply red lips just a sweet tilt away from the natural pink of his own. Her free hand was not shy about looping up beneath his arm, cradling against his shoulder, and digging her nails into his clothing just a bit so that the pair of them could be all more securely nestled together while she met his kiss in kind. Firm. Lingering. Exploratory and eager without forgetting that they might need to stop at any second. Not in the least bit shy (go figure) about grabbing one last one when he decided that it would be the last one, no more so than she had been shy about tucking her other arm up until her slightly too-slender bicep failed to do much about concealing the way her pale pink nipples had responded to the cold, the kissing, or both in turn. That was less about her modest though than it was about gently flicking on the microphone just in time to catch his private sentiments and broadcast them out to those gathered.

Her artfully arched eyebrows were high above her teased out lashes, fluttering in an instant of innocence that had no smattering of the mischief her predecesister had indulged in. "Beneath every great man there are no less than three great women, Mr. Tremonti," she responded to him without quite letting him escape the clutch of her hand around his shoulder, not until she had given it a lingering squeeze of contentment with the brief time they'd been able to spend here and now. "So I am only going to borrow this stage, for just a minute," she promised while they parted ways, he back and she forth.

"I know you were all wondering what he kept whispering up here," she said, her lips just a little too close to the mic but not quite making it go hot as she one-handed it in her impeccably balanced strut to the center of it all. "Imagine how I felt back there." The admission that she had been curious just what little things were said to Emilia and Ariana were not her sole reason for the little secret of a hot mic following up their hot kiss. She took two more steps forward, putting her close to the other two slaves kneeling at the front of the stage. "I'm not the kind of girl who likes secrets very much, I suppose. I prefer to put it all out there. Sur~priiiise," she trilled with a little jazz hand and grinning sarcasm to accompany the brief settling of her kinetic poetry of red and white in motion. One foot in front of the other, she practically posed to best show off the flex of gentle muscle in her thigh before she took advantage of where she was to even better show off said balance, leaning forward at the waist with nary a wiggle or slide to suggest she might have gone tumbling tits over teakettle.

For Jeffrey's vantage point, the poster for Secretary got an amateur remake.

For everyone else, they got a brief murmuring to accompany the suddenly held breath as the fiery young woman tossed her hair back over her shoulders with a flourish upon standing again, and then with her mic in one hand, she all too casually swung around the finishing touch with the other by its elegant handle. It might not have been as hot as it had been just out of the flames, but it was nonetheless still glowing with its retained promise. Certainly still hot enough to burn someone if they weren't careful with exactly where and against what they were pointing it. And if their benefactor's heart might well have leapt into his throat at the thought that his prior claiming might also receive an amateur remake as the bold former actress proved she was not here to wait for any part of the process, then it was matched by the excitement of those beyond the lights in how each girl seemed to be shaking things up just a bit.

Madelaine was careful with la touche finale even if she didn't appear to be. "So I wish I had something profound to say, or something personal to give you, or a hot new album to drop, but I don't," she explained unapologetically. "I spent much of my childhood wanting to be an actress, and so I became an actress. And I spent much of the past several weeks thinking about how incredibly hot it would be to be a rich man's happy little fucktoy," she said, each sentence holding the same cadence such that when she swung the branding iron out toward the audience to indicate that they could fill in the blanks she almost expected at least one of them to parrot back so you became a happy little fucktoy!

Her pout of disappointment was incredibly brief. She swung the iron up like a baseball bat, letting the cool metal handle rest against her unmarked skin on her shoulder.

"I bet everyone gets that, right? Where you just .. can't get something out of your head? Or someone?" she asked, now turning at the hip and rather blatantly looking over her shoulder at Jeffrey. Her nose wrinkled minutely, looking genuinely chagrined. "I kinda had to break up with my boyfriend over this, actually. I've got a scheduled post going up on my insta if any ladies out there want his deets. He's a really good guy," she promised conversationally, swinging the iron back down with an alarming speed to leave it almost horizontal like a fencing foil.

"But for those of you who don't know me, I'm not just some shameless slut," she tutted, though she briefly looked down at her own all-but-naked body with a flicker of her eyelashes and then a peek from underneath them to the unseen crowd in a mea culpa that maybe that was a little bit of a fib. "I'm also a liberal elite vegan, so if I wasn't white, Fox News would already have at least an hour a day dedicated to hating on me."

She winked and clicked her teeth, making a finger gun alongside the microphone out into the crowd whether she had any idea where anyone from Fox was or not. "And it's because of all my tree hugging, no bra wearing," she said with a little flourish of her hand when bringing the microphone back to herself that lifted and dropped her right breast for just a little jiggle of emphasis, "hippie-dippy ways that I've sold myself today alongside my board position with the Environmental Media Association. The big problem with wealth and corporations consolidating so much power into the hands of the few isn't that one man can get the prestige, the power, and the devilish good looks necessary to ravage the most beautiful women in the world any and every time he wants, I mean, that doesn't sound like a problem to me, does it sound like one to you?" she asked in a little bit of trumped up astonishment that anyone could be opposed to that idea, pointedly looking at Emilia and Ariana's backs before peeking wide-eyed at Jeffrey to see if Mr. Tremonti had any problems with that particular aspect of capitalism, "but rather that those few aren't always using their money how they should."

"So", she said, spinning around on her heels and briefly thuunk dropping the heavy branding portion of the iron down against the hardwood stage as though she were leaning on a cane, but just as quickly lifting it back up in a vertical throw that let her catch it by the mid-section -- give her a cane, a tophat, and some fishnets and she probably would have put on a whole damn show, the way she couldn't seem to keep her hands still -- while she sauntered with a series of elegant taps following in her wake back toward her new owner. "My net worth is a down payment, but if you'll see fit to indulge my other contribution, my seat at the board belonging now to Innovation Inc. means that your company can use some of those obscene profits to clean things up for everyone else," she said, holding her arm out and happily offering him the walnut handle while very careful to keep her elbow clear of the still sizzling hot branding end.

"Save the Earth, ride a redhead," she said into the microphone with a gleaming smile just for him.

 

[As Day Fades]

Everything about this chick was bold, from her increasingly outgoing actions and words down to the simple, inescapable view of moon-kissed pale skin contrasting with her two sets of sun-kissed red hair. It was the former, though, the actions and words, braver and more honest and out there by the moment, that had his mind alight, his chest rising and falling as her diva moment with the crowd continued on. Jeffrey took notice of everything, from how Madelaine claimed control of everyone's attention irrelevant to the fact that it had been hers to begin with, as if it was not so much a matter of whose turn it was, but of an indirect competition with those who had come before, and one who was yet to come after. He watched her wrap everyone around her slender finger, himself perhaps not wholly exempt from such a claim either, and then proceed to keep them on edge, the dramatic tearing of her dress far from having been the culmination of her act.

He watched as she bent, very, very clearly showing off a rear end to him that she must have been very, very proud of, for one such as it did not come without a very, very perfect combination of genetics and hard work both. His breath came in slow, though his nostrils as he watched and listened, chest rising, remaining a man of discipline, of control, and exiting his body the same way. He watched her snatch the still-glowing branding iron, the very tool which was to lay final claim to her, body and soul, and wave it about as if any other prop, this a stage production. Jeffrey's breathing remained in that forced, focused calm, while the crowd gasped here and there, while Miss Madelaine treated it like a cane, or a bat, or a fencer's foil. Somewhere in his mind he knew, with all certainty, that this was all that it would be, yet another means to rapt attention with. But somewhere in his mind, equally, he knew, he wasn't about to put it beyond this wild, untamed ginger to quite literally brand herself and collapse into his arms, or at his feet, in a moment so definitive it defied being topped.

