Backseat With The Billionaire

by Lilah May

  I can’t help but smile when he lands on his ass, blood spurting from his nose which he clutches with one hand. With his other, he points at us or more just at HIM.

  “You’re gonna regret this. Boys!” The drunk and his friends stand together, grouping up like the cowardly sheep they are. But they’re still five men ready for a brawl, inching forward with their hands up. And I’m not sure HE could handle all of them.

  “You really don’t want to do that.” HE clicks his tongue at them as if they were wild dogs. It works. They halt in their tracks. “You’ve been here for two hours, at a rate of 3 drinks per hour, you’d be 6 drinks in. On the other hand, I’m perfectly sober. I’ve also trained in boxing, Muay Thai, and went to nationals for wrestling in college.”

  HE takes a step towards them and they take a step back, they’re confidence in numbers waning. “You look like farmers from the rough tan and burly stature, so I see where your confidence comes from. In most bar fights you probably do better than your average Joe.”

  “Yea! Nobody messes with us! We’ve never lost a fight!” One of the men shouts, but his voice cracks and I don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or us.

  “I’ll take a few punches and that’ll hurt. And you’ll lose some teeth, break a few fingers, maybe a nose. And you think that’s fine, as long as you can work tomorrow. But,” HE takes another step, glowering menacingly, “I won’t stop there. I’ll knock every single one of you out. And then, after you’re all down on the ground, crying for me to stop, I won’t. I’m going to keep hitting you until I make sure you won’t be able to work. I’m going to crush your hands, snap your arms, and stomp on your legs till you can’t walk for years,” he snarls viciously, his eyes burning with ferocious fury. “You might think that’s overkill, but remember, I gave you a chance to escape my wrath. But you chose to stay. And I can’t tolerate men who hurt women. It gets me all riled up and when I get into a blood frenzy, I can’t stop.”

  The wide eyed drunkards have sobered up real fast. One of them looks like he’s about to piss his pants. Finding themselves backed up against the wall quite literally, they glance at the door.

  “NOW SCRAM!” HE roars. And they bolt for the door, scrambling over each other to make their escape as fast as possible. None of them are willing to sacrifice so much for someone else’s mistake.

  And they all realized it was a mistake to touch me.

  As soon as they’re gone, he erupts with laughter, that savage look wiped clean off his face.

  “Seems like your friends don’t like you as much as you thought they did. Now then, it’s time for you to apologize to the nice little lady.”

  “Fuck you. And fuck your little slut,” the drunk spits.

  “It’s OK.” I finally find my voice, catching my chance to talk, “I think you’ve done enough. It wouldn’t be an honest apology, anyways.” But immediately, he shuts me up with that signature stare, making me instantly regret trying to stop him.

  “No, it’s not OK. I wasn’t lying when I said I can’t tolerate little shits like him. I know he won’t mean it. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t mean it. He’ll never change. He’ll always be a nasty little creep. But I’m not doing it for him. I’d like to say I’m doing it for you, cause it’ll sound sweet. But I’m not.” Then why? Why is he going so far? “I’m doing it for myself. It’ll make me feel better if I hear him say it.” What’s with him? Why does he care so much when he barely knows me? And why does it make me feel so warm inside?

  “You fucking bastard!” The drunk somehow manages to get to his feet and charges at HIM, who easily side steps before catching the drunk’s flailing arm and twisting it behind the his back. “Ow, ow, ow. Gerroff Me!” the drunk hollers but he doesn’t let go.

  “Apologize.”

  “Never!” the drunk cries as if he’s being tortured for secrets by the CIA.

  “Apologize. Or I will pop your shoulder.” HE cranks it further back, giving the arm a sharp tug.

  “OK! OK! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The MAN finally lets go. “Not!” And the drunk pulls out a knife. I gasp, but HE only laughs.

  “Didn’t you hear what I told the other guys? You aren’t going to kill me with a puny thing like that. And even if you do get in a lethal stab, what then? It’ll take me minutes to bleed out. Before that I’ll crush your skull.” Who is HE? And what made him so careless with his own life? Is he really not afraid of anything? Even death?

