"And what of the complexities of shooting within Tunisia?" he says, as though nothing were happening, "can we exploit the new foreign taxation legislation?"
I'm not listening; nothing interests me quite as much as my sordid duties for my billionaire boss. Reaching back below the table as he listens to the pair's reply, he seizes another lock of my hair, and forces me closer to him; forcing my face directly upon his raging hard-on. Again, I know exactly what's expected of me.
The roots of my hair throb with pain, in time with the furious, nervous beating of my heart as I open my mouth, close my eyes, and take him inside my throat, enveloping his entire length within me for only the second time. I suck, slurp and guzzle upon it - hopefully quiet enough not to arouse suspicion - as I wash it in a tide of saliva, building up a forceful suction upon it, and feel his tip nudge the back of my throat gently, almost arousing my gag reflex. I'm wrought with terror, dreading the fanciful moment that we're exposed; my fingers tremble, and my lips tremor around the swollen flesh of his cock. But to my shameful, embarrassed chagrin, I kinda like it.
He doesn't make a sound - no groans, no moans, no labored sighs and absolutely no indication that I'm pleasuring him so diligently beneath the board room table - even as he speaks at length about something so tedious I don't care to repeat it to myself. I'm so caught up in my work in fact that I don't realize his hands sneaking up behind my head, grasping handfuls of hair, and forcing my face down upon his cock with a brutal, selfish force. I take the entire thing within my mouth; all six bountiful inches ploughing senselessly into my throat, arousing a gag and a splutter. Craftily, he synchronizes my noise with a feigned coughing fit of his own, hiding our shameful liaison.
"Excuse me," he says, coughing into his fist. "Please continue."
I take the duality of those words' meaning with relish, wringing him of everything I can with one hand, whilst bobbing up and down upon it relentlessly. His hands pull my hair from side to side, before forcing me back down upon it again. The pain is palpable - I hear roots torn from my head - but I won't give up. I can't give up. I'm forbidden to say no.
Promptly, I hear him wrapping the meeting up above, closing what sounds like a folder with a slam, and stating pleasantries; how nice it is to meet, and other boardroom lingo so far removed from the sordid spectacle occurring elsewhere that they surely wouldn't believe it. All of a sudden, he pushes my face away - losing me in a stream of unkempt black hair - and goes to zip his pants back up, adjusting himself to somehow hide the very sizeable erection still standing out from his body.
"Let's do it over lunch sometime," one of them says. Part of me wonders whether I'll be there, hidden beneath the table, silently servicing my host.
Feet clatter upon the carpeted floor, and before I know it we're all alone again; just his majestic, shining black shoes visible to me.
"It's okay," he finally utters, beckoning me to reveal myself. "You can get up now."
I climb out, grazing my palm on the abrasive carpet on the way out, crawling on my hands and knees like the clumsiest acrobat you've ever seen.
"What was that?" I ask, feeling an errant bead of gooey saliva dripping down my chin. I don't know how to feel; the righteously moral half of me, hidden away inside beneath all the nerves and bravado demands some sort of explanation for the spectacle that just took place. Dare I admit the other half just wonders why I wasn't able to make him come...?
"That -" he replies, his eyes large, blue, and aflame with desire, " - was the job."
He's silenced me; my moral indignation quickly sapping away, replaced in kind by the glowing, warm realization inside my belly that I'm giving myself to him, slowly but surely.
"Come," he beckons, waving me closer with one hand. "Take a look at this, Miss Everett."
He walks back to the table, and tracing his large palms over its surface, finds a certain stack of papers to his particular liking. I clumsily make up the two or three steps towards him, feeling a slight carpet burn on my knees as I do so. I don't have my glasses - I've been somewhat hesitant to wear them around him - yet from what I can make out, it’s written in a language that I neither care for, nor understand. Legalese.
"This is a non-disclosure document necessary for your continued employment with me," he says, droning on in a monotone that would suggest an equal level of enthusiasm for the rigors of silencing your slaves. "Take it home, read it, sign it, bring it back to me. And then we can continue."
