The chamber shimmered like a damn cathedral carved from starlight—walls of polished marble stretching high, veined with gold that pulsed like living veins, and a vaulted ceiling dripping with chandeliers that flickered with unearthly fme. At its heart loomed a throne, a jagged beast of obsidian and ivory, perched atop a steep run of steps that gleamed under the goddess’s shadow. She sat there, legs crossed high and tight, one sandaled foot dangling like a taunt. Her gown clung to her like liquid marble—pale and flowing, a Grecian masterpiece slit high to fsh a thigh that glowed with divine sheen, its edges embroidered with silver threads that caught the light and threw it back sharper. Her hair spilled down in a cascade of molten gold, every strand glinting like it’d been spun from the sun itself, framing a face so haughty it could’ve cracked stone with a gnce.

  Below her throne’s steps knelt Lillian, a dark elf with skin like polished mahogany, her lithe frame half-bowed in submission. Her attire was severe—long bck robes hugging her curves tight, the fabric thick but helpless against the swell of her breasts and the fre of her hips, a body that screamed power even in servitude. Her silver hair was yanked back in a brutal braid, sharp ears peeking through, and her amber eyes stayed low, fixed on the cold marble floor.

  “He really said he’d breed me one day?” The goddess’s voice sliced through, pyful but edged, one golden brow arching as she flicked her gaze down to the maidservant.

  Lillian’s reply came steady, heavy as stone: “Yes, Divine One.”

  The goddess’s face stayed cool, a mask of indifference, but a spark of irritation fred in her tone. “Sounds like he’s been having too much fun down in that reward world tely—time to sp him with a little punishment.” She tilted her head, mulling it over, then flicked a hand. “Lillian, go dig up someone sharp enough to outwit him—screw him over good and proper.”

  Lillian paused, a beat of hesitation rippling through her rigid frame, but her voice held firm, measured, not a trace of grovel: “High Goddess, you know that’s nearly impossible. He ruled his st world on schemes and calcutions—cunning, not raw power. Twenty years in, he got so bored he wouldn’t even touch his skill system anymore, whining it ‘made things too easy.’”

  The goddess’s eyes fshed—fury cracked her calm like a whip. “You think I need a fucking history lesson?” she snarled. “Crawl over here.” With a sharp tug, she parted her gown’s shimmering folds, spreading her legs wide—her smooth, hairless vagina id bare, glistening under the chandelier glow. Her stare burned down, hard and commanding, lips curling as she nodded toward it: “Know your pce.”

  Lillian’s jaw tightened—reluctance carved into every tense line of her body—but she inched forward, crawling slow across the marble steps. Her face hovered near the goddess’s core, stalling, breath shallow. The goddess didn’t wait—her hand shot out, snagged a fistful of silver braid, and jammed Lillian’s face hard against her slick heat. “Lillian, you dreaming you’re still that dark elf queen?” she hissed. “You’re a pawn—a fucking pawn. Now lick me good, and whatever spills out, you drink it down.”

  Lillian’s head stayed pinned, her expression buried, only the wet slurp of her tongue breaking the silence as it worked against the goddess’s pussy. A slow, pleased smirk spread across the goddess’s face, her golden shes fluttering as she savored it.

  “Well, if we can’t find someone to screw him over,” she purred, voice thick with delight, “I’ll just hunt down the kind of bastard he hates most—hand over his old skill system, let that fucker screw every st one of his women. Now that’s a show worth watching.”

  Lillian couldn’t lift her head—still just the steady, slick sound of her licking filling the air. The goddess tilted her chin down, giving the elf’s head a zy pat, like she was rewarding a pet. “No rush—we’ll find this guy slow and steady,” she added, her voice a satisfied hum. Then she leaned back into her throne, shoving her hips forward, offering more. The licking stopped—a faint trickle broke the quiet, a soft rush of liquid spilling free, followed by the thick gulp of Lillian swallowing it down. The goddess stretched, a long, zy yawn rolling out, her body basking in the glow as the wet slurp of licking kicked back up, echoing through the chamber.

  John had no fucking clue he was lounging in the calm before a shitstorm. His head was elsewhere, tangled up in something he couldn’t dodge anymore—a problem he had to square up and solve.

  Women? Girls? Nah, not really. Sure, they drove him up the wall sometimes—Britt with her firecracker mouth, Becca with her clingy-ass tailing—but he’d never call them a problem. He loved the hell out of them, every damn curve and spark.

