I turn around to meet the newcomer, and I have to do a fucking double take.

Strutting from the back of the room, comes a spindly guy in loose khaki pants a purple button-down shirt that the 80’s forgot to claim back. Adding to the guy’s mismatched clothing choices, he’s also wearing a blazer one size too large for him.

“And who the hell are you?” Seymour growls, a look of pure stupefaction on his face. Even though he’s an asshole, this time I can’t help but share his surprise.

Just who the fuck is this new guy?

“The name is Jeff Wyrzykowski!” He proclaims with an exaggerated bow, stopping right in front of the board’s raised dais. With a flourish, he spins on his heels to face us all and rests his hands on his hips, chin raised high as if he were an 80’s porn version of Superman. “My friends,” he continues, “I know that you have presented interesting bids, but I’m afraid I have an offer to the board that will top everything else.”

“Yeah?” I ask Jeff Wyrziwhateverthefuck. “Enlighten us.”

Looking straight at me, he flashes a toothy grin and then claps his hands together. A split second later and the doors at the end of the room fly open. Four guys in dirty jeans and stained tank tops step inside, carrying what seems to be like a large wooden cabinet. They haul it all the way to the front of the room, and then place the thing down right in front of Jeff.

“This,” he starts, placing one hand on top of the cabinet, “is going to be a game-changer.”

“And what exactly is that?” Serena asks him. She sounds just as surprised and incredulous as everyone else in the room. What seemed to be a serious meeting is slowly turning into a fucking oddity circus.

“I’m glad you asked. This is a product that will change the lives of every billionaire in the country.” Pulling a hidden lever on the side of the cabinet, he makes its single door open up. Inside there’s a mattress that slowly lowers itself into a wooden frame, just like a Murphy bed. “I want to set up shop here on the Clarendon Tower. I’ll build those out of a shop in the back, and I’ll use the storefront to display our stock.”

“A furniture shop?”

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

“Not exactly, my friend,” he cries out, raising his index finger in a solemn gesture. “This piece of furniture here is something I devised to fill a particular luxury niche in the market.” Walking around the bed now occupying the center of the conference room, he then looks straight up at Seymour. “As you all know, there’s a lot of demand in the luxury market for Red Rooms.”

No fucking way.

Is this guy seriously going there?

“Red Rooms?” Seymour asks him, completely oblivious to the fucking shitshow I can already feel is coming.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ve heard all about the mythical Red Room of Pain. It’s a staple in any serious billionaire apartment.”

Alright, fuck.

This guy is batshit crazy.

Is he really trying to pitch the board a fucking smut concept? Hey, I’m all for tying up women up and making them come over and over again. I just never saw the need to have a specific room for that—any location works for me.

“Isn’t that thing just a bed, anyway?” I ask him. “You’re pretty much just talking about selling beds. Unless you’re going to supplement that by selling...accessories.”

“Not really,” he replies, a glint in his eye. “Allow me to demonstrate. Mr. President of the Board?” Turning around the board’s table, he makes an inviting motion to the president, waving at the bed. Seymour just stares down at the guy, who remains completely unfazed. “It’ll be quick,” he insists, and Seymour just sighs and slowly stands up.

Alright, this should be interesting.

“Now,” Jeff continues, placing one hand on Seymour’s shoulder. “Imagine you are a young up-and-coming billionaire. Fantastic, great? But there’s a problem. You’re not rich enough to star in one of Tara Starr’s novels. But the ladies don’t know that, do they? So when they get to your apartment, expecting a fully stocked Red Room of Pain, you run the risk of embarrassing yourself and ruining the night. And that’s where this fantastic piece comes in. I like to call it...the Red Bed of Pain! A budget solution for a budget billionaire!”

It happens fast.

Pushing Seymour down on the bed. Jeff opens a small side panel embedded in the frame and presses a couple of buttons. Immediately, a set of frilly pink handcuffs pop up from the sides. Before Seymour knows what’s happening, Jeff snaps the fucking things shut around his wrists.

“Now,” he continues excitedly, turning to face the rest of the board, “this is how you impress your lady friends!”

He presses one more button, and a small panel opens up over the headboard to reveal a mechanical arm with something attached on the tip. Holy fuck is that a—

“Yes! It’s a twelve-inch vibrating masterpiece!” Jeff proclaims, pushing another button and sending the veiny dildo on a frenzy. It starts rotating as the mechanical arm descends, and I simply watch as all of its twelve inches move toward Seymour.

Is this really fucking happening?

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” Seymour finally bellows, struggling against the handcuffs. His face is as red as a tomato, and I can see a thick vein throbbing on his forehead. The moment he’s out of those handcuffs, I bet he’s gonna choke this fucker. “RELEASE ME!”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Jeff whispers, pressing another button. Instead of stopping the dildo, the fucking thing just goes into high-gear, thrusting down toward Seymour’s mouth. He thrashes around on the bed, trying to avoid each stab of the fucking vibrator as he screams like a fucking pussy.

“STOP THIS FUCKING MADN—”

Seymour doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Instead, the vibrator starts rotating like a fucking helicopter helix, slapping him across the face repeatedly. Nobody says a word as the President of the Board receives a beating from a fucking 12-inch vibrating cock, the only sound in the room the constant battering of the fucking thing on his forehead.

Fuck me.

I’m glad I came to this meeting.

“Shut the fucking thing down, man,” I tell Jeff. By now, beads of sweat are trickling down his forehead as he pushes button after button on the control panel, every time he does it unleashing more of that dildo-slapping fury on Seymour.

Jesus fuck.

Shaking my head, I walk straight to Jeff and push him to the side. I take one look at the panel—a fucking thousand buttons in there—and decide to do the most sensible thing.

Cocking my arm back, I just punch the fucking thing, smashing the panel to pieces.

“SECURITY!” Seymour screams the moment the dildo stops, hanging limply over his forehead. “GET THIS MAN OUT OF HERE!”

“No, but—” Jeff tries to protest, but the 200-pound gorillas that just stepped inside the room couldn’t give any less of a fuck. Grabbing him by the arms, they drag his ass out of the conference room.

“And get that fucking thing out of here,” Seymour spits out toward the movers that hauled the bed inside. As they get busy doing it, he takes back his seat at the table, adjusting his tie while gritting his teeth. There’s no doubt in my mind that this fucking Jeff idiot will be barred for life from stepping inside the Clarendon.

“Alright, can we finally move on?” Seymour continues, his words harsh and furious. “Or is there someone else?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then I hear a man’s voice coming from the back.

“Me, Mr. President. I’d like to make a bid.”