He steps away, allowing me the space to flick through it. Eight or nine pages, housing the tiniest font you've ever seen, composed of words that would make any regular person's head spin. Indemnities, securities, obligations, it's all here; the impenetrable terms of my so-called job. I pick the sheets up, fully intending to take them home with me, before spying the figure of Daniel in the corner of my eye, propping himself up against a window, looking upon all the tiny people going about their mundane lives below us. And then, I start to get ideas.
I should really take this thing home to show Carissa; just to make sure I'm not signing my life away to some kooky cult I've not yet been told of, or some other bizarre obligation I'll only find out about once it's too late. But then, wouldn't that invalidate the whole 'non-disclosure' thing? What of our little secret? I have to admit, I quite like the idea of the secretive billionaire romance, even if I do have to sign my life away in the process. Somewhere, deep inside me, I want to give up the choices I once enjoyed; maybe it's my training as an actor, maybe its my annoyance at all the tiny things in life that cause me grief. But hidden within a deep, dark compulsion, I just want to give myself up, and follow the lines on the script.
I scramble around on the table top, finding a ball-point pen, and quickly initial each page, without even glancing at the words and clauses on each, silencing my innermost reservations. Then, taking a deep breath as though I'm making the plunge into cold water, I sign the final page.
"Daniel," I say, feeling a little light-headed, "it's done."
He turns, basking amidst the rays of golden California light shining through the windows, and smiles at me; a smile lingering somewhere between politeness, surprise, and the overwhelming realization that he's gotten exactly what he wants. I drop my hands to my sides, jutting my bosom out proudly before me with another breath, and give up any last vestige of resistance. We both know it; I'm his.
"Okay Miss Everett. Why don't I show you to your office?"
He breezes past me, charging straight to the tinted double doors behind, before opening them with his hand and awaiting my company. My office? I didn't realize I'd signed up for any sort of desk work here. But then again, being the girl who can't say no must have its tedious moments too. Reaching back beneath the table, I pick up my 'shopping', and hurry.
I wordlessly go with him, and we walk back to the elevator, giving me opportunity to nervously crane my head up towards him and watch the steely, determined resolve on his face. He's so gorgeously and ineffably cold somehow. Like he has perfect control over his every expression; like he won't let the surprising moments in life get the better of him. Even when the janitor pushes a bucket of dirtied water out into our paths, and I barely save myself from comically falling into it, Daniel just raises an eyebrow and walks around it, neither speaking, nor making a scene. A well-rehearsed reaction, somehow.
Neither of us speak; I'm far too nervous, feeling those butterflies fluttering in and out of me once again, but content in the fact that I fully intend to give any last semblance of choice to my billionaire boss. I feel - what's the word? - tranquil? Serene? Both of those might imply I'm not nervous. I guess I'm just at peace.
And that's how I'd describe my so-called office, a solitary room in the penthouse suite occupying the top floor of this building. Black drapes stifling the morning Sun, walls painted a voluptuous red, and a single florescent light hanging from the ceiling, creating that frighteningly familiar buzzing sound. There's no furniture besides a single, mahogany armoire standing imposingly against the
wall, and a lonely-looking table and chair. The whole room is maybe no more than three meters square, and I can't help but think back to another of Daniel's apparent ‘offices’: that above the restaurant. Sparse, characterless, devoid of any personality, or distractions.
"This looks familiar" I tell him, but he's already turned his back to me, adjusting his cufflinks, before carefully prizing them off one by one, and placing them upon the surface of the desk, out of sight and out of mind. His suit-jacket is the next to go, and all of a sudden I can't help but get the feeling he's making himself comfortable.
"So," he finally says, breaking the silent tension, and causing me a certain rush of relief upon hearing his voice again. "Why don't you show me what you bought yesterday?"
