Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel)

by Ashley Spector

  Taking the root of ginger from the desk, I see him playing with something in his other hand. Is that the scissor blade? Again my heart races, trying to figure out exactly what he's planning for me next. I strain my eyes, carefully trying to piece together his actions, as he takes the blades of the scissors and slowly begins filing away at the ginger root, cutting it into another shape, something I can't yet make out in my shortsighted vision.

  "Whhuhh thhuuhh" I groan, my speech stifled and slurring against the intrusive tangerine in my mouth. He doesn't even look up; he's concentrating, using the blade to chop bits off the ginger root, only stopping when he's satisfied with its shape.

  "We did a film last year," he says, sounding far from thrilled to be recalling something from his slightly less controversial work life. "I dunno if you saw it. I dunno if anyone saw it, in fact. It bombed."

  I nod, graciously, and obediently, unable to take my eyes off the ginger root between his fingers.

  "A new genre we were calling 'sexual horror'. You know, a bunch of teens losing their inhibitions, fucking for most of the movie before meeting grisly ends."

  I know what he's talking about. I had considered auditioning for one of those roles myself until I read the sex scenes.

  "Well, one of the scriptwriters had an idea. Something I'm not ashamed to admit I liked the sound of."

  He finally holds the ginger root out before us, letting me look at it in all its sculpted glory. One thin end, and one thick end, the thin end tapering into a point, no more than half a centimeter thick. Strangely, there's a gap in the middle, where it again tapers into thin shaft. It almost looks as like -

  "Ahh buuhhpuhh!?" I scream behind my gag. He nods. I know what it is alright.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around until I face the back of the armoire, and my rounded, curvy butt is extended out towards him invitingly. Then, as I battle to contain my breaths, snorting through my nostrils like some caged animal, he reaches around with one hand steadying my body, whilst holding the shaped root between my ass cheeks.

  "Brace yourself" is all he says, before I hear him take a deep breath, and drive the thin end of the wedge between my butt cheeks, past my puckering asshole, and into my rectum. Fuck!

  I briefly lose myself to the realization that my anal virginity is gone, rejoicing within at how easy it was, before I'm consumed by an entirely different feeling; that of searing, burning discomfort. It burns! I scream against the tangerine once more, muffling my every word into a series of vowels, as my billionaire boss stands behind me, resting his hands against my stomach in a strange embrace.

  I try to adjust my posture, but actually doing little more than digging it further inside me. My asshole clenches and tightens around it, arousing a sweaty, red-hot feeling of braised skin, warming my insides and my entire ass. It hurts, but there's something else too; a certain dirtiness about all of this. The feeling doesn't go away, reminding me at every second that I'm penetrated, and utterly dependent on my controlling host. I feel a pulse of pleasured tremors shoot throughout my body, and let another bead of juice escape from between my legs as the ginger root burns into the flesh of my ass. I'm being punished somehow; initiated into the darkest, cruelest fantasies of my domineering lover. The feeling is surprisingly liberating.

  I don't even realize he's gone until it's too late. I spin myself around, turning myself on my hanging wrists, finding him standing with the curtain rail in his hands, looking as menacing as always.

  Slap, goes the plastic railing, whipped against the quivering flesh of my ass in a deft, brutal motion. I scream into my gag, digging my nails into the abrasive cords that restrain me. Like a good girl, I turn myself back around, facing the back of the armoire once again, giving him a large and complete target to take out his sexual frustrations upon.

  Slap! I bite down upon the tangerine, feeling streams of citric juices fill my mouth, swallowed with mindless compulsion. I wish I could scream out; I wish I could let him, and everybody in this building know just how this makes me feel. I wish I could yell obscenities and curses that would make even the crudest movie producer blush. I wish I could lose myself to the pain and the tension, losing every semblance of conscious thought and wrap my body around Daniel. I wish I could predict just when another deafening, stinging, reddening blow would hit, and dispel all of this waiting tension. But you can't always get what you want.

  Slap, once more.

  And again.