This time was hers, however she wished to spend it, and Jeffrey harbored no interest in refraining any of these ladies from presenting their truest selves publicly. If any needed to be molded to his liking, that would come later - the 'wedding night,' as opposed to the 'ceremony' or 'reception.'

He just listened, and watched, utilizing the fullest amount of his concentration to concentrate entirely on nothing at all. Not her beautiful shoulders, and the way her red tresses danced down their middle with every movement. Not the small of her back, the curve of her hips, the shape of her ass or the thighs it all gave way to underneath. Not even her words were safe to fully focus on, lest her talk of being 'a rich man's happy little fucktoy' be the catalyst that left him engorged in a way that left a gentleman slim room for denial. It was not even the embarrassment of being fully aroused on stage that he wished to avoid - one of his little darlings had just publicly fingerfucked herself to completion, after all - but the power game of such. Much as each of these starlets was well aware of the games to be played in Hollywood, or the recording industry, the business world was no different. He was in charge. That was to be the public perception at all times, and would continue into their privacy later. If any of his new pretties were in charge for any period of time, it is because he allowed them to be, such as now, and even took joy in seeing them flourish warm, lively, bright.

When her song and dance was done, Jeffrey met his newest addition to the family with a warm smile, blue eyes set upon her browns. The handle on offer was accepted, dark walnut that was becoming quite familiar to his touch, keeping eye contact with Madelaine as his fingers slowly wrapped around, then took hold of the handle. "My dear," he spoke lightly. Not a whisper. But the microphone was not near enough to him, hot mic or no, so these were words only for them. "Congratulations...you've gotten to me. But, not enough that I'm willing to let them see me sweat," he snickered. Jeffrey's free hand came up to cover the top of the microphone, just in case she were to get any sudden, funny ideas mid-sentence. "You are full of life, and enrapturing, and there is a part of me that wants to bend you over right now, saving the Earth and riding a redhead right up her astounding ass." Eye contact, the entire time. "Maybe more than one part. But, make no mistake..." His hand left its place covering the microphone, moving to Madelaine's wrist. "Miss Liberal Elite." It smoothed up, first her forearm, then gliding its touch to her bicep. "Miss Hippie Girl." It came up to her shoulder.

Then, quickly, his smile grew to a firm expression, and his touch grew to a grip, which evolved into a shove. In one fell movement the taller, stronger of the pair forced the more slender sex into a haphazard spin - handle that graciously, there on those heels - which he then recaptured her during with that same hand, fingers splayed, grasping roughly around her jaw and face as she faced outwardly now, toward the crowd. His chest was immediately to Madelaine's back. He bent a knee, if only to force her into an even more awkward position, bending backward, feet just barely touching the stage till while her gaze and her pair of aroused peaks pointed toward the bright lights above. And then it was the iron that kissed her next, just above her left breast. 'Still hot' wasn't a question; it singed, it seared, it created smoke above the wicked curve of the redhead's body in a way that was both immediate and wholly visceral.

One second.

"You."

Two seconds.

"are."

Three seconds.

"my happy little fucktoy, now."

Four, just like the others.

He dropped the branding iron to the stage.

"And I hope, sincerely, in time, we can add to that a giggle-filled love and a bright-eyed warmth whenever we're near, that becomes a river both bottomless and unending..." His free arm wrapped around Madelaine's body, hugging tight. The hand on her face loosened its harsh hold, regressing to a tender caress now, a finger even stroking lightly at a cheek. "In the meantime," with a several-seconds-long kiss to the side of her face. "Be a good girl. Finish stripping and go join your sisters."

The hug maintained, not about to drop the porcelain vase that was his newest acquisition at a time - and, frankly, an angle - where she likely wouldn't be able to maintain it on her own. Jeffrey held her to him as his one-legged kneel became two-legged, carefully guiding Madelaine till she was settled down on the stage with him, even if gracelessly. Arms loosened, and a gentle pet of her full-length hair ensued, several strokes that the flashing bulbs in attendance all managed to catch even if this moment of human tenderness was not necessarily for them. Jeffrey leaned over, on his hands and knees now, another kiss to Madelaine's head, and then sat up, where he patted her butt in a 'get on with it' manner.

Then, simply, the iconic businessman who had made two Guinness World Records for gracing more magazine covers in 2017 than any other celebrity spanning the globe, ever, and then breaking it again in 2018, stood, brushed himself off, straightened his shirt, straightened his pants, and went for the microphone, ready and set to casually carry on. As if branding the flesh of three naked women after each had sworn lifelong loyalty and enslavement to him was just another smiling day at the office.

 

[good girls]

Making Mr. Jeffrey Tremonti himself sweat even after he had lay claim to the mother of dragons and his everything, well, Maddie wasn't going to say that she wasn't a little proud of herself. It might have been rhetorically easy to say that by the end of tonight, they'd all be on exactly the same level as one another, but the redhead also wasn't too proud to admit that she knew when it came to the pecking order of the guests on stage today, she was the black sheep of the growing family. A mere television actress! For a network! Ranked against a prestige tv actress with more than a few films under her belt, one of the biggest pop stars working today, and .. well, her soon-to-be potential-successor, she was on the bottom rung from the get-go as far as the press was concerned. But you know what? Two things.

One, she didn't give a good god damn. And two, neither did he.

She couldn't help but give him her most beatific smile, her eyes ever so briefly contemplating the darkness and light above without entirely breaking contact when she considered the idea of him giving up on the charade he'd played so well with the three of them so far all because he wanted to fuck her in the ass that badly. The following shimmy in her shoulders found his proposal wordlessly agreeable. If there was any game of hierarchies and ladders to be played after this press junket to end all press junkets, then it was one that was going to be played on their terms, through their actions, and not through something that depended on so much luck and happenstance as a famous career. Getting reamed in front of that many cameras would just guarantee that she had managed to tempt him in ways that Emilia and Ariana hadn't exactly managed to rev. Or that they'd gotten him kickstarted for her, and she was just the lucky one who got to feel him purr. Either way; it was one way to put her on equal footing with the others in a way that the press and the world sure damn well wouldn't forget.

Madelaine felt her mouth go deliriously dry when his expression went from kind, agreeable admission to the stern lesson about to come, but that was the only part of her that was at any risk of going dry. She'd watched Ariana tease and goad him from backstage, just about every chance she'd gotten, in an adorably girlish little fashion. And Madelaine was practically ready to chew the drapes waiting to see him spring into action and give her what she was asking for, no matter whether or not she'd really understood what she was asking for. He probably hadn't known then that he was just saving his punishment, forgoing its use on the pretty little brat seeking a few little taps on her rear in favor of the sizzling flame that was about to roar onto the stage. A wildfire would catch anywhere it could jump to unopposed, but keep it properly contained, fed, and watched, and it would find its proper place in a hearth. The feel of his fingers on her arm were thrilling enough to bring the goosebumps out along the back of her neck and raise them against her delicate arms, but she didn't dare look away to miss even the subtlest turn of his eyes in the transformation of his expression from encouraging, even indulging, to promising.

She exhaled, the breath hitting turbulence about the same time her knees did. Graceful and poised as she may have been, there was a difference between the Barbie doll in her box and the one who was being played with. And those mincing little arches weren't really meant to stand on their own. If his hand hadn't caught her by the shoulder, the throat, the strong curve of her jaw, she would have ended up in a filly-tangle of limbs with a likely snapped heel among her other little aches and bruises. That it did catch her, it must have seemed that the slightest bit more pressure against her skin would have bruised her or marked her as surely as a flaming hot iron could hope to. She was soft and delicate, for all her vivacious presence, in a way that neither Emilia nor Ariana had been exactly. This particular toy got put into the -Fragile- boxes when it was time to pack her up until they arrived at their new home.

