Bound for Him: (A Billionaire BDSM Boxed Set - 9 Stories) the Bacchanalia Collection

by Juniper Leigh

  “Yours,” I said aloud to the empty air, before I forced my eyes open and my legs shut. Stop it, Fiona, I scolded myself. I had a proper date with a perfectly gorgeous gentleman; I should have been ecstatic. Why couldn’t I get Michael off my mind? There had been something about his behavior lately, something that set me ill at ease. I couldn’t put my finger on it, nor could I bring myself to broach the subject with him directly, lest it come to light that he was tired of me and he was going to send me back to my tiny old apartment. I sighed, exasperated, and climbed out of the tub. Wrapping myself in a plush terrycloth robe, I padded carefully across the marble tiles into the bedroom, whereupon I plucked a gilded 1940’s style phone from it’s cradle, and dialed Rousseau’s extension.

  “Allo?” Came Resseau’s lively French lilt through the receiver.

  “Madame, I’m ready to be dressed. Please send up the girls.” It’s incredible how quickly I’d gotten used to stylists and cosmetologists making me up each night before I went down to the club.

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle,” She said. “It will only be a moment.” And the line went dead. And, true to her word, mere minutes later, a flurry of girls came through and styled my hair, did my makeup, adorned me with jewelry and helped me into my gown. They swept my long, black hair up into a soft side chignon, painted my lips rose red and gave me a string of diamonds that hung down my back, bared by the elegant couture number Michael had given me a few weeks previous. With a set of gold bangles and a gold lace mask, the effect was complete: I looked like any patron of the infamous Bacchanal Club.

  Donovan was right on time, clad in a sharp suit with a red tie and red pocket square, his mask was black and hid his deep set eyes almost entirely in shadow.

  “You look stunning, Fiona,” he said, and offered me his arm, leading me gallantly down the grand staircase toward the main hall.

  Other guests were filing in as well, and I took the time to really admire the wardrobe of the ladies: all of the major designers made an appearance, and everyone looked lovely. But it was hard to keep anyone straight since we all wore either a black or a gold mask. Donovan led me to the large dining table in the center of the room, already decorated with lithe, lean bodies frozen in supplication for our viewing pleasure. One of them, I recognized, was Emma: I would know that sweet, pink pussy anywhere. She was in the middle of the table on her knees, which were splayed wide, her hands behind her gripping her ankles so that her breasts were pushed into the air. She looked beautiful, though I can’t imagine the pose was terribly comfortable. Donovan led me to the far end of the table and pulled out a chair for me. He took the seat at the end of the table so that he could lean toward me at the corner.

  A hush fell over the room when Michael came in, the only man in the room without a mask. He wore a finely tailored tux, with a beautiful blond in a red, slinky dress on his arm. He paraded her around the hall as though she were his finest accessory, and I suppose she was. I don’t think she actually spoke to anyone, just stood demurely by his side, something lovely and manageable and silent. I felt a flare of jealousy when our eyes locked, but I turned quickly away and leaned in toward Donovan, making my body language read loud and clear that I was here with a man who was interested in a woman with a voice.

  Dinner passed without incident: Donovan took the liberty of feeding me bites of his bananas foster, and I let him because the entire charade seemed to make him happy. But I felt rather foolish, sitting there with my mouth open, casting furtive glances down to Michael and his Companion at the opposite end of the table. I sort of hated her: she was tall, willowy, and tan, with hair the color of fresh honey. She was, for all intents and purposes, my total opposite. I had curves and flesh about my midsection and thighs, and she had none to speak of. I was pale with green eyes; she was tan with brown. Is that what he wanted, I wondered? Blond, slight and silent? I leaned back in my chair, refusing the final bite of bananas foster with a wave of my hand. And she’d painted her nails green. Who does that? Who wears a red dress and paints their nails green? I crossed my arms tightly in front of me.

  Michael caught me brooding and deigned to grin one of his devilish little grins, the kind that made his dimples appear. And when his guests rose and began to find their secluded corners to engage in whatever illicit activities the staff could dream up, Michael rose and took Blondie’s hand, leading her to the Persian rug by the fireplace, the one I’d stood upon when Michael first showed me off to the club. I watched them with a cold stare, even as Donovan rose to his feet and offered me his arm.

