The Beverly Hills bankruptcy mixer smelled like Chanel No. 5 and desperation. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto men in bespoke suits and women whose diamonds had already been pawned. Ethan Ryder leaned against the marble bar, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the beta version of *Cupidity*.
The AI had done its job. One profile glowed crimson:
**Vanessa Moreno, 38. Net worth: –$1.2 M. Arousal index: 94 %. Lactation trigger: stress.**
He spotted her across the ballroom—blazer two sizes too small, JJ-cups straining buttons, dark nipples already bleeding faint milk circles through ivory silk. Her hips poured into a pencil skirt that hugged a 52-inch ass like it was poured in wet cement. She clutched a flute of champagne she couldn't afford, eyes glassy with the kind of fear that made pussies drip.
Ethan crossed the room.
"Mrs. Moreno."
She startled, champagne sloshing. "Do I know you?"
"You will." He tilted his phone so she saw the screen: her bank statements, her overdue mortgage, the ultrasound of her ex-husband's new trophy wife's baby bump. "I buy distressed assets. You're the most beautiful one here."
Vanessa's breath hitched. A bead of milk rolled down the inside of her blouse, darkening the fabric.
"I'm not for sale."
"Everything is. Question is the price." He pressed the elevator button. Doors slid open. "Five minutes. My suite or the street."
She stepped inside.
The mirrored box shot upward. Ethan hit the stop button between floors. The car jolted. Vanessa's champagne flute clattered to the carpet, fizzing across Italian leather.
He was on her before she could speak. Mouth sealed over hers, tongue tasting fear and Krug. Hands ripped blazer buttons—pop, pop, pop—until her tits spilled free, heavy and veined, nipples thick as thumbs and already leaking.
"Fuck," he groaned, latching onto the left. Milk flooded his mouth, warm, sweet, endless. Vanessa's knees buckled. He pinned her to the mirrored wall, skirt yanked to waist. No panties. Just a shaved, swollen pussy so wet it painted her inner thighs in glossy streaks.
Ethan dropped to his knees. One long lick from taint to clit and Vanessa screamed, fingers clawing his hair. He sucked her folds like ripe fruit, tongue spearing inside, drinking the slick that poured out in pulses. Her hips bucked; milk sprayed from both nipples, splattering the mirror in rhythmic arcs.
"Mr. Ryder—Ethan—please—"
He stood, cock already out, nine inches of veined steel, precum pearling at the slit.
"Sign this." He slapped an NDA onto the brass rail, pen beside it.
Vanessa's hand shook as she scrawled her name, pussy juice smearing the ink.
Ethan spun her, bent her over the rail. Her tits swung like pendulums, milk dripping to the carpet in fat drops. He notched his cock at her entrance—then slammed home.
The mirror shook. Vanessa's scream echoed in the metal box. Eight inches buried on the first thrust, nine on the second. Her walls fluttered, squirting around his shaft, soaking his balls. He gripped her hips and fucked her like a machine—long, punishing strokes that made her ass ripple and her tits slap the glass.
Milk painted the mirror in abstract streaks. Vanessa's moans turned to sobs, then to Russian—wait, no, Spanish—*"¡Más, más, por favor!"* Her pussy clenched so hard Ethan saw stars.
He pulled out, spun her again, lifted her. Her legs locked around his waist, tits smothering his face. He sucked one nipple, then the other, drinking as he pistoned upward. The elevator rocked on its cables.
"Gonna come," she gasped. "Inside—please—"
Ethan growled, buried to the hilt, and let go. The first jet painted her cervix; the second overflowed, dripping down his shaft in thick ropes. Vanessa convulsed, squirting so hard it splashed the ceiling.
He wasn't done. Set her down, bent her over again. Second round—slower, deeper, her pussy a slick, cum-filled glove. Milk still leaked in steady streams, pooling on the floor. Twenty-two minutes later he came again, flooding her until it leaked down her thighs in creamy rivulets.
The elevator dinged. Doors opened to his private foyer. Vanessa's legs gave out; Ethan caught her, blazer hanging in tatters, tits glistening, pussy gaping and dripping his seed onto marble.
He tucked himself away, smoothed his tie.
"Welcome to Seed LLC, Mrs. Moreno. Your debts are paid. Your pussy is mine."
She looked up, eyes glazed, milk and cum on her chin.
"Yes, sir."
Somewhere in the penthouse, his phone buzzed.
**New match: Kayla Brooks. Arousal index: 97 %.**