I take my tie off and order her to turn around.

“We’re in public,” she protests weakly, her voice quivering.

Oh, I’m going to fuck her hard.

“The room is soundproof,” I inform her. I don’t tell her that I tested this theory when I killed a man in this room a few months back while diners ate on the other side of the grotto wall, unawares. He tried to sell my secrets to competitors who owned a trucking company – but the competitors secretly worked for me. Nobody heard his screams.

I designed the room the way it is because I am a silent partner, the real owner of the restaurant. It’s a good place to lure people who might have their guard up otherwise. After all, what could go wrong in such a public place?

Well, Willow’s about to find out the answer to that question.

I bind her hands behind her back.

Then, while I’m still standing behind her, I take one of the napkins from the table and stuff it into her mouth. She squirms and tries to spit it out. I pull out my silk handkerchief and gag her tightly. Now she’s making furious sounds, and it makes me laugh out loud.

“What was that, honey? If I want to fuck you up the ass, you’re hoping I use lube this time?”

She shakes her head frantically and lets out an enraged squeal.

“Oh, you’ve been bad? You deserve to be punished?”

I force her to bend over the table. I lift the hem of her dress to her waist, and spank her, hard. She tries to move away. I grab her bound wrists and hold her firmly in place.

Her muffled shrieks just urge me on, and I smack her ass again and again until it’s red and glowing, while she writhes and struggles and kicks uselessly at me.

When I slide my fingers between her legs, of course she’s wet for me. I massage her pussy, and now she’s moaning, spreading her legs wider and arching her ass up. Rubbing herself against me. The spicy scent of her arousal perfumes the air, and I draw it in as if it’s my only oxygen.

I make sure not to stroke her too fast, because I don’t want her to come before I’m ready. Her squeals of protest have melted into moans of pleasure.

“I’ll give you a choice,” I say. I love to give her fake choices. “Ass or pussy?”

She desperately struggles to answer me.

Mmmph, mmmph, mmmmph….

“Taking it up the ass hurts, but you know you deserve it? Well, if you insist…” The gag swallows up her cries of protest, and my cock twitches with arousal.

I came prepared. I slide a bottle of lube out of my pocket and I massage her pink, puckered little hole. Then I pull the butt plug out of my pocket and force it in. I slowly slide it halfway out, then back in, again and again, stretching her. I’m in a good mood, so I’m opening her up slowly this time. She’s groaning, and her bound hands clench into fists.

She hates it, she loves it…

Finally I slide the butt plug out, drop it on the table, and force myself into her tight rear channel. Her muscles clench so tight that she’s almost crushing my cock. She’s shuddering, trying to force herself to relax so it won’t hurt as much. I pump slowly, and I bend over and reach around, and with every thrust, I stroke her clit.

Her muffled whimpers drive me mad. I make myself go slow. Her head is turned to the side and her cheeks are flushed, and tears are leaking from her eyes. She’s pushing herself back, wanting more of me. Greedy girl.

I keep up the pressure on the tight little bud of her clitoris, dragging my finger back and forth, back and forth. She’s humming low in her throat, her face contorted with ecstasy.

She’s turning liquid with desire. All resistance is gone now. When I feel her start to shudder and clench, I pick up the pace, thrusting harder and harder, rocking the table with each thrust.

We come at the same time, our groans of pleasure mingling, our bodies shaking. The pleasure is so intense it’s painful, and the pulses of my orgasm throb throughout my entire body. I stand there, shaking from the aftershocks, until finally they recede and I slide out of her.

When I take the gag out of her mouth, her voice is hoarse.

“You fucking bastard. That hurt. And you gagged me!” Willow used to have to force herself to swear in front of me. I loved it. But I love filthy-mouthed Willow just as much.

I laugh at her. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t love it.”

“Oh, God. I loved it so much.” Her words slide out on a moan of surrender. I untie her, and when she stands up, her knees are shaking. I’m still behind her, and I pull her up against me because I glory in making her weak. I love that she needs my strength to stand. We’re two parts of a whole right now; her soft core melts my rigid core until I’m almost human again.

We stand that way, and the seconds melt into minutes, and we’re the only people in the world. Our island is a nation of two. The pain is gone, the darkness is at bay, and I’m just here, in the present, with no past and no future. This is as close as I’ll ever get to heaven.

Finally, reluctantly, I let her go.

* * *

The sun beats down mercilessly on the small clearing in the forest. Vultures are circling overhead. Cataha’s new men stand with folded arms and scowls stamped on their faces. He actually had to hijack an armored truck to finance the hiring of a new crew. Him, reduced to armed robbery. He’s better than that.