  Truth was, tely whenever he swaggered into the academy, the BB duo—Britt and Becca—swarmed him like flies on honey, sticking tight no matter where he went. One tched onto each arm, bold as shit, strutting through the halls like they owned him, drawing every damn eye in the pce. Don’t get it twisted—this world didn’t blink at polygamy due to the degradation of the Y chromosome; men were scarce, fertile ones even scarcer, so two chicks hanging off a guy wasn’t news. It was just another Tuesday.

  But here’s the kicker: John, in their eyes, was the poster boy for happy log—a limp-dick legend. No way in hell should this be his life.

  Weirder still? Britt’s temper was a goddamn volcano—back with Anthony, he’d had to sneak around with other girls, scared shitless of her wrath. So why the fuck did it feel like she was sharing him with Becca now?

  She wasn’t—she’d never signed off on that, not yet. Becca was just a stubborn little mule, gluing herself to John’s side no matter what Britt threw at her, and Britt couldn’t shake her off. The real twist? John didn’t mind one bit—he was into Becca, never brushing her off, always cracking grins and tossing quips her way like it was a game.

  Yeah, he was hooked. Lately, he’d been itching for a shot to see her alone—meet her somewhere quiet, have a nice chat, see if he could push it past chatter and into some real, deep, sweaty exchange. But Britt had him pegged—she read him like a neon sign, sniffing out every move before he could make it. No damn chance for a solo stint with Becca—she was on him like a hawk, draining him dry every chance she got, leaving him too wiped to even think about sneaking off with Becca. Hell, Becca still hadn’t managed to slip him her number—Britt made damn sure of that.

  Not that John was compining. He was getting id near every damn day—Britt tearing into him under the academy’s sun, or Miko melting him down when night hit. Becca’d get her turn eventually, he figured. Shit, his reward world was stacking up sweeter by the minute—hotter, wilder, damn near perfect.

  So what the hell was this nagging problem then? Simple as dirt, same as half the world’s: cash. Money—or the ck of it—was starting to itch under his skin.

  John damn well needed money—not some petty chump change, but a thick, juicy stack of it, and he needed it yesterday. If he was gonna turn this world into his own personal love paradise, pumping out a swarm of kids left and right, he’d need the cash to make it stick. His women—his wild, gorgeous crew—deserved the full fucking package: no pinching pennies, no stress, just a sweet, carefree life, so they could bang him senseless any damn time they wanted and pop out his babies bold and worry-free. Old-school bastard through and through—his soul was hauling over a hundred years of grit, baked deep with that raw, provide-or-go-down-swinging instinct.

  He cwed through old John’s memories, digging for any shred of a lifeline to yank himself out of this broke-as-shit gutter. What he unearthed was a grim fucking joke—old John’s social circle was tighter than a gnat’s ass, so pitifully small it made even a half-recluse like him wanna gag. Beyond the bullies—those sneering dickwads—and a couple of slimy “friends” who’d only sniffed around to bleed him dry, and then the women he knew. That was the whole damn roster—no rich uncles, no back-alley hustlers, not a single soul worth a piss otherwise.

  So, it came down to the girls—and fuck, what a headache. Only two had even a faint whiff of a chance to kick his cash flow into gear. First up: Chloe, his stepsister, six years older than John and a total powerhouse—except she’d never once tossed him more than a gnce like he was scum under her boot. She’d climbed her way to regional director at Vitacore Pharma, the world’s top dick-pill empire, running their Nexis City branch—not the headquarters, mind you, that was some gilded hellhole elsewhere, but this city’s operation was her kingdom. Their golden goose, Vigorex, couldn’t fix a happy log like him—still limp as a dead fish—but for regur joes, one pill a day juiced their junk to one steady nightly bang. Catch? Overdo it or chug it too long, and it’d fuck you sideways—side effects nasty enough to keep Vitacore’s bck heart pumping profit while Chloe raked in the crumbs.

  John wasn’t holding his breath. Even if she threw him a lifeline—some internship or grunt gig—it’d be a slow drip of nothing cash. She was the boss dy in Nexis, sure, but her paycheck was still corporate table scraps—Vitacore’s monopoly greed kept her on a leash too. No goldmine there.

  Then there was Mar Hensley, queen of Hensley’s Haul, the city’s second-biggest supermarket chain. Old John had stumbled into her orbit interning at one of her stores—she’d spotted his grind early, pegged him as a diamond in the rough, and leaned on him heavy. Then shit hit the fan—an ugly screw-up he’d fumbled bad, leaving him too ashamed to face her and her too pissed to let it slide. After that, he’d bailed—cut all ties, no calls, no nothing.

