International Manwhore – Part 2

Everyone in this story is 18+

I found my father in his study, pouring over some paperwork with a glass of scotch on the desk beside him. He barely looked up as I entered, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever.

"Something on your mind, Bryson?” he asked, flipping a page.

"Yeah, something’s on my mind," I snapped, planting myself in front of his desk. "What the hell was that meeting about? Did you know what they wanted me to do?"

He sighed, setting his pen down and leaning back in his chair. "I know it was a lot to take in. But let’s not make this more dramatic than it needs to be."

"Dramatic?!" I felt my fists clench. "Dad, they’re asking me to do something insane! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?"

He stood then, walking around the desk to face me. His expression was cold now, all traces of fatherly concern gone. "Humiliating? Let me make this very simple for you, Bryson. Either you take this assignment, or your traineeship will be suspended. And we both know what that means."

My throat tightened. "You can’t be serious."

"Oh, I’m very serious," he said, his voice sharp. "Do you really think anyone else is going to hire you for anything meaningful after that video? You’ve already turned yourself into a joke, Bryson. At least this way, you can salvage what’s left of your reputation—and do something worthwhile for your country in the process."

I tried to protest, my voice shaking. "But Dad, I have to—"

He cut me off with a raised hand. "Please, spare your father the sordid details. You and your ex-girlfriend have already done sordid things. Now, at least you can do it for your country!"

I stared at him, the words hitting me like a slap. I wanted to argue, to scream at him, but the lump in my throat made it impossible. His gaze bore into mine, unwavering and unapologetic, and for the first time, I realized just how little room I had to negotiate.

◆◆◆

I sat stiffly in the same conference room as before, the polished table gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The American and the MI6 guy—whose name I still hadn’t bothered to learn—sat across from me, their expressions infuriatingly calm.

"So," the American began, folding his hands on the table, "I take it you’ve had some time to think things over?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I didn’t exactly have much of a choice, did I?" I muttered, leaning back in my chair.

The MI6 guy gave me a thin smile. "It’s good to hear you’re on board, Bryson. This is an important assignment, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for it."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I said, waving him off. "So, what now? You’re gonna hand me a script and tell me to start seducing someone?"

The American cleared his throat, and I immediately regretted my sarcasm. "Not quite," he said carefully. "Before we move forward, there’s some additional training you’ll need to complete."

"Training?" I frowned. "What kind of training?"

The MI6 guy shifted in his seat, glancing at his American counterpart before answering. "Well, as we discussed earlier, you’ll need to convincingly play the part. That means learning certain… skills and nuances. A kind of sexual re-conditioning."

I blinked. "Skills? Nuances? Sexual re-conditioning???"

The American leaned forward slightly, his tone annoyingly patient. "You’ll be attending a discreet program designed to prepare you for your role. It’s completely safe, fully confidential, and conducted by professionals."

"Wait." I held up a hand, my brain finally catching up. "You want me to go to gay sex school? Are you being serious right now?"

The MI6 guy’s face barely twitched. "We prefer to think of it as immersive role preparation."

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, immersive. That makes it so much better. Jesus Christ."

"It’s perfectly safe," the American said quickly. "The program is designed to ensure participants are comfortable at all times. And yes, everyone involved will use protection."

"Well, that’s just great," I snapped, crossing my arms. "I feel so much better knowing you’ve got condoms covered."

The MI6 guy leaned forward, his tone turning cooler. "Bryson, this isn’t a joke. If you’re going to do this, you need to do it right. The target is highly perceptive. Any hesitation or lack of authenticity on your part could jeopardize the mission."

I wanted to argue, to tell them just how insane this all was, but the words caught in my throat. I could already hear my father’s voice in my head, sharp and unforgiving. At least you can do it for your country.

"Fine," I muttered, looking away. "I’ll do it."

"Good," the American said, his tone softening slightly. "We’ll arrange for the sessions to begin immediately. Trust us, Bryson. You’re doing something important here."

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t doing this for them, or for the mission, or even for my country. I was doing it because I didn’t have a choice.