Cataha looks down at the bodies of the three local police officers. They are sprawled in the grass in the middle of a clearing, their arms and legs flung every which way, puppets with their strings cut. Their mouths gape open, their brains leak into the dirt. A hot breeze carries the stink of excrement; they voided their bowels when they died.

He and his men tortured the police officers for hours, until they were sure that the cops were telling the truth. None of them were behind the leak. They were not responsible for the rescue of those girls.

But they still had to die, because they had done a shit job of looking out for him. He should have been warned that the Politsiya were on their way to shut down his operation at the farmhouse. Instead he’d come within minutes of being snatched up and marched off to prison.

So he personally dispatched each of the cops with a shot to the head. One, two, three. The first one stared at him in shock, not believing he was about to die. Then the top of his head came off.

The second and third cried and screamed and begged, their voices shriller than a whore being raped with a hot poker. It was almost enough to make him feel better, but not quite.

He’s sure now that his betrayer was the crusading journalist, the one who has declared war on human trafficking in his district. The bastard writes under a pseudonym, Akim. One name only. “Akim” is getting tons of attention, and winning awards and international recognition for Reforma. He has gone beyond the duties of a normal journalist. He bribes people for information on Cataha’s plans, he slips recording devices into their offices… That’s illegal, is what it is!

After the latest cargo was rescued, all the bitches blabbed to the cops and the media, crying loud and long. And so “Akim” caught on to Cataha’s latest scheme, and wrote a story exposing the doctor who had helped him select the girls, and now the doctor’s life is ruined. Ruined. He’s on the run, sure to be stripped of his medical license, facing prison if he’s caught. It was a sexy story; it ended up splashed on every front page, every radio broadcast, every TV station, all around the world. There’s so much heat on Cataha right now that it’s like standing on the surface of the sun. He’s actually going to have to adjust his business model for a while and concentrate on robbery, and he hates that.

The thing about trafficking is, it’s incredibly lucrative, but that’s not the only reason he’s always focused on it as his main moneymaker. He does it because he loves it. He feels like a god when those crying girls are begging him for mercy. It’s a rush of power and ecstasy like none other. He has the power of life and death, of pain or relief. And he will be the emperor again.

He mutters curses to himself as he paces. People actually see Akim as a hero. Cataha sees Akim as a show-boating, sanctimonious vigilante asshole, dedicated to ruining successful businessmen like himself.

People see Cataha as a monster, but he knows what he really is. He’s survival of the fittest. He’s a meritocracy. Unlike those weak, undeserving little vaginas who inherit their money or worm their way up through the ranks of the corporation by kissing ass, he fought his way to the top, like a warlord.

He’s fortunate that, so far, at least, nobody knows who he really is. He’s maintained a front with his new identity as a successful businessman, big enough to live a moderately good life but small enough to avoid attention, and nobody is whispering his real name in connection with Cataha.

He’s got to take Akim out before he discovers and exposes Cataha’s real identity.

Of course, he has to find out who the fucker is first. He’s tried to infiltrate Reforma to find out Akim’s real name, but so far, there’s been no joy. They’re a bunch of pious little bitches over there, worshipping at the altar of imaginary concepts like “human rights” and “justice”.

It’s not just the Politsiya having a hard-on for him, or the assholes at Reforma. His problems are multiplying. The loss of shipment after shipment of girls has created a vacuum, a high demand in the region. Lately, his contacts are telling him that a new player has moved into town, who swears he’s offering a solution. He’ll be opening up a brothel soon that allegedly has the latest in security technology, and the assurance of protection from the law.

This new, nameless player claims he will have the finest, freshest girls, and he’s offering the same kind of anything-goes service that Cataha offered in his brothel – before it was raided. Of course, if a girl ends up dead or so severely injured that she has to be put down, the client will have to pay for the privilege, but there will be no other repercussions for the client. Anything goes. In fact, some clients come back again and again, just for that service.

So in addition to plugging the leaks that keep threatening to sink his operation, Cataha needs to find out who his new competition is, and kill him.

Then a thought occurs to him.

Maybe instead of killing “Akim” right away, he can use him first. If he can find out the identity of the new competitor, he can inform on the man and take out the competition. Then he’ll kill Akim. With luck, he’ll be able to do it personally, with dull instruments.

The thought brightens his day, and he finally manages a smile.

There’s a retching sound, and he looks up to see one of his new crew vomiting into the grass, unable to stand the stink of the dead bodies. Damn. That asshole will have to be replaced.

Good help is so hard to find these days.