“I don’t remember a Bobby Jones,” comes my stammer, fingers shaking a bit on the wine glass. “Who is that?”
Mason’s dark smile slides across his lips.
“It’s good that you don’t remember,” he rumbles. “Because I would hate for you to notice anyone but me.”
The billionaire doesn’t have to worry. Because I really didn’t see anyone but him. Everyone else was a blur, just a series of faces and handshakes, melting into one another. Even as my heart breaks, all I can see is him. And painfully, I tell him that.
“Mr. Channing,” is my slow voice. “There really was no one else. I mean, I remember a few people yes, that old man, Saul Rockefeller, and his wife Lulu. But only because I must have chatted with them for twenty minutes. They were so kind, such amazing philanthropists.”
Mason’s eyes grow dark once more, one blunt finger stroking slowly along my shoulder.
“Good,” he rumbles. “I’m glad you didn’t notice anyone other than me. And as for Saul and Lulu, they’re in their eighties, I’m sure they were delighted to meet someone so young and fresh with an open mind.”
Wow, the compliments are coming quick, and it makes me nervous. He always does this. Pulls my chain, jerking it tight, before letting go suddenly. Stay calm! The voice in my head screams. Stay calm, don’t lose your wits!
And that’s true. I have a job to do. So putting my wine glass down, I slide my arms around that strong neck, turning on the charm. I press against him, making sure he can feel those big boobies against the hard wall of chest.
“Mr. Channing,” I purr in what I hope is a seductive whisper. “Are you ready to play now? Because you know … I’ve been waiting all night.”
I expect him to go crazy. I expect the dark man to ravage me, his hands all over my tits, mouth on my nipples. And I want it shamelessly. But instead, a smile spreads across those perfectly sculpted lips, one big hand setting the wine glass down.
“Good,” comes that deep rumble. “Good girl. Take off your dress. Everything off except the heels, garters and stockings.”
My body goes hot. Oh god, oh god. But this is what I expected, right? And again, it’s a job.
So taking a deep breath, I get up. My hands fumble a bit with the zipper, the velvet material slowly falling away to reveal my creaminess. I wore no panties underneath, just like a real kept woman.
“Good,” the billionaire growls from his seat, not moving an inch. “Nothing but skin.” But a muscle flits in one cheek, betraying his arousal. “Now turn around,” he commands. “Spread your legs as wide as they can go, and bend over so your hands touch the floor.”
My cheeks flame. What? That’s so obscene! He’s going to see everything. Is this part of my purchase price?
But Mr. Channing nods, blue eyes hard.
“You heard me,” comes that deep voice. “Now do it.”
And wobbling a bit in the high heels, I turn, angling my feet outwards.
“Wider,” comes that harsh growl. “Wider, you can do better than that.”
A frisson of excitement shoots down my spine, pussy gushing hotly. Oh god. I shouldn’t want it like this. Mr. Channing doesn’t love me, I’m just his fucktoy. But of their own accord, my feet slide wider and wider still, until they’re so far apart that a burn begins in my inner thighs. Ohhh god. Thank goodness for those yoga classes because this is where it gets interesting.
And then Mason’s voice comes again.
“Now bend over,” his words rumble smoothly, caressing the bare skin of my buttocks. “Bend over until your hands touch the floor.”
This is like some type of dirty calisthenics class. But like a doll, I do as ordered, slowly lowering my torso until my fingertips brush the ground, breasts squeezed against my knees.
“Further,” is his harsh command. “Press down.”
I know what he wants, and inhaling once more, my body complies. Slowly, I bend forwards, stretching unbearably until my hands are flat on the ground, legs spread obscenely apart. Oh god, what must it look like to him? The burn is unbelievable, in the small of my back, my inner thighs, even my calves beginning to scream.
But Mr. Channing is pleased. A rustle sounds and before I realize it, warm breath skates across my clit, making me shiver uncontrollably.
