The office of Jonathan, the main manager of Heaven’s Feel Brothel, was a cozy haven tucked away from the main hall.
Jonathan stood near a water filter in the corner, his broad frame relaxed. *Beep* Jonathan pressed a button on the water filter, and a *flush* of water poured into a glass. He placed another glass under the spout, filling it with a steady stream.
Turning it off, he picked up both glasses, the water sloshing slightly, and walked over.
He handed me one, his grin wide, his eyes glinting with mischief, knowing exactly what kind of client I’d been with last night. "Here, drink. You must be tired from all that night," he said, his voice teasing, his smile spreading.
"Thanks. I sure needed it," I said, smiling back, taking the glass from him.
He sat on the edge of his desk, the wood creaking under his weight, his glass in hand, his t-shirt straining slightly over his broad chest, his eyes still twinkling in playfulness.
We both drank fast, gulping the water down in one go, the glasses emptying almost in sync, our thirst a shared sign of the brothel’s toll and how luch tired we both actually were.
We were both beat, the night’s chaos—his with fights and drunks, handling all the tax and other papers and mine with Elizabeth—leaving us drained, the office a brief pause.
*Tap.* We set our glasses on the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet, the empty glasses catching the light
*Phewwww*" We both exhaled in unison and our exhaustion unspoken but clear, the brothel’s rhythm a constant weight.
"Damn, that was fast." He said with a surprise, seeing my empty glass of water. "Want some more?" Jonathan asked, his voice casual, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees, his grin fading into a friendly concern, the water filter humming faintly.
"No, no, it’s fine. I’m good," I said, raising a hand, my voice calm, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Jonathan leaned closer, his hands gripping both my shoulders firmly, his eyes locking onto mine, his grin returning, wider, more mischievous.
"So...Mr. Hero, The Ezra," he said, his voice low, teasing, his hands squeezing.
His tone shifting to a conspiratorial whisper. "How was it like....thrusting inside the pussy of the First Lady?" He covered his mouth with one hand, muffling a chuckle, his eyes dancing, his question bold, crude, a jab at the red room’s wild night, Elizabeth’s status a thrill he couldn’t resist poking at, the brothel’s secrets ours to share.
*Cough, cough.* I choked on air, my face flushing, the memory of Elizabeth’s body, her moans, her dominance in the red room crashing back, my throat tight and Jonathan’s grin too damn smug.
"What even—" I started, my voice cracking and my eyes narrowed towards him.
"Bwahahahaha!" Jonathan laughed, his voice booming, leaning back on the desk, his hands slapping his thighs. "Good reaction," he said, wiping a tear, his smile wide.
I shook my head, my smile breaking through, my hand scratching my forehead, the worry creeping in, Elizabeth’s number burning in my pocket.
"You are laughing here and I’m more worried about the fact that she took my number," I said, my voice low, my brow furrowing.
Jonathan’s face shifted, his grin vanished all of a sudden, his eyes narrowing, his hands dropping to the desk slowly, the papers still, the sunlight soft, the office now went quiet and the air became heavy.
His sudden seriousness catching me off guard.
"What?" he asked, his voice flat, leaning forward, his brow creasing. "What did you just say?"
"Yeah... she took my number," I said, my voice steady, meeting his eyes, my hand still on my forehead, the paper crinkling in my pocket.
Elizabeth’s interest a sudden trouble which I might’ve got caught myself into.
Jonathan’s reaction a warning, the day ahead, the world outside waiting, the next moment uncertain, the work never truly done.
"But why would you give it?" Jonathan asked, his voice sharp and his eyes widening further, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if an earth quake as occured, the office was now tense, the air heavy, his disbelief clear, the brothel’s rules a shield he knew well.
"You can say no to privacy stuff like that. The brothel’s rules would’ve backed you up, Ezra. You know that."
I sighhed, my shoulders slumping, my hand running through my damp hair, my mind replaying the moment Elizabeth asked for my number, her sultry smile, her commanding presence—the First Lady, a woman who bent the world to her will.
"I know that, obviously," I said, my voice low, stressing each word, my brow furrowing.
"But... it was like... I don’t know. She’s the top woman in the country. Maybe it was her authority, because of which..I just... gave in."
I leaned back, my chair creaking, my hands rubbing my face. "What the fuck did I do that for..?" I asked myself loudly.
The memory of Elizabeth’s gaze, her fingers trailing my jaw, her voice pulling me under, making my brain short-circuit.
The brothel’s rules—clients can’t touch our private lives, just as we can’t touch theirs—forgotten in that moment.
Jonathan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing, a suspicious look crossing his face, his hands relaxing on the desk.
"Ummmm..." he said, drawing it out, his voice low, teasing, his lips twitching in awkwardness.
"What?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, my voice sharp, leaning slightly forward, my patience thinning, his suspicious look grating.
"Ummmmm..." Jonathan did it again, his voice dragging, his eyes glinting with mischief, his hands folding on the desk.
"What is it? Tell me," I said, my voice firm, my hands slapping the desk, the empty glasses wobbling, the office tense, the air heavy, my eyes locked on with his, my frustration clear.
Jonathan leaned closer, his grin widening, his hands gesturing dramatically, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Did you..." he said, pausing for effect, his eyes dancing, his question hanging, "Fall for her... after fucking her?"
I froze, my breath catching, my face flushing, the memory of Elizabeth’s body, her moans, her dominance in the red room crashing back, her number in my pocket a sudden weight, the sunlight soft and the office quiet as his words came like a shot from bazooka.
The air heavy, his question a bomb, my reaction unguarded, Jonathan’s grin too damn smug, the next moment uncertain.