  “You seem distracted,” he said as I slid my arm through his and he led me away from the table. The staff, clad only in masks and jewelry, scuttled about to clear the dining detritus away, and I barely noticed them anymore, even though they were such a shock to me on my first night at the club.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, leaning my head against his arm as we walked, “I’m afraid I’m still a little dreamy after last night.”

  Donovan chuckled low and quiet, giving a slow nod of his head. “Yeah, I can only imagine how you must be feeling today.” He paused, and I peered up at him, admiring the fine line of his chiseled jaw. “Have you… er,” he paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you do that often?”

  “What, a gangbang?” I asked, perhaps rather more loudly than I should have. Donovan scoffed, but nodded in confirmation. “No,” I said. “That was my first.”

  “And why did you agree to it?”

  He wanted me to tell him it was because I’d seen his picture, or because I’d heard something about him that I liked. I could see in his face that he was desperate for a scrap of validation. But the truth was that I had done it because Michael asked me to do it, and I could think of nothing I would refuse him. I ran my tongue over my lips, steeled myself, and lied: “You looked so handsome in the picture he showed me,” I said. “How could I resist?”

  I sat down in an armchair near to the play area Michael had set up for himself and his little tan waif, and Donovan leaned against one of its plush armrests, trailing his fingers over the exposed flesh of my shoulder. I watched Michael circle the girl, who had not spoken one word that I could hear, before he reached forward and ripped the red dress violently from her body. The sound of tearing echoed through the main hall, drawing the attention of some other patrons who slowly formed a bit of a crowd around the two of them. The girl didn’t move, didn’t protest, and was wearing nothing underneath the gown. Now her perky little tits were exposed to the open air, her nipples hardening perhaps only because so many pairs of eyes were focused on her, not the least of which belonged to Michael Cross himself. I eyed her curiously, taking in details without the forgiving eye of a lover: I noted her belly button ring with distaste, as well as a dim cesarean scar with a pang of jealousy – she has kids and looks that good? As I continued to drink her in, I noted that her belly button wasn’t the only thing she’d pierced: a small, silver hoop hung decoratively from the hood of her shaved pussy, and I had to admit that I rather liked the effect. So did Michael, whose attention he turned immediately to it as he slid his fingers between her slick and ready folds of sex. She leaned into him, moaning.

  “We’re going to show them all what a hungry little come slut you are, aren’t we?” He growled, the husky timbre of his voice giving him away even more than the growing bulge in his pants.

  “Yes,” came her feathery reply. So, she can speak. Michael dipped two fingers inside of her then, and she parted her legs to accommodate.

  He cast a glance over to me as he fingered her, and I did my best to remain impassive. “Whose is this?” He asked her, though his gaze was fixed on my face. “Whose pussy is this?”

  “Yours,” She moaned, and my jaw and heart dropped. Something like rage flared up in me and made my cheeks burn pink. So, that was something he said to all his whores, then. Fine.

  I turned toward Donovan, sliding my hands up his chest, and tugged him forward by his lapels until we were a breath away.
Smiling coyly, I pressed my lips to his in a deeply passionate kiss. He lifted his hand to my face and I let my eyes come to a close as his tongue slipped into my mouth, as my tongue toyed with his. I could hear Blondie’s quick breathing as I kissed Donovan, and I could hear her give a little yelp when Michael’s hand came down on her ass.

  “On your knees,” he said, and I had to pull away from Donovan to glimpse what was happening next. Blondie dropped down in front of Michael, and opened her mouth wide like an obedient little slut, her fingers coming up to undo his belt buckle. I felt the unmistakable tingling of arousal when I saw Michael’s cock come free, and I longed for it to be my lips that encircled it, not hers. She took him deep into her throat, humming and groaning around the turgid length of him, and I rose to my feet.

