Love Unbound

by Cassandra Dee

  “Unnh!” I shrieked. “Unnh!”

  “Shhh,” he rasped behind me. “We don’t want to ruin the performance for our fellow concertgoers.”

  And fortunately, the soprano’s voice rose right then to cover my ecstatic shrieks, the cries that I couldn’t help but let out. I almost keeled over, but the ledge saved me, hands gripping with white knuckles, shivering with ecstasy.

  Because oh yeah, the Billionaires Club keeps a box at the opera, one for members to use whenever they want. And right now, Donovan and I were dressed in formalwear, my alpha impossibly handsome in a tux, that huge form dark and imposing, the perfectly-cut material emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs.

  And I was clad in an evening gown to match, a perfectly normal, sexy red column with a sweetheart neckline and a slit up one leg. But oh yeah, that slit. What the rest of the audience couldn’t see was how Donovan worked that thigh high slit because what seemed reasonable when I was standing up gave my lover perfect access to my pussy in the confines of the box. Oh yeah, he had that slit pulled open all the way to my waist, the folds of the fabric obscenely draped around my hips as those fingers pushed hotly into my vaginal canal.

  “Unnh god!” I moaned again, head dropping just as the music crescendoed, boobs almost popping out my cleavage. Oh fuck, it felt so good and I didn’t even care if I gave the audience an eyeful of breastflesh now, I was beyond the point of no return, absolutely soaring in heaven. “Ohhh!”

  But Donovan chuckled nastily.

  “Naw baby girl, I’ve only got three fingers in, and we agreed fisting this time, remember? So open wider sweetheart, Daddy’s still got two digits to go.”

  And my entire body shivered with his words, cream running from my hole, literally gushing around his hand. Because this is the new “us.” Donovan wants danger in his life, I get it, and somehow, some way, I am the embodiment of that danger. The difference is that the alpha’s got a partner now, and the danger runs ten times deeper, ten times more hazardous. Because no, Donovan still never uses protection, he’s still creaming into me again and again, giving me multiple doses of that semen. But it’s different this time, because I’m on board and aware.

  And our adventure at the opera is just another example of our joint quest for danger. Because yeah, fingerfucking in public is too tame now, Donovan made me promise to let him fist me, to stuff his entire hand into my pussy in plain sight of other audience members.

  “I don’t get it,” I’d gasped, brown eyes wide as I stared at him. We’d been discussing it on the couch in the Avalon, Donovan having moved me out of my old, worn-down shack within twenty-four hours.

  “Don’t get what?” he drawled lazily, one big finger trailing against my nether lips, making me shiver involuntarily. “You think this pussy can’t stretch?”

  I shook my head disbelievingly.

  “I mean it can Daddy, it can, but your entire hand? All five fingers, plus your palm? And your hand’s big too,” I whispered pointedly, looking down at where his fingers grazed my twat.

  Donovan chuckled deep in his chest, male form hard and tense, immense ridge already evident within his trousers, tenting them like a flagstaff. Oh god, I wanted to suck, but even more, I wanted to feel. But Donovan wanted me a certain way, and I was gonna get it.

  “Trust me baby, you can do it,” he rasped throatily, gazing at my bare pussy hungrily. “And Daddy will help you through the exercise, Daddy will absolutely get you so hot that you thank me afterwards, this little pussy will drip buckets of lust.”

  And now here, at the opera, my lover was true to his words. Because as I parted my thighs wider, he slipped another finger into my pussy, four now in total, prying me open, and making me feel oh-so-full.

  “Oh god Daddy,” I moaned, throwing my head back, reaching forward to stroke the ridge of that fat cock through his pants. “Oh god.”

  Donovan’s eyes were such an intense blue that I could see them even in the dark of the theater. But he pushed my hand away because this time was all about me, and my lover was gonna bring me to a shattering finish, audience and music be damned.

  “Almost there,” he rumbled soothingly, that blazing blue gaze never leaving my secret flesh. “Almost there.”