Maybe there really was something to be said for the hearty effect a nice big ribeye could have on folks, if his supple little soygirl was any indication.

Maybe there was something to be said about the way she didn't act remotely delicately, though.

Her expressive face might have pulled a particularly unphotogenic one, her surprise not bordering on so much as sailing right past the point from sultry interest to slapstick comedy for anyone who managed to flashbulb the flailing ginger in the instant between her being pushed and her being caught, but as soon as she was caught her relief settled it away with a little gasp of air. Her eyelashes fluttered and her legs flexed, not least reason why being that one of her legs had skidded particularly far forward and away from its partner in a fashion that left her literally trembling from toes to thighs in trying to keep from falling the rest of the way (not to mention, for those who hadn't filled their photos folder with enough pink already, a study in contrasts between a pop star's dulce de leche hue leading into the princessly spread of her dripping vagina and the pop of red and white around the paler pink of Maddie's pretty little pussy) even though it felt like he had her by the scruff of the neck.

It was all accompanied by a mighty thunk and the screech of feedback that came along with her inadvertently dropping the mic. So much for getting to do it on her terms. With any luck, the noise distracted anyone from catching her least elegant looks, as it faded by the time she found herself arching against his chest and knee and having her tip-toes put on the spot even more by his positioning in shoes that were absolutely not designed for going en pointe.

Her back twisted into a perfect bow. Her hips curved outward and downward in equal measure. She felt the tremor go from the tip of her to the tip of her, the weight of her own breasts against her rib cage unable to decide if gravity was taking them toward her torso or the stage at her backward angle. One proud row of teeth emerged, twisting against her plush red lip with nearly enough force to make the red go running down her chin. This. Is.

It.

She didn't scream.

It was almost disappointing to at least one or two people in the crowd who had already gotten their fingers and palms ready to witness the repeat of Emilia's wailing pain or Ariana's siren pitch. They had to sheepishly get back to the business of filming, shooting, and typing while the latest acquisition chose not to serenade them with how much pain the human body could endure when fire was applied to it.

Borne of it, bearing it, living it. She wasn't a literal flame. Redheads, some people said, actually had less tolerance for pain, fair complexions even less for heat. Her lip popped out from between her teeth with a ragged, barbed-wire sigh of a sound twisting in her throat, hitching and squirming not unlike a young actress hitched and squirming against the buck bringing her to bit with one hand at her throat.

Madelaine saw colors she wasn't sure she'd ever seen before. She felt simultaneously so loose her body was an afterthought to the experience of her soul, and so tight that each and every fiber in her muscles was known to her. She sucked in a breath and let out another one on two. And another one just before three. There were tears shining in her eyes, artfully adorning the length of her lashes before spilling down her cheeks, but they didn't look like anything less than tears of joy. She hadn't slipped and fallen yet, and hadn't twisted out of his sturdy grip. Her slender hands came up viper quick as soon as she'd processed the realization that she was being held and would not be let go, and with both of them, she grabbed hold of the shaft of la touche finale and wrapped them around one another.

And pushed.

Felt her hands add that much more pressure to the top of her breast. Felt her hands push it that much closer to her heart. Felt his hand, an extension of the tool, making sure it didn't move so much as a hair in any direction he didn't want it to lest she be marred rather than marked. Three and a half. Her thumbs caressed the branding iron like a lover, around the same moment that in the absence of any sound save for her stilted, sucked in and forced out little breaths and pants, the entire gathered press corps could realize that for the first time they could really hear what it sounded like when a young woman had her freedom burned away.

Not that far away from that aforementioned ribeye hitting the grill, really. But if there was any irony to be had in the pretty little vegan ending up branded like the grass-fed pet she was, it wasn't in her body language or her expression. There was rapture there, rapture in the moment, rapture in the understanding of what it meant.

And rapture in the pain.

Five.

Her skin, so white, bore a brand more black than any other, for while Madelaine might not have denied him the pleasure nor duty, nor the intersection in between, of claiming her as his very own she did not let him extricate herself from the choice she had made quite so easily as the others did. It wasn't even a vicious streak of masochism bubbling to the surface out of a girl who had never been the sort who turned to certain frown-worthy techniques for feeling something (her fair skin would have borne the truth of that had it been the case, no hiding on arms like those) that made her branding linger on for a crucial second more. It was that in the seconds between grabbing the iron and Jeffrey pulling it from her, she had nearly forgotten that she was holding it at all. She was in another place entirely, anchored and locked and seared to the stage and yet feeling somewhere beyond the breathy race of oxytocin following a young woman's fancy to make a mess of her sheets in the privacy of her own bedroom. It was a hyperbole to say that some things were better than sex. Sometimes.

It might not have been better. But she could only do it once, and that was its own kind of special.

She was giggling before he even finished whispering into her ear, the iron having not even finished its haphazard roll of the both of them managing to drop it back down to the stage. It was a sound as pure as a ringing bell, giddy with a lack of things to say, and joyous with things felt. She sucked in air through her teeth in a low, lingering hiss, her eyes a pool of tears, but though her shuddering breath came out louder it was only joined by another soft peal of laughter rather than gratitude or adoration. In its own way, her giggles were both of those things, like she'd won a bet against herself. Not that she could keep herself better composed than her compatriots, because that would have been putting herself against them, like those in the press were bound to continue doing. Again, not a good god damn to give. Her hands didn't have the iron to clutch, but for all her thrill at making him nearly sweat she didn't palm at him in the hungry way his girl did, or cling to him with the comforting submission of his lady. She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting herself give way entirely to gravity and his own support. She was milk poured into a vessel, and was only as sturdy as what held her. In her sweet, teary, shuddering delight, she found release no less potent than Ariana's had been (even if she managed to keep her hands to herself. No hate.) and confirmation no less powerful than Emilia's. She'd never have this exact series of feelings again. And that was tragic. And that was beautiful.

She spilled, and there was no use crying for it. A splay of curve, limb, and hair in duochromatic bliss of red and white beneath his masculine hover, catching her breath as the hard wood caught her. She had stood as tall as she could, but this too felt just as right as maintaining the tightrope balance of being a young woman in Hollywood, maintaining her self-image and her physical image while still maintaining a down to earth approachability to fans online; of being gorgeous, but not an object of envy or scorn or shame to young women who looked up to her. Of being a stone cold bitch in her best known persona, and being an energetic, sometimes silly, sometimes manic, sometimes preachy person in her real life. Being a sexual creature without being a maligned harlot. Letting herself be held, presenting herself for his approval, feeling joy and pain alike for him, it was more than she'd imagined it to be. And she had been imagining it quite a bit for the past few weeks. She leaned into his kisses without quite catching them. She just basked in them, searing them as surely as his initials over her heart. And when she seemed ready to let him go, she reached behind herself again, to catch him by the neck and give him a beaming, toothy smile. Her voice might have twisted itself into nothing in lieu of adding another pair of glasses to his itemized receipt for this ongoing charade for the press, but she found it through her giddy tears. "I am a good girl," she told him, sincerely, sweetly. "But I'm really good at pretending otherwise," she promised with no less sincerity.

That ought to have been the button on which she allowed him back his verticality, but just as she hadn't let go of the iron, her fingers curled sharply (if barely enough to dimple his skin where her nails met it) as he began to lean up and her wrist almost considered getting back down to the rest of her. Her grip pulsed, holding him there just a moment longer. "And I'm going to love you so deeply," she promised to the both of them, and only then relinquished him.

Spitfire masochistic fucktoy on one hand, sweetly giddy romantic on the other? Well, some people did also like to claim all redheads were mercurial and tempestuous. But Maddie wasn't all redheads. She was, in the parlance so favored by all of them, His redhead.

