Bound for Him: The Complete Collection
(A Billionaire / BDSM Erotica Boxed Set - 9 Books)
The Bacchanalia Collection
By Juniper Leigh
Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink
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Table of Contents
Bacchanalia (The Erotic Awakening of Fiona Buchanan): The Bacchanalia Trilogy
Part One: The Bacchanal Club
Part Two: The Unmasking
Part Three: The Proposition
The Billionaire Bondage Trilogy: The Erotic Adventures of Fiona Buchanan
Part One: The Billionaire Boys
Part Two: Worth Billions
Part Three: Beguiling The Billionaire
Just Us (Fetish Fantasy Erotica)
One: Upon Her Graduation
Two: His Dearest Darling
Three: Good Little Pet
Bacchanalia
(The Erotic Awakening of Fiona Buchanan)
The Bacchanalia Trilogy
Part One: The Bacchanal Club
“Order’s up!”
The kitchen was stiflingly hot on that afternoon in July when everything changed. So hot, in fact, that we closed early because our Sous chef collapsed, having suffered from some sort of heat stroke. But I was sweating through the lunch shift, picking up two matching Nicoise salads to deliver to a very fancy couple drinking very fancy cocktails at the front of my very fancy restaurant.
I say “my” as though I owned the place. To wit, I do not own the place. I’m just a waitress. Well, not just a waitress. I’m going to be a poet some day. I mean, I am a poet. But I’m going to be a published one, with a cushy teaching gig with tenure and all that. But for now: waitress. A waitress with tens of thousands of dollars of student loan debt.
“Here you are,” I said, placing the salads in front of the two aforementioned fancies. The woman at the table smiled up at me, gracious, thanked me, and started to pepper her tuna. I might look a bit like her, I thought, underneath the sweat and restaurant grime. She had long black hair the same color as mine, though mine was swept up into a high ponytail. She was lithe and lean, boasting considerably less in the way of breasts than I could, but also considerably less in the way of ass and thighs. Our skin was the same milk-white and pale, our lips both full and naturally pink. Her eyes were the color of gunmetal; mine were two princess cut emeralds. I envied her the leisurely life that allowed her to sit and dine and drink a Gin Gimlet in the middle of the day.
“Thank you,” this was from her male companion; I turned to smile down at him and was met by a pair of eyes the color of light shining through a crystal glass of fine sherry. His hair was a rich mahogany, and the line of his jaw bore a 5 o’clock shadow, though it was only one. He was handsome the way a Calvin Klein model is handsome, the way a presidential candidate is handsome. I smiled down at him and said, “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I think we’re all set,” he said, his voice low and sonorous and full of its own limpid melody.
I gave a nod of my head and turned on my heel to get back to my other tables. It wasn’t fair, how beautiful those people were. How beautiful and elegant and how little their lives resembled mine. I supposed that’s what I got for getting a degree in Poetry instead of something useful. I consoled myself with the idea that they didn’t have much going on upstairs, so to speak. Because it wouldn’t be fair for them to be beautiful and wealthy and smart.
It was at that moment that my only friend at the restaurant came in, looking rather worse for the wear. Though undoubtedly beautiful, Cora Bale had circles under her big, blue eyes that expanded ever outwards, like ripples in a pond. My brows lifted high in surprise at the sight of her, and she dropped unceremoniously onto a bar stool, reaching over it to pour herself a glass of ginger ale. I went around to the other side of the bar and procured the bitters, putting a splash of it into her cup. This was a well-known wait staff cure for upset stomachs. “You look awful,” I gently intoned. “What’s the matter?”
“I have so much to tell you, Fi,” she said, drinking deeply of her ginger ale. She sat upright and drew her unruly red curls into a bun at the nape of her neck, but froze mid-gesture, staring at me.
“What?” I asked, “Do I have something on my face?”
“I have a proposition for you,” she said. “Are you interested in making a little extra money?”
Yes, please God, Yes. “Well, that depends on what I’d be doing, I guess,” I said, ever cautious.
“Just serving drinks, mostly.” She rubbed at her eyes. She was paler today than usual, and her pallor accentuated the spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose and along the high bones of her cheeks. “It’s a really exclusive gig, pays really well.”
“What’s the catch?” I leaned forward, my elbows on the countertop and scanned the restaurant, my eyes landing on each of my tables, trying to ensure that none of my customers were trying to catch my attention.
“No catch, really,” she said. “I mean, you’re slightly exposed--”
“Exposed? What do you mean by exposed?”
“The uniform is just kind of revealing, that’s all,” she said, her eyes darting furtively over the room. “But you’re wearing a mask the whole time so no one will even know it’s you.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, dubious. “I dunno, Cora,” I began to protest, but she simply fished a card out of her pocket and slid it across the bar to me.
“It’s five thousand dollars per night,” she said, flatly. My jaw hung agape; I was stunned. “Just go to this address at five o’clock. Be freshly showered, no makeup. I’ll be there, too.”
