“Y-yes...” she struggled for a moment. “Yes sir.”
Struggling to keep her composure, she stepped out of the office and immediately rushed to Julie.
“I need you to keep a watch on my desk for five minutes, please.”
She said each word hurriedly, not knowing at what point her immense embarrassment was going to transform into shame and self-hatred.
“Of course, dear,” Julie smiled, apparently already understanding. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes!”
Of course it wasn’t. Sophia slipped into the bathroom, locking it behind her, and tore off her blouse. Almost she didn’t even bother to unbutton it, but then she would have to face Sand with a ripped piece of clothing—she didn’t even want to imagine the consequences in that case.
He had been so...so brutal. So cold. She didn’t deserve that. She had dressed nice. She didn’t just go around thinking how proud she was that she looked like trash—and she didn’t look like trash. She had on perfectly acceptable office attire.
Tears holding back nobly behind her eyes, she splashed water up on her neck and face, trying to wash off any traces of the perfume she had on.
With a pang of irritated sadness, she recalled just hours before when she had been disgusted that he gave her the once-over with his eyes. Now it seemed as though that wasn’t because she was attractive. It was because he found her to be trash.
She wasn’t sure which was worse in his eyes—being someone attractive who didn’t know how to work, or being someone attractive who dressed like trash (and who probably still didn’t know how to work according to his imperious standards).
God. No wonder he burned through assistants.
With several deep breaths, she reminded herself how she needed this job. Pay off all the debt. Affirm your place in this professional world. Validate your existence and your degree. You know, all those teeny tiny little things that determined your entire life.
Quitting wasn't an option, in other words.
It took her a few moments to make sure she really, really wasn’t going to cry any more than she had. Then she reapplied her make-up, put her blouse back on and stepped back outside.
She was already building, and fighting, the resolution to quit. She could see the gentle, sad understanding forming in Julie’s eyes—Julie, who probably had to be the one to find another employee.
“All better, dear?” Julie asked her when Sophia arrived back at her desk.
“Yes, thank you.”
Julie didn’t look as though she believed that.
“Wonderful. He’s out for his four-thirty walk around the park. He’ll be back in fifteen minutes, unless he gets held up at the crosswalk. Then, it’s sixteen minutes.”
“Thank you.”
“When he gets back, he’ll want to work out for about twenty minutes. Make sure to set out his mat.”
“Yes.” Sophia nodded, remembering bits of this routine from the packet. “Okay. Thank you.”
Julie got up to leave. Sophia put a hand out.
“Really, Julie. Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”
Smiling, Julie took her hand. “You’re a tough one, girl. I think you’ll be able to handle him. Thorns and all.”
As she walked off, Sophia wondered whether that was true or not.
She stepped back inside Sand's cold, spherical office. She wondered distantly how much it must have cost to construct such an elaborate structure. Of special note were the curved glass ceilings. How did they keep all the cold in? A marvel.
His workout mats were behind his enormous desk, rolled up. There were three of them. As she grabbed the first one, she noticed his fancy computer was left on.
She tried to suppress the urge to look at it.
After rolling out the first mat, she decided—well, I’m going to pass right by anyway. I may as well take a peek. What does a billionaire's desktop screen look like? Wasn't it natural to be a little curious?
So, curious, she took a look at his screen. There was nothing really incriminating up at that moment, just your basic desktop. A picture of some mountain stream was the background—lots of green and a dash of water running diagonally down under all the icons.
But on the bottom, in a minimized screen on the taskbar...
In a minimized screen, there was the name of a high-end online fetish dating website that she recognized. From chatting online, she had heard about it—any men needed to provide a tax return just to prove they were wealthy enough to put an ad up.
Unable to stop herself, Sophia opened it up. And it was more than just the website...it was an personal advertisement!
It was Sand's personal advertisement!
The photo featured had Sand’s muscular form in a tuxedo—no head shot, though. Everything the ad said was astounding. Intoxicating.
Me:
Male Dom.
Well dressed.
Articulate.
Wealthy.
Early Forties.
You:
Female Sub.
Must dress hot.
Must be attractive.
Must obey.
Must want breath play and domestication.
Must be open to multiple female partners.
Instantly, her pulse quickened. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing it. Tight, hot tingles of excitement ran up and down her entire body, including her tight, young pussy.
Across the sphere, she saw him coming back through the outer-office. His head a-swivel, checking up on employees. He tossed someone’s empty coffee cup in the trash, delivering what was surely a patronizing couple of lines.
