Bound to the Billionaire

by Natalie Dae

  “The bedroom,” she whispered, but it was more than that.

  It was the perfect all-purpose playroom. The bed area was decadently luxurious, all silk sheets, cushions, throws, mirrored ceilings, shelves full of lotions and oils and lubricants, but the opposite side of the room was harsh as a dungeon, filled with ominous dark furniture, iron loops set into the wall and hooks on the ceiling. It seemed Sir took his BDSM seriously and was no novice.

  Erin had seen all this at the fashionable S&M club nights she liked to attend, but it seemed beyond bizarre to see it, out and proud, in somebody’s bedroom. A stranger.

  Prowling around the rest of the room, she squealed when she came across a cage, about six cubic feet in size, filled with cushions. Was this where she would sleep?

  The thought was terrifying and yet also incredibly exciting, taking her right into the secret heart of her fantasy life. She belonged to him. Whatever he wanted to do with her, he could do.

  She was short of breath in the shower, realising with each new application of soapy gel that she was washing something that belonged to somebody else.

  Her neck? His. Her breasts, with their perky, rounded nipples? His. Her thighs, belly, hips? His. Her bottom? His—and hadn’t he confessed to being a spanking fetishist? She hadn’t seen any implements, but that wasn’t to say that they weren’t all neatly stowed away somewhere. And her tingling, tight little pussy? Completely his. She had signed an agreement. If he wanted it, he could have it.

  She groaned with arousal, wondering if she could get away with a sneaky spot of masturbation. She had not expected to be turned on—after all, she had thought she’d be servicing some septuagenarian oligarch for the thirty days of the agreement. But now she was more excited about the prospect of submitting to this enigmatic, attractive man than she was about submitting her MA proposal.

  It was a bonus, she reflected, vigorously soaping her inner thighs, wondering if she should have shaved off her pubic hair before arriving. It had been a gamble. If he decided he wanted it off, it was easy enough to shave. But if he preferred the natural look, she couldn’t really grow it back in a hurry. So, for now, it had stayed. She hoped he would appreciate the respect for him implicit in her decision.

  She stepped out of the shower, triumphing over her impulse towards self-pleasure, and wrapped herself in one of the many exquisitely fluffy towels on the rail. Where were these clothes he had mentioned? On the bed, he had said, but she hadn’t noticed…

  Oh.

  She knelt on the huge iron-framed bed and picked up what had looked from a distance like another exotic decoration to go with the many tassels and beads. But it wasn’t a decoration.

  Now his choice of vocabulary—‘outfit’ rather than ‘clothes’—seemed justified. Because these really weren’t clothes. Not in anyone’s world.

  Chapter Two

  She picked up the complex of gold links and tried to hold it to her body, to see how it could work.

  It took a while, and a lot of frowning in front of a full-length mirror, but eventually Erin understood that the two linked spangly circular pads fitted over her nipples, while the triangular equivalent below provided a laughable attempt to preserve her modesty, or protect her pubic triangle. It didn’t really preserve anything. The cold metal chain travelled snugly between her bum cheeks and then divided into two, crossing her back diagonally and returning over her shoulders, where the clips at the end could be attached to the links between her breasts.

  Once it was on, Erin examined herself and did a little twirl. She felt utterly naked, more so than she had been without the decorative chains.

  “Shackles,” she murmured to herself. “Shackles made of shame. That’s what he has me in.”

  She sat down on the bed and thought again about the enigmatic ‘Sir’.

  What did she know of him?

  He was rich, reclusive and physically attractive. He could fly a helicopter. He didn’t much care for fashion. And he was into BDSM.

  What more did she need to know?

  Over email, they had discussed the finer details of their kink, and she felt confident that his tastes lay well within her acceptable range. He had told her that he would want to spank her often, with his hand or other implements, and that he would enjoy tying her up. Sex would only follow if they both wanted it.

  She wondered, with a little tremor, if he fancied her. What if she wanted it and he didn’t? How humiliating that would be.

  “Stop creating problems that don’t exist yet,” she told herself briskly. “Business. It’s strictly business.”

  She stood up, pushing back her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her reflection in the mirror, in its ridiculously tiny covering, was still impressive enough to inspire her.

  He’s going to get what he’s paid for.

  That tingle in her pussy again. Ignoring it, she slipped her feet into the high-heeled mules beside the bed and made a beeline for the stairs.

  She couldn’t see him at first—the room was so vast that she had to take a good look around it. She found him eventually, watching her from a sort of conservatory area beneath a pitched glass roof.

  He could have said something, she thought crossly, instead of peering at me through the plants.

  Intensely conscious of her near-nudity, Erin walked through the living area into the conservatory, her heels clacking on the mosaic tiles.

  Sir sat at a marble-topped table, casually relaxed, despite never taking his eyes from her. Little ornamental fountains played in the background, giving the space a pleasant, calming ambience. As she drew level with him, he nodded and held up a hand, halting her.

  “You didn’t lie about your vital statistics,” he said, with a brief smile. “It fits you like a glove.”

  “You had this specially made?”

