The congress of networkers-distributors of all Belarus is near. I was also invited to this event as an intern trainee. In fact, I remained a dead soul on the neck of Angela until I learned how to cut game myself, to rent my sex organs. Actually, people like me, gathered about fifty people in a small theater hall. All the losers miserable, mostly men, we were driven, like sheep on the appointed day. We sat silently, skeptically listening to the cheerful speakers who were broadcasting from the stage.

First, Muller spoke. In his characteristic manner, he again spoke about the dangers of modern slavery, about incredible earnings, opening the way to freedom. Angela, meanwhile, was working with the hall. In an elegant white blouse with a badge on her left breast and black pants, she looked after the microphone so that none of us had the idea to arrange a demarche, to ask an uncomfortable question. And while the big girl with the lock in the clitoris and the steel lightning on the vagina, having forgotten, flirted with the microphone, squatting on it with her fists in all possible ways, the stage was on the stage for the next performance. Soon a black-haired vamp lady in a white business suit — a jacket skirt-heels — ascended to the dais.

“My name is Zlata Babich,” she began without warning. - A year ago, I, like you now, was looking for a decent job, went to interviews, was interested in salary. But I was constantly making dubious offers. As a rule, intimate, - she smiled, in the hall too. - Today I am my own mistress. I earn as much as I want. Do not believe? If I say that last month my income was ten thousand dollars and this is not the limit, will you listen to me?

She continued to troll the venerable public with tricky questions in this question. I was curious about the new young lady on her heels, chirping from the stage. She, like a little sparrows, vigorously waved her hands, proving the first theorem of the pyramid about the inexhaustible reserves of money in the world. This woman - Zlata Babich - looked like Demi Moore in her youth, or Tina Kandelaki - the same Georgian-Armenian-Sicilo-Abkhazian black hair, eyes, pretty clever face, make-up of TV presenter. Thick black mop of hair, fluffy, slightly curly, tied to the tail, fluttered behind her back in a businesslike manner. Babich held on confidently, even too much. Excessive looseness and betrayed in her nervous tension. In addition, she tried to look older than she really was. Her voice periodically broke, glance flew somewhere in the direction of Muller and the company of fat cats who came in large numbers from the corporation. They were plowed in suits with ties; they sat in the first row, to the side of the stage, and grazed the hen with greedy, indulgent looks, amused by the look of sexy little children jumping around the stage under their pointer. Puppeteers.

During the intermission, the people dumped into the corridor. We were awaited by the second action with the main tillage-shtunopravom, who, for the sake of the congregation of the flock, was not too lazy to come from America itself. True, he was going to speak Russian, since he had absolutely Russians, that is, Jewish roots.

I wandered into the toilet - the only place where networkers were ashamed to stretch the network.

"What am I doing here? - I asked myself, relieved in the urinal. - Crossed for some reason. I would sit at home. ”

In fact, I felt like a scout, a spy in an enemy camp, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I wanted to play games of the patriots, tease Muller and company, tackle Cornegie and old Hill.

“Let these Dodikas spend all their time and money on me, I still came here to have a good time,” I thought, smiling rather and fastening my fly.

In the dim corridor a half-dead light bulb flickered. One of the doors opposite the toilet was ajar. I looked there in the hope of finding a naked woman on the floor. But there was a workshop there. A bunch of easels with an unfinished daub, tables along the walls, covered with long tablecloths, is a common perch of beginning painters. I began to walk, as in a gallery, with picturesquely laying my hands behind my back, shaking my head with a clever look, pretending to be impressed.

It is not known how much time I would have spent there, if suddenly there were no voices. They approached, women - laughter, male - muffled. At the last moment, when I heard the creak of the door, I managed to dive under the table, closing with a linen table dangling from the floor.

- Is anyone here? - heard Muller's voice. - Well. Angela lock the door, please, so as not to disturb us.

There was a twist of the bolt, except for Angela and Muller in the room was someone else.

“Money in advance, girls, money in advance,” a contented Muller purred in a chant.

I already found a slit at the level of the floor, put my ear to the linoleum and watched in amazement at the picture that appeared before my eyes.

Angela and Zlata handed over the proceeds. Thick bundles of green banknotes, neatly tied with rubber bands, migrated from the hands of working bees to the paws of a drone.

