Twelve days.
Twelve authors.
Countless ways to orgasm.
**Mature content -- for 18+ only**
This holiday season, twelve talented and self-anointed Smut Queens come together to give Wattpad readers a special thank-you gift for all the love and apprecia...
Ten years ago, before Alfie Tell became the head of his father's empire, before he met Lola in her tiny English town, before he became the controlled, respectable businessman he swore he would never be, he was a different man entirely.
Ten years ago, 23 year-old Alfie Tell was the founder and head of his exclusive Never Tell Club and at the height of his powers of decadence and debauchery.
As a gift to my readers who are eager to know more about the man behind the whispers and rumours, I give to you three nights in the life of a younger Alfie Tell, a taste of what Lola has no idea she's gotten herself into.
These short stories can be enjoyed along with the book, or on their own.
Enjoy...
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THE DOE
There's a dry, exhausting heat in Brazil that I'd never felt anywhere else in the world. The heat had forced me to abandon my velvet suit and top hat and had left me instead in a shirt and braces. My gold-tipped cane – the only symbol of my superiority – lay in my lap, a devoted companion. My dark hair clung to my head at the temples,I unbuttoned my shirt a little further and took another sip of my Martini, savouring the cool liquid in my overheated mouth.
The circular stage ahead was dark, save for a lone spotlight. The rest of the room was cast into shadow. but if I looked closely. I could see the circular sea of two way mirrors which would allow me to see from all angles what would happen on that stage.
My body hummed with excitement at the prospect.
The two-way mirrors allowed privacy, for behind each one was a private room, available to rent by the hour, identical to the one I was in now. "Room" was a generous word, for there was no bed or furniture of any kind. It was more like a large closet, lit only by a red fluorescent light above me, reminding me of the Red Light District in Amsterdam. It was intimate, sordid. I imagined couples fucking in here standing up, hands pressed against the glass as they watched.
But not tonight. Tonight, I was the only guest.
My name, Alfie Tell, had been whispered to the owner and within minutes, the place was mine.
I had tarried with the idea of bringing my Tellers along with me. My friends, my compatriots, my fellow makers of mischief, experts in debauchery, conductors of mayhem and of course shareholders in the exclusive Never Tell Club that I had founded years ago. At 23, I was beyond accomplished. I was a fucking triumph.
Yes, I could have brought them with me, given them each a room, and they could have brought a girl for extra entertainment, but tonight I wanted to be alone. They could have their mayhem elsewhere.
And so I waited, watching through the glass of the two-way mirror, waiting for the show to begin. It would begin when I said so. I liked the idea of the performers waiting in the wings, nervous, wondering when they would be instructed to start. They were on the edge, the precipice, and I was the one holding them there.
