My Billionaire Werewolf Master
By
Brandy Corvin
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2012 by Brandy Corvin
* * * * *
"Ms Phillips?"
I stand up on instinct, causing everyone's eyes to naturally fall upon me.
"Yes, that's me." I reply, straightening out my finely-pressed business suit at the same time.
"This way." the petite blonde bombshell of an office secretary turns around and strides off, obviously expecting me to follow her.
I start after her, increasing my pace just so that I can get out of the stifling waiting room. Everyone in there just makes me feel super uncomfortable. After all, we're all fighting for the same job.
Some have their hands clasped together, their heads bowed in personal prayer. Others read and re-read their resume over and over again. Two people work up the nerve to engage in idle conversation that soon degenerates into a dick measuring contest in terms of resume achievements. I roll my eyes at the rabble, glad to finally leave them behind.
We proceed down this lone corridor. The impersonal glow of white fluorescent overhead illuminates the way forward. There are no doors on either side.
I peek round the secretary's shoulder while she's walking in front of me.
The lone door on the far end is the only way out. It beckons me to come closer. For some strange reason, I feel like every step I take brings me nearer to my doom. It's a feeling of grim foreboding, and not a state of mind that a job applicant should have.
C'mon Amelia Phillips! I psych myself up mentally. I woke up on time, dressed myself immaculately, drove in smooth traffic and didn't leave a damn thing behind at home. So far today, I haven't screwed up yet, so why should I tank now?
I've come too far just to be turned away. I haven't worked so hard for much of my life for nothing.
From excelling at the best schools, being crowned state ice-skating champion and receiving my acceptance letter from Berkeley, there's simply nothing in life that hasn't gone my way yet.
I will get this job and achieve success in life.
"Um, are you alright?"
The secretary snaps me out of my thoughts. I guess I must have been mumbling. Oh snap.
"Yes, I'm fine." I smile back as pleasantly as I can, trying not to seem creepy in any way possible.
"Right," she finally says after a long pause. I suppose she won't want to hang around longer.
"In here," she holds the door open for me, "your interviewer will be here shortly."
I nod numbly, still unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation.
Business school was a tough place to be. But under pressure, I'm one of those types that prosper. Rumors fly unabated on campus. There's always this student clinching a job at some Fortune 500 company or managing an internship at one of Silicon Valley's fashionable start-ups. And all this before they graduate!
It's petty, I know, and I try my best to give in to the jealousy building up inside me. But with day after day of worthless metaphorical dick measuring conversations, I succumbed and applied for a spot in Globaldyne Industries Inc, the top Fortune 500 company for five years running. Hell, if I'm going to do this I might as well go all out, right?
Perusing their company website as part of my interview preparation, I discovered that Mr. Dyne, Founder, Chairman of the Board, CEO and President of Globaldyne managed to achieve all that he has to achieve at the tender age of twenty-seven. And with a self-made fortune of several billion, he can afford to retire and live extravagantly for the rest of his long, luxurious life. Still, I suppose anyone in his position would be bored with that kind of lifestyle, preferring the rush of running America's largest and most influential corporation.
Hell, even my twenty year old self was impressed. He piqued my curiosity, so I obviously had no choice but to give it a shot. Hell, if I get it, I might actually have a chance to pick his brain and see what makes him tick, not to mention finally being the subject of jealous campus rumors that I'm sick of hearing (only because it's about other people).
Apart from a desk and two chairs on its opposite ends, the interview room is bare.
Taking a seat in one of the chairs, I set my folder out on the table. It contains my life. I pull out my resume, my records, my identity, everything there is to know about me (on paper, at least).
The air-conditioner whirrs idly overhead, reminding me how lonely this place can get. Hopefully I won't be in here for long.
I drum my fingers on the table but stop suddenly. This room is empty, too empty.
If I'm right, this is also part of the interview. Globaldyne wants to see what its potential employees are up to when they think no one's watching.
My legs ache to carry me up and all over this room, searching cracks in the walls for pinhole cameras; but two decades of self-discipline have sadly taught me to be patient.
The door suddenly creaks open on its hinges before slamming shut, making me sit up with a jolt. It's like grade school all over again with loud noises and regimentation administered by the curse of the teacher's long hardwood ruler.
I look to figure standing in front of the door, trying my best to smile and remember the standing acceptable business greeting one should use.
The interviewer steps into the light and stands next to the chair opposite me.
My smile disappears and my legs start to shake.
It can't be… can it? What's he doing here?!
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.
This can't be happening, it can't! It just… can't! It must be some sort of mistake!
"Ms. Phillips, am I correct?" his deep manly voice fills the room and strangely warms and cools my soul at the same time.
"Y-yes." I finally snap out of my daze to reply.
I can't believe it's him.
"I'm —"
"You're Mr. Oliver Dyne, yes, I know you who are." I start excitedly, "but what I don't know is, what's one of America's most influential businessmen doing with a mere job applicant like me?"