“Holy fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, the sentence whispered against my folds. “If you could only see what I see. Your pussy spread open, the lips pulling apart on their own. These huge thighs,” he growls, running his hands up and down the white meatiness. “And shit your clit. It’s so big and you’re dripping baby. I have to taste,” is his tortured rasp before he buries his mouth in my cunt.
And I scream then, literally scream. Because oh god, I’m spread for a man, my body his to use, every muscle aching and fiery. It shouldn’t be like this. This experience shouldn’t rattle me to the bones, my body can’t be creaming hotly at the mere touch of his mouth.
But something within breaks free, and I give up then. This is my swan song, my farewell gesture. I want this last time with Mason Channing. I want that huge dick in my body, his mouth all over. So I cry out.
“Yes, Mr. Channing, yes!”
The alpha grunts in back of me.
“Perfect, sweet thing,” comes that rasp again. “You’re perfect.”
I almost sob then.
Because does he know what he’s saying?
Does he know how much it hurts, even as it feels so good?
If he wants me to hold this position for hours, even days, I’ll do it. I’ll show him my cunt, I’ll give him everything in my power. I’ve already given him my heart.
But the man’s a monster. Because slowly, tantalizingly, the alpha pulls my pussy lips apart so that my insides show, the ruby red glistening and pulsing before him.
“Shit you’re beautiful,” is that raspy growl. “So gorgeous.”
And with that it’s on. His tongue is burrowing into my chamber once more, catching a flood of liquid on his lips. My walls ache and pulse around him even as I maintain the open position, juicing so heavy.
“Yes!” I scream again, boobies smashed flat against my knees. “Yes, yes!”
And Mr. Channing can’t take it. The taste of my cunt is magical and in two seconds, he’s behind me, dick out and ready to pound.
“Shit,” comes his raspy grunt. “Shit, I have to be in you Carrie.”
And as he spears me, I cry out, literally lifted off my feet. The billionaire’s fuckpole is so massive that I’m balancing on my tippytoes, trying to stay upright as he fucks me hard.
“Unnnh!” I cry out, pussy so stretched, stuck tight on that shaft. “Oh god.”
“Aw shit,” he rasps in back of me, big hands gripping my waist, keeping me tight to him. “Unnh, you’re so small.”
Mewling, we stand there, obscenely stuck together.
But it feels so good. This is what I want, even if it’s for the last time.
That giant cock drilling my insides, making me clench and spasm around him.
“Ohhh,” comes my helpless whisper, head dropping limply, hair almost brushing the ground. “Oh yessss.”
And slowly, oh so slowly, the billionaire pushes my hips forward as his pelvis draws back. But it’s no use. He’s too big and I’m too small. We’re stuck together, my cunt crammed full.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, I’ve gotta get us unstuck.”
One big hand snakes around my waist then, reaching down to caress my clit. He plays with it just the way I like, rubbing the bottom rhythmically before giving it a firm pinch.
“Unnnh!” I scream, head flying up, a flood rushing from my steamy folds. “Unnh!”
And that does the trick. Because the extra fluid loosens everything up and this time, Mr. Channing is able to pull back, sliding that big cock out before diving back in with a deep plunge.
“Umm!” comes my helpless shriek. “Umm, oh god!”
Because it feels so amazing to be fucked by the billionaire. It feels so good to be his plaything, his fuckdo
ll to be used any which way. I shouldn’t want it, but shamefully I do. Yes, he just humiliated me, making me bend over with my legs practically in the splits, cunt gaping open wide. But I loved it, and my body eats it up, absorbing each thrust, each pummel like the cumbucket I was born to be.
“Yes!” comes my helpless scream again. “Yes, yes!”
Mr. Channing’s got both his hands on my waist now, holding tight as he drills me relentlessly.
“I knew you were a slut,” he rasps between the forceful thrusts. “I knew you were a slutty little hooker.”
I scream again.
Oh how the words hurt.
But how true they are as well.
“Yes! I’m your slutty hooker,” I scream in reply. “Yours always! Oh god!”