  “Donovan,” I murmured, “you sit.” And he did as I bid. I turned away from Michael and his hussy, and gave Donovan my full attention as I reached up to undo the clasp around my neck that held my gown in place. Once freed, the garment fell away, leaving me in a pair of black lace panties, a garter belt, stockings and heels, my breasts exposed to eyes and the open air.

  I had no self-consciousness left, no sense of shame, not after working in this place for weeks, wearing nothing but jewelry and a mask. The great gift that it gave me was a sense of pride in my imperfect form: I had large, round breasts and an ample ass and thighs, and though I boasted an hourglass shape, I was not without a myriad of flaws of which I would sooner rid myself. But flaws and all, I was the focus of great desire and admiration, and it made me relish exposing myself to approving eyes. Baring myself had become a deeply affirming act.

  And little made me feel sexier than a man like Donovan, his lips parted as he admired me. He reached forward to cup my breasts in his hands, kneading them gently as I stepped out of the gown puddled at my feet.

  “You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you,” he murmured, and I couldn’t help but smile. I moved forward with a gentle sway of my hips and lifted one heeled foot to the far armrest of the chair on which Donovan sat.

  “Show me,” I said, and Donovan leaned forward and, using one hooked finger to pull my panties aside, slipped his tongue between the soft, pink folds of my labia. I sighed, my head lolling to the side as Donovan worked my clit with his deft tongue, moving it with shocking quickness. I caught sight of Michael and his girl in the mirror above the mantelpiece: he was fucking her face with a fury, like he had something to prove, and she took it like a stoic.

  Closing my eyes, I focused my attention on Donovan’s gentle ministrations, a moan catching in the back of my throat when he inserted a finger inside of me, his tongue flicking in quick little circles over my throbbing clit. I opened my perspective up to take in the details of the room, countless couples engaging in countless acts of debauchery in every available space. It felt wonderful to be a part of this as a guest, off the clock, under no obligation to so much as clear a plate. I smiled and leaned my head back as Donovan inserted a second finger into me, probing me with increasing speed.

  I pulled away from Donovan and bent forward, taking his fingers into my mouth and licking them clean of my juices. “Get your cock out,” I said, and carefully undid my garters one at a time. I slipped one stocking down over the curves of my thigh, along the muscular line of my calf and plucked the gossamer fabric away from my toes. Then the other, taking my time, enjoying the sensation of his eyes on me as I went through the ritual of disrobing. I shimmied out of my garter belt, then slid my panties down over the curve of my bottom and abandoned them with my other garments. Of course, by then Donovan had his sizable cock in his fist and I practically salivated at the sight of it. Turning my back to him, I reached down and took his member in my hand, guiding it to the entrance of my sex. I sat down in his lap, taking him fully into me in one quick movement, and we both gasped. I leaned back against him and spread my legs so that when Michael looked over at us, he could see all of me, including where his friend had entered me. Donovan reached around me, using his left hand to grip my breast, and his right to rub my clit as he shifted his hips slowly to thrust himself in and out, in and out of my aching pussy.

  Michael locked his eyes on me as Blondie continued to suck him off, and Donovan picked up his pace so that I was bouncing in his lap. I closed my eyes, overtaken by the sensation of Donovan’s cock probing at my G-Spot, but even when I closed my eyes, I saw Michael. All I wanted was for Michael to come over to us and lick my clit while Donovan fucked me. The very thought of such a thing drew me close to orgasm.

  I imagined Michael pulling his cock out of Blondie’s mouth and stalking over to us, dropping between our legs, his own manhood in his hand as he lapped at my pulsing little clitoris. I saw him jerking off furiously, bent before me, and I grew tense, panting, sending all of my noises up to the vaulted ceiling.

  When I opened my eyes again, Michael still had his cock in Blondie’s mouth, his hand tangled in her hair as he fucked her face.

  “I want to make you come,” Donovan groaned, fucking me faster, “I want to feel you come on my cock.” Donovan inclined his head toward me, kissing my neck, but I still had my eyes on Michael.

  Come for me, Michael mouthed to me, his eyes intent on my face. Come for me.