  John figured he’d bounce it off the system today—see if that smug fuck had any pearls of wisdom about stacking cash. “Who should I hit up to rake in some dough?” he asked, kicking back, half-braced for the venom to fly.

  [What the fuck you yapping at me for, you brain-dead shitstain? Didn’t you just bitch and moan that interning at that pharma gig’s a slow-ass crawl to nowhere, paying jack fucking squat?]

  Yeah, he’d spelled it out pin to it—Chloe’s deal was a dead-end slog, no meat on its bones.

  [Then why the fuck you wasting my goddamn time, you useless fuck? You think you’ve got a fucking lineup of sugar daddies to pick from? Wake up, dipshit—your life’s a steaming pile of no-choice horseshit. Get bent, you sorry-ass prick!]

  Asshole. That system was a relentless, trash-talking bastard—every word a kick to the nuts, dripping with smug, dickhead glee. John smirked anyway, half-steamed, half-tickled by the sheer, unfiltered assholery of it.

  John wasn’t exactly thrilled—fuck, he’d rather eat gss than admit it—but chasing down Mar Hensley was looking like his only damn shot right now. No cash, no connections, just a supermarket queen who might still be very pissed with him. Reluctance gnawed at him, but what else was he gonna do? Sit on his ass and pray for a gold brick to fall outta the sky?

  He rolled up to the Hensley’s Haul office—a squat, concrete box tacked onto the back of their fgship store, all faded banners and chipped paint, the kind of pce that screamed “we’ve got money but fuck aesthetics.” Inside, the air stank of stale coffee and cheap air freshener, a chipped linoleum floor stretching to a front desk where a receptionist perched, scrolling her phone like she owned the joint. John swaggered up, leaning one elbow on the counter, and cleared his throat loud enough to make her jump. “Here to see Ms. Hensley,” he said, voice ft, already half-expecting a brick wall.

  She flicked her eyes up, sizing him like he was some stray dog begging scraps. “Name?” she drawled, popping her gum with a wet snap that echoed in the dead-ass quiet.

  John’s jaw tightened—he hated this part. “John Doe,” he muttered, spitting it out like it tasted bad, his gut twisting at how fucking me it sounded even to himself.

  The chick didn’t even blink—just dropped her head to the desk, face-pnting right onto her folded arms. Her shoulders started shaking, a muffled snort bubbling up, then a full-on cackle she couldn’t choke down. She ughed her ass off for a solid minute—head down, desk thumping under her elbows, a wheezing hee-hee-hee leaking out like she’d just heard the punchline of the century. John stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked, waiting for her to pull her shit together. Finally, she peeled her face up, cheeks red, eyes wet, wiping a tear with a pink nail. “She ain’t here,” she managed, still half-giggling, her voice a zy slur like she was doing him a favor just by speaking.

  “You didn’t even call her,” John snapped, leaning in close, heat simmering in his chest at her goddamn giggle—but he reined it in, jaw clenched tight. He was here for business, not torch the pce. “Could you just ring her up for me, please? Check if she’s around.”

  She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly popped out, then snatched the receiver off its cradle with a dramatic huff. Her fingers hovered over the buttons—didn’t press a single fucking one—just held it to her ear, staring him dead in the face. “Hello?” she chirped, voice dripping with fake sugar, pausing for a beat like she was actually listening to someone. Then she smmed it back down, smirking wide. “Yep, she says she ain’t here—sorry, champ.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms under her chest like she’d just won the goddamn lottery, that gum snapping again loud enough to make his eye twitch.

  The flying fuck? 'She says she ain't here.' Who picked up the phone then? Do you really have zero fucks to be given, reception dy?

  John stood there, simmering—this chick hadn’t even looked up, just slouched there scrolling her phone like he was invisible as shit. His eye twitched, irritation cwing up his spine, but he wrestled it down hard. He’d dragged his sorry ass here for Mar—fuck if he was leaving with nothing, no matter how much this desksitter wanted to dick him around.

  Sucking in a ragged breath, he spped on a tight, crooked grin that felt like chewing gravel. “Can I get you something, anything, a coffee?” he growled, voice grinding out low and rough, hoping a sliver of nice might nudge her to buzz Mar.

  She flicked her eyes up—just a zy half-gnce—smirking like he was a roach she’d squash for giggles. “Sorry, I have a boyfriend,” she drawled, popping that gum with a wet snap so loud it rattled the peeling walls, her tone dripping with fuck you syrup.

