Chapter 470: Aftermath of Excellence

Three hours.

The evaluation had consumed three hours of Dominique’s life and rewritten every assumption she’d built over six years of breaking men who thought they were gods.

When Eros finally emerged from the demonstration rooms, he moved like someone who’d just finished a leisurely workout rather than a sexual marathon that had left his evaluator unconscious.

He’d cleaned himself in the adjoining bathroom—water running hot enough to steam mirrors, washing away physical evidence while his mind cataloged every moment, every technique, every sound she’d made.

Then he’d cleaned Dominique.

Gentle hands with warm towels, wiping sweat from skin that still trembled with aftershocks. Tender care for a woman who’d cum ten times—each orgasm bigger than the last, two of them squirting explosions that had soaked sheets and left her gasping like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

He’d dressed her boneless body in the emerald silk robe, arranged her on the bed in recovery position, covered her with blankets soft as clouds.

She’d fallen asleep before he finished buttoning his shirt—body surrendering to exhaustion it had earned, face peaceful in ways that suggested dreams would be very, very interesting tonight.

The system notification appeared as he adjusted his tie:

[DING! Evaluation Complete

Total SP Earned: 12,000

Breakdown:

Standard Satisfaction (2,000 SP),

BDSM Performance (6,000 SP),

Multiple Techniques and Positions(4,000 SP)

He dismissed it. The points were nice—twelve thousand translated to $1.2 million, not exactly pocket change—but they weren’t why he was here.

He’d done what the evaluation required: conquered when she needed dominance, satisfied beyond mortal comprehension, submitted when the dynamic called for surrender, provided romantic intimacy alongside raw animalistic fucking.

Given Dominique everything her Plea had screamed for—the complete destruction and reconstruction of a woman who’d been tired of always being in control.

Now he walked back toward Catherine’s office like he’d done nothing more strenuous than answer emails.

No exhaustion painting his features.

No visible signs that he’d just spent three hours fucking a woman into unconsciousness.

Just composed godly teenager in Armani suit that somehow still looked fresh, moving through fifth-floor hallway with easy confidence that made the space feel like it belonged to him rather than the other way around.

Catherine’s office door stood slightly ajar when he arrived. He knocked twice—professional courtesy wrapped in knowing smirk—and heard her voice call out with practiced steadiness:

"Come in, Eros."

Catherine sat behind her desk, and his still active eyes showed him everything she was trying to hide.

The flush still fading from her neck—crimson blooming beneath expensive foundation. Hair slightly disheveled despite obvious attempts to fix it, several strands escaping her usually-perfect bob. Tension in shoulders that suggested recent... exertion.

Her breathing just slightly elevated, pupils still dilated, thighs pressed together beneath that tailored pantsuit.

Through Plea, her thoughts screamed what she’d been doing while watching his demonstration through hidden cameras:

{—Fuck. FUCK. I came three times just watching him destroy her. Three times with my fingers buried in my pussy right here in my office. Haven’t cum that hard even in my twenties. The way he moved—like predator playing with prey.}

{The sounds Dominique made—never heard her scream like that. Ten orgasms. I counted every single one while rubbing my clit raw.}

{And that thing he did with his tongue while she was restrained? Jesus Christ, I need that. I

NEED

that. What would that mouth feel like on me? What would those hands—god, those fucking hands—}

"Eros." She gestured to the chair across from her desk, professional mask sliding back into place like armor despite what he knew she’d just been doing. "Please, sit down."

He settled into leather chair, completely at ease despite technically being the one being evaluated.

"So. How’d my evaluation go?"

Small smile touched her lips—acknowledging unspoken understanding that they both knew she’d watched everything, that privacy was illusion in building designed for observation. "It was... good enough."

He laughed—genuine sound that filled the office like released pressure. "Good enough? That’s the official assessment?"

Her thoughts betrayed careful words:

Good enough?

{GOOD ENOUGH? He made Dominique cum ten fucking times. She SQUIRTED. THREE TIMES. I’ve never seen her squirt with any recruit—never seen her lose control like that. His stamina is absolutely insane—three hours of relentless fucking and he walks out looking fresh while she’s unconscious. His technique is flawless.}

{That thing with the restraints where he made her beg to be hurt? Holy shit. And his body—dear god, his body. That cock. THAT COCK.}

{I watched it disappear inside her over and over and my pussy clenched every time like it was me he was fucking. I want that inside me. I want him to ruin me like he ruined her. I want—fuck, I’m getting wet again just thinking about it—}

"Look,"

Catherine said aloud, pulling tablet from desk drawer and swiping through documentation with manicured fingers. "Let’s discuss working conditions and rules. The practical boring shit that keeps everyone protected and this operation running smoothly."