And the admission drives us both over the edge. Because my pussy goes wild, clamping and squeezing on his dick as Mr. Channing bursts. And I don’t mean bursting with a small splash here, a small splash there. Tonight his erection’s enormous and unstoppable, and it literally quakes in my cunt, twitching and jerking as he shatters.
“FUCK!” comes that commanding roar. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
Because holy shit, but semen’s been bubbling in his balls all night, like a gun waiting to fire. And it blasts with a vengeance now. Hot squirts spurt wildly in my insides, coating my vaginal channel, goopy, sticky, searing my secret space.
“Unnnh!” comes my answering scream as my pussy milks that jizz desperately, clamping and clenching again and again. “Unn, unnh!”
But it just won’t stop. The anticipation, the hours of circling one another during the banquet, and my desperate love shoot us to the next level. We’re glued together, my cunt squeezing his goodness, that giant anaconda making me its slave.
“Unnh!” I shriek ecstatically as orgasm rolls over me once more, threatening to tear me to pieces. “Oh god!”
And shit, but Mr. Channing just won’t stop. His thighs tense, ab muscles hard as rock, and he blasts again, depositing a second load of hot spunk inside.
“Fuck,” is his raspy gasp. “Aw shit, aw shit, aw shit.”
It just keeps going, one orgasm rolling into another as the Dom makes me his. But that’s the thing. It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be so intense that my soul’s lifted and taken off, melding with his as we fly through space.
This is wrong.
This is foolish.
I’m going to get hurt.
But I’m already hurt, and this is my last chance with him. My last chance before we say goodbye, even if he doesn’t know it. So as the spasming slows, I cry out again, face drawn, loving this man desperately.
And Mr. Channing savors the moment as well.
“Aw fuck,” is his drawn-out groan. “Aw fuck fuck fuck.”
And slowly, the alpha pulls out, the hot slide making my cunt shiver once more. I look over my shoulder, panting for air, meeting the billionaire’s eyes.
And he grins lasciviously.
Because yeah, there’s that fuckrod, huge and glistening, coated with my cream. But there’s still a long loop of semen connecting the tip of his dick to my folds, dangling heavily in the air.
“Oh!” I gasp softly. “Ooooh.”
And Mason knows exactly what to do. With one big finger, he breaks the strand. But instead of wiping it off, or even bringing it to his mouth, the alpha does something so unexpected that the room vibrates with intensity.
Because he presses that gob of spunk back into my pussy, tunneling his finger in, making sure the sperm gets in good and deep.
“That’s right,” the alpha rasps hotly, eyes glued to my most precious spot. “It belongs in you sweetheart. This is where my semen goes, inside this sweet snatch.”
And then he smacks my pussy hard. I scream, eyes going wide, but Mason just chuckles deep in his throat.
“That’s right, little sub,” he growls. “You’re my jizz bucket, and you fucking love it, you little whore.”
I shiver uncontrollably again, nips going hard once more, cunt juicing as he strokes my inner channel. Because everything he said is true. All the names he called me. Jizz bucket. Cumbucket. Whore. Slave. It’s all true.
It shouldn’t be. We’re in a transaction for crying out loud, it’s just money for sex. And yet I’m sloshing with his cum, pussy filled until it’s overflowing. And yet I love it.
Because we’ve never used any protection. He’s been coming in me bareback, again and again, deep and raw. But this is the way it’s meant to be. This is where he belongs. This is where his cock belongs, where his semen belongs, where his mouth belongs. This is right, and I can feel it in my core, in every cell of my being. But unfortunately, the “us” is over … because it never really existed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carrie
My nerves jangle. Loud, like a banjo twanging, making my spine stiffen.
Because I swore up and down that I’d tell Mason our arrangement was off. It was supposed to be real easy, just a quick conversation that’d be over in two minutes.
After all, why would he care?
There are a dozen girls like me, young and supple, ready to do anything for a handsome billionaire.
But nausea overcame my frame when the time came. Or more accurately, I was suffering from a constant state of queasiness. And there was no good time. Not when I was laid out on his bed, accepting that big cock. Not when I was shackled to the bed, crying out as he thrust inside.
