Dark Art

Episode 1: The Playpen

Ivan Masters stared into the elaborate silk-lined casket, avoiding the audiences attention as he studied his father's peacefully closed eyelids.

Must be nice,he reflected.To be eternally spared this bullshit.

Nobody made him move. Nobody questioned the time a son needed to mourn his father, but he could feel the eyes of his family pressing into his back the longer he stood there, the warm summer air making sweat bead down his shirt collar.

Maybe they questioned it.

It'd been years since they'd all seen each other after all, and when he finally took his seat in the front row beside the rest of the weary and red-eyed Masters family, their silence was like a physical force. Even the guests seemed to notice their stiffness, the whole front row radiating quiet, angry energy.

Ivan ignored all of them, looking straight ahead as yet another university professor gave a speech. The twelfth one of the evening.

"...Today we shall lay to rest a brother, father, and husband. And most generous patron of the arts..."

Ivan didn't know much longer he could bear it.

His attendance was requisite, of course. He'd just lost his father in an unexpected accident at a museum, but it didn't mean he felt a shred of emotion for the man. He was here for one reason, and one reason only, and that was to start divvying up the mans assets... starting with the company.

Hours passed as the funeral went on in the same manner, the sun casting reddish rays across the lawn as hundreds of people - most of whom he'd never met in his life - approached the casket and paid their final respects, before returning to one of the many rows of seats set out on the grass.

People would be expecting a speech from him later that evening, as the only son of Laurent Masters and now heir to his impressive banking fortune, but the prospect of waiting around for several more hours while a bunch of ivory tower assholes talked about 'the good old days' sounded like a form of certain torture. So he slipped out of a delivery gate at the back of the grounds the moment he could get away unnoticed, pulling out his phone as he walked.

Call it a need for stress relief, but he wasted no time calling a Lyft bound for the Playpen.

"The Playpen" was a nickname for a boat harbor off Lake Michigan in downtown Chicago. An infamous hangout for the young and wealthy, it was not uncommon to find ten or twenty yachts roped together into a giant nightclub flotilla on any given evening. He'd been visiting for years with his real estate buddies and found the loud music and summer air hypnotic and strangely comforting, especially now.

Stepping out of the Lyft near the shoreline, the humidity hit like a wave. He was overdressed for the summer weather, in a black suit and dress shoes, and it quickly made sweat dampen his hair and run down his forehead. He rubbed a few loose black strands of hair from his eyes as he walked toward the edge of the pier, the thumping music and swaying lights of the yachts already visible out on the water.

The Playpen was only a speedboat ride away from the dock, but it felt like stepping off the plane to Vegas. The rules were different out here, the alcohol, drugs, and girls abundant. As soon as he pulled himself onto one of the bobbing crafts, a red solo cup of cheap vodka and Gatorade was thrust into his hand by some glossy, bare-chested college jock. Ivan rolled his eyes at the sight of the boy, but took the shot anyway, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he picked a path through crowds of sweaty, dancing bodies.

He had to cross two makeshift dance floors to get to his usual hunting grounds, a forty-seven foot yacht calledBlueface, which was owned by one of his friends. He hadn't been on deck more than 2 minutes when a megaphone crackled over the sound of the music and a spotlight beamed down over the crowd.

"Is that my boy right there?Eve-auuuughn!" shouted a voice, emphasizing the Italian pronunciation of his name. "Listen up everybody, lets get another round of shots going for my boy, who just inherited a mother fuuuucking bank! Yhooooo! All you broke bitches hear that? Make some noise!"

Ivan smiled a little, giving a short wave as a roar went up around him. The partygoers all strained to get a glimpse of him as he walked up a spiral staircase to the upper deck, which his friend Tonio had sequestered for use as his own private lounge, two other guys stretched out on upholstered leather benches behind him.

"Eve-aughn! How you doing buddy?" said Tonio, leaning in for an embrace when he suddenly stopped and looked him up and down. "Yo, what the fuck are you wearing, bro?"