  “Let’s see you try.” The drunk calls what he thinks is the MAN’S bluff. But I know HE’S dead serious. The drunk steps forward and the MAN doesn’t back down.

  “You really don’t want to do that.” Another voice comes from behind the bar. The long steel barrel of a gun appears in the corner of my eye. I freeze. A short, stocky man with a crew cut holds a shotgun aimed steadily at the drunk’s head. “I think that’s quite enough out of the both of you.”

  “OK! This time I really am sorry!” The drunk drops the knife and runs off, with his tail between his legs. All I can do is stare in disbelief, as the other man replaces the gun under the counter and starts wiping down tables as if nothing had happened. Apparently, he’s the missing bartender.

  I feel like I just stepped into the Wild West or somewhere just as dangerous. I knew I shouldn’t have walked into a bar called The Soggy Dog.

  “Did you have fun, Bobby? Throwing out my only paying customers?” The bartender shakes his head as he cleans up the mess left by the group.

  Did he just say Bobby? As in Bobby Carter, Patty’s son, the boy I used to babysit, to cook dinner for, and to help with his homework. That fucking Bobby?

  I turn around in slow motion, dreading the moment when our eyes meet, now painfully aware what I did that night with a boy I practically raised, whose mother and I are best friends.

  When I finally find his eyes, I can see the hint of tender warmth and worry, mostly masked by the same flinty hardness from that night.

  How could I forget those eyes? Those gentle brown eyes that were so cute and curious when he was young. And those soft dark curls that used to bounce everywhere as he jumped around the house.

  Except, right now, his eyes aren’t so gentle, they’re sharp and glaring. His curls gelled and combed perfectly without a hair loose to bounce even if he wanted to.

  That’s why I couldn’t recognize him. Bobby Carter, all grown up and sexy as hell. In the six years he’s been away at boarding school and then college, puberty had hit him full force.

  You ever get that crushing sense of humiliation, like gravity’s turned up by ten and you feel like—no, you wish you can sink into the ground and disappear?

  Not only did he make me cum in the back of a grocery store, now he saw me slutting it up in some random dive bar. What would he think of me?

  Actually, it’s obvious what he thinks of me. I could see it in his eyes, full of worry, disappointment, anger, like a father who found his girl drunk driving. And he had every right to look at me that way. I had been doing something irresponsible and dangerous.

  “Had enough fun?” I have nothing to say, no excuse, no explanation for the boy who once was like my son, the boy who is now very much a man. “Let’s go.”

  And I follow him, without a word like a punished child.

  CHAPTER 11

  LISA

  We speed along the highway in silence.

  Ironically, as I start to sober up by the second, my face turns redder and redder.

  Why was Bobby there, of all places? I’m grateful that he was, but I also wish he wasn’t. I think I would rather have had sex with that putrid, barely human thing, then have Bobby see me in such a vulnerable and stupid state.

  The first thing I want to talk to him was of that night in the grocery of how inappropriate that was. But one look at him and I realize I shouldn’t mention that yet.

  His eyes are stormy, clouded with rage, and his scowl looks like it can melt glass.

  “You know, Lisa. What you were doing was danger
ous back there.” My first name sounds strange on his lips, almost condescending. I’ve never heard him call me Lisa before. It’s always been Mrs. Howard.

  “Of course it’s the woman’s fault when a drunk man tries to grope her. I should’ve figured, you’re just like the rest of them.” I’m annoyed, not at him but at myself for being so careless.

  “You’re being difficult. You know that’s not what I meant. You shouldn’t have been alone in a place like that. That could’ve gone far worse if I hadn’t been there.” I know! I know I was an idiot for going there. But he’s the one who made me that way. Why am I getting lectured by a boy 20 years younger than me, anyways?

  “You’re one to talk. What were you doing there?” I lash out.