She was cherishing the ongoing pain of her scorched flesh, every bit as much as she was cherishing the slowly fading warmth of his kisses and his touches. She didn't shy away from letting her arm brush up against her breast as she squirmed her legs the littlest bit, finally close enough to unstrap her heels and slip out of them. She left them neatly upright, standing without her, and placed each of her earrings atop one. Pin point up. Just in case anyone got any ideas of walking out in them. She put her ring directly between them, and then turned, lingering in the arch and motion of her elbows and knees like a cat who wasn't quite ready to stretch and wasn't quite ready to nap. But there was still something leonine in the fall of her crimson mane around her cheeks, her dark eyelashes seeming all the more prowling from that vantage even with (or because of) her mascara outlining where her tears had followed. Madelaine was so at home on her ridiculous heels, it was little wonder that she was just as at home crawling on all fours; or maybe she just wanted to make him sweat a little again.

But she couldn't quite wipe the smile off of her face when she got up next to Emilia, sandwiching the gorgeous brunette between herself and Ariana; plaything and lover, lioness and pussycat. And anything and everything in between. She settled onto her knees, her backside fitted neatly against her calves, and then followed that up with her hands around her ankles. Her slender fitness certainly contrasted with Emilia's more traditionally feminine curves, but with both of them presenting side by side .. well, there was going to be another cottage industry in folks online arguing about cup sizes and who's were bigger without literally a single thought of nuance to the fact that perspective, angle, and which one of them was breathing in or out at any given time had a lot to do with it! And of course, Ariana was just happy to be there.

Very happy, judging from the occasional squirms she was still giving like she still wanted dessert after a five star meal.

Still, in their attempts to be relatively still and perform their task of showcasing Jeffrey's conquest of .. well, them, it was still a bit easy to get distracted. And they did, just a little, when the audience followed up Maddie's settling in not with the polite, pregnant silence that preceded Mr. Tremonti's next and presumably final introduction, but with a few murmurs and gasps and then a lot of digital camera whirring. After all, he hadn't made any introductions.

Maybe he just didn't need to.

There was no attention-grabbing clicking of heels, no working of the crowd, no diving into a speech -- after all, Jeffrey had only just bent down to recover the dropped microphone (and, if Madelaine's aim was true, admire his personal vantage point of her crawl) and brought himself back up again -- when the four on stage were joined by a fifth. And with no announcement from the master of ceremonies, there was some understandable confusion in the crowd as to whether or not she was the last of the known quantities, or if someone had just decided to crash the party.

If it was unplanned, then she had nonetheless dressed the part. While most turned their heads naturally to see who had arrived beneath the stage lights, she would have turned them soon enough. Draped in silk, she was nothing so much as an Aphrodite in voluminous skirts, pleats and folds ending and beginning with ripples around her legs that showed not an inch of skin as they pooled and dragged against the wood of the stage, her Grecian straps missing only a curl of olive leaves to complete the illusion of a goddess stepping down from Olympus. But in the play of silk and cloth around her legs, bunching and twisting and smoothing out like a river in motion, there was a marginally sturdier sewing to the bustier of the dress. There simply had to be.

And if Greek Goddess was what the dress was going for, the hair and make-up was entirely Hollywood. Another sort of myth entirely, told on high for a century or more, her gold was tamed with pins and jewels that glittered in the stage lights but calmed with nothing more than the ancient techniques, combed and styled until the line between old pictures and old stories was inexorably blurred.

It was a statement, entirely about the way Los Angeles treated its brightest with the same reverence and worship as the legends of old, and about how he of all people thought he had the right to simply re-tell and re-write and re-shoot their stories however he liked, until his were the versions that went down in history.

There had been three statements stripped to nothing and left burning with his ownership.

Her very existence on the stage seemed to be designed to be a challenge, to the tempo of his show, to the idea that each of these women were going to come here to play ball, to the very integrity of even well-tailored silk when it was no doubt intentionally well-tailored to be at least somewhat inadequate ..

Her fingertips found his wrist, delicate as they slid beneath and touched the heel of his palm, lingering just long enough to either appreciably mimic his tactile way of approaching the others or just long enough to gently mock him for the clear pleasure and control he got in doing so, to lift the microphone in his hand up to her lips -- painted neither searingly red nor girlishly pink nor glossily nude, but just enough -- and give him a patient smile. "I think we're all dying to know how much you paid for a prize like her," she gently prompted, as though she had been here all along to play the dutiful assistant keeping the show going on, her admiration sounding as real for Madelaine's performance as if she had given voice to everyone who might have briefly knitted their brows over a "mere" TV actress following up after Ariana only to find her every bit as arresting in her final, first submission.

Scarlett Johansson took one step back, letting her fingertips fall away from his wrist with warm fondness but none of the lingering need that accompanied his branded beauties after their confirmations.

She was her own woman after all, and something in the practiced, perfect politeness of her paparazzi smile suggested that tonight wasn't guaranteed to change that.

 

[As Day Fades]

The iron bite of the red-hot brand brought with it certain revelations. It took someone far from their center, such an overwhelming sensation, stripping away any acts, public or privately crafted and displayed. It had stripped each of the women on that stage of their defenses, like wood to be reclaimed, allowing their very base beauty to be seen without all its defense mechanisms, without its professional or even haughty façade, so that what was there, the tenderness and vulnerability, could be built upon anew, built into something reminiscent yet different than before, enriched in its new form for having once existed in its previous, and for having gone through such a change.

To see each thus far in that delicate, trusting moment that followed her branding - Emilia, Ariana, and now Madelaine too - Jeffrey could not help a private swell in his heart, a seed of closeness and intimacy and perhaps even love being planted, with the promise of time enough to grow once this was all a fun memory to their new family together. To see Madelaine in that way, now, stripped to her barest form, and all the sweeter for it, the public demeanor temporarily pulled back and simple tenderness toward him remaining, it did much to instill that warmth. And even if he did not spend time with each of these young women now overly long, he did take his time with each, clearly, hoping they, too, would see that same promise of future warmth from him, while he was tasked with keeping things moving forward on track for the time being.

But whether it was through simple luck, or, he had a feeling, more likely the saucy ginger's impossibly incorrigible ways, Jeffrey did catch a perfectly-angled glimpse of that delicate pale femininity, only lightly framed at this angle by her unapologetic curls of red. He saw, and he paused, enjoying the sight until she turned away and took her place beside her two new siblings, his hand only then remembering he was bent for a reason, and plucked the microphone from its place upon the stage.

Yet he hadn't even stood, remaining in that bent-forward position, the most delicious gluten-free thing in existence crawling out of sight, when replacing her in his view was the gentle stride of someone who, at first glance, had ascended past the idea of being a princess or a queen; someone whose entire aura bespoke of goddess. He stood, Jeffrey, slowly, eyeing up the full length of the flowing white dress first, the ample spill of bosom everywhere second, and finally, a set of blue eyes framed with stunning blonde hair third. When Scarlett approached, he remained, curiously allowing this next moment to happen as it would, while meanwhile making the mental note to be placed at the back of his mind with a stickied-back that some of his newest acquirements might need a tad more corrective encouragement than the others.

But for now he allowed it. He allowed Scarlett to reach him, walking across the stage. He allowed her to take hold of his hand, much in the way he'd done with each of the three ladies prior. He allowed her to lift it, and the microphone, telling himself this was all happening within his control, much as likely she was convincing herself much of the same, albeit the opposite way around. And he allowed the blonde to look into his eyes and ask him a publicly-stated question through the mic that would see his expression toward her fade from a warm, taken pleasure to something notably less. Something of a frown. Something of a sail, without its wind. ...And yet, the question lingered. And yet he had to answer it. And yet if he didn't, if he waited even precious seconds to pull off the band-aid, it would highlight it even more so - and he knew that, and he knew Scarlett knew that, and he knew she knew what the answer was going to be.