  And with one more twist of his wrist, a clever jerk and then a deep slide, it happened. Donovan slipped all five fingers in, the stretch incredible, my pussy so fucked. I looked down with shock, almost unable to breathe. It was so obscene, so unbelievably disgusting, and yet so good. Because only Donovan’s wrist protruded from my vaginal hole, creamy thighs spread wide. There was so much pussy juice, so much female nectar that his arm was absolutely drenched, rivulets dripping off onto the floor.

  “Oh fuck yeah,” he groaned, moving his fingers experimentally in me. “Oh fuck yeah.”

  I mewled helplessly then, throwing my head back. Oh god, was this really happening? This was danger personified, shit, I didn’t know how we could get more risky than this. Because if someone noticed, how could he pull his fingers out in time? The alpha was stuck so far in my body that it would take at least twenty minutes just to exit the way he’d come, finger by finger, slowly pulling out of my puss.

  But for now, I just wanted to feel.

  “Yeah Daddy,” I panted. “Ohhh, god, yesss.”

  And with that, the billionaire began to fuck me. Right there, at the opera, my dress pulled open and legs spread obscenely wide, he began running his entire fist in and out of my pussy, only his wrist showing as he rampaged my hot folds. Oh god, I was so fucked inside, slutty cunt gushing heavily, gripping him, stretched to the max.

  “Oh god,” I moaned again. “Oh god god god.”

  And with that, my snatch burst. Literally juices flew out three feet in the air, spattering his tux, getting on my beautiful red dress, staining the ornate furniture. There was so much that it literally bubbled up around his wrist as my folds clenched and spasmed, squeezing his hand like a python, pulsing with ecstasy.

  “Ahhh!” I cried out, throwing my head back, one big boobie popping out from my dress now, my lust impossible to contain. “Ahh!”

  But Donovan was quick. In a flash, the big man reached around my torso and covered the pendulous flesh with his hand.

  “Oh yeah, baby girl,” he ground out, squeezing hard before flicking a nip. “Oh yeah, Daddy’s got you.”

  And that’s the story of my life now. Daddy’s got me, and I’ve got him. We’re together through the good times and bad, riding storms in one boat, oars paddling in sync. Sure, we began in the most illicit of ways, as an anonymous finger fuck after meeting on-line, but it’s become something real now. Because we live together, Donovan moved us both into the condo in the sky, and it’s good. Better than good. We make love all the time yeah, but we also cook, shower, and talk nonstop, blabbing about big and small.

  So no, I didn’t expect this. I was Rachel Smith, virgin librarian, a shy, plump brunette with a sweet smile and a longing to explore and see the world. And he was Donovan Jones, billionaire alpha with a penchant for the dirty, using females like disposable goods. But we’ve both changed. Now that we have each other, the past is the past, it formed us, but it’s not us anymore. Because we’re living our present now, and with bright eyes, I have high hopes for the future.

  Because Donovan has a desire for danger, yes. Was I afraid I couldn’t satisfy him, that I was too boring? Was I afraid I couldn’t meet his expectations? Absolutely. After all, virgin Rachel wasn’t so long ago, only a matter of weeks in fact. But slowly, as we’ve grown closer, our relationship has deepened and matured, and I’ve become more confident, more sure of myself. My body and mind are the ultimate drugs for my man, and yes, I’ve realized I can fulfill the alpha’s desire for danger. I can go to the Billionaires Club and play any game with him, I can take him to the opera and let him fist me in public, pushing that huge hand right up into my sweet, pulsing twat.

  And this is our life. This is our life, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. By no means
is it perfect, we’re not Ken and Barbie by a long shot, living a bland, plastic life with a house in the burbs. But Donovan is my man, and the love that soars between us, that binds us tight, is one hundred percent real. So what else can a girl ask for? After all, this was an anonymous encounter that became something much, much more … and it’s mine for keeps.

  THE END

  LIKED WHAT YOU READ?

  Want to hear about my newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join my mailing list at http://www.subscribepage.com/alphamalesontop and get a FREE BOOK unavailable elsewhere!

  A SNEAK PEEK

  SOLD AT THE AUCTION

  By Cassandra Dee

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ellie

  “Seriously El, you can’t wear that,” said my friend Rachel.

