Chapter 57: [58]: Rival Detected, Cum on the CEO’s Face
Chapter 57: [58]: Rival Detected, Cum on the CEO’s Face
Sarah. Lucas’s Apartment. Night.
Easiest to tell. She’s still new enough to be awed rather than frightened.
"A secret island full of powerful people who are into conquest? That sounds like the plot of three different animes I’ve watched."
"This isn’t fiction."
"None of this feels like fiction, Lucas. You appeared in my life like a plot device. I’m just rolling with it at this point."
She doesn’t know how right she is.
All five informed. All five attending.
DAYS REMAINING: 21
---
Night. Alone in his apartment. Elena downstairs. The building quiet.
He opens the desk drawer. Margaret’s note. Still there. Still folded. Still unanswered.
"Don’t let whatever you have become a conveyor belt."
What would Margaret think about the Summit? She’d probably tell me not to go. That it sounds like a conveyor belt with better catering.
He closes the drawer.
The System speaks. Different now. Warmer. More present.
"Master... the Summit may hold answers. About what I am. About what WE are. I feel it. Like a pull. Like gravity."
"Since when do you feel gravity?"
"Since recently. Inconvenient, I know."
The System is evolving. Growing. Feeling things it shouldn’t be able to feel. And it’s scared. Not that it’ll admit that. But I can hear it in the pauses between words.
His phone sits on the nightstand. Five women’s messages. One unanswered thread.
Margaret’s number. Still disconnected. Still silent.
Three weeks until the Summit. Five women depending on him. A mysterious entity called M watching from the shadows. And a System that’s becoming something it was never designed to be.
He sets his alarm. Tomorrow, the real preparation begins.
Twenty-one days. Five women. One island. Zero clue what I’m walking into.
Same as always, then.
---
Monday. Blackwood Tower. 88th floor.
Diana had prepared an actual intelligence dossier.
She spreads documents across the conference table. Printed materials. Screen captures. Hand-written notes. A photograph paper-clipped to the first page.
"The Summit has no official website. No public records. No social media presence. But patterns emerge if you know where to look."
She spent three years gathering this. Three years of quiet obsession. Diana Blackwood doesn’t collect information. She hoards it like a dragon hoards gold.
What Diana Found:
"One. Every November, for forty-seven years, private charter flights depart from various locations to an unlisted island. Flight logs exist but are sealed. I obtained partial records through professional contacts." She means lawyers she intimidated.
"Two. Attendees are wealthy. Powerful. Predominantly male but not exclusively. Ages range from late twenties to early sixties. All share one characteristic: unusual success in romantic conquests."
"Three. Previous attendees include a retired senator, a tech billionaire, a European royal I won’t name." She pauses. "And several women. Not companions. Attendees. Collectors in their own right."
"Four. Rumored activities include competition elements. Categories for different conquest types. Awards. And something called ’The Prize’ that nobody can agree on. Person, resource, or something else entirely."
"This is thorough." Lucas flips through pages. "How long did this take?"
"Three years. I started gathering after my first invitation." She pauses. "Which I declined."
"Why?"
"Because I had nothing to prove. I was Diana Blackwood. I didn’t need a secret island to validate my conquests." A beat. "But then you happened. And suddenly I have something worth proving."
She wants to show me off. Like a prize horse at a dressage competition.
"I’m not a trophy, Diana."
"You’re not a trophy. You’re a contender. Trophies sit on shelves. Contenders enter the arena."
---
Marcus Cole.
One photograph. Paper-clipped. A man at a charity gala. Early thirties. Tall. Handsome in a way that suggests money and maintenance. Impeccable suit. Surrounded by women.
"This is Marcus Cole. He attended the last three Summits. Word is he’s considered the current champion."
"Champion of what?"
"Conquest. He reportedly has over forty women in his collection. Across four continents. Including two celebrities and at least one government official."
```
[POTENTIAL RIVAL DETECTED]
[MARCUS COLE]
[Age: 33]
[Difficulty: UNKNOWN]
[Classification: FELLOW COLLECTOR]
[CRITICAL: Cannot scan via Milf Radar.
Marcus Cole is not a TARGET. He is a PEER.
System cannot assess non-target individuals.]
[Unknown if Cole possesses:
A) Natural charisma (like Diana believes)
B) A System similar to yours
C) Something else entirely
[CAUTION: MAXIMUM]
```
Forty women. I have five. He has forty. Either he’s been doing this much longer, or he has advantages I don’t. Or both.
"He looks like a perfume advertisement," Lucas mutters.
"He’s effective. Ruthless. And he treats women like collectibles." Diana’s voice hardens. "I’ve seen his work. The women he collects aren’t partners. They’re trophies. Broken ones, eventually."
"And that’s different from what I’m doing how?"
The question slips out. Diana’s ice-blue eyes narrow.