That the (literally) sizzling redhead, that the slave girl FKA Madelaine Petsch, had not been publicly thought of on the same alphabetical list as the rest of the girls there today.

But with the deal officially sealed, they were not only all on equal ground now, but they were all his charges. Not just to enjoy, or to train, or even to cherish, but also to protect, to shield them from any slings, or arrows, or in this moment, even from shade.

"One-hundred twenty-six million," he said, calmly, into the microphone, blue eyes set upon blue eyes. The offer for each 'level' of celebrity had been quite public, so it was only a matter of quick napkin math to determine that Madelaine had been deemed a B-List celeb, thus earning only half the charity of her co-slaves there she knelt alongside with, combined with a net worth of her assets that was still only a fledgling amount in terms of what someone in the public eye was thought to have. By no means were such numbers an unimpressive amount, even - but in comparison? He was well aware the question had been asked as a dick-measuring competition, which firstly was unnecessary in the public eye, and secondly, neither of the ladies should technically have even been equipped for.

"Donated to the aforementioned non-profit Environmental Media Association." There was a temporary pause. The microphone, in that time, didn't leave its place at his lips. "...And a second one-hundred twenty-five million that is to be split between schools around the country, to fund a series of field trips and local programs for their students that can help increase awareness and, hopefully, ignite interest in a whole generation to the green values central to the EMA's mission." He turned to the crowd, smiling, "I mean, if I'm going to turn Captain Planet over there into my 'happy little fucktoy,' it's only right that I try to inspire a Planeteer or two to eventually take her place, right?"

That got a good laugh from the crowd.

Jeffrey continued smiling toward them. And flicked the microphone to 'off' for now. And held it at his left side, with his left hand, so when he slightly adjusted his stance, which seemed no more out of place than one merely shifting their weight, he brought his free hand over, his right, to not merely tease Scarlett with a touch, but rather the fingers of his right hand slipped around hers of her left, and there he held her by the hand, clasped together.

"You do realize you're 'worth' more than any of them, right? In terms of total dollar amount, your net worth combined with your celebrity status?" Still smiling, Jeffrey half-turned his head to her, remaining at an angle. From this distance there was no threat of the crowd hearing them; they'd see the moving lips, but this was something just for he and her. "You're the star of everything for the past however many years, and, even in their dreams, are a woman that men know is out of their league. You've the breasts of perhaps your three predecessors combined. And if Zeus commanded Prometheus to mold him the most perfect beauty out of clay - only to tell him, no, more perfect, try again - only to tell him, no, more perfect, try again - that final result would uncannily be you. So..." A thumb caressed against the back of Scarlett's palm. His tone became gentle. "Please. Play nice? You have nothing to prove. ...Let us meet you."

Hopefully, he thought, that would diffuse any forthcoming cattiness, any posturing. Madelaine's 'worth,' a remnant of the time she'd spent as Madelaine Petsch, was something he'd planned to introduce to the crowd in a slightly more delicate way. The addendum of a second donation, one that at least brought her up toward the ballpark of her side-by-side compatriots, was an impulse that would hopefully offer more succor than a visceral throwing himself upon her as if some sort of human shield.

"I would shower you with the same bottomless care, so please. Be nice to my girls. If Zeus sees fit to continue my blessings this day, then maybe his 'complete perfection' will join them." He raised Scarlett's hand, planting a slow, sweet kiss to her fingers, continued eye contact holding the moment. Then a second kiss, just as simple, just as tender. His hand lowered, releasing hers from its grip. The other came up, switching the microphone back 'on' and pressing it to Scarlett's softer palm, before sandwiching her hand inbetween two of his own. When he pulled back more fully a second later, stepping back and away, he left it with her, so her moment could begin in earnest.

But not yet. Almost, almost. He stepped to the back of the stage, where four small tables had been set up in a line, each with their oversized check and the scroll which each woman had thus far inscribed her will to no longer have a will of her own. On three tables the parchments had been signed. On two the checks had been revealed. With the same whipping flourish as before Jeffrey pulled the black cloth off the one that had been Madelaine's, revealing the initial $126m sum to the crowd, made out to what had been her former organization, and moved on to what would be Scarlett's table, if the blonde so wished it. Even with his eleventh-hour 'always planned' addition bringing Madelaine's charitable earnings to $256m, Emilia's was notably ahead still at $263m, Ariana's way ahead of each at $330m... And the next reveal, his hands pulling the soft black sheet aside, outpaced them all, at $390m.

One billion, two hundred thirty-nine million dollars, in total charity between them all.

Jeffrey reclaimed his spot at the podium, smiled, and said simply into the two remaining microphones there, "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Scarlett Johansson." Turning to her, "Should she decide she wishes to be the grand finale, that which is not a period, but an exclamation point at the end of today's sentence, I will allow her to be the one to tell you about the charity she has decided upon, to the sum of three hundred ninety million."

 

[good girls]

Did she think she hadn't been prepared for this? There was no longer any hiding it from the crowd, had they not been listening nor paying any particular attention to the Checkovs adorning the stage, but they'd met the fourth and final participant for the day. She was just out of sync with the others, just astride the rhythm that had already been set, but whether or not she was to be a discordant earsore upon a symphony that had been steadily building or the memorable trilling of a new sound bringing it altogether at last was still entirely up in the air. But up until this moment, for hours beforehand, she had been backstage. In the dressing room with Miss Petsch, Miss Grande, Miss Clarke, three names that no longer existed in any legal or important sense. In the time they had spent together they had gotten to know one another in some ways better than Jeffrey knew any of them right at this very moment, and yet the afternoon had not entirely stripped them of being strangers nearly so irrevocably as they had been stripped of clothing and artifice by submission and fire. Madeline hadn't disliked Scarlett when they'd been helping one another with their make-up and idly wondering about what exactly this press conference was going to be in reality rather than the building myth and outrage that had hurtled it into existence. But nor had she fully embraced her the same way she had Ariana -- there had been much gushing and much resultant pleased humility in that pairing, it could be admitted -- or even found commiseration with Emilia in long shooting weeks and admissions of accent-jealousy.

Standoffish wasn't quite right. But it was clear that Miss Johansson had been keeping her cards as tightly to her chest as her current ensemble. She didn't seem like she thought she was better than they were in any way, and she was friendly and polite, but as they had grown increasingly comfortable just talking to one another and running through theoretical possibilities of what was yet to come while they assembled their wardrobes and helped one another with their hair, her ice hadn't thawed quite so much.

Emilia, Ariana, and Madelaine were none of them surprised, because it had been obvious from the very first moment that Scarlett wasn't sure if she was going to go through with this. (Something about the fact that she had very nearly introduced herself to them in person with those same words might have tipped them off, in fact.) And backstage, Ariana had been the most ready to talk to her about her concerns and fears and potential reasons for going through with this or not, because the littlest of their quartet actually took to the others like a natural gadfly in a way that was honestly a bit surprising given the apparently exaggerated rumors of her diva-esque existence. But even if they had opened up to one another more than either of the others with the blonde mega-star, Scarlett had still been the odd woman out in their otherwise even numbers. Just a bit. Just a smidge. But it was there.

So of course Madelaine had been prepared for her to complain about sharing the stage with a B-lister. She had known from minute one that she was in a slightly different league than the rest, and in that way, she and Emilia shared a particular bond -- the brunette having come here entirely apart from her celebrity to reject who she was and who she had been, and for once and all, be her own by being owned -- of not kneeling on this stage with any care for what the world would have to say of them moving forward. Ariana might have not truly made up her mind until she signed, but she had certainly seemed like she could go either way, and that ..

that was what had set her apart from them.