I must have tried ten times at least. My mouth opening, but then closing once again silently. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but my vocal cords wouldn’t squeeze open.
So here I am. Sitting in the foyer of my apartment, with a truckload of suitcases scattered about. I’m all packed, ready for Paris, like a good little fuckdoll.
Oh god!
Why is this happening?
There weren’t supposed to be feelings. There aren’t supposed to be tears. So why am I leaving for the City of Love with a man who doesn’t love me?
My shoulders cave, sobs wracking my chest.
It hurts so goddamn much.
But least Nicole isn’t here to witness this sad sight. I sent my sister away to stay with friends for the duration of the trip. But even now, she’s on my mind.
If I quit, how are we going to survive?
What kind of job can I realistically get? I wipe at my cheeks. Barista? Waitress? That stuff pays pennies on the dollar. We wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment anywhere, much less on Central Park West.
Plus, how would Nicole go to school? I’m hoping my sister gets into college somewhere, but you can’t count on scholarships. And Mason joked with Nicole a couple days back, saying he’d pay her tuition if she went to his alma mater.
That’d made my heart pound.
Imagine. My sister in college. Six figures of tuition, solved by the billionaire.
I want it for her so bad.
But this life is killing me.
So standing up, I wander about the apartment like a ghost, drifting from room to room. It’s so beautiful. If we leave, there will be nothing like this. Not these elegant spaces, high-ceilinged and spacious. Not the closets tucked cleverly away, flat-screen TVs that rise from the floor.
And listlessly, I flip on one of the TVs to pass the time as I wait. Distraction’s needed. I can’t have these thoughts hammering through my head, twisting my soul into painful knots.
But suddenly, something catches my eye. As the channels flash by, my fingers pause on the remote.
Because what?
What is that?
There’s a female reporter standing outside of my parents’ building in the Bronx. And nodding her head seriously, she begins.
“It was here in this typical neighborhood where young Carrie Newman used to live. She was fresh out of high school when her parents say she met an older man.
The man in question is no other than the hotel tycoon, Mason Channing. Mr. Channing is much older than Ms. Newman, who recently celebr
ated her eighteenth birthday, according to records uncovered by Six on Your Side’s investigative department.
While some may argue that they’re both consenting adults, it’s what the parents of this young girl had to say to our cameras that has some people upset, including a few investors in Channing’s latest hotel venture.”
WHAT?
What is this?
Some sick joke?
My stomach turns, but it only gets worse. Because the camera cuts to a shot of my mom and dad sitting on the couch in our apartment, which looks even more rundown than before. The furniture is raggedy and sad, a hole in the wall clearly visible behind their heads.
Oh god, why are they on TV?
Talking about me no less?
Neither Nicole or I have spoken to either of my parents since that dramatic day when Mason saved us. Of course, they continued to call, but we shut off our phones, switching numbers. And since then, there’s been nada. It’s for the better, Rhonda and Jim are never good news
And now was no exception.
Because as I watch, my parents smirk on screen.
“Did you ever meet Mr. Channing?” the reporter asks my mother, who is wearing a red turtleneck. They must have spackled Rhonda with make-up because she looks almost healthy, which is far from the truth.
Rhonda nods sadly.
“He would come and pick her up, but we didn’t know it. Carrie never really told us where she was going and we always thought it was with friends,” my mom coos sadly. “You know how teenagers are.”
“Of course,” the reporter nods. But then she leans forward. “Did all this happen before or after your daughter’s eighteenth birthday?”
My heart sinks then. All air leaves my lungs in anticipation of Rhonda’s response. Please Mom, I beg internally. Please tell the truth. Please please please, just this once.
But no such luck. Looking sorrowfully into the camera, Rhonda speaks.
“I don’t think so,” she shakes her head slowly. “We don’t know exactly when the relationship started, so Carrie could have been seventeen or eighteen. Seeing that she’s so vulnerable, probably seventeen.”
The reporter nods sagely, turning to my dad then.
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