  And my orgasm overtook me, as though the command from Michael was what set it off. I came fiercely, the muscles of my pussy clamping down on Donovan’s manhood as I shrieked in my overwhelming pleasure. The sound of it set Michael off as well, and I watched him pull back and direct the stream of his hot spunk all over Blondie’s tits. He watched with relish as she used her fingers to scoop it up and put it all in her mouth.

  I couldn’t bear the intense sensation between my legs for a moment longer, so I hopped off of Donovan’s lap and dropped down between his knees to take him in my mouth. I sucked him off fast, taking him deeply into my throat, enjoying the scent of our mixed secretions. “I’m gonna come,” he moaned, and shot his load into my mouth. I drank it all down.

  When I lifted my head again, Michael was gone, and Blondie was trying to cover herself with the remains of her ruined dress. She came over to me then, “Do you have a safety pin?” She asked in a thick Long Island accent.

  “No,” I said, suppressing a grin: where would I keep one? I was completely naked.

  “Ok, doll,” she said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Hang on a sec,” I said, rising to my full height. “How do you know Michael?”

  “Know him? Eh, I don’t really,” she said. “He paid me to be here tonight.” She waggled her fingers, green nails and all, in a wave and breezed by. “Ciao, doll,” she said.

  I turned and peered down at Donovan who had a broad smile on his face. “That,” he said, “was exactly what I needed.” He tucked his penis back into his pants and rose to his feet as he zipped himself up. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you,” he said.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Reaching into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, he pulled out a wad of bills held together with a silver money clip. “How much do I owe you?”

  I blanched, and he must have seen all the blood drain from my face because his expression shifted to one of utter confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked Michael what your rates were, but frankly, I would’ve paid just about anything to have you to myself for a romp.”

  “E-excuse me…?” I stammered. I quickly dropped down to fetch my clothing, tugging on my panties and my dress with increasing haste.

  “Your… rates, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” I clasped the dress up around my neck once more and smoothed the fabric over my curves, grateful that I was wearing a mask that would hide at least some of how fiercely red I was beginning to blush.

  “I’m not a prostitute, Donovan,” I said pointedly, spitting out the word like it was acidic.

  “Oh, God,” He said, tucking the money away and holding his hands out to me. “Shit. Fiona, I am so sorry. With the guys the other night, I jus
t assumed—”

  “How dare you?” I hissed. I walked past him to head for the door, and Donovan followed close on my heels.

  “Please, hang on a second, Fiona,” he said, grabbing my arm. I whirled around on him, my eyes wild with my rage. “I said I’m sorry. This doesn’t have to mean our night is over.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Dane,” I said.

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  “Ha.”

  “Come on, Fiona,” he said. “It’s not like nice girls do gangbangs.”

  “And whores get their money up front.” I shook my arm free of his grasp and made a beeline for the door, my shame rising like bile in the pit of my stomach. Because he was right: nice girls didn’t do gangbangs. Nice girls didn’t fuck men in front of crowds. Nice girls didn’t blow the best friend of the man she loved. I plucked the mask away from my face even as a well of hot tears began to spill down my cheeks, leaving black mascara streaks in their wake.

  I stalked up the stairs to my rooms and fetched my purse and my old house keys. Never had I been made to feel so cheap. And all of this finery wasn’t worth this feeling. Not when I could so easily be put aside.

  I changed quickly out of my couture gown and tugged on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I scrawled a note of apology to Rousseau and left it on the vanity, then made a quick exit, hoping against hope that Michael would see me and stop me.

  But he didn’t, and an hour later I was back in my old apartment, which felt downright derelict after what I’d gotten used to. But at least I came by it honestly.

  Maybe, if I was very lucky, I could get my old job back at the restaurant and just forget all about Michael Cross and Donovan Dane and the Bacchanal Club. I dropped my purse and keys on the loveseat and bent over the back of it to open the window to let some air into the musty room.

  When I turned around again, there he was. My heart skipped a beat, and I gasped, startled by his sudden appearance in my cramped living space. Michael stood with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his tuxedo pants. He had since abandoned his bow tie and jacket and stood in front of me in a white dress shirt with red-ringed eyes. We stared at each other for a long lapse of silence, until he drew in a long breath, and spoke: “You didn’t even say goodbye.”