Relator IV
FMM
I don't take new clients for six days. I tell myself it's strategy, that I'm letting the Chen deal settle, that I'm positioning for bigger fish. The truth is I flinch when my phone rings. I hear that butch voice in every unknown number, the blonde's laugh in every echo of a harbour ferry whistle.
On the seventh day, my rent is due, and my commission from Oliver hasn't cleared, and I open my laptop to the leads I've been ignoring.
Two names, linked: Marcus Webb and Diego Reyes. Co-founders of something called Orbit-Stream, some fintech startup I don't bother to research. Their inquiry came through the agency's website three days ago—"interested in waterfront properties, modern aesthetic, flexible budget."
The kind of vague, eager language that usually means easy money.
I study their names until they stop sounding like threats.
Until they sound like commission.
I call Marcus first. His voice is warm, slightly nasal, with the trace of an accent I can't place—South African, maybe, or educated in England. He's friendly, too friendly, laughing at jokes I haven't made yet, agreeing to meet before I've finished proposing times.
"We're actually at the Barangaroo site now," he says. "Diego's obsessed with the architecture. Could you meet us? Say, half an hour?"
I look at my reflection in the dark window. The bruises have faded to yellow-green, easily covered. My hands are steady. I am Beth Jones, and I sell dreams to people who can't afford them, and I have never been manipulated by anyone. Bugger those two tarts, wherever they are.
"Half an hour," I agree. "I'll be the one with the rose."
I retrieve the best one from the trash, wilted, red enough, but still ridiculous.
They're not what I expected. Marcus is tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of easy smile that makes you want to confess things. Diego is shorter, compact, with dark hair cropped close and eyes that don't leave my face. They're both wearing jeans and button-down shirts, startup casual, and they finish each other's sentences in a way that would be cute if it didn't keep happening.
"The penthouse," Diego says, as we ride the elevator up. " The one beside Oliver Chen. We know you sold him one."
"How do you—"
"Small world," Marcus interrupts. "We know Oliver. Well, knew. We pitched him once. He seemed..."
He glances at Diego. "Overwhelmed?"
"Anxious," Diego supplies. "But he bought a nice place, so. Your doing?"
The elevator doors open, and I step out first, grateful for the space to breathe.
"Oliver knew what he wanted. I just helped him see it."
This current penthouse is empty now, furniture removed, the rooms echoing with potential. I move through my script—marble countertops, harbour views, the way the morning light hits the master bedroom—but they're not watching the apartment. They're watching me.
"You mentioned a rose," Diego says when I pause for breath.
He's leaning against the kitchen island, his posture deliberately casual. "In your email signature. 'Beth Jones, bringing you home.' And the rose."
"It's a tradition," I say, and my hand finds the stem in my bag, the petals drooping against my palm.
"My mother—"
"Sold dreams," Marcus finishes.
He's moved closer, somehow, without me noticing.
"We looked you up. Your mother was Margaret Jones? The Kirribilli queen?"
The nickname stings, unexpected. "She was successful."
"Until she wasn't." Diego's voice is gentle, but the words aren't.
"We read about the bankruptcy. The investigation. How old were you when—"
"Fifteen." I didn't mean to answer. I didn't mean to give them anything.
"Is this relevant to the property?"
Marcus laughs, a genuine sound that warms the cold marble.
"Diego, you've offended her."
"I've intrigued her," Diego corrects.
He pushes off the island, moving toward the bedroom, and I follow because that's my job, because I'm showing the space, not because I'm being herded.
"This room gets morning light?"
"Eastern exposure," I confirm, my voice steady again. "The windows are treated for UV, so you won't get fading, but the warmth—"
"Show us the ensuite," Marcus says, and he's behind me now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woody and expensive.
"Diego's particular about bathrooms."
The ensuite is my favourite part of the penthouse, the tub positioned against floor-to-ceiling glass, the harbour spread out like an offering.
I start my pitch about the fixtures, the water pressure, the heated floors, but Diego is watching my reflection in the mirror, and Marcus is watching Diego, and I feel the familiar vertigo of a deal slipping sideways.
"You mentioned Oliver seemed overwhelmed," I say, pivoting. "Are you two looking for something simpler? Less... demanding?"