His curious expression seemed to have found a wrong note struck in this ongoing opera in the pregnant pause between Scarlett's question and his answer, and yet there was nothing smug at all in the way she watched him with an ingenue's gaze never fading. This was his concerto. It was up to him to put each and every note on the page, to keep every chair in time, and to improvise the instant something went wrong. Everyone who signed that contract was literally putting their lives into this man's hands, and thirty seconds or thirty minutes going by was not adequate time to know just what kind of a decision that actually was.

She was the one who questioned the entire endeavor. She was the one who had literally nothing to lose and everything to gain from this encounter, now that her other half-a-mind in these precedings had made her decision and finger-fucked herself in celebration afterward. Madelaine, this was arguably a step up for her. Emilia's rocky career made it something of a toss-up, didn't it? Ariana was on top of the world, and so she chose to be on the bottom of this world entirely of her own free will, with no coercion of money or comfort that he could offer truly having anything to sway her. Scarlett didn't think herself arrogant for knowing that she was in the same boat. She simply knew her worth, just as Madelaine knew hers. And the question that all of them ought to have been asking was whether or not Jeffrey Tremonti knew what their worth really was.

Was it a micro-aggression, dear millenial, to simply force him to say what he had built this charade atop of in the first place, that their fame was their worth in a certain fashion? Because some people, after today, would argue that none of them had proved their absolute desire to participate more than Madelaine had (granted, those think pieces would be written for all of the branded girls within a matter of hours), and yet she was going to be judged as worth less by the standards he himself had decided upon. Maddie's shoulders might have tensed a little, enough so that Emilia pushed a hand over the slender curve of her thigh in comfort, but Scarlett wasn't watching them. She was watching him.

He was quicker than she'd anticipated, she would absolutely give him that. Just like that, he performed a classic donor-match for the girl who had teased Emilia about looking as though she would have twisted herself into a pretzel of joy to be told she could have been allowed to serve for nothing at all. For the redhead who had been teasing in that classic way where projecting one's own faults on another was a winning diversion; she would have done everything precisely the same now given a second opportunity where there was a goose egg scrawled on that check. She believed in the good a multi-billionaire's money could do; she also believed that no part of this was truly selling herself or her worldly assets so much as that was a bonus of making a rich man's dick feel so good he temporarily forgot that he wasn't supposed to spend quite that frivolously. And that, almost as much as the way she had all but appeared on stage from stories of olds, was what was making her bristle at the blonde to her back. This wasn't puttin' on the ritz, puttin' on a show, puttin' herself out there. She was testing him, in more turns of that phrase than one.

Her hand was soft and warm and tangible against his, and she clasped his fingers with the ease of a long-held lover. While Madelaine might have been a bit taken aback by Scarlett's pointed interruption leading to Jeffrey's unexpected generosity, she took it, and him, in stride.

"Those are lovely sentiments," said the honey bourbon rasp of silk on flesh, her voice a purr without seduction, the matter of fact tactile nature of her very tone making each word sound like a private little nothing whispered into his ear from the pillow, "but you're wrong about not having anything to prove."

Her hand turned after his second kiss, the gracious elegance of an upturned palm accepting an unspoken invitation to dance. And dance her fingers did, just under the bottom of his chin. Not unkindly. Not without affection. Not without the tiniest touch of condescension. She might have looked upon him as though considering him kneeling at her feet, for all that he still would have towered from such a position compared to her. (With a half foot between Ariana and Madelaine, and the pretty Brit currently in between them forming the line according to their height by meeting the difference just about halfway, Scarlett would have landed right in the middle beside her if she took up residence to turn their trio into a quartet.)

Any illusion of her mind whirling away at what the tables might have been, artfully turned, was revealed for the hoax that is was with the curl of her smile. There was no giddy irony like Maddie's sweet smile at his admitting to his perspiratious inclinations, no teasing promise of a flash just for him, no utter joy at the getting to give. She smiled because she had so much to prove, in a way that had nothing to do with films or spotlights. To him, to the world, to herself. It wasn't cruelty or cattiness or competition of dick-size (why measure up when he had been swinging his around since he'd announced this entire mad plan) that was driving her, and if it was ego, it wasn't borne of petty-minded arrogance. She wanted him to sweat, yes. This had been too easy for him, ever since Ariana had realized in front of the world it was what she truly wanted. And sometimes it was nice to get everything you wanted, just when you wanted it, just how you wanted it.

But he was going to have decades of that, no matter what she decided today.

"That's nearly a billion dollars just for these three women," Scarlett said into the microphone with an astonished poise, genuinely taken aback by the number amounts they had just seen in the way her eyes widened imperceptibly, her posture put herself on the back foot, and her smile turned itself to the crowd.

Only the nectar in her boozy voice had given way to the splash of something undeniably fruit forward, the sweet and palatable crowd-pleaser of a drink that sold by volume rather than got sipped by a connoisseur lingering on every note. That pillow talk murmur had been Scarlett's -- and with the stage truly now upon her, the voice that emerged was Scarlett's. The actress. The star. Approachably unattainable, just one of the girls, occasionally stoned on the red carpet, elegant enough to cut oneself on, self aware enough to joke around with, anything to everyone who wanted her to be anything. Movie Stars were an increasingly rare phenomenon, a devious cocktail of charisma and everywoman nature that mingled with absolute savvy about one's self image and self worth. No one, love her or hate her, could deny that it was exactly what she was, what she excelled at. She sold projects on her name alone, and took projects that would never exist without that same name. If one were to calculate her net worth, even at her stardom it would likely never reach the number on the check that Mr. Tremonti unfurled to put his own period on the statement she had made at Madelaine's potential expense. No one could argue he wasn't opening his wallet wide to get what he wanted. And while she delicately performed a well-practiced applause even with mic in hand, her astonishment at the number certainly wasn't why she was there.

The crowd was, metaphorically and literally, going wild with the assumption they were going to get what had already been given to them thricefold. A foregone conclusion.

"Wow. Just .. wow," she breathed, and not a wrong note to go with it. The harmony had returned. Even Madelaine's tension had abated, a bit, though she certainly didn't think his generosity had been planned before the blonde had pressed it. Was she glad of that, or frustrated by it? She wasn't entirely sure. "And over a third, all over again, just for me," she reminded the crowd in case the impact of numbers that large had somehow gotten dulled down by their repetition. More money than any of them would ever see in their life, apiece. They could win the lottery and not afford even one of the slavegirls kneeling on the stage right now (well, not after taxes, anyway). "It's true that I could talk to my financial adviser, tally up my net worth, and donate every cent to Oxfam tomorrow without so much as a roof over my head to show for it, but I have a very good feeling that I'd barely scratch the surface of that level of generosity," she admitted, perfectly Vanna-ing all four checks in one sweep of her hand.

She paused, hoping to let that sink in to everyone, but then she was smiling at Jeffrey again. Its very kindness was a mystery, for how strong she was coming on; she didn't seem like she was trying to think of a way to sabotage this entire endeavor. And she looked at him as though the entire rest of the world had truly fallen away -- or perhaps as if she could never forget the world even beyond the walls of the auditorium.

"I want to tell you a little about myself, but there's nothing the entertainment industry hates more than chicks blabbing endlessly, and you've had three of us already doing just that, right?" she asked, her smile becoming a self-reflective cha-grin. "Do you think we could take just a minute instead for you to tell us something about yourself, Mr. Tremonti? I know I don't just speak for myself when I say we're very interested to know more about the sort of man who could think up all of this."

She could have been referring to the press, of course, but there was no question in her smile and never-wavering gaze, an ocean come to crash down upon him, that she was speaking for those who had been hidden away in wardrobe without so much as a chance to even shake his hand before they walked out onto the stage. Madelaine knew him better than Ariana knew him better than Emilia. They had each merely had longer to observe him. By that token, Scarlett must have known him best of all, even when she knew him not at all.