◆◆◆

The next conference room for they day was colder than it needed to be. One of those sleek, glass boxes with frosted windows and bottled water that probably cost more than my shoes. I sat at the end of a long table, trying not to look like I was two espresso shots away from quitting the whole game.

Across from me stood Agent Leona Briggs—late 30s, high heels like weapons, an accent that was East Coast polished, and a mouth that looked like it could recite both Miranda rights and your worst secrets in the same breath.

She dropped a thick folder on the table in front of me. "Dossier on your target."

I flipped it open. At first glance, it looked like the standard fare: headshots, bios, financials, suspected aliases. But then came the footnotes—handwritten, underlined, intimate.

Adrien Laroque.
French-British. Socialite. Technically legal, questionably ethical.
He hosted influencer retreats that doubled as luxury orgies and offshore money-laundering fronts.

The footnotes were the fun part. Things like:

"Known for being talkative post-orgasm."
"Prefers partners with ‘aggressively nonchalant’ energy."
"Rumored to have kept a certain prince's underwear in his bedside drawer for three years."

I raised an eyebrow. “This dossier has more gossip than my mother’s book club.”

Leona didn't smile. "You're not here to judge him. You're here to seduce him. This isn't about likes and follows—this is about off-shore accounts and encrypted communications through sex-positive dating apps."

I flipped another page. Adrien looked effortlessly decadent. Tanned, smirking. Dressed like he paid someone to wrinkle his linen shirts just right.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she continued, “you’ll have your first official conditioning session. Psychological calibration, seduction dynamics, physiological control.”

I blinked. “So basically, CIA brainwashing and gay school.”

She finally allowed herself the thinnest smile. “If that helps you commit, sure.”

◆◆◆

By the time I left the building, I had the rest of the day off and a head full of criminal billionaires and erotic psychological warfare.

I pulled out my phone and made a few taps.

The Echelon Hotel, Canary Wharf . All glass. All luxury.
The kind of place where the minibar has foie gras-flavored almonds and the bed sheets probably had a LinkedIn.

And then I texted Josephine.
Hot and wild. Emotionally unavailable in the best way.
She usually answered with something filthy or a half-nude mirror pic. This time she just texted:

“Room number?”

That was her way of saying yes.

I smiled, leaning back into the plush armchair by the hotel window, watching the Thames glimmer like it was flirting with the city.

That’s when my phone buzzed again. Dad. Of course.

I answered.

“Bryson,” he said, clipped and formal. The way he always was when there were witnesses—or guilt.

“I trust the briefing went well?”

“Mm,” I said. “If by well you mean a government-sanctioned strip tease of my own morality, then yeah. Just peachy.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “Sebastian has a meeting at the embassy tomorrow. Business proposal.”

That made me pause. “Sebastian’s in town?”

“Temporarily,” he said. “He’s scheduled with me tomorrow morning.”

I rubbed a hand across my jaw. “Can I talk to him after? About this… situation I’m being thrown into?”

A pause.

“You may speak with him,” he finally said, “but only in general terms. He’ll have to sign an NDA before you say anything sensitive.”

“Ok,” I said dryly.

“Exactly. I’ll tell him to reach out to you after our meeting.”

“Anything else, Dad? Want me to seduce Princess Beatrice?”

There was the faintest sigh on the line—annoyance, exasperation, guilt—then a quiet click.

Classic... A second later, the hotel phone rang. I picked it up, already smiling.

“Reception,” a warm voice said. “There’s a Miss Josephine here for you.”

I hung up.

Smirk in place, I adjusted my shirt, glanced in the mirror, and walked toward the door.

Reconditioning? Please. I love pussy too much. Just ask Josephine.

--- --- ---

Hey everyone! I forgot to mention that this is the sequel to Roomies in Arms yesterday. For those of you who might need a refresher or are new, go check it out if you haven’t already.

Also, this ties into parts 25 and 26 of Roomies in Arms, so part 3 of International Manwhore will take place after the events of those chapters. Be sure to read them to refresh your memory on the Sebastian–Bryson conversation.