"Sure."

"Meridian operates on strict confidentiality protocols." She swiped through screens showing legal documentation, NDAs, security measures.

"You’ll sign contracts before seeing any clients. Client information is protected—you receive first names only, sometimes not even that. Bookings come through agency coordination only, never direct contact. If client tries giving you her personal number? You politely decline and report it to us immediately."

Eros nodded, watching her professional mask hold despite body language screaming different story.

"Sessions are typically two to four hours," she continued. "Longer arrangements require additional approval and security measures—overnight bookings need three days’ notice minimum, weekend trips need a week. You maintain complete autonomy over which clients you accept. If request makes you uncomfortable for any reason, you decline. No questions asked, no explanations needed. We protect our escorts as much as our clients."

"Understood."

"Health screenings are mandatory monthly. Non-negotiable." Another swipe.

"We provide comprehensive insurance—medical, dental, vision, even therapy if needed because despite how fun this job looks, it can fuck with your head. You’re classified as independent contractor, not employee. Gives you flexibility, tax advantages, protects both parties legally."

She looked up from tablet, meeting his eyes directly. "Given your... exceptional demonstration today, I’ll be pairing you exclusively with high-value clients. And I mean

high

-value. Women who pay premium rates and expect absolute perfection.

"CEOs who run Fortune 500 companies. Diplomats’ wives. Entertainment industry executives. Women whose names you’d recognize from magazines and news coverage. The kind of clients who could destroy reputations with single phone call if they’re disappointed."

Catherine leaned forward slightly, and he watched her pulse quicken—professional intensity mixing with something more personal. "These women don’t just want good sex, Eros. They want transformative experiences. They want to feel things their expensive vibrators and inadequate husbands can’t provide. They want—"

"To feel worshipped," he finished. "To feel desired beyond transaction. To surrender control in space where it’s safe to do so. To discover their bodies are capable of pleasure they didn’t think possible anymore."

She blinked. "Yes. Exactly that."

"I know what they want, Catherine. That’s why I’m here."

Another swipe through tablet, and payment structure documentation appeared. "Standard rate for high-value clients is twenty thousand per session. Two to four hours, flat rate regardless of length within that window.

"Agency takes forty percent operational cut, you receive twelve thousand per session. Assuming you take three clients weekly—conservative estimate given your obvious appeal—that’s thirty-six thousand weekly.

"About a hundred and fifty thousand monthly. And that’s conservative. Some of our top escorts make half a million yearly."

She looked up, ready to continue negotiation, and found him watching her with expression that suggested he’d already decided something she wouldn’t understand.

"I’ll only need

one thousand

dollars per month."

Silence detonated in the office like concussion grenade.

Catherine’s head snapped up, eyes wide with genuine shock that cracked through professional composure like earthquake through glass.

"I’m sorry, say fucking what?"

"One thousand per month. Total. Regardless of how many sessions I do."

"That’s..." She set tablet down with more force than necessary, staring at him like he’d just announced he could walk on water.

"That’s completely insane. You just demonstrated capabilities that would let you earn six figures monthly easily—maybe seven if you wanted—and you want... one thousand? That’s less than what our fucking receptionists make. That’s less than what we spend on coffee weekly."

Through Plea, her thoughts spiraled like leaves in hurricane:

{Is this negotiation tactic? Does he want something else? Equity in the company? Percentage of profits? Is he completely insane? Nobody turns down that kind of money. NOBODY. What’s the angle? What does he actually want?}

"Why?" Catherine’s voice carried genuine confusion wrapped in suspicion wrapped in something that might’ve been hope. "What’s the catch, Eros? What do you actually want? Because nobody—and I mean

nobody

—turns down half a million yearly for beer money unless they want something else. So what is it? What’s your real play here?"

Eros stood, movement fluid and unhurried, crossing to floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Miami’s wealth like museum exhibit. He didn’t answer immediately—let silence stretch, let her confusion build, let anticipation create its own gravity.

Then he gestured toward the window.

"Come

here, Catherine."

She sighed—theatrical show of reluctance that fooled neither of them, professional woman pretending she wasn’t being pulled toward him like moth toward flame that would burn her alive.

But she rose from her desk anyway, heels clicking precise rhythm against hardwood until she stood beside him at the window.