“I can just… show up?” I canted my head to the side, examining the card. It read “The Bacchanal Club, 221 5th Avenue” in neat black script. That was all. “Who do I ask for?”
“Just tell them I sent you. I’ll be waiting for you before it begins.” Cora rose to her feet and trudged slowly toward the back office.
“You’re not going to work in your present state, are you?” I asked, propping my hand up on my hips.
“Fiona,” she said with a wry smile, “I made five grand last night. I’m here to quit this job.”
*
When I arrived at the Bacchanal Club, I was greeted warmly by a young woman dressed all in black. She led me up a winding staircase, gave me a terrycloth robe and told me that my aesthetician would be with me shortly.
“Wait – aesthetician?”
She nodded. “Waxing, then manicure, pedicure. A facial if you have pore issues.” Did I have pore issues? I wasn’t sure. “Then full makeup, hair and costuming.” Costuming?
“I’m not expected to pay for this, am I?” I asked, uncertain. She laughed, and shook her head.
“No, as soon as you sign the nondisclosure, everything will be taken care of.” What in the world had Cora gotten me into? I glanced around the well-appointed waiting room, plush with velvet and damask, dark in burgundy and black, and felt a niggling curiosity in the back of my mind. What was this place? What sort of dining establishment waxed their wait staff? I swallowed hard, battling my fight or flight impulse, and examined the contract that had been given to me. It stated only I agreed not to discuss what I saw or experienced at the Bacchanal, that I was over eighteen years of ag
e and entered into this work agreement without coercion, with my full consent. My hands were clammy: Five thousand dollars was what I brought home in six or seven good weeks at the restaurant, if I was lucky. I thought about the chunk it could take out of my credit card debt, and signed my name on the dotted line.
I was immediately swept into the waxing room where I was relieved of every hair on my body from the waist down. “Exposed”, Cora had said, and it was an understatement. The aesthetician had seen places on my body that I had never seen, that my doctor or mother had never seen, and I blushed the entire time. She left me raw and tender, my skin pink and aching. I examined the effect in the mirror: it was not altogether unpleasant. My hairless sex looked meek and small and it pulsed with every beat of my heart.
Then a manicure, a pedicure: all painted in bright gold. My hair was done up in an elegant French twist, and all the while I sat with the employees of this establishment and asked my questions: Who owns this place? What goes on here? Where are the other servers? And I was met with the shaking of heads and stony silence.
It was near eight o’clock by the time I was ushered back into the waiting room in my robe and gold nail polish. There I saw Cora, who came over to me immediately and clutched my hand, as well as a number of other men and women, all about my age, a number of whom had curious looks on their faces. Cora’s dark circles had been entirely erased, probably with a regimen of sleep and excessive foundation. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered. “It’ll all be worth it.”
An elderly woman, very finely dressed in an elegant black gown with long, belled sleeves, entered the room with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Behind her was the young woman who had greeted me earlier, and she rolled in what looked like a costume rack filled to bursting with garments. “Good evening,” the elderly woman said with the faintest hint of a French accent. “For those of you who are new here tonight, my name is Madame Rousseau, and I am here to ensure that the needs of our distinguished clientele are met. Your job is to anticipate their every desire, some of you in more ways than others.” That elicited a series of light snickers from the crowd; I simply blinked owlishly. “For those of you who needn’t sit through another introduction, please see Emma for your wardrobe. The rest of you, have a seat.”
Cora squeezed my hand then let it go and drifted over to the wardrobe rack. About two thirds of the remaining people followed her, leaving me, three other women and two men, to sit ourselves down in front of Madame Rousseau.
The experienced wait staff disrobed, and I balked to see that the men wore gold rings around their penises that kept them upright and erect. I couldn’t help but stare; the new guys shifted uncomfortably, silently indicating that they had similar rings wrapped around their appendages.
The women were all hair-free, as I was, but we seemed to come in a greater variety of shapes and sizes: Cora was tall and lean and small-breasted, but the other women ranged from short and thin as a young boy to the size of a traditional big beautiful woman. The men were more averagely proportioned, and boasted what in my experience looked to be larger than average cocks. They began to dress: some of them were given gold necklaces and bracelets and ankle bands and nothing else. Others were given gossamer robes in light gold lace that covered the body from sternum to knee, but was fairly see-through. Cora dressed in one such robe.
“The articles you wear indicate your position in the Bacchanal,” Madame Rousseau explained. “Those wearing the robes are wait staff, serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres. We have a kitchen staff who serves the sit-down dinner, and of course we have our distinguished autcionees, who bring with them very special services for which our clientele handsomely pay. They are already on display, and none of you shall speak with them or interact with them in any way unless asked by a client. Is that quite understood?” We nodded mutely.
“In fact, you do not speak unless it is to answer a question. You move slowly and cautiously so as not to disrupt anyone. You do not stare or balk when you see something you might have otherwise found shocking. We do not abide that kind of behavior. You will keep your eyes down, you will keep the drinks flowing, and if you do your job well no one will notice you at all. Any questions?”