  “Of course. I’ve had quite a few things made for you, actually. Like this.”

  He reached down into a leather bag at the side of his chair and pulled something out.

  Erin knew in advance what it would be, and she was right. Why else would he have asked for her neck measurement?

  “Now kneel down at my feet, Erin, with your hands behind your back.”

  The tingle in her pussy became a rush. This was it now. It was happening.

  She lowered herself carefully in front of him, looking down at his shiny Chelsea boots, imagining what it would be like to kiss them.

  “Be my guest,” he said softly, as if he had read her mind, and she ducked her head and put her lips gratefully to the burnished leather. Oh, how good it smelt, a scent of luxury and authority that never failed to arouse her.

  “Now, look at me,” he commanded.

  It was a command, she knew, even though he said it so gently, coaxingly, like a caress.

  She looked up at his hands over her, holding a diamond choker with a minute jewelled padlock at its clasp.

  “You want me to wear your collar, Sir?” she whispered.

  “Of course.” His face was dark, the open friendliness she had seen before replaced by intensity. “Here.”

  He put it around her neck. It felt heavy and cold there, and it was wide enough to force her chin up. She would never be able to forget that she was wearing it.

  “Now you are mine,” he said, turning a tiny key in the tiny lock before pocketing it. “This stays on until you leave.”

  A shiver, half pleasurable, half apprehensive, rippled along Erin’s spine. She let her gaze veer away from his, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Are you having doubts?” he said, with the merest hint of pressure.

  “No, no, I’m not,” she said.

  “Look at me and say that.”

  She had no choice but to obey.

  “I’m not having doubts.”

  “Good. Now I want you to sit down opposite me and pour yourself a drink.”

  Only now did Erin realise that the table was set for an intimate dinner, with bottles of red and white wine and a jug of water in the centre.

 
; She sat down and poured herself some water. Best to keep a clear head, she thought.

  Sir smiled at this, and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not trying to get you drunk and take advantage of you,” he remarked. “If you want a glass of wine, you’re quite safe with me.”

  “How can I possibly know that for sure?”

  He sighed.

  “You’re right. I could be a psychopath. You only have my word for it that I’m not.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting.”

  She sipped at her lemon-flavoured water, acutely aware of her stiffening nipples behind their sparkly tasselled pads.

  “Then let’s move on from the subject. Oh. Here is Phillips with the dinner.”

  Erin gasped and tried to cover her breasts with her arms as a man walked in carrying plates of food.

  “No,” said Sir, more sharply than she had yet heard him. “Uncover yourself. Phillips is my right hand and I can’t exist here without him. It’s very likely that he’ll see a good deal more of you in passing, during the day-to-day running of this place. You must learn to disregard his presence, as people used to do with their servants. You’d know all about that, I suppose, being a historian.”

  Reluctantly, Erin took her arms away, exposing her breasts to Phillips, who looked politely to the side, concentrating on laying down the large plates of seafood salad.

  “Lobster.” She wanted to kick herself for sounding so impressed—now Sir would think she was some naïve peasant from the backwoods. She tried to recoup the mistake. “Is it freshly caught from your back garden?”

  He smiled, watching Phillips’ back recede from them.

  “Quite a back garden,” he said. “Yes, I was out fishing earlier today. You didn’t see the boat down on my jetty?”

  “No, sorry, didn’t notice. Too busy gawping at the helipad, among other things.”

  “I’ll take you out in it some time.”

  “More appropriately dressed, I hope.”

  Erin was enjoying the light banter, and Sir seemed amused by it too. If they could share a sense of humour, this whole thing would be so much easier.

  “Perhaps,” he said, with a teasing jab of his fork at her breasts. “Perhaps not. That’ll be up to me, won’t it?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “No.”

  Erin was mildly stunned. She had been so encouraged by his manner and his air of confidence in her that she had thought they were getting onto an equal footing. But no. He had reminded her of her subservient status and it was like a bucket of cold water.

  She must have glowed scarlet all over her face and she was picking distractedly at the lobster shell when he spoke again.

  “You can’t question me, Erin, as I’ve already mentioned. This meal is an icebreaker, but afterwards I won’t allow you to speak unless spoken to. It’s better that we don’t get to know each other too well. Otherwise, the end of the month might be a trickier business than we’d want it to be. Don’t you think?”

  “I…guess so.”

  He was implying that they might, what, become emotionally attached? Fall in love? She was flattered, but also a little flustered by the idea.

  “It’s for the best,” he said quietly. “Let’s play this game and hope we both come out as winners.” He cracked a lobster claw and grinned. “So. You’re a historian. You’ll know about this place, then?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But I’m fascinated by it. Please tell me.”

  “It’s one of four, all Victorian. Commissioned by Lord Palmerston to fend off any unwelcome advances from Napoleon III.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. They were known locally as ‘Palmerston’s Follies’ because, of course, no French invasion ever took place, or even came close. They cost the taxpayer lots and lots of money but were ultimately useless. Perhaps that’s why I’m so drawn to the place. Sounds a bit like me.”

  “You cost the taxpayer lots of money?”

