Page 1 of Trained In Sin

Seb

"Can I put it in?" I ask gently, knowing I'm going to be anything but fucking gentle. She looks over the arm of the sofa in my office, and watches as my bodyguard plays some stupid game on his phone.

"Don't look at him, look at me," I tell her, gripping her chin and turning her to face me.

She's laying on my black leather sofa, legs open, evidence of how much she wants me is smeared on the seat. Her eyes lock on to mine, desire and fear war at war with each other. Exactly how I want her. The power in this moment is intoxicating.

She gives me a nod.

I line my cock up with her, and before she can change her mind, I thrust into her deep enough to make her yelp.

Tears prick at her eyes. I know she's not a virgin but fuck she's tight.

I pull myself out to the head, and drive back into her, lifting her off of the cushion to meet me.

She doesn't yelp this time but takes a sharp breath and closes her eyes.

Before she can exhale, I pull out and slam into her a third time.

She screws her eyes up tighter, so I slap her across the face.

Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to see my handprint blossom across her cheek

"Fucking look at me," I demand.

She opens her eyes, tears now spilling down her cheeks.

I press my fingers against her lips. "Open.

" She complies, and I circle them inside her mouth before withdrawing them slick with saliva.

When I touch her where she's most sensitive, her breathing changes. Small sounds escape her throat as I keep up my relentless pace. I slam into her over and over, and I know she’s right on the edge.

That's when I stop. I withdraw completely and tuck myself away with deliberate movements.

"Get the fuck out of my office," I growl, tucking my cock back into my trousers.

"Wait, what…." She begins, slowly pulling her skirt down, confused as to why I denied her everything she never knew she wanted.

"Did I fucking stutter?" My voice drops dangerously low. "Get out. And tell your Dad, he still owes me four grand. He's got till Friday." I turn my back on her and stalk toward the desk my bodyguard, Matthew, is sat at.

She stares at me, comprehension dawning alongside humiliation. She pulls her clothing together with trembling hands, grabs her bag, and leaves. The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.

"You're a real cunt, you know that Seb," Matthew says, not bothering to look up from his game.

"All's fair in love and war my friend," I slap Matthew on his shoulder and lean over him to grab my whisky off the desk.

Taking a large swig, I tell him “And this is war!

Her Dad's fucked us around for too long.

He pays or I send him the recording." I point up to the CCTV camera I have conveniently installed to face the sofa.

"You actually filmed her? Sick fuck."

"Not the first time, and won't be the last," I say with a smile.

I finish my drink, put my glass back on the table then grab my suit jacket from the back of the chair, swinging it on as I leave.

"Are you coming, or has Sweet Smash got too much of your attention," I ask, raising an eyebrow at his phone.

"Obviously, I'm coming. You haven't got the balls to go out on your own," Matthew smirks, sliding his phone into his pocket.

"I think you'll find I have, you just saw them for yourself," I laugh, with Matthew following behind.

I glance up at the CCTV camera. The recording should have captured everything perfectly. I've got a growing collection of similar videos. Insurance policies that have proven useful time and again. Morality has no place in my business. Anyone who thinks otherwise ends up working for someone like me.

*

The girl's perfume still lingers in my office when we get back, cheap just like her.

I open the windows wide, letting the air sweep through the space.

Syren sits on the edge of the financial district, surrounded by gleaming skyscrapers where men in suits cheaper than mine make money the "right" way. I prefer my methods.

"You get off on this shit, don't you?" Matthew asks, leaning against the doorframe. He's been with me for five years, the only person who can speak to me this way.

"The sex or the power?" I ask, straightening my cufflinks. Italian, like the suit. I don't skimp on appearances.

"Both. Neither." He shrugs. "The game."

I consider this as I pour another whisky. Matthew declines with a shake of his head when I offer him one. Always on duty, that one.

"It's not a game when you know you'll win," I say, swirling the amber liquid. "Her father's a gambler with expensive tastes and empty pockets. Now I own what matters most to him. He'll pay."

"And if he doesn't?" Matthew asks, though he knows the answer .

I smile, cold and precise. "Then his precious daughter becomes the star of a very exclusive film festival."

My phone buzzes. I check the screen and see a text from Gordon himself. Speak of the Devil. Three words: "I have it." Good. Yet again, the leverage works. Though I never delete the recordings. You never know when someone might be useful again.

"We've got a meeting at Pulse tonight," I tell Matthew, finishing my drink. “Some wannabe investor. Meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but I’d like to see if he has the potential to be useful.”

"What time?"

"Ten. And we're stopping by Gordon's on the way. He says he has my money, but I want to see it counted out in front of me."

Matthew nods. He knows the drill. I cross to the small bathroom adjoining my office and splash cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I straighten my tie. My black hair is swept back exactly as it’s meant to be, with not a hair out of place.

The carefully cultivated exterior, the suit, the watch, the calculated smile, always hiding something much darker beneath.

I never switch off; I’ve spent a long time perfecting my image.

I was nobody once. Sebastian Blackwood, the kid from the estates with nothing but ambition and a talent for finding weaknesses.

Now I own eight nightclubs and two restaurants.

My protection work, the gambling clubs, and the debt collection side bring in far more than my legitimate businesses and I have more money than I could spend in three lifetimes.

All because I understand that everyone has a price.

Everything and everyone can be bought, sold, blackmailed or all three.

Gordon Taylor learned that lesson the hard way.

Six months ago, he'd approached me at Syren, looking for a loan.

His gambling debts were piling up, mainly in high-stakes poker games with men who don't take IOUs.

I agreed to loan him the money, but not out of charity.