  My ass shudders and trembles against the pain, clenching down upon the root of ginger inside my ass even more so, arousing yet another tidal wave of pained pleasure. I feel a procession of tears streaming down my face, as I begin to lose my mind to the impatient lust that threatens to overcome me. All I want is him; to ravage me and brutalize me exactly how I fantasize.

  Suddenly the curtain rod drops to the floor; he tires of it. I catch my breath, snorting through my nose loudly and most definitely unattractively. He instead goes to the paint cans in the corner, opening them with the blades of the scissors, before dipping the shiny metallic blades within. I'm too far ensconced within my own world to care right now. I can almost hear myself squelching wetly as I adjust my position, resting my whole weight on my left knee this time; I'm a fucking mess.

  "Here" he says, spinning me back around to face the rest of the room, and the paint-dripping blades of the scissors he holds. "You're a work of art."

  He paints an assortment of shapes on me, placing one palm on the side of my hips, arousing just enough sexual tension in me to make me clamp down on the root of ginger once again, only to produce yet another burst of burning, searing pain. It's only when I'm finished do I realize what he's written.

  Danjel? He has a funny way of writing the i, curling the bottom around into a j almost. I don't know why it leaps out at me like it does. Whatever; the sight is quickly burnished from my mind as soon as he rises from his knees, back to my face, peering into me with those gorgeous, flaming blue eyes.

  "So, do you want me?"

  Finally, the fucking question I've waited a painful eternity to be asked. I widen my eyes, screaming against the tangerine at the top of my lungs until I'm completely red in the face. Yes!

  "I can't hear you."

  "YYYHHHHRRR!"

  He's playing with me; delighting in watching me squirm and squeal for his mere touch. And then comes the cruelest blow of all: before my draining, exasperated eyes, he instead turns himself around, and makes for the door, hesitating briefly with his palm upon the handle, before shooting me one final regrettable glance and leaving. I watch with wide, pleading eyes as the final textiles of his black suit pants disappear behind the door, leaving me tied up and battling the brutal realization that I'm stuck here. I'm still pained by the various instruments of torture - the clamps, the ginger, my restraints - dotted around my body like memorable remnants of something sinister. But I'm far from feeling bad about this.

  I gulp, swallowing back a tide of burning citric juices from the swelling tangerine inside my mouth, and adjust my posture, trying to centre myself on both aching knees. I can hear nothing, except for the faint buzz of the florescent light above, and the droning whine of the air conditioning in here. I guess I'm all alone now.

  What happened to me? What became of me? A week ago I'd have never consented to being hung from a rail, whipped to a sore redness by a curtain rod, and clamps tightening on my ever-sensitive nipples, not to mention the invasion of any root vegetable into my ass. Yet here I am, seduced by the charismatic majesty of a man so powerful and so domineering I'll apparently give him anything; even my entire body. I should be a bag of nerves, trying to silence my rampaging heartbeat, trying to think of a way to escape this horror movie. Instead, I'm standing here, the skin on my wrists above me slowly being shorn off by the abrasive cords, waiting for my master with hopeful eyes and expectant fantasies.

  I feel different.

  Chapter Nine

  I don't know how long has passed. The cooling current of
air-conditioned air around the room has given my naked body a brief sway from side to side, so subtle I don't even notice it at first. I'm hanging here like a piece of meat in the butcher’s. It's funny what you think of in these kind of situations; where I probably should have been thinking of all the reasons I hate this, instead I couldn't get the prospect of seeing Daniel again out of my head. To feel his touch, his caress, even a brutal whip from the curtain rod one final time. Just something to remind me that I still exist.

  Every so often I think I hear voices - giggles, indecipherable words, and directionless diction - but every time it merely trails off into the air-conditioning unit's faint hum. My knees ache so badly I doubt I can walk. The countless beads of juice to trail from my sopping hole have dried to me, and the throbbing soreness of the curtain rail blows upon my ass has subsided into a meager sting.

