The Billionaire Brute

by Hart, Romi

  “Well, frankly,” Bill adds. “I think it’s strange that Byron said his therapist told him he had NPD. That’s not something a therapist would diagnose so early on, especially for the first session. Who recommended this therapist?”

  “I don’t know. Someone he trusted.”

  “Hmm,” Bill said with a suspicious nod. “Perhaps a friend or the family recommended?”

  “Well, I assume.”

  “And do you think his family would have any special reason to disqualify you as a prospect for their son?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, holding my hand over my mouth. “You think they hated me that much? I thought they were very friendly.”

  “Who was it that said, ‘Be kind to your friends, but kinder to your enemies?’”

  “Would his father really pay-off a therapist just to badmouth me and brainwash him like that? Do you think…Byron was really in love with me?”

  “I have no idea. What I will tell you though, is that I’ve read so many strange things about Alfred Gallows. Some good, but plenty bad, plenty of it is dark and disturbing. How he’s a misogynist. A corrupt man who bribes his way through life. He disposes of his enemies. He has a Machiavellian way of dealing with people, using them for whatever worth he can get out of them. Of course, no one can prove that’s what he is. But I do believe the more ‘lies’ that we hear about a person, the more likely there is at least a grain of truth to consider.”

  “I probably would be the last person they would want Byron to marry. I’m not rich, not young, not famous. They probably would be horrified to learn we were getting married.”

  “From what I’ve read though, and I admit from only a few dubious sources, is that Alfred is actually a Satanist and part of some billionaire-elite club. Now I don’t know if that’s true. I can’t prove it. But let’s just assume, for a minute, that Alfred is a terrible human being and a manipulative narcissistic personality. What do you think he would say to Byron about you?”

  “He would hate me, wouldn’t he?”

  “He fears intelligence in a woman. That’s my guess.”

  “Thank you, Bill. You’ve been so kind hearing me out.”

  “Sometimes friendship is more important than getting one’s kicks. Maybe that’s something we should all hear every so often.”

  Bill’s words ring true in my mind. How often do we neglect friendship in pursuit of selfish passion? Maybe I’m the one seeing this relationship with just a two-dimensional view. Maybe I need to put love and sex second and put Byron and my friendship first, for a change.

  Chapter 11

  Byron

  “Hey!” I say sweetly to Laura, who is tormenting me by continuing to write to me, even when I’ve tried to back away from her. It didn’t take much goading. Just the mere suggestion that we ought to meet and talk, was enough to bring me down here to this coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think I’ve ever even sat foot in a coffee shop outside of the downtown area. But it’s certainly a quaint little place.

  As if knowing my thoughts, Laura smiles and teases me. “Have you ever been in a quiet little shop like this before, not filled with waiters, VIPs, and photographers?”

  “Well…a few times, yes! Definitely.”

  “This is where I come all the time. I like the quiet.”

  “I’m happy to see you, Laura. I am. But I just want you to know that my letter was written only with the purpose of protecting you, not…”

  “I know, Byron. I know. There’s no need to say it. I get it.”

  “Well, that’s good! I do like being friends. Sometimes…”

  “Sometimes friendship is better than just some good nooky,” she says. “Way ahead of you, buttercup. Don’t mind if I call you, buttercup, do you? Since I’m the one rocking the cradle this time?”

  “Not at all. I know you won’t believe me, but when I saw you I didn’t really see the age difference. I just saw you as this nearly perfect, unattainable woman.”

  “I have no objections to that. Most women would like to hear that. That we’re beautiful, nearly perfect.”

  “Well if I had said ‘perfect’ you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Right. It would have been a narcissist thing to say.”

  “Yeah…” I say, a frown developing on my face.

  “Look Byron, I don’t think you’re a narcissist. Okay? In fact, I don’t know who the hell put that idea into your head. I don’t think my ex-husband was a narcissist either. I think…a lot of people just throw the word around too much, you know?”

  “Well, it’s true what they say, though. That I can never seem to be happy, never seem to feel love.”

  “A lot of us tough, independent, single people are that way,” she says with a tired grin. “We don’t know how to be happy with ‘love’ because it requires changing our lifestyle. Trusting someone is a major life change. And we do become set in our ways, even stubborn sometimes, that breaking the wall seems challenging.”

  “Well…for me too,” I reply, not sure of what I feel anymore. “I mean, just the other day my father…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  “I get the impression, Byron, that you think our lifestyles are not compatible. And I’m inclined to agree. You have your own life to live, and I have mine. I help people come to terms with themselves, their issues, help them find happiness. You manage billions of dollars, you help the economy. We have two different but important jobs.”

  “True.”

  I flinch. All I can feel in my heart is the need to be near her, involved in some part of her life. Even if it’s just as a “friend”, whatever that means. I have to admit, I don’t really understand the concept of best-friends, more like categories of friends, shelves of friends that go in groups together to accomplish certain tasks.

  “So if our sexual relationship is over, then take me on as a patient or client or whatever you call it.”

