The President

By the time Zaria arrived at the club that night, the transition from the esteemed "President" of the university to the Sanctum’s most coveted and expensive prize was absolute. Viktor had seen the numbers—and more importantly, he had seen the glazed, hungry look in Zaria’s dark eyes that indicated she was no longer just working a job or playing a role. She was a true believer in the doctrine of her own debasement. To capitalize on her skyrocketing fame among the city's elite, Viktor had granted her a permanent, private suite at the very end of the VIP hallway, a soundproofed vault of indulgence where the city’s true power was brokered in the dark.

The door was unmarked save for a small, gold-plated sign that mocked her former life: The President’s Office.

The entry fee for a single hour in this room was a staggering $15,000, a price tag that filtered out everyone but the most affluent and entitled men in the Midwest. Under her new, predatory contract, Zaria kept ninety percent of the take, with only ten percent going back to the club for "administrative costs." To any other woman, the prospect of making $13,500 an hour would have been life-altering, a ticket to a world of endless luxury. To Zaria, the money was just background noise, a digital score ticking up on an app she rarely bothered to check anymore. The only "pay" she truly cared about was the visceral, heavy-handed "mischief" that occurred once the heavy oak door clicked shut and the world of academia was left a thousand miles away.

The suite was a sensory playground designed specifically to house her "corruption." It was significantly larger than the South Loop apartment she shared with Caleb, filled with plush, emerald-green velvet-covered furniture, an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a specialized bar stocked with the finest spirits. Zaria stood in the center of the room, her bronze skin glowing under the recessed amber lighting. She wore a bodysuit that was more architecture than clothing—a skeletal structure of shimmering gold chains and sheer obsidian silk that emphasized every curve of her powerhouse hourglass figure. Her dense, springy curls were wild and voluminous, a dark crown that framed a face that had forgotten how to blush. Her diamond earrings—the trophies of her previous betrayals—caught the light like predatory eyes, mocking the "pure" woman she used to be.

Her first client of the night was a tech mogul from the West Loop who had flown in specifically to see if the whispers about the "compliant President" were true. He was a man who was used to disrupting industries and getting whatever he wanted through brute financial force. He didn't waste time with the polite flirting or the slow build-up Zaria had experienced during her first week. He didn't want the student; he wanted the slave.

As soon as he entered, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, he grabbed her by her toned bronze arm, his fingers digging into her skin with a strength that left immediate, pale marks. He swung her around with a rough, possessive entitlement. He didn't want to talk about university budgets, Ph.D. research, or the future of the city. He wanted to see how much of the woman could be physically and mentally broken in sixty minutes. He manhandled her with a cold, professional aggression, tossing her 5'2" frame onto the velvet sofa as if she were a piece of furniture he had just purchased.

Zaria didn't fight him. She didn't even pretend to be shocked. Instead, she leaned into the aggression, her "itch" finally being scratched by the raw, unrefined force of a man who viewed her as a high-priced commodity. He didn't wait for her to adjust; he stepped between her legs, ripping the obsidian silk of her bodysuit aside to expose her. His weight came down on her like a physical blow, pinning her deep into the velvet as he crushed the breath from her lungs. He entered her with a brutal, single-minded thrust that made her vision swim, his hands reaching up to yank her springy curls back until she was forced to look into the mirror and watch her own undoing.

He fucked her brains out with a relentless, mechanical rhythm that felt more like a conquest than an act of pleasure. Every jarring impact sent a jolt of electricity through her bronze limbs, making her back arch and her heels dig frantically into the sofa cushions. He was heavy, smelling of expensive scotch and cold calculation, and he used his size to completely overwhelm her. Zaria’s voice was reduced to muffled, desperate sobs of ecstasy as she was pounded into the velvet, her mind spiraling into a dazed, lustful oblivion. She realized with a dark thrill that she preferred this—the raw, selfish demand that treated her body as a tool—to the gentle, hesitant way Caleb still tried to touch her. She didn't want to be loved; she wanted to be colonized.