  When I finally hear something real - something I know I can't attribute to the air-conditioning - I know I've either been revisited by my host, or finally lost my mind. Thankfully for my melodramatic brain, it's the former. He peeks around the door, almost as if he expects me to have made some sort of miraculous escape. When he sees that I haven't, I'm rewarded with that sly, gorgeous smile back upon the side of his lips; my prize for losing several painful hours of my life to him. He's changed clothes - a purple shirt, a blue suit jacket, a blue set of pants - and his hair seems different somehow; neater, more presentable.

  "Miss Everett," he says, rather predictably, looking around the room one more time at the articles of torture, exciting himself into a higher pitched fervor. "I'm sorry I had to leave you like that. I'm afraid a producer's work is never done."

  "Mmm hhmmm," I hum against the soggy mass of the tangerine, still washing my mouth in a foul, tangy taste. I want to forgive him; no! I want to give myself back to him!

  "And I see you've worked just as hard this morning."

  He crosses his arms, and I watch as the fabric of his suit jacket tenses against his undoubtedly thick musculature beneath. Funny, the thought briefly courses through my mind that I haven't yet seen him topless. I guess it isn't yet my place to ask.

  "But it's okay," he continues, slowly pacing towards me, one painstakingly slow step at a time, making me hum and fidget and tense with excitement. "You'll get what you need."

  Hands on my shoulders, pressing fingers into my skin. I haven't felt another human's touch in hours, and it feels so good. He spins me around, so that I'm back in that old familiar position; facing the back of the armoire, my butt extended outwards. The pain of the ginger root has long subsided. Either I got used to it, or it lost its luster. Still, I'm reminded of the searing hot rush as soon as he puts his fingers to it, yanking it out quickly, making my puckering asshole throb with burning, fiery pain.

  I snort out of my nostrils, exhaling deeply as my body tries to adjust to the harsh touch of another. My heart is thumping in my ears, my fingers trembling in their restraints above me. I hear the unmistakable shuffling of clothes, and look down to my feet to see his pants lying discarded upon the floor. Oh God, is this it? What I've wanted, what I've craved for so long?

  "Mmmhmm!"

  He drives into me like a man devoted; thirsty for flesh, desperate to feel my insides once more. I can't help but cry out, humming against my gag as loud as I can, feeling the relief wash over me. All of a sudden I'm dripping wet again, like he never left me.

  "I do think we make a rather good team, you and I."

  Ever the professional, I nod up and down, feeling the length of his member drive into me from behind, feeling every bump and contour along its surface until there's nothing left, and he's buried within me totally. My right leg sets off in tremors, buckling beneath me under the immense strain, and neither of us seems to care. As he pulls out, slowly, trailing terse, moist skin of my slit with him as he goes, I already feel empty without him.

  Then, he surprises me. One hand plants itself firmly into my ass cheek, digging its fingers deep into my flesh. The other, to my relief, travels around to my face, putting its fingers to the side of the duct tape pressed tightly to my cheek, and after several moments of grasping for a loose spot, tears it painfully from my face in one almighty motion. I instantly spit the partially chewed tangerine out onto the floor of the armoire, and yelp in pained pleasure, feeling him slam his hips into me forcefully, driving his rod back within me.

  "It's good to have you back, Miss Everett."

  "It's good - to be - ohhh," I'm so messed up I can't even finish my sentence; he instantly picks up the pace, steadying his grip on my ass with one hand, whilst punishing my pussy with all the force of his hips, slamming himself into me over and over and over, producing a most satisfying wet slap with each stroke. My knees buckle beneath me, long turned to boneless jelly, before the resultant pain from my stinging, skinless wrists above causes me to jolt back upwards. I scream through gritted teeth, and my billionaire boss knows just what I need.

  "You know, you amaze me," he says, grunting between each word, not for a single moment letting his pace upon me slip. "You haven't even asked about salary yet."

  I giggle. At least, I giggle inside. On the outside, I just groan, moan, and yelp. My slit begins to contract around him remorselessly, squeezing every inch of skin he has to give me. My leg won't stop trembling, and my breaths rush in and out of me as if I'm running a marathon. When I feel his body begin to harden - his strokes becoming less and less assertive - I begin to lose myself to a certain petulant self-congratulation. Is this it? Is this the moment where I make my boss come?