  She has a long, drawn-out affected laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? If our relationship is over…”

  “Because. I can’t promise that I won’t…that we won’t…” She rolls her head, emphasizing the point that she can’t resist me. That she’s not done with me. And the thought in my head turns into a wave of anticipation. I don’t want it to be over. I’m not bored with her even after all that we’ve done together.

  “Are you saying you don’t trust yourself with me?” I raise my eyebrow.

  “I think you know the answer to that. So, let’s talk about something other than sex. That is, after all what friends do.”

  “Ah, right.”

  “Let’s make it a game. I’ll ask a question and you give me an answer. And if the answer makes you uncomfortable, well…answer it anyway. Because you certainly made me uncomfortable. And yet it turned out to be the best sex of my life, wasn’t it? So maybe a little mental exercise will do you some good.”

  “You’re right. You deserve to know. Almost everything.”

  “Why are you always reluctant to talk about your parents?”

  “Hmm. Good question. Pass.”

  “No pass,” she says, backing away and folding her arms. “Or maybe let’s make a deal. You tell me the truth, I remove one article of clothing.”

  “Hmm, Truth or Strip. I like it. You’ll strip right here?”

  “NO, at home, later.”

  “Hmm, I think you should strip right now.”

  “Fine, so answer the question.”

  “Umm…okay.” I lean back, nostrils flaring, sighing. Even my heart seems to be beating louder than usual. “I think there’s an emotional attachment there. I love my father. And yet…we don’t always get along. I don’t like certain things about him. But I also don’t like what the media says about him.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “First strip,” I say with a moody glance.

  “Double or nothing. Tell me what you remember about your mother.”


  “Ahhhh,” I say, just about as nervous and self-conscious as she must have been when I ate her out. Mmmm it was so good too. Okay, I’ll tell her everything. Just because I can’t resist her mind games.

  “Okay. Like I once said, I remember the Christmas holidays.”

  “What else?”

  “What else?”

  “Like schooling, family moments, recitals, church, billionaire bingo, anything! Something I haven’t heard before Byron. Anything not to do with Christmas.”

  “Well…she was a good mom. She always, you know, sort of refereed in fights with my dad.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  I suddenly bite my lip and give her a fuck-you stare. “How many strips do you owe me now?”

  “Tell me what you fought about.”

  “No. You haven’t stripped even once. You’re not playing by the rules.”

  She laughs wickedly. “Byron Gallows! You keep saying you want therapy with me, but you can’t even answer one goddamn question about who you really are.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re not a narcissist. You’re a fucking façade. You’ve built this fake identity of who you are, so strong, so untouchable, you don’t even know who you are, do you?”

  My heart races and my body shakes with rage. She’s pissing me off, probably on purpose. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s just go back to being friends.”

  I start to push back the chair and storm out…

  “WAIT,” she commands. “I’m not finished.”

  “Yes, you are. You know what? Fuck it. I don’t need friends. I don’t care. I’ve got plenty of other things I’d rather be doing.”

  “Here,” she says, giving me a sassy look.

  Then, suddenly, all my anger and hatred vanishes. She plops her pink panties right on the table, prudency be damned.

  “Only one piece. But I still win, don’t I?”

  I stare at her panties, then back to her, then glance at other people in the shop who have also noticed. A few guys are laughing, and a few old ladies are huffing and puffing in anger.

  All I can do is smile, even turning a little red as I meet Laura’s eyes. She is so good at making me feel everything. Every emotion. Making me feel real.

  “So?” she says. “Are you turned on? Is fighting what gets you all excited?”

  “No,” I answer back coyly. “I still like to be romanced. I say the night is still young, let’s go out for a night in the town. After all, there are other things to talk about, besides sex and painful memories of the past.”

  I’ve decided to take Laura somewhere really nice this time. We’ve spent a lot of time seeing big houses, going to fancy dinners and seeing the luxurious side of life. But she hasn’t yet seen how the “elite” really live.

  “Welcome!” a woman in an orange opera mask says, as she welcomes us inside the Aleister Grand Theater, a very big mansion located in Beverly Hills that is only used about four times a year. No one ever speaks of it publicly, but everyone in the “know” has heard about it.

  Laura is alarmed at what she sees. Everyone here wears a mask, including the two of us. It’s the only way you’re allowed entry. This is a very special club, a special elite event that is strictly by invitation only.

  Laura sticks closely by my side as we walk through the corridor, making our way to the theater room. Everywhere she looks, she sees men in suits and women in dresses, all characterized by their scary and unusual masks. Opera masks, of course, like a Cosplay for billionaire adults. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that everyone here is worth pure gold. Some of them are studio executives, politicians, independently wealthy landowners, movie stars in disguise. In other words, the “elite” that everyone always references but no one can prove actually exists.

  The only outsider here is my dear Laura, who’s worth gold to me, but who everyone else here would chase away if they knew who she really was. I snuck her in here, under the guise of her being a prominent movie star that I’m dating.

  Laura’s body language, self-conscious and humble, is almost giving her away. A few attendants are giving her a suspicious look but they fall back when I hold her hand and guide her through the area.