Frantically, Sophia examined the screen up and down a number of times, memorizing the ad, his username on it, and the website url.
When he stepped back inside, Sophia was grabbing the last exercise mats, laying them out. She wondered just slightly if he was examining the perky, round curves of her ass as she bent over.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I wanted your exercise equipment to be ready when you arrived.”
“And yet it isn’t. So now your work is not on-time, as well as being sub-par.”
She tried not to let the comment get to her.
“You’re right. I misjudged when you would be back. I thought I had time, when I first came in, to do a small amount of cleaning.”
“Cleaning?” His voice was approaching mockery again. “Are you the maid, now?”
“Of course not. But, part of the packet mentioned that you required cleanliness in every area. I assumed that, since you had fired the person hired before me, your office would be lacking in the level of cleanliness you required. I wanted to rectify that.”
He smiled, beginning to undress right there in front of her like there was nothing to it.
“And what have you found so far?”
She stuttered a bit when she saw his bare chest. At first she thought he didn’t have much chest hair—but then she realized it was just that his hair was so blond. Over the chiseled, rocky pieces of his pecs, there was a heavy, sexy swath of blond hair, easily visible in the light as he turned and changed.
She gathered herself. “The ceiling fan needs dusting—the front one, not the one over your desk. There’s grime building up underneath the window sill in the back. Your blinds squeak unnecessarily, and there’s a build-up of oil in the mechanism that’s dripped down in the strings.”
It was impossible to tell whether he was impressed. Certainly, she was impressed with her own ability to notice such details after a cursory examination around the room.
“Very well. Can you take care of those?”
“I can,” she stretched out the word, “unless you’d prefer to just let me make the professionals aware of it.”
“Yes,” he nodded quickly. “that.”
He took his pants down all the way—all the way!—exposing his naked ass to her for a moment as he slipped on his gym shorts. It was firm and chiseled, like the rest of him.
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Yum, thought Sophia.
“You choose the perfect tool for the job,” he said. “Your job is to find problems. We can hire someone else to correct them.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As she walked out of the office, she couldn’t decide—was it her imagination, or did she linger on the “sir” just now, stretching out the word just slightly, accentuating it?
Chapter 6
Gerald Sand grew up in a wealthy family, born to a pair of doctors. His mother was a gynecologist, and his father, an oncologist, and together they would have provided for him for as long as he needed.
He loved his mother and father, as any child does. They were his entire world. Even when they denied him something he wanted or asked for, which was not very often, they still always had his respect. Every day, they helped people—and once he was old enough, at about the age of eight or nine, he found it easy to say he was proud of them.
Shortly after he turned ten, his father wanted to move across the country to California and open up a new practice with his mother, under one roof, with a coalition of other doctors.
School started in early September, and the two of them wouldn't be done with their patient list until late October, so his parents sent Gerald ahead of them. His father's brother, Hamilton, lived in California already, making the transition that much easier. Gerald would stay with Hamilton until his parents arrived.
“Come with me,” Gerald told them, very serious, when they informed him that he was to go ahead. “I don't want you to be gone for so long.”
But they didn't listen, of course. He was a boy.
The new school was fine. The children were nice enough, and he learned to like it in California and made friends with his Uncle Hamilton, who prior to the move he had barely met. Gerald went out of his way to write down lists of places to take his mother—the botanical garden, the butterfly exhibit at the museum—and his father—the amusement park with the giant roller coaster, the new mall with the enormous robot in front.
On their flight to come meet him, at last, after nearly two months of not seeing them, they died in a sudden plane crash.
Gerald was, of course, completely devastated. All the spark of youth fled out of him in one fell swoop, returning only marginally and sporadically over the next several years.
There are any number of patterns that people can recognize in their lives. With seven billion people in the world and an infinite number of connections and reactions that can be made with their surroundings, there exist a plethora of possibilities of what a person might interpret. Gerald could have recognized largely that he was lucky to have the wealth of his parents to support him—as well as a loving uncle to take him in who happened to be wealthy as well.
And to some extend, Gerald did recognize this, over time.
But what tattooed to his mind then was that he was not in control of what happened to the ones he loved. He had told his parents not to take the plane, and they did anyway, thinking they knew better than him.
So this was, for Sand, the beginning of one pattern he saw, one of the most severe in his life. The world itself was against him, and unless he wrested control from its constantly turning grasp, all that he earned, loved, and had would be at risk. For someone else, perhaps, taking so much control would be an impossibility.
For him, though, it was a mission.