  His fingers shoot into my skin once more, finding the crimson mark on my ass cheek where he brutally whipped me a few hours prior, and sure enough the butterflies within me make themselves known as he grunts loudly. Before I realize what's happening, he pulls out, and I feel the thick, goopy warmth of molten hot semen spray over my ass, and the small of my back. I exhale loudly, feeling my pussy tense and tighten a few times without him, missing him already. Daniel, on the other hand, fights to regain his breath.

  "Fuck" he says, succinctly. I couldn't have put it better myself.

  I spin myself back around slowly, stepping from side to side, finally finding him in a sweaty mess, his hair unkempt once again, and his shirt hanging down around his spent member, partially hiding it from my greedy eyes.

  "You know, I should really get some clothes for that thing," he says, nodding to the armoire the houses me. I watch him gather himself, pulling his pants back up to his waist, buckling his belt back up, and running a finger through his hair, adjusting it back to its former finely styled glory. I forget how I look; beads of sweat shining upon my skin, DANJEL painted messily upon my stomach, and my makeup smudged and draining down my face in artful cobwebs.

  After tending to himself, he at last turns back to me. Scissors in one hand, my crimson-sore ass cheek in the other, he cuts me from my restraints, readying himself to catch me as I fall. And I sure do fall.

  "Holy sh-!" I yell, my knees beneath me buckling under my weight, and sending me toppling onto his shoulder. I've never felt anything like it, but he's there for me. I nuzzle my face into the delicate cotton fabric of his suit jacket, finding his shoulder warm and stiff, and instantly feel at home; like I never want to leave this place. Moments later, he cruelly takes a step backwards, separating us, and steadies me upon my feet with a palm on either shoulder. It was nice while it lasted.

  "I think I lost weight," I mumble to myself as I battle to regain my footing. My wrists sting with a glowing, red-hot pain. I look down and note the red rings surrounding each of them.

  "We should get you something. Something with long sleeves."

  "Yeah, sure" I mutter, lost in my own world, bemused by the state I'm in. Did I do this all for him? I can't even walk straight, my ass tingles with pain with every step, and my knees could do with a transplant. I'm shocked beyond words. Not because of the cruel, inhuman things he's done to me, but because I allowed him, and even enjoyed them.

  ***
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  He soon leaves me to contemplate the strange new thing I've become. When he returns, barely a few minutes later, he's holding a stack of new clothes, as close to my size as any male could approximate. A long sleeved t-shirt, white. A pair of jeans, blue. It isn't stuff I'd choose to wear, but whatever.

  "What time is it?" I gather the presence of mind to ask.

  "Three o'clock."

  Jesus Christ. I must have been hung up in there for hours. We don't share another word; I don't feel awkward or anything. In the end, what can you say in this sort of situation? But something still doesn't feel right for me. He pulled himself out of me, sprayed his essence all over my back, and ever since then I've felt empty somehow. Like I need something more from him. It isn't until he's waked me back to the elevator, and we're standing outside the Dervishire Building in the afternoon Sun, making our pleasant goodbyes that I manage to articulate my desires into words.

  "Daniel," I say, turning myself to face him confidently, surprising myself. "What are you doing now?"

  He's eyeing me suspiciously, like I caught him off-guard. He certainly didn't expect this line of questioning. He forces his eyes up and down my body, narrowing them curiously, before answering.

  "I don't know. I have a hole in my schedule."

  This is it; I can't tell you what I'm doing. I can't tell you how I manage to kick up the confidence to make such a bold stand like this, but that empty, voided feeling coursing through me like a dreadful torrent is dictating my actions now. I put my hands on my hips, staring into that gorgeous face of his - those jagged cheekbones, that square jaw, that bristly five o'clock shadow - and make my play.

  "Why don't you come for a coffee with me?"

  As soon as the words leave my lips I regret them. He narrows his eyes again, looking at me like I'm the spirited employee who just got too big for her boots. But I'm not giving up. I'm not sinking back into my shell like the Chlo of old. I know what I want.