Ivan ignored him, bumping knuckles with the others before reaching into the ice chest for a seltzer. They all did real estate together, and although Tonio had always been the richest of their friend group, tides were turning.

Ivan had never expected to inherit his fathers business. They hadn't spoken in years, and he'd never shown any interest in the family business a day in his life, but the way the lawyers had explained it to him when they called, some thirteenth-century Italian law conveniently granted Ivan what was called "undisputed patriarchal succession." Which meant, as Laurent's only son, the bank and all of its assets were now his, by right of blood.

Ivan still did not fully understand the breadth of this newly acquired wealth, but he had no shortage of meetings on his calendar to explain it over the coming weeks. For now, he was glad for the distraction the Playpen provided, and was ready for the alcohol to kick in as he undid a few buttons on his shirt.

His eyes traveled across the crowd to a group of girls spraying each other with champagne at the far end of the boat. Tonio was eager to keep the fun going and hollered. "Whooo, alright! That's what I'm talking about! You see that?"

But Ivan looked away, suddenly disinterested.

"What?" Tonio chuckled, throwing him a fresh beer. "The twenty five year olds already had too much dick ran through them for you?"

Ivan laughed, grabbing the drink midair. They'd been friends for years, and Tonio knew all about Ivan's preferences in women, fun, and a multitude of other little secrets. No doubt he could even anticipate why he was here tonight, gazing over the main deck like a buyer seeking a prize filly.

The stress of the family congregating in Chicago was starting to get to him. It would be good to feel normal for a little while.

Tonio sniffed the air like a bloodhound when he noticed Ivan fixate on something down below. When he rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned the last few buttons on his shirt, his friend clapped him on his back and yelled. "He's on the prowl!"

Feeling the gentle heat of the alcohol warm his chest, Ivan headed back down to the main deck. At nearly 40 years old, he was easily one of the oldest people among the crowd of college students and fake-ID carrying teens, but he didn't mind. In fact, he loved this advantage, his eyes roving from body to body like a wolf picking out the weak in a herd.

When he was behind a girl wearing a pink bikini, he put one hand on her hip, but she startled and he quickly moved on. Too spooked, too jumpy. Sometimes he liked that, but not tonight. Not right now, after Tonio had so helpfully identified him.

He raised the beer to his lips as the boat rocked and his eyes landed on another girl, a blonde with spiral curled pink and blue extensions, skinny and covered in glitter like a faerie. She looked young, the creamy taut skin of her back sparkling with sweat beneath her long hair, both of her wrists -- he noticed -- covered in colorful plastic bands.

A party girl. Perfect, easy. Exactly what he was looking for.

He got behind her, mimicking the movements of her body until she noticed him. Unlike the other girl, she didn't shy away, although she did stiffen for a moment, until she saw his face.

"Oh, you're that guy," she said, practically shouting to be heard over the music.

He gave the smallest smile, leaning down until he was very near her ear. "I can be whatever guy you want me to be."

When he dropped his hand to her hip, she pushed into him, grinding against his trousers for two songs. He felt himself getting hard as her movements became more lewd, her ass shaking against his thighs to some Ed Sheeran remix. She was clearly attracted to him, and kept looking back over her shoulder to make sure he was watching.

"You want to do some coke?" he asked her suddenly when she arched her back against him. She raised her eyebrows, long false lashes fluttering as she spun around to face him, unable to hide the eagerness in her voice.

"You have some?"

Ivan smiled, canting his head toward the edge of the dance floor, where he knew a narrow bathroom was located inside the main cabin. She giggled and grabbed his wrist, leading him away gleefully -- seeming for all the world as ifshewas the one who found a catch tonight, instead of the other way around.

He'd long known the effect his looks had on women. He was tall, with traditional Italian features like thick black hair and deep, trusting, brown eyes. All traits which were designed to disarm pretty things into his bedroom, the back of a car, or wherever he wanted, really.

In the narrow bathroom, Ivan locked the door and pulled out a tiny bag half filled with white powder from his pocket. Cheap thrills, except now the steady light and close proximity offered him a better view of her wide eyed expression and heaving chest, tits pulled into tight cleavage by the decorative straps of her bikini. D cup, maybe bigger.