Emilia's calves were beginning to fall asleep and her knees were beginning to ache.

So were Madelaine's, which just made her want to boggle slightly at how long the brunette had been kneeling compared to she and Ari without so much as a single whimper of complaint on the hardwood stage.

But the blonde, she still had plenty of time free of kneeling aches and soreness brought about by too-perfect posture in the face of the world. And if Jeffrey had enough time to spend the rest of his life with them, she figured he had enough time for an impromptu little interview too. And to think, she might have asked him something else entirely, taken an entirely different tactic, if only he hadn't all but pleaded without giving any ground in his moment of control (an impressive little feat, she admitted) to let them meet her, as though the irony of how a man as rich as he being able to be literally anyone he wanted to be at any moment in time might have been lost on them. Well, she didn't like that. She wanted to know him. And she had nothing to prove.

What made him so special that he could literally buy people?

That was something he might not have needed to prove, but it was still worth proving. It was still worth impressing.

And that was where Scarlett's smile finally became familiar, the cautious date across the tablecloth, the wine freshly poured. So tell me a little about yourself.

There were so many first dates that were more accurately named only dates, and most people didn't need to plead their case for why a second one ought to have been around the corner in front of the watching world. But then again, most of them didn't end with someone's initials getting burned into their skin and soul either.




"Don't you just wish we knew about what was smoke and mirrors and what was real?" "Well, yeah, but, I don't think that's exactly part of the yes or no question here."



Miss Johansson was absolutely playing nice. She was giving the voice to the question that had gone unasked by the other three, whether due to their nerves or their own determination, that they all certainly wanted to know the answer to. In his reckoning, that answer seemed to be predicated upon their acceptance first. But women who reached the ranks she and The Artists Formerly Known As Ari did were a little more used to the world bending to what they wanted, and there was a unanimity in what all four women on the stage wanted.

"Who is Jeffrey Tremonti?"

 

[As Day Fades]

Scarlett was a talker, that much was clear. Maybe or maybe not a speech giver, but what she had shown thus far was the grace of a dancer, the deftness of a thief, traipsing nimbly around the conversation at hand to create what she wanted out of each moment as gracefully as possible. She'd do well at the negotiating table, Jeffrey knew with a smile, watching the blue-eyed blonde from his place at the podium as she spoke to him, yet spoke to them all, microphone in hand. It was the beauty that drew you in first, on a level men ached for and women, if they weren't of the persuasion to ache for it publicly or privately, would first resent, then turn around and admire soon after. She had a voice, indeed, like the smoothest bourbon, and gave it in amounts that left you wanting more. Most importantly, eye contact. She knew that part, it was clear. It made for a very disarming package that, for a moment, he chuckled privately to himself, recalling a scene in his mind's eye of a certain Black Widow interrogating her Asgardian God captive Loki, allowing a man of such a tier of power to go on considering as if he held all the cards, until she turned around and revealed to him the only card that mattered.

One that shown a live mic, and the ability to walk away.

"That's a very fair request," said to everyone, but primarily to her. Even if he was speaking toward a podium with two microphones dedicated to picking up every sound, his body turned to the crowd, his head was turned to her, as was the smile. "It's a one-sided conversation that, honestly, I had already planned to have today, but I was thinking more later, more when it was just myself and those that wished to join me, where I could talk and they could ask whatever questions they wanted. Something private, something intimate. But...I guess this works too?" He chuckled, then looked to the crowd. "Though, please don't go expecting me to strip my clothes off, brand my own initials on my chest and then masturbate to it." A round of amusement from the crowd. "I mean, I'm into some kinky stuff, clearly, if a press conference like this is how I spend my afternoons," holding pause at another wave of light laughter for those present, "but I don't think any of us are quite ready for that."

His smile maintained. A few seconds passed, letting the amusement die down, and he took a breath, looked down a moment, and began, "Jeffrey Tremonti...is kind of pathetic, really, if we can be brutally honest with one another. He's worked hard enough to buy everything in the room, yet lacks something that poorer men often seem to have in spades. And it eats at him, daily." He looked to his shoulder, to Scarlett again, his tone notably different than before, "If we can be candid together, I don't know that he's the one to follow, much in the way that we're all imperfect creatures, desperately searching for the other half of ourselves that's been achingly missing all this time."

He turned back to the crowd, but kept his gaze downward now, at the podium itself. There was a pregnant pause, enough perhaps for twins, as he searched for words to come to him. "Have you ever gotten to...like...meet your parents? Like, not your future in-laws, after dating someone for seven months. I mean your own, the ones you're supposed to grow up with. Mine were a shame. They were workaholics. They weren't bad people, but they were more robot than person, when I try to recall some childhood memories. Dad was a neuroscientist. Mom was an engineer, at a time where women typically didn't dedicate themselves to that line of work. They were both dedicated. They both worked hard, right, and that's what matters? Success? Except, it can't be. For that to be the single most important thing to us, it would be mad. But I didn't grow up understanding that. I grew up understanding I'd see them very briefly in the mornings, then there was a nanny, then there were private tutors, then I'd eventually go to sleep and they'd get home after, and that was generally my day."

"Each worked seven days a week, most likely because working eight wasn't mathematically available." His voice held alright, but his body language as he spoke was riddled with little tells. Rather than stand up straight, both hands had come to hold the sides of the podium as he leaned forward against it slightly, fingers wrapped around its clear frame, moving against the clear glass absentmindedly. "I grew up home-schooled so there really wasn't an interaction with others my age, no real childhood in that sense. No siblings. I grew up in this drab bubble, where...where I didn't know any better, that this wasn't the way things were supposed to be. I grew up thinking you were supposed to push that hard to excel, that that's just what adults did, and that's how you got ahead of everyone else that was willing to work almost as hard as you, for almost as long, but not quite. And that's not really wrong, is it? If you want something that bad, to push for it that hard. But where does it end?"

"If you're a hard worker, milestones can be like a drug. They're like a high. You hit one, then if you keep going you know you'll hit the next, then you've got a taste for it, you know you can reach that next one if you just keep on keepin' on, not really thinking what you're trading away in the meantime. That's what it's like to be a workaholic. ...I know about it, first-hand. I mean, you don't walk into an empty sandbox one day and just create something that's grown to the level of Innovation Inc. without being like that, right? So their having no real presence in my life, that was the weird fertilizer that got packed around the sapling that was my young mind, nurturing it. In the brief time I got to spend with my parents, I wanted to be like them, right? Because of course their child did. So I applied myself, searching for that elusive pat on the head, or to at least be closer to them by walking in their steps. And the worst part is, it worked. Again, like a drug, right? Little milestones. Before long I excelled at stuff at my own age level, then it was courses a year beyond me. Then it was three years ahead. Then four. Then six. I was reading the works of 'the bard' by nine, doing trigonometry by nine-and-a-half."

"Graduating with honors had never been a question, nor was getting into Yale -- my first real public experience. But I wasn't me yet then, right? The guy that can come out, control a crowd, pomp and circumstance and all that... I stuck out like a sore thumb in the manner that I didn't stick out at all. I blended in. Was quiet. Was shy. Didn't know how to really make friends. So I just plugged away at my books, content in being the 'Who was that guy?' in the yearbook for people, years on. If someone talked to me in the library I didn't know how to handle it. Even mid-conversation my mind was considering other spots to sit going forward that would just allow me to study, where I could keep focusing on things like science and math, and later I majored in business, thinking how I was going to be like my parents and one day turn all that into something. Because that was the goal, right?"