He stares straight into my eyes. It fascinates and unnerves me at the same time.
Mr. Dyne doesn't reply me immediately. He just stares, as if I'm completely naked, baring all of my soul to his choosing eye.
I don't know whether I like this, but at the same time, I just can't look away.
"This is the first time someone has cut me off and talked back to me." he enunciates his words clearly and tersely, scarcely hiding the irritated fury in his tone.
My body backs into my seat as much as it can, unable to withstand his overwhelming presence. He makes me want to crawl under a rock and hide, to hide until he's finally gone. But in this unfriendly interview room, there is nowhere for me to escape his piercing glare.
"I'll overlook this… transgression once, Ms. Amelia Phillips. Don't ever cut me off like that again. Are we clear?" he doesn't raise his voice, but it feels like I'm drowning in his commanding tone anyway.
My neck starts on autopilot, nodding stiffly and numbly while watching his every move. I'm half in awe of him, of his body. I'm certain that beneath his Armani business suit hides a large built body that constantly tones itself at the gym, as explained by the presence of the rippling muscles underneath that silk fabric. But looking past that, his piercing blue eyes captivate me and make me never want to leave this room, unless he was leaving, of course.
His eyes narrow at my lame response.
"You want to know why I'm here?"
I remain silent, too scared and too uncertain of how to respond.
He leans in, giving me a whiff of h
is branded cologne.
"Because I can." he whispers into my ear and sends tingles of electric pleasure down into my slit.
How long has it been since a man could make me feel this way again? I simply can't remember.
Mr. Dyne drags out the chair tucked into the table opposite me and takes a seat with the grace of an unlikely ballet dancer. He leans back, eyes never leaving mine.
Would you like to take a look at my resume?
I want to ask, but the strength to assert myself suddenly leaves me.
Just like that, we stare at each other in awkward silence. I get more and more uncomfortable as the time slowly plods on by. The seconds turn to minutes, and the minutes feel like hours.
After what seems to be an eternity, he reaches out towards me.
I cringe back on instinct only to find him holding my resume in his hand.
Oh.
I've wronged him.
Fresh blood fills my cheeks and turns it a bright crimson as I blush deeply in embarrassment. I want to apologize, but at the same time I don't want to break his concentration. If he senses my instinctive fear, he most definitely doesn't show it.
He stares at the piece of paper I dare call a resume before place it back on the table.
I wait nervously for him to ask me something, anything.
Where's my earlier confidence? Oh right, it disappeared the moment he stepped in.
Before he entered the picture and overthrew my stable world of perceived success, I had long prepared for any and all possible questions that any interviewer might throw at me. But all my prepared answers simply vanished from my memory the minute his eyes met with mine.
He looks up and makes me squirm yet again.
It's inappropriate, I know, but despite the formal setting, I can't help but feel ever so attracted to this powerful man.
In this moment, I feel like I'm willing to adhere to any request he has, no matter how deviant or outlandish.
My rational side chides me for having such inappropriate and unclean thoughts when I'm supposed to be sitting through the interview that will make my life and my career. C'mon Amelia! I put myself through another round of mental psyching, focus!
It's impossible to focus though. The more he looks at me, the more distracted I am. If I'm not careful, I might lose myself in his eyes and that would really spell the end of this interview.
"Ms. Phillips, can I call you Amelia?"
It's such a simple question. But it throws me into confusion all the same. A million tiny questions emerge and pop in my head like the bubbles of freshly-poured soda. My brain's at it again, automatically trying to overanalyze the purpose and framing of such a fundamental query.
Well, I suppose there's no harm in getting more personal with Oliver Dyne.
"Yes, but if only I can call you 'Oliver'." I manage a smile and nod slowly.
His eyes narrow, sending aroused chills down my spine and in between my legs yet again. No other man in my life has ever been able to make me feel like I do now for Oliver Dyne.
"I will call you Amelia, but you must address me as 'Master Dyne'."
Blind shock paralyzes me. I blink my eyes, unsure of what I just heard.
"E-excuse me?"
"You hear me, Amelia. You heard me loud and clear."
I blink some more. 'Master Dyne'? Is he serious?
"If you wondering in that little head of yours, yes I'm completely serious, Amelia." he reads me perfectly and I, still shaken to the very core by the randomness of his request, remain silent.
"How do you address me?"
I stare into his piercing blue eyes once more, only to find nothing but a cold dispassion in him.
"M-master Dyne." I utter softly at last.
"Good girl." Master Dyne's scowl returns back to his poker face, his dispassionate poker face. But he reaches out and pats my head, as if I'm a mere mutt to be trained.
If he wants to treat me like a dog, I might as well act like one!
Forgetting that I'm currently in the weirdest life-changing interview of my life, I turn things up a notch or two by leaving my seat and getting down on all fours.
Before I come to my senses, I find myself barking and growling in the oddest, most awkward way I can imagine, crawling around the table to my master's side. The 'X' mark on the floor is scrawled in white chalk. It seems an awful lot like the proper place to be. So I sit there and pant like how a dog does, easily exposing my lacy black panties thanks to my short business skirt and my current sitting position.