His position at Hartwell Architecture made him valuable.

I'd been eyeing that company for months, a potential cash cow if the right pieces were in place.

The interest on his loan was a steep fifty percent.

When he missed the first payment deadline, I doubled it.

When he missed the second, I invited him to Pulse for a "business meeting.

" That's when I explained the new terms: he paid in full, immediately, or I'd take what mattered most to him.

I'd been to his office previously, so was more than aware that his weak spot was his daughter.

Her framed photos and various degrees littered the walls.

The four grand he still owes is a piss in the ocean to me.

It's not about the money anymore, it's about control.

I don't tolerate being taken for a fool.

When he pays, I'll have leverage to ask for something much more valuable: insider information on Hartwell's upcoming development projects.

It's, again, why I never delete the recordings.

Hartwell Architecture is my next target, and the video might be useful again. They have insider knowledge on a development that I’m personally involved in.

"Time to go," I call to Matthew. "Gordon's waiting, and you know how I hate to disappoint." I open my desk drawer and pull out a pair of leather gloves, just in case Gordon needs some persuasion to part with my cash.

We exit through the private lift that takes us directly to the underground garage where my matte black Range Rover waits. Matthew takes the driver's seat as always.

"Gordon's place first, then Pulse," I instruct him, settling into the passenger seat.

As we pull away from Syren, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror. Cool. Controlled. Calculating. Exactly how I need to be.

Tonight is about business, and I always look the part.

*

Gordon's flat is in one of those converted warehouses trying too hard to be trendy. Matthew parks across the street, and we both exit the car. Gordon's watching from his window, I can see the curtain twitch as we approach. Good. Let him sweat.

"Remember," I tell Matthew, “If he tries anything, break his fingers. But not the ones he needs to count my cash."

Matthew nods, a slight smile playing at his lips. He enjoys this part of the job more than he lets on. I don't mind getting my hands dirty, but I prefer the bigger jobs myself.

Gordon opens the door before we knock, his eyes darting nervously between us. He's aged ten years in the six months since he first asked for my help, his hair greyer, face gaunt. The desperation rolls off him in waves.

"Seb, come in," he says, stepping aside. His voice trembles slightly.

I enter, taking my time to look around. The place is a mess, empty bottles, takeout containers, clothes strewn about. A man unravelling. You can smell his desperation. His weakness makes me feel sick .

"I have your money," he says, moving toward a drawer in his kitchen. "All of it."

"I should hope so," I reply, smoothing my tie. "I'd hate for anyone to see your daughter in such a ……vulnerable state."

His hands shake as he counts out the bills. Four thousand exactly. I have Matthew count it again just to prolong his discomfort.

"It's all there," Gordon insists, watching over Matthews’s shoulder.

"So it is." I pocket the cash, then take a seat on his sofa. "Gordon, have a seat mate." I pat the seat next to me.

Gordon's face falls. On trembling legs, he comes and sits next to me, trying to keep as much distance as he can.

I laugh, genuinely amused by his discomfort. "Gordon, I have a little job I need your help with." Matthew moves to stand next to him, penning Gordon between the two of us.

I explain what I want: information on Hartwell's upcoming board meetings, specifically regarding the acquisition of new projects. Dates, names, figures.

"I can't do that," he protests. "It's illegal. I could lose my job."

"You could lose more than that," I remind him, pulling out my phone and bringing up the video of his daughter. I turn the screen toward him. "This is quite the

performance. I wonder what the board would think?" My thumb hovers over the play icon.

He crumbles, just as I knew he would. Everyone has their breaking point. For some, it's money. For others, family. For Gordon, it's both.

"Fine," he whispers. "But after this, we're done."

I stand, straightening my jacket. "We're done when I say we're done, Gordon. I'll expect those documents by Monday." I clap him on the shoulder, taking joy from the way he flinches beneath my hand.

Back in the car, Matthew glances at me. "You're really going after Hartwell, then?"

"It's ripe for the picking," I reply. "Gordon has given me the perfect way in."

"And Pulse tonight?" he asks, pulling away from the curb.

I check my watch. We have an hour before the meeting. "Let's head there now. I want to check in on the new manager I hired. Make sure everything's running smoothly before the investor arrives."

*

Pulse is the crown jewel of my nightlife empire.

Located in the heart of the city, it caters to the elite celebrities, financiers and nepo babies willing to drop thousands on bottle service.

The queue stretches around the block even on weeknights.

While Syren is where I conduct my less savoury business, Pulse is legitimacy.

It's where I launder both money and my reputation.

As we pull up to the VIP entrance, the bouncer immediately recognises the car.

We park at the curb and Matthew throws the keys at a member of staff inside the entrance.

When we walk in, the club is already pulsing with energy despite the early hour.

The music reverberates through my chest, lights dancing across the crowd.

This is power of a different sort, the ability to create a world where people escape their mundane lives, if only for a night.

My office here is smaller than at Syren but more luxurious. One way glass overlooks the main floor, allowing me to observe without being seen. I settle behind the desk while Matthew takes up his position by the door.

"Let me know if anyone sees any of Dawsons lot here tonight. I’ve told them before they’re not welcome, yet still, they push their luck.”

"What about the investor?" Matthew asks.

"Show him to the VIP section, and have Charlotte serve him. I want him drunk before our chat. See if he has anything of actual worth."

I turn to the window, watching the crowd below. They move like a single organism, driven by the beat. So easily manipulated. So predictable .

Just like Gordon. Just like everyone else I've encountered in this city.

Everyone has a price. You just need to find what currency they trade in.