  He held up a finger. “That sounds like a question. Forget the rule again and I’ll have to punish you, my dear.”

  She held a breath at the top of her lungs.

  Please do.

  “So, what about you?” he continued, moving seamlessly away from the arousing threat he had made. “What period of history do you specialise in?”

  “It’s not really one period,” Erin said. The lobster was delicious and she rather resented having to talk shop while she could be relishing its delicate flavour. “It’s more the general history of female sexuality.”

  “Really? That’s extraordinarily apt, isn’t it? Here you are, breaking taboos by selling your submission. You might end up in one of your own textbooks.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose I might. I’m interested in how attitudes to female sexuality have changed over time. We seemed to go from the medieval view that women were dangerous temptresses whose libidos had to be reined in by marriage, to the Victorian notion of woman as a pure and chaste creature who was corrupted by men. I’m interested in pinpointing the exact moment that the scale tilted.”

  “I see. How interesting. Which view do you subscribe to?”

  “Neither. They’re both as constraining and dehumanising as each other.”

  “Dehumanising, you say? Isn’t that fascinating.”

  He gave her a very arch look. Heat crept all over her face and neck.

  “You think so?”

  “Well, of course. You have dehumanised yourself by commodifying your sexuality. Yet you claim to disapprove of that kind of thing. What an odd fish you are. I’m going to enjoy this, I think.”

  There was a slightly cruel edge to his tone and she knew she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She was excited by it. She wanted him to test her and stretch her, she wanted him to find her limit. She had never found it before and suddenly she was sure that he was the Dom to do it.

  “I know it seems contradictory,” she said with a shrug. “But I’m human and that’s part of the human condition.”

  “Not religious, are you?”

  “Was once. Not anymore.”

  “Fine. And are you finished with that?”

  He jabbed his fork at her plate, on which only the types of lettuce she didn’t like were left.

  “Yes, thanks. It was delicious.”

  “Good. Now come and sit on the edge of the table, in front of me.”

  He pushed his plate away and patted the marble curve where Erin was to place herself.

  The abrupt change of pace threw her off balance a little, but she stood and made her way around the table, perching against it where he had pushed back his chair to get the best view.

  He sat in perfect relaxation, legs crossed, one arm arched to support his neck, smiling faintly.

  Erin, on the other hand, was stiff as a board, breath suspended, throat tight with tension.

  “Spread your legs,” he said.

  She shuffled them apart. The sparkly triangle did its stuff, keeping the most private parts of her hidden. But for how long?

  “If I tell you that I want to see what I’ve paid for, how does that make you feel?”

  She squirmed, the softly-spoken words hitting their target squarely between the thighs.

  “It’s hot,” she confessed. “It pushes my buttons. I hate objectification of other women, but I like it when it’s done to me. But then, on another level, it makes me angry and ashamed. But the anger and shame are… I don’t know. They turn into something sexual. I can’t explain it.”

  “Then don’t try. Don’t overthink it. Go with it.”

  “That’s what I want to do.”

  “Show me your nipples.”

  Again, that icy blast all over her. She put her hands to the sparkly pads and pushed them aside. Her nipples were painfully perky and she couldn’t look him in the eye, staring down instead at the body that was betraying her.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “Have you for
gotten my name? Do I need to remind you?”

  “Oh. No, Sir. Sorry.”

  She winced at her elementary oversight. Usually she was good at this, but the situation had thrown her for a loop.

  “Don’t forget it again.”

  “I won’t, Sir.”

  “Or you might not like what happens. Touch your nipples now.”

  She put tentative fingertips on the aching buds.

  “Caress them. Make them even harder. Put on a show for me.”

  She circled them slowly, interspersing the rotations with occasional pinches. Her body felt as if it had broken out in goose pimples, but of a hot, prickly sort. His attention on her was like a burning laser. Part of her wanted to run away, screaming, but most of her wanted to know what was going to happen next.

  “Can you reach them with your tongue?”

  Oh God, did he really want her to do that? It seemed so debasing, more humiliating by far than simply touching.

  But she knew better than to question it. Shutting her eyes, she lifted her right breast up and breathed warm air over the nipple before licking at it with the tip of her tongue. What kind of sight must she make? She didn’t want to think of it.

  “Open your eyes, please.”

  Damn! He knew exactly how to pile on the agony.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at the carefully-held breast and the deep red, shining wet nipple.

  She switched sides and repeated the process.

  “Circle it with your tongue,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

  The urge to remonstrate was almost overpowering, but she did as she was told.

  “I can see you’re uncomfortable with this,” he said. “I can see it embarrasses you.”

  His voice was thick with lust and she knew that the more she exhibited her feelings of humiliation, the more he would play on them. How could she hide them? Should she even hide them? Wasn’t emotional dishonesty the worst sin a sub could commit?

  “Now they’re nice and wet,” he said, “you can stop. But don’t cover them again, no.”

  Erin moved her hands away from the pads.

  “Now I want you to turn around and bend over the table, please. Keep your feet wide apart.”

  She was grateful for the opportunity to hide her face and she complied quickly, the marble chilling her stomach as she bent over it.