"Oh, we're not overwhelmed," Marcus says.
His hand finds my elbow, guiding me toward the tub, and I let him because his touch is warm and my skin is still remembering cold tiles.
"We're quite comfortable with demand. With complexity."
Diego turns from the window. "We know about the balcony, Beth."
My breath stops. My face in the mirror goes still, professional, but my hands—my hands find the rose in my bag and crush it.
"We know, butch," Diego continues. "She's... an acquaintance. She mentioned you might be receptive to unconventional arrangements."
"She said you were trying to stop calculating," Marcus adds, his thumb circling the inside of my elbow.
"We thought we might help with that."
I should leave. I should laugh, deflect, remind them that I'm a professional and this is a professional relationship and there are cameras in the lobby, probably, there must be.
But my feet don't move, and my mouth says, "What kind of arrangement?"
Diego smiles, and it's nothing like butch's command, nothing like the blonde's hunger. It's patient, curious, the smile of someone who's already won and is waiting for you to catch up.
"We buy the penthouse," he says. "Full price, no negotiation, no conditions. And you..."
He glances at Marcus, some silent communication passing between them.
"You spend the night. With us. However, we want."
"That's prostitution," I say, but my voice is quiet, wondering.
"That's commission," Marcus corrects. "With benefits. You want the sale, Beth. We can see it in your shoulders, in the way you're holding that dead flower. You need this sale. And we..."
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his brown eyes. "We want to see what our friend saw. What made you scream loud enough to carry across the harbour."
I think of my empty apartment, the couch I've been sleeping on, the rent due and the commission delayed and the way the tiles felt against my back. I think of my mother's voice, years ago, telling me that a good agent never leaves money on the table, never lets pride interfere with the close.
"One night," I say. "And you sign tomorrow."
Diego's smile widens. "We were hoping you'd say that."
They don't touch me in the penthouse. They make me wait, make me finish the tour, make me stand in the empty living room and describe the view while they stand too close and don't touch me at all.
By the time we reach the lobby, my skin is humming, my professional composure stretched thin as old silk.
"Your place?" Marcus asks, and I nod before I can think better of it.
We take separate cars. I drive too fast, running orange lights, my hands shaking on the wheel. I tell myself it's adrenaline, the thrill of the close, but I know it's fear, the same fear I felt on the balcony, the fear that I'm not in control and that I might like it.
They're waiting when I arrive, leaning against a black car I didn't see them drive, and they follow me up without speaking. The elevator feels smaller with them in it, Marcus's shoulder brushing mine, Diego's eyes on my throat where the bruise has faded to almost nothing.
I open the door to my apartment. The balcony door is open again, the harbour wind rushing in, and for a moment I see the butch Australian's shadow, the blonde's pale hair, and I can't breathe.
"She gave us a key," Diego says, behind me. "In case you changed your mind. She said you'd want to, eventually."
I turn. They're both watching me, patient, and I realise I've been played from the start—not by these two, but by the Australian, by the blonde, by whatever network of people moves through this city trading in desire and debt.
"Bedroom," I say, because the balcony is too much, too soon, too raw.
But Marcus is already moving toward the open door, the harbour night, and Diego's hand finds my waist, guiding me forward.
"She said you stopped thinking out there," Diego murmurs against my ear. "She said that was the real you. We want to meet her."
I let them lead me onto the tiles, the same tiles, and this time I'm dressed, but I feel more naked than before. Marcus closes the sliding door behind us, sealing us in the open air, and Diego turns me to face the harbour.
"Knees," he says, and I go down, the concrete hard through my skirt, my hands finding my own thighs for balance.
Marcus unzips first, his cock heavy and dark in the ferry-light, and he doesn't guide me, doesn't command—he waits, lets me lean forward and take him into my mouth on my own initiative. The taste is different from the Australian, salt and skin and something bitter, and I work him slowly, trying to find the rhythm, the angle.
Diego's hands find my hair, not guiding, just holding, and I feel him kneel behind me, his thighs bracketing mine. He lifts my skirt, my underwear still on from this morning, and pulls them aside with a roughness that makes me gasp around Marcus's flesh.