- It's all? - Muller pretended to be unhappy. - Something a little this time. Oh well. You have half an hour.

I held my breath, what happened next is difficult to describe. The girls, as if on cue, pulled off their undergarments. Zlata lifted her skirt and lowered her nylon pantyhose and panties, Angela unbuttoned her pants and also appeared completely naked in the pubic area.

They were both sewn with the same steel spring with a lock. Barn golden clasps, like bells, hung in front, thrown into the clitoris.

Muller found a rope around his neck with a key, sank down in front of each of the girls and in turn unlocked the locks. Slaves themselves continued to remove the shackles, carefully rotating the spring. They were sitting priests on the tables, legs apart, their faces were very sad, as if someone had died. Muller stood beside him, grinning, stroking his belly.

- Well, who will you masturbate today? - He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his misted brow. His brain is above the roof.

The girls did not answer, did not even look at him. They were busy with themselves, intensely, without losing time, they masturbated, holding their phones with their free hand, peering at the screens.

Muller approached.

- What is here with us? - he looked into the phone Zlata. - Mmmm. Stallone how interesting. Let me help you, sweetheart.

He pulled a flaccid, swollen banana member out of his fly, pointing down, rolled out a condom, and in one fell swoop drove the banana into Zlata. She didn’t even blink with an eye, only spread her legs wider, frowned and quickly pulled the handle, looking even more intently at the screen of the phone, pressing her back against the wall even more. Müller also turned away, fucking the girl like a rubber doll. It seemed they did not notice each other at all. Only the reserved moans of Zlata and the rolling pupils testified that she was well. Only the gloomy expression of her face and the fierce glances that she occasionally threw at Muller, indicated the opposite.

Angela sat next to her. With a dull look, she masturbated at a picture in the phone. Her gorgeous ass royally sprawled on the table. Magnificent thighs stood majestically to their knees raised.

Bored Muller bent down to Angela and looked into her phone.

- Is that that sucker? Chernenko, it seems, his name is, - Muller stretched out in a Cheshire smile, pulled Angela off the table and put cancer on the easel. - Now I will show you, bitch, a real man. You want this, don't you?

“Yes,” Angela muttered without noticing, continuing to masturbate and stare at the telephone.

Now I clearly saw the expression on her face, sad, fallen. Her hand, running along a rounded tummy, jerked in a wild rhythm.

Muller with a roar drove into her sausage, wound a fluffy honey tail on his fist and began to fuck hard, apparently considering the picture on Angela's phone as a personal insult.

I wanted to cry with grief, with pity. To myself, to Angela. She masturbated, looking at my photo, introducing herself to me, while Muller pecked her from behind. I couldn’t go out and stop the violence, because I didn’t know what was hidden behind seven seals, why girls allow Muller to hang locks, why they, like bees, work for him from morning to evening. I was afraid to give myself away, make things worse. Müller was not as stupid as I thought at first.

At that moment, Angela's gaze lifted from the phone and slid across the floor. Apparently, she felt something. Some subtle connection, unbreakable, eternal, has already been established between us. An intangible, spiritual bond that connects lonely hearts with a union of love.

Our eyes met, she sighed in amazement, the hand under her froze for a short moment. She needed time to recover. Realizing that she was being watched, and not by anyone, but by the very subject of adoration that was stored in her phone, Angela with a new force rushed to masturbate, rubbing the clitoris that had lashed until it lost sensitivity.

She smiled at the corner of her lips, kindly, as if apologizing, as if to say:

“Well, I'm sorry, Dima, that it happened. I am not guilty.

Suddenly, tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

Continuing to roar without sound, she covered her eyelids, her pupils flew upwards, an unearthly chest moan, like a soul, flew out of her, echoing through the workshop. She jumped and bent, as it was with me on the couch, flying backwards with a wide ass, straddling a hunted cock that had smashed her, a cock that suddenly also began to creep to the accompaniment of strange donkey sounds that are muttering with a turkey:

- And! And! And! - so Muller decorated orgasm.

When it was over, the girls again closed the vagina with springs. Muller hung locks, rather slapped slaves on the priests, escorted out of the door with the words:

- And now for the work, my beauties. Who does not work, he does not fuck.

They went to collect loot for a potty hypnotist, to serve customers, providing a limited but very tolerable range of services - blowjob plus anal, and I did not know why.

Why they did it.