"Because you care about yours. I’ve watched you with Elena. Terrified of losing her. Victoria. Guilty about her marriage. Yuki. Paranoid about Marcus finding out. Sarah. Careful with her feelings." She leans forward. "Cole doesn’t care. He takes. Uses. Discards. You build. Nurture. Keep. That’s the difference."
---
Diana circles the table. Stops behind his chair. Her hand rests on his shoulder. Light. Testing. She leans down. Her lips brush his ear.
"You’re tense. You’ve been tense since you walked in." Her breath is warm. She smells like expensive perfume and ambition. "I know what helps."
"Diana, we’re discussing a secret society competition."
"And I’m discussing stress management." Her hand slides down his chest. Over his stomach. To his belt. "Twenty minutes. Then we finish the briefing."
Her fingers work his belt. Unzip his pants. She reaches in and pulls his cock free. Strokes him. Slow. Deliberate. The grip of a woman who handles everything with precision.
She’s doing this in her conference room. On the 88th floor. With her intelligence dossier spread out next to my dick. Diana Blackwood has no boundaries and I’ve never been more terrified or aroused.
She walks around the table. Kneels. Ice-blue eyes looking up at him. Silver-streaked hair falling forward.
"I don’t do this often," she says. "Consider it strategic asset management."
Her mouth takes him in. Hot. Wet. Skilled. Her tongue works the underside of his shaft while her hand strokes the base. She bobs slowly. Taking him deeper with each motion. Her lips tight around his cock. One hand cupping his balls. Rolling them gently.
[PLEASURE TOUCH. Passive Mode]
She moans around him. The vibration sending electricity up his spine. Her free hand grips his thigh. Nails digging through his pants.
"Fuck, Diana..."
She pulls back. Lips swollen. Eyes dark. "I spent three years gathering this intelligence. The least you can do is pay attention to both heads."
She takes him back in. Deeper this time. Her throat relaxing around his tip. She’d learned this over weeks of Wednesday sessions. Learned what made him gasp. What made his hips jerk. What made his fingers grab her hair.
He’s close. She can tell. She speeds up. Hand and mouth working together. Wet sounds filling the conference room. His cock throbs against her tongue.
"I’m going to..."
She pulls back. Strokes him with her hand. Fast. Tight. "On my face."
Forty-fifth floor CEO asking me to cum on her face in a conference room. My life is insane.
He explodes. Thick ropes across her cheek, her chin, her lips. She keeps stroking through it. Milking every drop. Cum dripping onto her charcoal blazer. She doesn’t care.
```
[INTIMACY LOG]
[Target: Diana Blackwood]
[Activity: Oral, conference room]
[Bond: REINFORCED]
[Taming: 100% (STABLE)]
[TP: +10]
[Energy: 150 → 135]
[SYSTEM NOTE: "Target did not remove
her blazer. Power move. Also, that
dossier cost more than your apartment."]
```
She stands. Wipes her face with a handkerchief. Adjusts her blazer. Back to CEO mode in ten seconds.
"Now. Where were we?"
"Marcus Cole. Forty women. Psychopath."
"Right." She sits across from him. Composed. Like she didn’t just have his cum on her face. "He’ll be at the Summit. He’ll see you as competition. Or as entertainment. Either way, he’ll approach."
"What do I do?"
"Be yourself. The version of yourself that beat me. That beat Elena. That turned Sarah from a blackmailer into a devotee." She straightens papers. "Cole has quantity. You have quality. The Summit rewards both, but quality wins ties."
---
That Evening. Apartment 4B.
Lucas tries Margaret’s number. For the first time in weeks. It rings.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail. Her voice. Recorded. Generic. "Hi, this is Margaret. Leave a message."
His heart hammers. He speaks.
"Maggie. It’s Lucas. I know you’re somewhere. Doing something. I just wanted to say I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. And that I’ve been thinking about what you wrote. About the conveyor belt. I’m trying not to become one." Pause. "I’m going to something called the Summit next month. I don’t know if it’s going to be amazing or terrible. But I wish you were here to tell me it’s a bad idea." Another pause. "Biscuit okay? You’re okay? Just call me back. Please."
He hangs up. Stares at the phone.
She was real. She IS real. And she heard my voice tonight. And maybe, maybe, she’ll call back.
He lies in bed. Phone on his chest. The photograph of Marcus Cole burned into his memory. Forty women. Five continents. A champion who treats women like trophies.
Diana said he’s different from me. Margaret said don’t become a conveyor belt. Elena said stay a person. Everyone keeps telling me the same thing in different words. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t become the collection.
But what if the Summit doesn’t give me a choice?
The System is unusually quiet after that. Letting him sit with his thoughts.
Margaret’s voicemail. Marcus Cole’s photograph. An island full of strangers who call themselves collectors.
Twenty days.
And somewhere in Portland, a woman he barely knew is listening to his voice on her phone, deciding whether to respond.