  I looked back at her, a little miffed.

  “Why not?” I asked plaintively. The jeans I had on were nice, a dark denim wash, and I’d paired them with a long-sleeve top, crushed velvet with a scoopneck. “Looks okay to me.”

  Rachel snorted.

  “Seriously El, we’re in Vegas for the week. We’re going clubbing at a place that doesn’t even have a name, it’s so hot. You can’t wear the stuff you usually do, now take it off,” she commanded.

  I thought about refusing flat out, putting down my foot and digging in. But the thing is my friend is the one with the fashion sense, Rachel always looks amazing, knowing exactly how to do herself up for every occasion. In comparison, I was a little frumpy, dazed and confused most times, my brown hair unfashionably curly, my curves unfashionably round. So yes, I got invited to good parties because I was Rachel’s friend, but I didn’t look like any of them, skinny minnies all.

  And frankly, it was amazing that Rachel and I are friends at all because we’re so different, she’s swan-like, thin and elegant, with a modeling portfolio, whereas I’m round and small, an A-student. So our interests are poles apart, not to mention our paths in life. But we’ve known one another since we were five, and have seen one another through thick and thin again and again. Take last year, for example, when Rachel’s parents got divorced. I was her confidante, her therapist, and her anchor when she was lost at sea, adrift on waves of sadness. And I know she’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed. So despite the fact that outwardly, it looks like we have nothing in common, in fact we have a bond that goes deep, far further than mere clothes or personalities would suggest.

  And since my body changed, my friend’s fashion advice was even more important. Because gone was the old Ellie from two years ago, an underweight mouse shaped like a broomstick, and in her place was the body of a woman, like Venus de Milo incarnate. I have big boobs now, a huge ass that sways when I walk, and generous hips making it hard to fit any type of pants. In fact, it’d been a struggle getting into my jeans tonight, I’d had to hop up and down desperately a couple times before they squeezed on, and the button was threatening to pop off any second.

  So I sighed again.

  “I don’t have anything else,” I repeated plaintively, gesturing with open palms. “There’s nothing else, look at my suitcase, nothing, nada.” And flipping open the purple travel case to reveal the interior was uninspiring. There was nothing haute couture or racy, just a couple more colored tops and a pair of grey jeans to mix things up.

  Rachel pulled a face.

  “Really, you didn’t bring a dress? Something a little slinkier?” she asked, picking through the stuff in my bag.

  I shook my head.

  “Nope, you know I don’t wear dresses that often,” I reminded her. “I’m more of a tomboy.”

  Rach pulled another face.

  “Tomboy, schmomboy, El, you’ve got a body now that’s decidedly not tomboyish anymore,” she emphasized. “Come on, you’re gonna have to wear something of mine then.” And with that she began pawing through her things, flipping through the closet where she’d hung a million outfits, each one colorful and gaudy, some even with pom-poms and sequins.

  “No, Rach, no,” I pleaded. Even if I wore something of my friend’s, we weren’t the same size, not even close. My blonde friend was your typical petite vixen, about five one and a size zero. Whereas now, I was up to a size fourteen, maybe. Possibly a sixteen, it depended on what I’d had for breakfast, or sometimes dinner the night before. There was no way I could squeeze into one of Rachel’s outfits, I’d rip it at the seams like a juicy tomato busting out.

  But my friend couldn’t be deterred.

  “How about this one?” she asked brightly, pulling a dress out of the closet.

  I groaned. It was terrible, all psychedelic colors, oranges swirling with purples, great big globs of green here and there.

  “No Rach,” I said firmly. “Absolutely not, I’m getting a headache just looking at it.”

  She sniffed, her pert nose wrinkling.

  “Just so you know El, this dress is by Missoni, they’re a famous Italian design house known for their zany patterns.”

  I shook my head still.

  “I’ve never heard of this designer, but no Rach, it’s like an acid trip,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t.”

  Rachel sighed dramatically, hanging it back up.

  “How about this one then?” she asked.

  I paused for a moment, stunned. The dress wasn’t even a dress, really. It was more like a band of cloth across the bust paired with a skirt, with the tiniest piece of material connecting the two vertically, enough to hide your belly button.

