In Service To The Billionaire
by Heather Chase
Published by Heather Chase, 2013.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
IN SERVICE TO THE BILLIONAIRE
First edition. October 24, 2013.
Copyright © 2013 Heather Chase.
Written by Heather Chase.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
Alone, bored, and desperate for someone to dominate her, Sophia had turned to the internet.
It was late—just past midnight on a Wednesday—and she had two glasses of wine in her, enough for her to have her legs spread apart as she sat in her couch with her laptop propped on top of her considerable bust. Staying up so late and drinking may not have been the best idea, with her starting her first day at a new job tomorrow, but she would let “Future Sophia” deal with that.
“Future Sophia” had to deal with all sorts of unsavory tasks—waking up in the morning after not enough sleep, cleaning up dishes left in the sink, sorting that weird pile of junk in the corner underneath the kitchen table, and so on.
But “Now Sophia” was on a chat room, and not for the first time. Her handle, subvixen, had netted her quite a number of “hey”s and “hi”s so far, which she promptly and thoroughly ignored for the most part. She thought she was a rather good typist, and well-skilled in delivering thought-out responses to those who spoke to her, and had little interest in those who could not at least pretend to reciprocate her level of effort.
Sophia had, for example, put a good amount of time into her profile—not too long, as she knew basically what she wanted to say—but it was clear enough to say exactly what she wanted and how she wanted to be treated:
Sexy sub lady tired of waiting for a man. Make me your servant. Make me forget all about the others. Train me to be yours.
As she took another generous sip from her rather-generously sized wine glass, another private message flitted up on her screen.
Mistermaster4U: hey babe. love the profile.
Idly, she let her fingers slip around her panties. She clicked over to his profile:
Here to dominate.
Short and sweet. That could be an indication of any kind of quality—good or bad. In the past, she had talked with men who seemed intensely fascinating, who then sputtered out and never came online again. Or there were others who had seemed interesting at first, and then her connection would crap out, or theirs would, ending the line of communication forever.
Why not reply. She was horny.
subvixen: Thank you. Every word is true.
Immediately, a response:
Mistermaster4U: what do u look like?
Sophia made a face. For whatever reason, she was in a mood to forgive the egregious misspelling. Maybe he was just netspeaking for now. Maybe if they got into the thick of things—if there was some honest-to-god pussy-drenching roleplaying going on, then he would pick up the slack. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt for a little while longer.
subvixen: I’m about 5’8”, with long black hair that goes just past my shoulders, framing my sexy face. My eyes are green, my cheekbones pronounced and leading right into a pair of sexy, ready-made-for-kissing lips. I’ve got long legs, big tits, and I work out six days a week (yoga and cardio), so I stay toned. My skin is olive-colored—I’ve got a mixture of Brazilian and Swedish heritage, so my bone structure is just crazy hot.
Mistermaster4U: Nice. And clothes?
subvixen: Not much right now. Tiny lace black panties. A white tank top.
That was all true, mostly. Her panties weren’t lace, and she was really 5’6”, not 5’8”. She didn’t know if she herself would classify her tits as “big,” either. They certainly weren’t small—but a pair of 36Cs never felt “big” to her. Still, men liked big tits, so...she said it. It was the internet—everyone lied at least a little.
Mistermaster4U: so hot
Mistermaster4U: kneel 4 me slut
Sophia sighed. Right. Whatever. She abruptly signed out of the chat and put her laptop down on the ground, the thump of the impact reverberating through the apartment.
She lived in the top floor of a duplex, and the bottom floor had been vacant for more than three months now. It was a fairly nice apartment for the money she was able to spend—it had a small but serviceable kitchen, a large living space that including a dining area, and one bed and bath. She lived alone, though, in the entire building, and so she wasn't worried about making too much noise.
Her fingers sank deep into her panties, thumb slipping over her clit.
It seemed that the only way she was going to be dominated the way she wanted was in her fantasies. Leaning back further into the couch, she considered them.
She wanted a man to grip her by the shoulders and bring her to her knees.
“You silly little slut,” he’d say. “What were you doing, thinking you were in charge of yourself?”
Her voice, a soft whisper. “I don’t know, Sir.”
The man in her fantasies was tall and imposing. Muscled. Rough.
“I’m in charge of you.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Say it. Tell me.”
“You’re in charge of me, Sir.” She would coo it—each and every word coated in her love and admiration.
“I’m your Master.”
He'd tug her hair a little with that, maybe slap her face with his cock.
“You’re my Master!”
Sophia’s fingers rotated faster and faster across her clit. “Master,” she breathed, still imagining the scene. “Masterr...”