  John’s brain damn near blew—what the actual fuck? How the fuck is this something to do with your boyfriend? I’m not even hitting on you, you arrogant fuck.

  But he didn’t say it out loud. No—he was here to score, not brawl. His eyes narrowed, flicking over her instead: the tags said her name was Tammy, a glittery Gucci purse slung over the chair, chunky gold hoops swinging from her ears, a shiny bracelet catching the flickering fluorescent light—shit that screamed cash, way more than a front-desk drone could swing. Huh. Even a broke-ass like him could smell the mismatch.

  Hey, you miserable fuck, he thought, pinging the system in his head, search the company’s database for payrolls—gimme Tammy at Hensley’s Haul’s pay, now.

  [You nosy little prick—here.]

  The system snarled back in his skull, voice like a buzzsaw shredding steel,

  [Tammy L. Decker, front desk, 20 an hour, 40 hours a week—42K a year, tops, you cheap fuck.]

  John’s eyebrows shot up—no goddamn way. That purse could buy his whole closet twice over, and those hoops? Fshy enough to blind a hawk. Her paycheck wouldn’t touch that shit—not in a million years. His gut buzzed like a kicked hive—something stank loud.

  A shot in the dark perhaps—but check her emails for anything sketchy she sent out, he growled in his head, leaning on the counter, eyes glinting like a wolf sniffing blood.

  [You greedy fucking leech—fine.]

  The system barked back, then smmed down a nuke: Email, one month ago, to BigMart CEO—‘Got a 50K order lined up, match it and it’s yours.’

  John’s grin ripped wide, teeth fshing like he’d hit the goddamn jackpot—holy fucking shit. “Forward that to my phone—now,” he snapped out loud, voice low and sharp, fingers twitching to clutch this juicy nugget.

  [Done, you smug bastard.]

  The system growled, zapping the email over with a ping that hit his pocket like a cash register cha-ching, loud and smug as if it knew he’d just struck gold.

  John didn’t waste a damn second—his hand whipped out, smming the phone onto the desk right in front of Tammy with a loud thwack. “Can I go in now, Tammy Two-face?” he snarled, voice low and sharp, his grin glinting like a switchbde. That nickname—he’d yanked it straight from his ass, a jab at her two-faced gut—but it stuck like glue, this chick ready to sell out her own for a quick buck.

  Tammy flinched hard, damn near leaping out of her chair as the phone cttered—her gum shot out mid-pop, sptting on the desk like a wet slug. She opened her mouth, ready to screech some shrill “I’ll call security, you fuck!”—but then her eyes locked on the screen. That BigMart email glowed back at her, a neon billboard of her own treason, and her face drained white as a sheet. Her jaw hung sck for a beat, panic fshing wild in her eyes, then she stammered, “Fine—go in. Mar’s in her office. Don’t… don’t ever bring this up again.” Her voice cracked, shaky as hell, her fingers fumbling to shove the phone back like it was a live grenade.

  John snatched it up, didn’t say a word—just turned and swaggered toward the inner door, steps thumping the chipped linoleum like a war drum. Halfway there, though, an itch of curiosity nipped at him. He paused, turning his head back, and threw her a sidelong gnce. “Just wondering—do you really have a boyfriend, or was that just to piss me off?”

  Tammy’s face fred red, her smug mask shattering as she shot up, chair scraping loud. “My boyfriend’s Anthony fucking Vanderbilt, you prick!” she spat, voice shrill and spitting fire. “His dad’s a big-shot exec at Vitacore Pharma HQ—loaded, connected—not some broke-ass nobody like you!” She jabbed a finger at him, her gold bracelet jangling like a busted bell, her whole frame quaking with righteous fury.

  John’s grin froze, then twisted—his eyes narrowed to slits, glinting with something dark and wicked. Anthony Vanderbilt, again? The same dumbshit he’d owned back at the academy? He almost barked a ugh—this chick was a fucking idiot, practically rolling out the red carpet for him to stomp her harder.

  With the bckmail material on my hand, and she still decided to make an effort to shit on me?

  Tammy and Anthony, two brain-dead peas in a pod, begging to be bled dry.

  “Well, ” he drawled, voice dropping low and icy, “pn changed, Tammy. You’re gonna suck me off first—and I’m filming it. Gotta give your precious Anthony a front-row seat. Forgot to tell ya—he’s my little bitch now.”