  “What is that?” I asked, horrified.

  “What you’ve never seen cut-outs before?” my friend scoffed like a grande dame. “This here is an Azzedine Alaia, I love his work,” she cooed. “So sultry, he knows a woman’s body so well.”

  I shook my head again.

  “Rach, that’s more like a swimsuit, I can’t go into a club wearing a swimsuit.”

  And my friend laughed.

  “It’s not a swimsuit, the material’s not waterproof,” she said airily. “Besides, look what I’m wearing,” she said slyly, untying her purple fur jacket. And I gasped because beneath the fur, the blonde had on something that looked like a violet handkerchief, a triangle bound around her breasts, dropping to a point that barely shielded her snatch. One flutter, and everything would be visible. I goggled, astounded.

  “Will they let you in the club like that?” I stuttered.

  “They better,” Rachel said cheerily. “Otherwise Miles will be soooo disappointed,” she cooed.

  And I shook my head again. We’d been invited to this no-name disco by a bunch of guys we’d met at the hotel pool earlier this afternoon. Miles was the one Rachel had homed in on, an overly-tan muscular dude whose swim trunks left nothing to the imagination. I didn’t want to go out with them tonight, not really, but Rach was determined to see Miles again and I was just along for the ride, the best friend slash sidekick, always the voice of reason.

  “Okay, this one then,” my friend said with finality. “Seriously El, lighten up, this would look fantastic on you.”

  And I gasped again, but for a completely different reason. The dress she was holding in her hands was absolutely gorgeous. Size XS, yes, but still stunningly beautiful, a silky slip in gold that shimmered under the lights.

  “Try it on, okay?” asked my friend, pushing it into my arms. “Come on, chop chop, we gotta go, it’ll look amazing.”

  And with slow steps, I let myself into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and gazing in the mirror. What was going on? I was boring Ellie Danes, nerd extraordinaire, who never wore things like this. I was more a jeans and a t-shirt girl, swapping out the t-shirt for a sweater when things got cold, or a velvet top when things got sexy. No way could I ever pull off a dress like this.

  But never say never, and I was transfixed by the shimmering gold fabric, the material silky and glimmery in the light. Hesitantly, I pulled off my scoopneck, then squeezed out of my jeans, holding the tiny scrap of material in front of me. Did I dare
put it on? Did I dare become someone other than plain old Ellie, always the wallflower? And with a sigh, I undid the zip and stepped into the shimmery fabric, sliding it up over my hips and breasts, pulling the spaghetti straps over my shoulders.

  Looking in the mirror, I gasped at the sudden transformation. Oh my god, I was someone else now. Whereas before I was curvy, yes, but hidden and discreet, now everything was out in the limelight. The fabric hugged my girls just so, emphasizing their creamy fullness, the tops of my mounds revealed in the deep décolletage. And the dress skimmed my waist, showing off how narrow it was before clinging to my hips, the shimmer emphasizing every sway of my booty.

  I giggled then, humping my butt up and down a bit just for fun, letting go in the privacy of the bathroom. It jiggled and jumped under the lights, the fabric sparkling and moving on my curves like liquid gold, casting a magical sheen around me, almost like a halo of sparkles surrounding my curvy form. I loved it, absolutely loved it, and opened the bathroom door.

  “Oh my gawd, it’s puuurrr-fect!” squealed my friend, handing me a jacket. “Now put that on otherwise we’re going to be late meeting Miles.”

  I shook my head again, draping the coat over my shoulders. It was as if a magic trick had ended, the dark material shrouding the gold, giving no hint of the dazzling splendor beneath. But Rachel was right. It was time to go, time to have a good time tonight.

  “Come on,” sang my friend, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I picked out shoes and a purse for you already, gotta roll!”

  And with another sigh, I slipped my feet into the golden pumps Rachel had laid out, complete with a matching gold handbag. Oh my god, the heels were so high, I was going to have trouble balancing and sure enough, my first step was a little wobbly. Bracing myself against the wall, I took a deep breath.

  But my friend was already halfway down the hall.