"Gorgeous," he said, automatically reaching for her waist and pulling her in close. When she again didn't pull away, he moved his hand up her torso, pressing his chest against hers while running one finger between the string of her bikini top and her tits.

The heat steaming off her body was driving him wild. Soon, his hand was squeezing the soft skin of one breast, peeling the tiny triangular bikini top back to expose a large pink nipple. He pinched it gently, and of course she let him do it, throwing her head back as he weighed the warm fatty tissue in one hand, lifting, dropping, kneading and watching her every reaction.

He closed his lips over her mouth, biting teasingly until she let out a small moan. It was too easy, he thought, putting pressure on her shoulder with one hand until she sat down on the toilet between his legs. At the sight of her looking up at him, he smiled and shook the small plastic baggy pinched between his fingers.

"Squeeze your tits together for me so I can do a line," he said, and she obliged with another nervous giggle, freeing the other nipple herself, pushing the fabric aside so he'd have an unobstructed view.

Finally, all was right with the world.

He spread a thin line across her breasts, while she turned her cheek away and tried to control her breathing. Something she'd undoubtedly done before.

"What?" he teased, crouching over her until his nose was pressed into the soft warm skin on her chest and inhaled. At this, she shrieked at the sensation and then burst out laughing.

Ivan hit the wall with his fist as a sharp burning sensation seared his nostrils before dripping down the back of his throat. "Fuck," he breathed as his heart began racing, the world freezing, then speeding up again. He wiped his nose and handed her the bag.

"Your turn," he said, unzipping his pants and freeing his cock from his boxers. From the way she merely grinned up at him, he suspected it wasn't the first time she'd been in this position either. Or maybe it was, and she was trying hard to seem like it wasn't.

The truth mattered little to him as the effects of different drugs began to cross his senses. His jaw tensed and he let out a soft involuntary groan when she poured the powder over his exposed shaft, the delicate touch of her fingers making him rock his hips forward.

He pulled her hair aside while she lined herself up alongside him, trying to keep a straight face. When she finally put her nose to his cock and inhaled the line, he used the opportunity to knot his fingers deeper into the base of her hair, until he could feel the metal clips of her extensions grazing his closed fist. She coughed and sniffed as the intense rush hit her senses, her exposed tits bobbing like water floats.

"That's pretty good shit," she said, to which Ivan groaned in response.

"Mmm, don't waste any then, lick it off," he said, guiding her to the tip of his cock by the hair. She took a few nervous licks, but he could tell by the way she'd suddenly gotten all stiff and standoffish that the situation was moving faster than she'd intended. Not that the sight of her half naked body and thrill of her trying to pull away were making things any easier for him. He was close to overwhelmed as he stuck his cock between her lips, simultaneously pushing her into him as his desire for orgasm intensified.

"What are you doing?" she asked suddenly, her voice shrill. He could have laughed.Why did they always ask that? What does it look like I'm doing?

He stroked himself with one hand while he watched the expression on her face turn from one of curiosity, to disgust, to fear. His lips felt numb from the drugs, but his cock felt like it was ready to explode. He wouldn't even need her mouth to finish -- it would just make things more convenient.

"You want it on your face, or down your throat?" he asked.

"What the fuck?" she screamed, reaching for his wrist with one hand and punching him in the leg with the other, but Ivan barely felt a thing as got himself off to the sound of her shrieking, even closing his eyes for a moment in complete relaxation as he spurt hot globs of semen onto her cheeks.

"Agh!" she hit him harder as a rope of sticky cum landed on her forehead. "Let! Me! Go! Yousick fuck!"

When he released her, she scrambled for the lock on the door and ran off pulling her top back on and wiping her face with her forearms. Meanwhile, Ivan leaned against the wall, letting himself laugh a little as he caught his breath. He was feeling much better now than he had all day, and after a few minutes, he zipped back up his trousers, straightened his hair, and headed back to the main deck, ready for another round.