His cock circling around her mouth like water to a drain. “You’re gonna suck me off now, like a good slave.”
“Yes, Sir.”
And he’d shove his cock—all his clothes somehow magically already off—shove his cock down her throat. There would be so much of it. He’d be massive, so massive she didn’t even know how she took it all. His hands grabbing her long, thick mass of hair—every strand grown out just for this purpose, just for him to tug it and use it as he pleased—and then roughly, forcefully fucking her face.
“I fucking own you,” he would grunt, shoving hard into her face. “Look at me. Look at my eyes. I fucking own you!”
Gasping, panting, breathing out a chorus of “Yes, Masters” over and over, Sophia came. Her slender body buckled in her couch, her moans echoing off the walls.
As the bliss slipped away, all she could think of was how empty it felt, just masturbating out her needs like that. She was so lonely lately. Nothing filled the void.
It had been this way ever since Todd left.
She had been so very ready to marry Todd. Their marriage was, in fact, due to happen a little less than a month from now, originally. But then, a month and a half ago, his feet got cold—Antarctic, really.
“I just need some time to think this all through,” he said. “I feel like...I feel like you've been pushing for this marriage to
happen so hard that I haven't had time to figure out what I want for myself.”
And Sophia, stunned, could barely form a response other than, “Oh. Well, please do what makes you feel best.”
And what made him feel best, apparently, was to take off to Europe for three months and do some traveling.
Alone. Without her.
With hindsight, of course, she could clearly see that he was the one who had proposed to her when she wasn't sure about the relationship to begin with. That she had been more than willing to do anything for him before this incredible breach of her trust.
And the very worst part was that she knew that even when her “fiancé” came back home—if that was even the correct term for someone who just took off to Europe for a quarter of a year to think his entire life over without her—even if he held her in his arms again and was by her side every night, he wouldn’t ever want to take part in dominating her like she needed so fucking bad.
Chapter 2
The following morning, Thursday morning, Sophia woke up groggily at five-thirty, stumbling out of bed and not really waking up until the warm water of her shower hit her face.
Today, she started her new job as a personal assistant at the enormously affluent Sand Enterprises.
Sand Enterprises was a billion-dollar company, responsible for countless jobs across the nation and the globe, with its headquarters right there in Sophia's city. She had heard rumors that Gerald Sand himself worked in the office—though of course she knew that was silliness. Billionaires spent their time playing golf in super-secret zero-gravity space stations or something, not running an office.
Sophia had no idea who she would be a personal assistant for—she had heard only that it was someone “high up on the food chain.”
She believed that much—the salary was ostentatiously high for a position that, to her, didn't entail that much expertise. From what she understood, she would mostly be answering phones and running messages, that sort of thing. With bonuses and benefits factored in, she would be earning close to six figures. That kind of money, for Sophia, was utterly life-changing.
She had over thirty thousand in student loans that would be erased—if her casual calculations were correct—well within the space of a year so long as she budgeted everything well.
That debt had been hanging over her head for a long time—since before she graduated college. To know that it was within her reach to eliminate the debt entirely was completely transformative.
Sophia had been surprised to land the job—to land any job at all, really. She had followed her heart in college, and gotten her liberal arts degree in Philosophy and English. Even without regretting a single credit hour from studying Kant and Rousseau, or Chaucer and Wolfe, she still had enough presence of mind to realize how much she had limited herself coming out of her small-town college.
Even all the networking she had done was only with professors around the college—and the only openings they could help her with were to take even more coursework to get a graduate degree.
Maybe a graduate degree was in the cards, maybe not. For now, Sophia felt as aimless as she had the day that her entrance counselor at Carter State College asked her what she wanted to do with her life.
Frowning, and looking down at her twiddling thumbs, Sophia had said, “I don't know. Something that fascinates me.”
“Well, dear,” said the kindly young counselor, blond hair in a bun. “What sort of things fascinate you?”
That question had troubled Sophia for as long as she could remember. She couldn't put a pin on what fascinated her—some things just did and others just didn't. She was in love with the way Spanish sounded, and learned all she could of the language for two solid years...and then just as suddenly dropped everything and sold every book she had on the subject.
One year, when she was twenty, she had decided she would get into wood carving—and bought a great carving knife, several awls and a mallet, and only ever carved (a very poor version of) a cardinal.
The only thing that had ever stayed constant with Sophia was her kinky sexuality—and she was terrified that the only reason that had stayed constant was because she had never been able to encounter it consistently in real life. This fear of disappointment shaded every new fascination she held—that just as soon as she would enjoy something, all the joy would be sucked out of it, like the air from a balloon.