"Wet," Diego observes, his fingers testing, circling, not entering.
"She said you would be."
They take their time. Diego's fingers press inside me, two of them, curling to find the spot that makes my thighs tremble, while Marcus rocks into my mouth with increasing urgency.
I lose track of whose hands are where, lose track of the harbour, the ferries, the opera house waiting across the water.
There is only the stretch of my jaw, the pressure inside me, the wind cold on my exposed skin.
"Turn her," Marcus says, pulling back, and Diego's hands guide me around, repositioning me on my hands and knees. My skirt is bunched at my waist, my blouse still buttoned, my professional armour looks ridiculous now.
Diego enters me first, one long stroke that makes me cry out, and Marcus is there, guiding himself back into my mouth, and I am full, completely full, front and back, unable to do anything but accept.
They find a rhythm, not perfectly synced, the mismatch making me dizzy, making me feel every inch of both of them.
"She's tight," Diego gasps, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck, Marcus, she's—"
"Don't come yet," Marcus warns, and I don't know which of us he's talking to, don't care, because they're speeding up, both of them, and I'm making sounds I don't recognise, guttural and desperate.
"Hngg! Hnnghh!"
Diego pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and aching, and I feel his fingers, wet with me, pressing against my other hole. I tense, automatic, and Marcus's hand finds my throat, gentle, just resting there.
"Breathe," he says, and I do, and Diego pushes in, slow, relentless, and the stretch is too much, the burn exquisite, and I'm full again but different, completely different, his cock in my starfish while his fingers work my slash and Marcus fills my mouth and I am nothing but openings, nothing but need.
They use me like that, Diego's hips snapping against mine, Marcus's hands in my hair, and I feel the orgasm building from somewhere deep, somewhere I didn't know I could reach.
My arse filled. My mouth chock full.
Then my patootie and my tooshie nearly meet. A pecker burrows into my back chute. A schlong nestles in my pussy.
Sheez, my first double dip and it's sensational.
Filled twice.
Drilled twice.
A near aching joining.
Balls slapping, slapping everywhere.
The double thrust. The double manic thrusts.
My holes embrace the thrusts.
When my peak hits, it's not like before, not the breaking scream of the balcony—it's silent, my body locking up, every muscle rigid, and they feel it, both of them.
Diego groaning, "fuck, she's coming, she's coming around my cock," and Marcus tightening his grip, and then they're both releasing, Marcus in my love canal and Diego deep in my clenching ass.
I take it, I take everything.
After, they help me inside. Diego runs water in my kitchen sink, finds a towel, and cleans between my thighs with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
Marcus finds my scotch, pours three glasses, and we sit on my couch—my couch, where I've been sleeping—and drink like colleagues after a successful meeting.
"The paperwork," I say, finally, my voice rough. "Tomorrow."
"First thing," Diego agrees. He doesn't touch me now, none of us touching, but his eyes keep finding mine, curious, logging.
"You were right, you know. About Oliver. He did need to see what he wanted."
"And you?" I ask. "What did you need to see?"
Marcus laughs, swirling his scotch.
"That you could stop calculating. That there was something underneath."
He glances at Diego.
"There's a lot underneath, Beth. More than one night could find."
I don't ask what he means. I don't want to know, or I want it too much, and the distinction blurs as the scotch warms my chest.
They leave eventually, separately, Diego first with a hand on my shoulder and Marcus last with a kiss on my forehead that echoes the blonde's almost maternal gesture.
I sleep in my bed that night, finally, and dream of water, of being carried by currents I can't see or control.
In the morning, the paperwork is waiting in my email, signed and witnessed, the full deposit transferred.
I stand in the shower until the water runs cold, watching the last of Diego from my skin spiral down the drain, and I don't know if I've won or lost or if words mean anything anymore.
I pour coffee and stand at my window, watching the harbour, waiting for the ferries to start their morning crossing.
The wilted rose is on my counter, somehow, though I threw it away twice.
I pick it up, feel the dried petals crumble against my palm, and wonder what my mother would say about this sale, this commission, this night that doesn't fit any contract I've ever signed.
The harbour doesn't answer. It never does. But I stand there anyway, watching the light change, waiting for whatever comes next.