  “I was implementing a new business idea,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to control his anger

  “Sure. That sounds convenient. Aren’t you in college? What business idea were you implementing? A frat party?” I have no idea why I’m being so nasty, but if I keep this up, he’s sure to erupt. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want him to take his anger out on me, to discipline me the way I should be.

  “It keeps track of their stock, which type of alcohol and what brand is at what levels, which you have sitting around for too long. Then it compiles an average monthly stock list based on daily drinking habits of regulars as well as eliminate outliers like frat parties. It also lets you know if you’re supplies are falling low and if you can’t get your supplier to come, it networks with other bars on the same program so you can trade and buy from each other.” he explains, his patience wearing very thin.

  “Oh,” is all I can muster as a response. I forgot he owns a software company. I retreat back into silence.

  “So?” But he doesn’t let me slide.

  “So what?” I act flippantly as if I have no idea what he was asking. Why couldn’t he just drop it?

  “What the hell were you doing there?” His voice grows harsh.

  “Why do you even care?” My embarrassment turns into anger.

  “You’re very important to me. Of course I fucking care.” He sounds so serious. Does he really care that much? His aggressive attitude makes me weak, but I don’t want to show it.

  “Well, no one asked you to. If I want some dick, I can go get some. I’m an adult.” I say, even though I’m not acting like it.

  “So that’s what you wanted? Dick?” The way he repeats it makes me sound like a teenage girl. “Lisa, I’ve known you all my life. You’re not the type of person to dress in … that and go to a seedy bar miles away from our town to get wasted alone.”

  “What if I am? What if that’s me? Some slutty mom who wants to get gangbanged by a group of old sweaty fat drunks in the middle of a bar?”

  “Shut up,” he growls threateningly. “You’re not like that.” As if he’s so sure who I am after disappearing from my life for six years. Is that why I’m so mad? “So don’t say that kind of shit. What you did was foolish and irresponsible. If you had gotten hurt —” He can’t even finish, his eyes dangerously dark and his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are white.

  But for some reason I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to back off. I want to push him. I wanted to act like a little bitch, like a sullen girl throwing a temper tantrum who doesn’t want to take responsibility for her mistakes.

  Just for tonight, I want to be irresponsible. I wanted to be someone else.

  “You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what a woman wants. You’re just a little boy.” His eyes flash hot with anger, his hand whips out, seizing my wrist in a steel tight grip.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me,” I cry.

  “Shut your mouth,” he snarls. Did I go too far? What is he going to do to me? His expression is frightening, but I’m not scared. I’m turned on. Something inside me is twisted, for sure.

  Did I test his patience for this? Is this what I wanted all along?

  “You think I’m a boy?” He thrusts my hand down his pants. All of a sudden, I’m touching his hardness and I gasp, unwittingly, his massive size catching me off guard, his searing shaft burning in my grasp.

  “So, you’re a slutty mom hungry for cock, huh? Well, you didn’t have to go so far. I’ve got enough cock for days, right here.” He lets go of my wrist, but I don’t pull away.

  He palms my dainty hand and forcibly wraps my fingers around his girth. It’s so thick I can barely reach halfway around his member.

  “Does that feel like a boy’s cock to you?” he challenges me.

  It doesn’t.

  This was definitely a man’s cock. More than a man. More than I could handle. How would it even fit? Just the thought of it splitting me open has me shuddering and my juices leaking in anticipation.

  “This is what you wanted, right? A man’s cock. You want to suck it, right? Take it in that dirty little mouth of yours, wrap your slutty lips around a real man’s cock?” I moan, helplessly, my pussy pulsing from his dirty words.

  Oh god, he knows how badly I want to. I want him to force my head down until I choke, until he sprays his load deep into my throat. I want him to punish me for acting so immature tonight. I want him to teach me how to behave, to set his little girl straight.

  His hand leaves mine which continues to clutch tightly around his throbbing cock. Suddenly, I feel his fingers seize me by the back of the neck, the immense size of his hand almost completely encircling my thin neck.