He looks down at me. His disinterested stare that irked me this whole time suddenly transforms into one of slight amusement.
That's it? I lower myself to this level and that's all I get out of him? People at his level of wealth must have seen so much in their lifetimes and have become so bored that such things don't even inspire much of a reaction from them anymore, I guess.
Master Dyne catches the now-sullen expression on my face and suddenly breaks into a slight chortle of laughter.
"Alright, you pass."
I'm confused. What have I passed? Does that mean I get the job?
"Does that mean —"
"No, you haven't earned the job… yet." he caresses the word 'yet' with his tongue, as if it held all the possibility of my life. I've never felt so small. But I've also never felt so inspired to do more.
"Then what do I have to —"
"I'll show you." he cuts me off once again, but stands up this time.
"Ms. Amelia Phillips, so far, you've demonstrated some aptitude for the job. But do you have what it takes to go all the way?"
I don't know what the hell 'all the way' means, but if it involves making my life a roaring success, I think I probably do.
"I'm a man of complex tastes. Unlike everyone else, I'm letting you go for a trial run. You're the only one who gets this chance, so don't fuck it up."
I nod obediently, still slightly unsure of what he's talking about.
But then he gets up, welding a remote control once concealed in his hand.
Master Dyne pushes the single red button on it and suddenly the room is thrown into disarray.
Sterile gray panels on the walls flip over, revealing a shocking array of weird tools: whips, rods, candles, all sorts of things that make my eyes pop out of my head.
The ground opens up and out pops a strange looking rack as well as a cylindrical metal cage with a dome shaped top. Worryingly, they all seem to be made for human use.
Fear, confusion, twisted arousal all serve to further deepen my internal conflict. After all, I'm here for a job, not to be some billionaire's slave, to serve whatever kinky desires he held within him.
"What the hell is all this?" I gasp in trepidation.
"By day, this is an unassuming interview room (and also the room used for firing worthless employees). But when I'm around, this room becomes my dungeon." Master Dyne casually replies matter-of-factly while locking the door behind him.
I'm trapped, scared, but strangely willing.
All my life, despite the higher-than-necessary number of weirdoes I've dated, I've never come across someone as deviant and as attractive as Master Dyne. Was it his enormous wealth that attracted me? It can't be. I've had rich men in the past.
One look at his intense eyes and I've given up all hope of leaving this place as the same person that first came in. From his looks, his dress and especially his crushing aura, this man personifies power. Maybe that's what I'm attracted to about him.
"Get up. Head to the table and bend over." his orders come quick and terse.
I follow without hesitation, afraid of what he may do to me if I dare disobey and simultaneously excited to explore this world of whips and chains that awaited me.
With my body resting on the interview table for support, I can't quite see what exactly he has in store behind me, but from the sound of things, the juices between my legs start to flow endlessly.
Suddenly, he enters my vision as he comes round the table. W
ith one powerful swipe all the documents that I cared so much about fall to the floor in a scattered mess. My resume, my records, my life's work; it's funny how they all seem so trivial now.
He slams a dead white piece of A4 paper onto the table accompanied by the metallic shine of a Mont Blanc pen right in front of me.
"Amelia, this is the one and only time that you'll have a choice." his voice turns surprisingly gentle, a far cry from the hard steely tone that I was getting used to.
I look up at him and cast my glance down at the paper in front of me.
The words 'Terms of Contract' headline the damn thing. I grasp it eagerly in my hands. My eyes search through the terms for the required hours per week, the amount of salary I get and even the company benefits that I'll receive.
But I find none of those things. Instead, the heavy terms of submitting my body and soul in my entirety to Master Dyne send me into a downward spiral of confused anger.
"What the hell is this?!" I get up at once, trying my best to keep my voice steady, "Are you fucking insane? Me? Sign my life over to you? I thought this was —"
"Your employment contract?" he smirks through his Zorro type mask. It made him seem more impersonal than ever before, but also reveals much more about him than he cares to realize.
"No Amelia, this contract just covers this session. A trial run, if you will and also if you cared to hear me out earlier. If you pass, you'll sign your life over to me for real and in the process make it out of here with a great start to your career."
I fall silent once again, contemplating the consequences of it. Grasping that sheet of paper in my hands, my eyes glaze through the terms, reading them over and over. It all seems fine, except for one thing: there's no provision limiting my temporary submission to him to this session only.
What, did he think it was implied? Was he trying to trick me?
Trembling with renewed anger, I pointed out the unsatisfactory terms in justified anger.
His face changes at once.
"What? Give it to me." he takes the contract back. I watch as his eyes sift through the legal jargon with amazing speed, his focus darting from side to side of the now-slightly-crumpled paper.
He reads it again and again before giving up at last.
My Billionaire Werewolf Master (Paranormal Erotica) Page 1