This new job she had gotten through her a friend of her father's, who had heard about it through his lawyer, who knew of it through his accountant...and so on. In any case, the opening was only available for a day.
Sophia was lucky enough to already have a cover letter and resume put together (at the insistence of virtually all of her college professors who she had petitioned for advice on getting a job before this), and was able to get her materials in under the deadline.
The interview process had been a nightmare—three rounds of interviews from men in suits who had clearly decided that for the rest of their lives they were better than her, as they wouldn't be caught dead interviewing for such a lowly position.
But apparently, she had been able to hold back her resentment of their false-superiority, and impressed each one. No more than three hours after the interviews had ended Tuesday, she received the call saying she got the job, and would start Thursday.
For her first day, she decided to dress professionally, wearing a tight dark sweater over a white blouse, the collars gliding against her neck, with a conservative pair of dark pants. Brief, black heels were on her feet.
It was, she hoped, a good outfit for a young professional like herself—just twenty-two and fresh out of college—and a good outfit for someone who didn’t want to be a personal assistant for the rest of her life.
“I’m already good at this, so promote me to do something better.” This was the message she hoped to send.
Her car was in the shop, and had been for two weeks now. They kept finding new pieces to fix—or, as she suspected, kept inventing new problems to solve.
So she took the bus.
It was deep into fall outside, the weather still deciding whether it wanted to be sunny and cool or cloudy and chilly.
She noticed that her form, even as professionally dressed as she was, drew a lot of long looks from the men on the bus. Sophia was mostly aware of the effect she seemed to have on men, and did her best to try and downplay it.
Men always thought she had it so easy, being a woman and being attractive, but it wasn’t like that at all. Her fiancé (or was it ex-fiancé? God, if she only knew) certainly gave her shit about it often enough. Mostly, he seemed to think that her ability to occasionally get free drinks meant a free ride through life. That was hardly the case.
Men took her less seriously because she was so eminently fuckable and all they thought of when she was around were her tanned legs, or her tits, or the dark coiled mass of her hair. Women thought either she was a ditz, or had slept her way up, or was expecting to receive special favors because she was attractive.
At least, that’s how it had been at college. It took four long years to dispel that myth from her colleagues and her professors through her dogged determination to get the best grades she could, and now all that progress might as well have been sucked into a black hole.
This all wasn't to say that she thought it was any better for any other type of woman, really. A less attractive woman would have to fight past most men’s barriers of thinking less attractive ladies were worth less of their attention. A plain woman would be thought of as boring and not worth paying attention to. A woman's way was, too often, a bit of a rocky ride no matter what.
Of course, being desirable had its advantages. There was no disputing that, especially not in the business world where everything was about presentation.
The entire divide between “attractive” and “not” had never made sense to Sophia, very much. What attracted her to someone was typically not physical at all, but mental. A state of mind that said, “Yes. I own thi
s situation. I own you.”
She let herself daydream about someone with such a state of mind as the bus went on its way. She imagined a man having it—though she certainly had her bisexual proclivities—a strong man, tall and handsome, perhaps, who commanded entire stadiums with his presence.
Her sweetheart Todd was such a man, in many ways. He was commanding and strong, and always knew what he wanted to do next. It was rapturous at times to be caught up in the waves of decisions he laid out—decisions that came as easily to him as breathing.
Everything about making decisions made Sophia sick, most of the time.
But, for whatever reason, Todd wasn't the same way in the bedroom. When she had brought up, hesitantly and full of doubt, her needs in the bedroom, he had been...cruel afterward.
Once, when his friends were over at their tiny apartment, she had offered to go and grab everyone some sandwiches.
“Be careful you don't give her too many orders, guys,” he had said, after one too many beers. “She might fall in love with you.”
Of course, he apologized later. He was just drunk, he said. But still...it nagged at Sophia. That was hardly the only snide comment she had received.
But still, Todd was generally a sweetheart—always he was bringing her small cards and presents for little anniversaries they had. And, he was just desperately cute—with his scraggly, curly brown hair and soft hazel eyes, and she loved him dearly. Every day he was gone chipped away at her heart—after forty-five days of no communication, it would still be another month and a half to go before he would let her know if he had made up his mind about their marriage.
The marriage he had proposed to her for, a small part of her mind brought up bitterly.
She took a deep breath, clearing her head. The bus stopped at Sixth and Post, where she stepped off. Her office was inside the tallest building in the city, the Johnson Chrome Building, on the top floor.
She did not know much about the business of Sand Enterprises. It had something to do with oil and investments and software. It was sort of a combination of many things, with its tendrils in several lucrative pots all at once.
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