I glanced to my left, to my right, and everyone wore the same look of apprehension. I raised my hand.
“Yes.”
“So, this is like… a sex party?”
Madame Rousseau pursed her lips and stared me down. “My dear,” she replied, “this is a bacchanalia.”
*
With a significant amount of hesitation, I abandoned my plush, white bathrobe and was given one of gold gossamer that did not cover as much of me as I would have liked. I was also given a golden mask with gorgeous filigree detailing around the edges, and behind it, I was able to feel like I was another person entirely. I was no longer Fiona Buchanan, Waitress and Would-Be Poet, but rather a glamorous woman of leisure, enjoying a Dionysian festival of fertility and nature and celebration and the shedding of inhibitions. Then, I was given a tray upon which to balance eight glasses of Dom Perignon and the illusion was shattered.
We were all ushered into the main room, a beautiful space full of dimly lit crystal chandeliers, tables, couches, and plenty of nooks and crannies into which a couple could abscond. Two fireplaces were lit at either end of the room, in the center of which was a long dining table. About forty people sat around what looked to be a fairly conventional feast, but on the table – along with the wine glasses and bread plates – were two naked women and one naked man. One of the women was dripping in silver chains and glittering diamonds, confident and calm in her nudity in the way the other two were not. She stood tall and still in the center of the table, as though she were a centerpiece of great value and importance. The other individuals were on either side of her, naked, kneeling, and utterly exposed. I approached slowly, balancing my champagne as I moved, and I found I could not look away from them. The young woman who was kneeling had her knees spread, her cunt glistening and on display. The same could be said for the kneeling man, who also wore a cock ring, his hands clasped behind his back, his entire body oiled. They were beautiful, all three of them, and still as statuary.
I drew nearer and nearer and saw one of the masked patrons at the table reach forward and touch the kneeling woman’s breasts, as though weighing them in his hand, appraising them, perhaps, for authenticity. “Lovely,” he remarked, and withdrew as I placed a glass of champagne on the table in front of him. I moved down the line of diners, even as the kitchen staff began to serve an array of culinary masterpieces: duck l’orange, veal chops, roast asparagus with lemon and sage, petit filets, steamed Brussels sprouts with garlic sauce. My mouth began to water at the delicious smells that wafted through the air. I set down my last glass of champagne, and someone’s hand curled around my wrist so that my breath caught in my throat.
“You’re new,” he said, and I looked down at him, his mask obscuring most of his features, the low light even protecting the true color of his eyes. I nodded my head in silent reply.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I murmured, glancing up to watch one of the women at the table reach out to stroke the erect member of the man on display. He allowed his eyes to come to a close but otherwise remained completely still. He was extraordinary.
“You’re supposed to answer direct questions,” he said, his tone short but playful. “Now, what is your name?”
“Fiona,” I said, attempting to draw away.
“Fiona,” he repeated, his timbre low and rich, like the purr of a jungle cat. “What must I do to have you, Fiona?”
I scoffed, blinking, and attempted to pull away, but he held firm. “I’m not for sale,” I hissed.
“I wouldn’t pay.” He grinned a bold, be-dimpled grin and my heart raced in my chest.
“Your dinner’s getting cold,” I said, gesturing to the full plate in front of him, and he let me go. I took the opportunity to dart a
way, back into the server’s area where I could replenish my tray. I would have resolved to avoid that particular gentleman, but they all looked alike in their black tuxedos and black masks.
With the drinks served, the wait staff in robes lingered in the server’s area, peeking out to the patrons dining, and at the stoic centerpieces. The other serves, the ones wearing only the masks and gold jewelry, lingered at the edges of the room and every once in a while, a patron would stand and disappear with one and come back later and resume his or her seat.
The conversation was low and civilized, comprised largely of small talk, tips on how to survive a sweltering New York City Summer – Go to the Hamtpons, darling, right away! It smells like baked garbage in my neighborhood. – and local politics. No one discussed the nude staff or the auctionees on the table in front of them. That is, until after their plates had been cleared.
“Lot 615, ladies and gentlemen,” Madame Rousseau intoned, gesturing to the young man on display. His rippling abdomen was well oiled, his legs long and strong and waxed smooth. His hair, greased back, brushed his shoulders, lending him a look that was rather out of time, as though he’d just come from the cover of a romance novel. A small crowd gathered around his end of the table, and I tried to pay attention to clearing away the plates and flatware, but found myself lingering to listen. “He calls himself Marcus Steele and is a professional submissive catering to both the male and female populations, with a spoken preference for the female. He has worked for three years out of the Black Rose in the West Village, and comes very highly recommended. No water sports or scat play, blood play only after the third session. May I start the bidding at one thousand dollars?”
“Two,” a woman said, raising her hand.
“Two and a half.”
Bound for Him: (A Billionaire BDSM Boxed Set - 9 Stories) the Bacchanalia Collection Page 1