He moved her to the mahogany desk, forcing her to kneel in the very spot where she was supposed to be "The President." He gripped her by the hair, yanking her head back as he hammered into her from behind, the stinging crack of his palm against her rounded posterior echoing through the suite. Zaria came over and over again, her body trembling under the weight of his entitlement, her mind completely surrendering to the exquisite sensation of being conquered.

For the next several hours, a relentless rotation of the city’s most powerful men cycled through her "office." They were politicians, real estate developers, and sports team owners—men who, in another life, sat on the university's board of directors and would have been asked to sign her diploma. Now, they treated her like a toy, manipulating her petite, voluptuous body into every position imaginable. They bent her over the desk, they pressed her against the cool glass of the mirrors to watch her own undoing, and their heavy hands left stinging, red marks on her rounded posterior and the smooth, supple skin of her thighs.

Zaria was used and exhausted, her voice reduced to a series of muffled screams and desperate, hungry pleas for more. She came so many times that her vision began to blur into a kaleidoscope of amber light and dark velvet. Her mind spiraled into a dazed, lustful oblivion where the only thing that existed was the heavy, rhythmic pounding of the men who claimed her. She found herself using the techniques she had practiced on "poor, unsuspecting Caleb," but here, they were met with a raw intensity that actually satisfied her. She was a vessel for their power, and she loved every second of the erasure.

The "spoils" of the night were staggering, piling up in the corners of the suite like a landfill of luxury. By 3:00 AM, the room looked like a high-end boutique on the Magnificent Mile. Tucked into the velvet shadows were half a dozen designer bags—Birkins, Chanels, and Pradas that Zaria didn't even bother to open, their logos gleaming mockingly in the dim light. Scattered across the coffee table were velvet boxes containing shimmering diamond necklaces, bracelets that matched the ones already on her wrists, and heavy gold pendants that felt like weights around her neck.

But the most unique "tip" came from a man who owned a major stake in the city’s professional sports landscape. He had been so enamored by Zaria’s "training"—by her skilled, hungry service and the way she had hummed with excitement under his touch—that he had handed her a thick, embossed envelope before leaving. Inside were VIP season tickets—front-row, center-court, and field-side—for every professional sports team in Chicago.

"You’re the new queen of this city, President," he had whispered, his hand smacking her flushed ass one last time with a crack that echoed through the room. "You might as well watch the world you’ve conquered from the best seats in the house. Consider it a tribute to your... administrative skills."

Zaria lay on the emerald velvet sofa long after the last man had left, her chest heaving, her springy obsidian curls damp with sweat and the heavy, expensive scent of multiple colognes. She looked at the season tickets, the mountains of diamonds, and the piles of cash that sat uncounted on the bar. She felt "broken" in the most exquisite, gilded way possible. She had everything she could ever want, more money than her family in Georgia would see in a lifetime, yet she felt like a hollowed-out vessel. Her original identity had been completely consumed by the fire of her own corruption, leaving only this creature of the Sanctum behind.

She thought briefly of the Ph.D. program, her textbooks, and the "pure" world where people worried about grades and ethics. She thought of Caleb, who was likely currently studying in their quiet, boring apartment, dreaming of a future for a woman who no longer existed. She realized with a cold, clear certainty that she didn't want that life back. She didn't want the respect of her peers or the burden of leadership. She wanted the Sanctum. She wanted the "Office." She wanted the weight of the men who viewed her as nothing more than a beautiful, compliant object.

She checked her digital wallet with a mechanical, disinterested flick of her wrist. Another $60,000 had been cleared in a single night. She transferred it to her hidden account without a second thought, the numbers meaning nothing compared to the bruises on her hips. Then, she stood up, adjusted her gold chains until they bit into her skin, and signaled Viktor that she was ready for the next client. The "itch" was never truly gone; it was just a constant, throbbing reminder of exactly who she had become—and how much she loved it.