  He gives it a tight squeeze, as if warning me that with his absurd strength he could easily snap my neck with one swift movement. I don’t know why I think that, but the dark thought rises out of nowhere and seems to egg my body on, the electric thrill from the danger racing through me.

  Is this why I was at that bar? Is this who I am? And how does Bobby know exactly what I want?

  He drags my head across the center console, and for a second, I think he’s going to let me taste him, to suck him off right there in the car. But then, he pulls my head past his bulge until my entire torso lies over his lap.

  “I know you want my cock. But you were a bad little girl tonight and bad little girls need to be disciplined. You don’t get to taste that cock you crave so much.” He knows exactly what’s racing through my head. “You need to learn your lesson and you won’t learn anything if I give you what you want.”

  “Wait —” I start to protest.

  SMACK! Pain jolts through my ass. Did he just spank me? And my pussy answers for me, dripping with wetness.

  “Did I say you could talk? You still haven’t learned anything.” He reprimands me, educating me, shaping me to his will.

  I can feel the air brushing by the tingling skin where he had just slapped. It feels good. I want more. That exposed feeling makes me want his hand again. I can’t believe I’m thinking that.

  “Are you still the little slut who wants to get gangbanged?” No. I’m still a slut, but an entirely different slut. “Or are you my slut?” I’m his slut. He slaps my butt again, demanding an answer. “Whose cock do you want?”

  “Yours. I’m your slut.” I whimper, weakly, his assertive dominance sending chills through my body, making my skin prickle and my ass beg for more punishment.

  “Good girl.” What was happening? How did I end up in this position? How did he have so much control over me, over my body? Did I want this? To submit to him? But my body already knows what I want before I do, my pussy salivating at the thought of being under his control.

  “Now, I wonder what made you go so far and lose all sense of reason?” Does he know that it’s him? That he opened the door, releasing something from inside me I never even knew was there?

  His hand teasingly drifts across my aching butt cheeks, his rough fingers skimming against the burning flesh, and I shiver from his cool touch.

  My other hand is still gripped tightly around his pulsing cock and my tits hang between his legs. I want him to grope at my swaying globes, I want to stroke his hardness, feel its length. But I ca
n’t. I’m being punished and I love every second of it.

  I’ve never been so excited, so turned on, the thrill of giving up my body completely to him, to be disciplined, makes every touch electric.

  How does he make me feel like this? Is it his incredible strength, his overwhelming masculinity? Or is it that dark and dangerous, dominating part of him that seemed to have my body begging to be handled and exploited?

  He slips his hand beneath my panties and tantalizingly slides them off exposing my wetness to the air. My smell, my lust fills the car and he breathes it in, taking a deep inhale, “Mmmm. I think I found the culprit. It’s this naughty little thing.”

  His hand wanders down my butt, his palm squeezing between my tight thighs, and his fingers delve into my dripping wet valley, teasing my dripping hole, almost slipping in ever so slightly.

  I had no idea how much my drenched pussy wanted to be touched. When his fingers glide across my pulsing slit, tracing the lips of the opening, my entire body tenses and I moan.

  His fingers then his palm drag across my clit, the sensitive nubbin already engorged and stiff. And I almost scream. I toss and turn on his lap, biting my lip, hoping he doesn’t notice how obviously I just came.

  SLAP, the pain jolts through me.

  “Did I say you could cum?” His hand comes down again and I moan, my pussy begging for his fingers, for his cock, for anything. But of course, I don’t get what I want. It’s my punishment.

  Light fluttering fills my stomach and I push my hips down against his touch, hoping his teasing fingers would drive into me.

  “You want my fingers, huh? You want me to jam them deep inside and fill you up?” All I can do is whimper, the pleasure from his teasing touch rolling through my body. “If you want it, you have to ask. That’s what good girls do.”

  I want more than his fingers. I want his cock. I want to feel his burning shaft splitting me as my pussy clamps down on him. I want to feel full with every inch of his throbbing cock as he cums inside me.