  “Where are we?” she whispers in a strained voice.

  “We’re in my world,” I whisper back.

  As we enter the main auditorium, we are met with the most harrowing sight.

  Dozens of figures shadowed, covered in robes, and performing an ancient ritual.

  Laura watches silently, undoubtedly scared to death but poker-facing her way through it. In front of us is a naked woman writhing in ecstasy, clothed in tiny lingerie, and sprinkled with what appears to be animal blood.

  Her opera mask turns my way and looks at me. I nod solemnly, wanting to reassure her but not wanting to cause a scene.

  I grip her hand firmly, as if to say, “It’s okay…keep calm.”

  Laura watches as more than a dozen masked men approach the “sacrifice”, each one with a bigger cock than the last, ready to fuck. They wear nothing else but masks, belts, and leather.

  Everyone stays quiet, respectful, wickedly complicit, as the men proceed to fuck the shit out of this masked woman, one right after another.

  A soundtrack of strange chants and monotone music notes plays in the background. Everyone here, a roomful of hundreds of people, watch in silence as the woman orgasms repeatedly, crying out for dear life, even while all her holes are penetrated.

  It’s unholy, disturbing and speaks as to the perversity of “my type of people”, the elite, miscreants of society. Of course, I know this is too much for Laura to handle. It’s the precise reason I’ve decided to bring her here.

  I want to scare her away for good this time. Not because I’m bored with her. But because I don’t know how to live without her, OR with her. She rattles my soul, no matter what she says or does. We keep riding this crazy roller-coaster, not having a clue how to survive each other.

  I turn to Laura again, smiling sincerely…lovingly…worshiping her grace and compassion. But of course, to Laura, it just looks like a creepy opera mask staring at her. Maybe this will be enough to scare her away for good. For her sake, not for mine. Maybe she needs a nice, normal and decent man like Bill Whatever. Not the evil man that I am.

  I guide Laura by the arm outside the main theater and into an empty library, figuring she needs a moment to recover.

  We remove our masks and look at each other in curiosity.

  “What the hell is all this?” she says, shaking her head.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Well…”

  “It’s just a party. Maybe not the type of party you’re used to attending.”

  “And you do this kind of thing all the time?”

  “Sometimes…or more to the point, the people I know do.”

  “Does it turn you on?”

  “What am I supposed to say? No? The idea of a dozen hung guys plowing into a girl doesn’t turn you on?”

  “You’re a very sick man,” she says, slowly putting her mask back on.

  I nod…in confusion as she walks over to the couch, lifting her skirt so that she can drop her panties.

  “What…what…”

  “Come on,” she says through the mask, giving me a creepy sexy chill. “With our masks on.”

  I don’t understand. But damn, if I’m not going to do exactly what she says and have a masquerade fuck in public!

  Like crazy people, like mad billionaire creeps, we start fucking like crazy, right there in the library! I pull her panties down and spread her legs, taking her right on the couch, hard fucking her furiously like I’m trying to put out a fire.

  “Urghh!” I groan loudly, loving how soaking wet she is. We’re oblivious to the world, to REALITY, but mostly she’s insatiable for my cock at the moment. Insatiable for my dirty mind. Always wanting me, always needing my validation.

  The fact that we keep our masks on and I literally fuck her
as Creepy Opera Man, only makes the whole image, the whole experience, more surreal and illusory.

  She whispers at me to cum inside her…yeah. Even though she’s not on birth-control. Jesus, she is a crazy bitch sometimes, and I love that shit!

  She refuses to feel love for me and yet, me knocking her up seems like the kinkiest erotic shit I’ve ever conjured in my head.

  She whispers, telling me to hurry up before we’re spotted.

  And I ignore her. I can’t even fake a quickie. I’m just fucking her, right here on the library chair, in our masks, and she doesn’t give a damn who notices.

  She looks over past my evil looking mask…only to see more masks! Ohh sweet holy Jesus! There are other men in masks watching us fuck!

  Three other men stand by the doorway looking inside, their masks extra spooky, their body language stoic. But no doubt, very enthralled at what they see. Laura’s legs in the air, her panties right on the floor below me, and me plowing into her wet pussy like this is a porn set.

  What am I supposed to do? I look over at them and our masks meet. They stare at me. Laura looks over at them. They stare at her too. Actually, they stare at her longer. They’re quite intent in watching and letting us know that they’re not going to stop watching. They want to see us fuck.

  All I can do is just continue onward, fucking Laura in front of other men. And periodically gazing back at the masked strangers, then to Laura, then staring down at her hiked dress just to watch my huge cock get wet.

  She stares back at them too and I get even more achingly hard! This is going to be a huge cumshot, I can feel it.

  Finally, after minutes on end of being a reluctant exhibitionist, I FINALLY cum and shoot a load of hot cum all over her hips and legs, which I then wipe up with her dress!

  A weird tingle crackles in my head. I liked the feeling of being watched, even though I look out and see the men are gone by now.

  “How am I going to walk around like this now?” she says, taking off the mask and fixing her hair. “You ruined my dress.”