"By my mid-twenties I was past college and my company had been born -- we were still a few years shy of you ever hearing about us, but I was looking at ways to improve all sorts of little things in many different aspects of our daily lives, creating that simple, straightforward answer, patenting it, and using the money from that to build the next project, and then the next project... Mom was gone at that point, cancer took her toward the end of my schooling. Dad fell asleep at the wheel somewhere after my second invention really started creating a buzz in the medical world. It may not be as cool as Tony Stark's origins," he smirked, "but it left me one course to travel, and so I did it. The rest, after that, is pretty much public. That's the private life that pretty much started me off. Like a Mr.Stark, or some of my more real counterparts, a Mr.Musk or a Mr.Bezos, I was able to create a series of things that struck a chord, that brought in pyramids of profit that investors couldn't race fast enough to be a part of, and apparently I had this Midas Touch where the more I poured myself into it, the more and more and more we grew. Remember, little milestones, right? Lots of them, each one a high. Calendars were nothing to me, how long I was going at it, other than to keep track of meetings, release dates... That's just the life that I knew."

"We're all human though, right? We all crave certain things? Sometimes it's a favorite food. Other times it's more carnal, it's more about lust. Sometimes it's just about companionship. But at that point, I was no longer the awkward kid who quietly dodged frat parties at Yale to hit up another lecture, downing coffee even late at night so I'd be alert enough to soak everything in. At that point I was forced to schmooze amidst these business gatherings, these fancy parties where I was my own form of celebrity by the time I was twenty-six and being interviewed by Popular Science. Two months later they called me back and gave me the cover. And when things like that start, it's all about momentum from there on. All the men want to take you out to fancy salmon dinners, seeing who can find the restaurant with the smallest, fanciest portion. All the women are predetermined to laugh at whatever comes out of your mouth, all-the-while calculating how quickly they can get in, out, and with a fancy divorce settlement wrapped around their nest egg in a gilded bow."

"Thankfully, I was never so blind as to fall for any of that," a light laugh, which others joined in. "But we all want approval, right? We all want to be told how good we are, what we bring to the table, and to be wanted...so when these fake people latched on, to a degree I let it happen. Models, Bunnies, you name it. Two at a time, neither one worth half what someone who actually cared about you did. But I was so deep in success, I was already a household name. It made it hard to go on some dating site, or ask some pretty cashier somewhere out on a date. The press was everywhere. They weren't just content with an interview at an event. One time this car kept following me, kept following, kept following for several days straight, wherever I went, and when my security pulled the guy out, the found he had a camera ready and was saying he was just waiting for us to stop and get gas in town so he could give me an impromptu interview for TMZ that night. Another time, I had this favorite place to go out for lunch with a lady friend, and found out that when rumor got out, this other woman had taken a job there as a waitress just so she could attempt to win me over each day -- purely about dollar signs in her eyes, I assure you. Oh, and then there's the cameras that snap unflattering shots of you from a half mile out, even when you're on private property, through a window or such. I remember hearing about Michael Jackson, how he was so famous that he had to hire actors just to exist in public places and leave him alone, so he could have a regular experience for that little while."

"That's not to say I'm one thousand percent innocent, mathematical improbability aside. I did all those magazines, right? Went to all those parties. Was seen with sunglasses on, a cocktail in each hand, a floozy on each arm -- all part of a crafted public image, a Mr.No Days Off workaholic that my team advised me would keep regular eyes on my products, keep regular investors, and talent, and most importantly money coming in, and it didn't disappoint. Things ascended to a point where it was like, alright, what do you do with seventeen houses? ...You sell them, and buy an island instead." He smirked. Another round of bemusement. "But seriously, it was fucking lonely as all hell. I was living a life surrounded by people, but drowning in the wrong sort of people, who didn't really care, didn't really know me, or me know them, with no way any longer to find someone who was real without forever worrying myself to sleep that this was just another, more clever wolf in sheep's clothing than before."

"Maybe what I've put together today is a silly, stupid answer to that. Because there's no way any of these women could love me, right? Not truly? Not yet anyway, of course not." He glanced over the backs of each, a brief moment of quiet seeping in. "We've hardly swapped favorite colors, so no, of course not yet." Jeffrey looked back to the crowd, finally. He adjusted his glasses, smiled soft, took his hands from the podium and stood up straight. "Blue, by the way. Anyway. So I've tried to do the right thing, be a better person over the last several years. I've always ran my company well, I think, but in the last five, six, seven years, we really ramped up what we do with charities, official charities or just donating to local communities, to the extent of what my stockholders let me get away with. We've given raises and benefits to our employees and their families to where we're now rated the Number Four company in the world to work for." He turned, smiled to someone off camera, speaking against the mic still, "Sorry, sorry. We're not going for Number One. I know you want slides, Oliver. I know Google has slides instead of elevators. We're not getting slides."

Jeffrey turned back to the crowd, laughing along with everyone else. "So I sat down one day, I considered everything I wanted, everything I truly wanted, if I allowed myself the balls enough to dream. I drew up my Point B in my mind's eye, and how to get there. Simple things like someone to love, a family, and all the time in the world together. Things that I had grown so complacent in life to never having, that I did not realize how hungry I was, until I was starving. But, how to get there? The time, that was the easy part. I just had to give up everything I've worked for my whole life, right? Just flip that switch inside 'Off,' albeit easier said than done. Retire early, enjoy the money. But with whom? If I've already reached a point where I can't trust someone I meet to be in it for the right reasons, then what? ...If you've the perfect answer, please, let me know. But what I came up with was the idea of other celebrities. That someone like that, they can probably relate..." Jeffrey glanced back over his right shoulder, to Scarlett, allowing eye contact to happen if she so wanted it. "To being alone, even while surrounded by people. To having everything they've worked for, yet nothing that they truly want. To be willing to trade it all away, yet what they want most, is it even available to them?"

Back to the crowd, "The 'slavery' thing is just a bit of kinky fun. Guilty." Another round of laughter. "But, I mean, it carries a real finality to it, right? Weeds out the jokers? The fair-weather devotees? I thought it might reach out to other lonely souls, that together we might build a life, a family, see where that takes us. And it's all treading new ground -- untouched powder, after a snowfall. I didn't know to expect four," he bemused. "I didn't know to expect ten, or one, or nothing at all. So three, with a fourth considering... I believe the term is an embarrassment of riches. We'll disappear from the world for awhile, and see if we can build something special and meaningful to each of us, together."

Jeffrey glanced again to the backs of each of his pretty things, knelt in a show of both unending obedience and endless patience. He looked to Emilia, her bare shoulders and chestnut hair dripping downward to a shapely rear set upon her heels, and the swell of her breasts from this sideways angle. He looked to Ariana to her left, her hair more of a deeper brown chocolate, her shape more lithe, more girlish, right down to her 'cute' butt and smaller breasts rather than something like a Scarlett, who was overwhelmingly 'fully grown.' He looked to Madelaine, marriage of the sun and moon, of pale night and blazing fire. "You know," as he looked at each of their backs, "I've never even had a best friend. I mean, I don't even know what that's like."

"So we're each here, everyone on stage today, all stripped to nothing emotionally, some of us figuratively, with bated breath and fingers crossed and trust abounds. Each having travelled a different path to get here, but, I think, wanting to arrive in much the same place. Wanting it bad enough to bet everything. In football, it's called a Hail Mary play. It's something done in desperation, with only a chance of success, because you...you just fucking ache for what's on the other side of that field, and if that's what you have to do to get it, then so be it, right? Then so be it."

"You might fall flat on your face. But you're willing to give up everything -- me included, I'm going to be signing away my entire company today too -- just for a chance at what you can see, but can't yet touch, can't yet taste, knowing that if you don't do something drastic, that chance at everything that's worth anything could very quickly be gone forever."