I start by ferreting around inside my handbag for that shiny silver credit card of his, handing it back to a somewhat appreciative face, smiling courteously, albeit barely interested. What really gets his attention is the first item I happen to pull out of the bag; a single, incongruous root of ginger. He grins wildly, his cheekbones riding high in his face, arousing more than a question or two within me. I place it upon the desk beside us, and pull out the plastic curtain rail, completely unhidden within the plastic bag, but still managing to produce a smile from my host.
The cord and duct tape are next, followed by the clamps and the tangerine. By the time I'm finished, he's no longer watching the items I'm pulling out; he's switched his gaze to me instead, snaking his eyes up and down my body, practically burning the clothes from my skin with the intensity of his glare.
"Okay. Good. You did well."
I'm nothing more than a simple sycophant at heart. His words produce a warm, affectionate feeling within me, as if I've done my captor proud.
"Now. Go to your office."
And, of course, he soon has me confused again. I stand before him, first pulling a face of baffled wonder, and then as the seconds pass, opening my mouth to question him. I don't even manage to spit a single word out before he seizes my hand within his, and walks me the four steps to the huge armoire in the corner. What the fuck is this? A secret passage? A doorway to a mysterious billionaire's lair?
As he pulls the armoire open, my questions are answered: it’s an armoire. Empty, except for a solitary clothes railing, housing no coat hangers, or anything for that matter. Just a vacant walk-in wardrobe.
"Your office, Miss Everett."
I don't even have the chance to resist before he nudges me inside, and taking the string cords that he so duplicitously brought from the table, pushes my wrists up towards the railing and begins tying. As anyone could have predicted, I lose my breath to nerves, gasping relentlessly upon feeling the abrasive cords stinging against my skin, and realizing that my every movement is slowly being restricted. When he's done, and I'm tied in various knots that only a boy scout, or a domineering fanatic might know how to produce, he takes a couple of steps back, and admires his work.
"You look good."
I nod, subserviently. My hands are tied above me, affixing me to the clothes rail and giving me very little room to move around. I can still move my feet, and swing my body from side to side, but apart from that I'm stuck. For a second, my mind temporarily goes back to our second 'audition' together, being captive in that imaginary elevator.
"- but I know how to make you look better."
He strokes a hand through that jet-black head of hair, rubbing his bristled chin curiously, before jumping over to his desk and retrieving a pair of scissors, instantly making me gulp loudly in fright. Scissors!? No-one told me about sharp objects! I may sound more like a high school woodwork teacher, but I demand safety procedures here!
I pant loudly, fighting against my restraints with my wrists, but only bringing myself a painful rope-burn as the cords cut into my skin. He paces back to me, before putting the blades of the scissors to the straps of my dress at my shoulders, and cutting selfishly. My once-pristine blue dress falls to the floor of the armoire, and as I open my eyes once more, I'm standing in just a pair of panties, and my bra.
Maybe I should be scared. I think, perhaps on some level, I am. A man I've known for only a matter of days has me tied up, captive in a room so high in this building that I'm sure no-one could hear me scream. And what's more, this is a situation I've only myself to blame for getting into; I signed up, of course. So maybe that's why I feel how I feel; a tiny bit frightened, a little bit afraid for what he might pull out on me next, and a whole lot excited to find out just what he has in store for me. I fidget around in my 'office', swaying backwards and forwards with the gyrations of the cords, feeling the dampness growing between my legs. I'm an actress; my ability to make up my own fate has been taken from me. I'm at the every whim of Daniel Grant, and the script he writes for us.
I feel my face growing a scarlet red; my cheeks radiating to a sweaty heat. Am I blushing through embarrassment at being humiliated like this? Or blushing because of the irrefutable hotness of this situation? I don't know anymore.
I watch him grinning, losing himself to a sick compulsion as he puts the scissors back to my skin, and I screw my eyes shut. My bra falls from my lifeless, fightless body, never to be thought of again, and once more my breasts are in full view. He grazes his eyes over them briefly, showing me those fires in his eyes, before diverting his attention to my underwear, and soon cutting my panties from my body too.
My heart beats rampantly - I can feel it in my wrists, even - and something swells inside me; a deliriously wet, irresistibly portentous desire to be dominated. I think he sees it too.
"How do you feel, Miss Everett?"
I still don't know how to answer that question. Of course, I know I want more; I know I want Daniel to do craven things to my body, and soon. But what do I tell him?
"I feel right."
He responds not with a smile, nor any sort of tacit agreement or understanding. He just turns his back to me, walks to the desk, and picks up two items from my shopping list: the duct tape - its silvery-grey surface shining in the florescent light - and the tangerine.
Was it something I said? Was it something I didn't say? I don't understand. He walks back to me, leaning close to my face, almost standing within the armoire himself. Then, suddenly, in an action that has me as amused as it does surprised, he opens his mouth, as wide as it will go, as if he's sat in the dentist's chair. It takes me a matter of seconds before I realize he wants me to do the same thing. Then, as soon as I prize my jaw open, showing him my pearly whites, he shoves the tangerine inside my mouth, holding it in with his thumb as I choke and splutter around it. What the hell!?
"Be calm, Miss Everett," he says in a low- dull-set drone. "This won't hurt."
He takes a length of duct tape, bites it off from the roll, and places it carefully over my lips, capturing the tangerine inside my mouth. I shout, scream, and shriek - producing nothing more than a stifled hum behind the duct tape - as the tangerine stretches my jaw uncomfortably. He's gagged me! All I can do is cough and hum, my words suppressed by the improvised gag.
Now he has me for everything he wants, and I can't resist either in action or in words, even if I wanted to. Suddenly I feel the fright again - a single tear rolling down my cheek from my eye - overwhelmed completely and absolutely by a masochistic desire that only grows with each passing second. I surprise myself; the shy, nervous wannabe actress I knew only a few days ago might hate every moment of this. But, here I am, cords stinging my wrists, and an uncomfortable fruit lodged above my tongue, and I quite like the feeling.
He loosens his collar - unfastening his top button, and taking off his tie - never moving his eyes from me. I see them trespassing up and down my petite frame, brushing over the goose-pimpled skin of my thighs, and the neatly trimmed bush of hair upon my mound. My nipples are quickly growing into a pair of rock-hard nubs against the wandering, lecherous advances of his eyes, even as my nervous mind wonders just what he has in store for me next.
"You know, I don't know what it is about
you," he says, speaking in an unusually candid tone whilst traveling back to his desk, and deciding which instrument of mysterious pleasure he'll use on me next. "You're so fragile, and you always look so nervous, almost as though the wind could sweep you away."
I can't respond even if I wanted to. Instead I stand swaying from side to side, my quickly weakening knees barely enough to hold me up. He's right though. I'm not exactly the most obvious candidate for a dungeon princess. I watch him pace back to me, this time with the steel clamps, ordinarily used for affixing papers together, but this time used for something much more sinister.
"There's an innocence about you" he says again, a clamp in each hand, pried open between his fingers, moving slowly and threateningly towards my nipples. "You're like a rose, or an icy snowflake. Something beautiful and unspoiled."
He fixes the clamps to me, arousing a rush of pain as my nipples are pinched beneath the cold, hard surfaces of the steel. I close my eyes and scream into the tangerine, making no more than a stifled moan. My billionaire boss - towering menacingly over me - is enjoying every second, his eyes wide and his lips contorted in a grin. My nipples feel so tight, they could almost burst; every drop of blood in my body channels to them, creating two super-sensitive outlets for my sexual frustrations.
"I'd have to be a monster to spoil you" he adds enigmatically, enjoying the sordid dictations of his own arrogant pleasures. "But that won't stop me."
I shuffle around some more, trying to find a comfortable way of standing, trying to ease the pressure on my knees. A single bead of juice trickles from my sopping wet slit, down my leg and onto the floor of the armoire, as I feel my clit engorged and impatient, standing out from my vulva like an impetuous, attention-seeking flower. I yearn for his body; I'd scream and shout for it, if I could and if I dared. But he's going to make me wait.
Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) Page 7