Chapter 7
That night, when Sophia made it back home to her small apartment, the ad ran through her head again and again:
Must dress hot.
Must be attractive.
Must obey.
Must want breath play and domestication.
The second she let her bags down on the linoleum floor, she had to slip her hand down her pants and press her front two fingers hard against her pussy. She pressed back against the door, the thump cascading through the house.
Must dress hot.
Mmmph. Oh god. Why did it turn her on so much that he had such exclusive standards?
Was it because she knew that she could dress hot?
Was it because—for all of his arrogance and sneering confidence and negativity—he had a clear selection of standards for a woman to be good enough for him? The thought of conforming to that, to being inside of those standards, to being the submissive babe who was good enough to serve such a demanding, ornery dominant...
Must be attractive.
Oh yes.
Sliding up the walls of her apartment with her fingers staying busy, she had fallen into the couch now, her pants pushed down around her knees with her panties not far behind. The couch would stain, maybe, but she didn’t care. The ad was so very hot to think about.
She could wear tiny little skirts around the office, hot fishnets beneath them. She could show off her hot ass to him, her big tits, her sexy face made up purely for his satisfaction.
When he thought of her as an object when she wanted to be a professional, that was demeaning, of course.
But if he thought of her as an object when she was deliberately trying to be his object...
Her fingers sank deeper into her pussy, fucking her hot velvety folds harder and harder.
“His object,” she moaned. “His object.”
To have all her hopes, all her dreams, all her needs so close, to be working for him. Fuck, she already was subservient to him!
“Oh god!” she moaned with the thought, her pussy convulsing. “Oh fuck, yes! Yes! Such a sub for him! So fucking owned!”
Must want domestication.
Oh god. He’d make her his servant.
Must want breath play.
Fuck. Fuck fuck! Her fingers slid across her clit, thinking about his hands on her throat, closing in, choking her. Owning her ability to breath!
Must obey.
“Must obey,” she moaned. “Must obey!”
Her orgasm rocked through her body, her feet digging in hard to the soft cushions of the couch. It surprised her. Normally, the thought of being choked rather scared her—it was one step that she never found herself wanting to take.
But surprisingly, the thought of him doing it, having that sort of control...it just pushed her over the edge.
For several seconds after cumming, unbidden, her thoughts drifted to Todd. He was probably sleeping in some hostel somewhere, or getting drunk with some Germans or something. He had sent her no emails, no phones. That was part of his plan—no contact for the whole three months.
Screw him, she thought suddenly. Leaving her alone like that—not giving her a yes or a no, but a nebulous miasma of doubt to deal with for a quarter of a year of her life! How did he expect her not to be miserable?
He didn't care. He didn't care about what she wanted before—he had mocked what she wanted—and he didn't care now.
For the entire bus ride home, Sophia had thought that cumming like that would sate her desire. But now, considering Sand and comparing his open acceptance of the dom/sub lifestyle...it only made her turned on again. Thinking about sending him a message only made her desire grow the more.
The site he had posted on was exclusive—for men doms, anyway, with income verification and so forth. She signed up for it easily, however—all she had to turn in, as a woman, was “proof of attractiveness,” which meant giving a photo of herself, dressed in a random outfit that their generator asked for. She supposed they got a lot of fakes, once upon a time.
So she found herself redoing her make-up for the day, putting on what they asked for—a white-striped shirt with something orange in her hands. She just picked an orange. Using her phone, it was simple enough to take the photo and then upload it and wait.
She expected to have to wait a day or two—but she got a response verifying her acceptance within thirty minutes as she idly stroked her hot cunt, licking her lips at Sand's profile, reading through the packet of his rules (his orders, she now considered them), and losing herself in a dozen little fantasies.
Quickly, she set about to writing a profile . She used the same
sign-in as she did in the chatrooms, subvixen, and the same profile as well. For her profile picture, she put up a photo with her wearing nylons and her highest pair of heels, showing off the tight, luscious curve of her legs beneath the tight cloth of one of her clubbing dresses.
She got up, typing her own message in response to his profile:
ExecStud,
I love the profile. I have to tell you, I’m all you want and more.
I read things like what you have there, and I can’t help but want to obey and give you everything you need.
I know you must get hundreds and hundreds of requests all the time from girls on this site, their pussies dripping with the need for your incredible cock.
How can I prove to you that I’m the real deal?
- subvixen
And then for the rest of the night she studied his orders in the packet and fingered her hot pussy until she fell asleep, dreaming up all the ways that he would command her to prove her worth.
Chapter 8
Waking up the next morning—bright and early at 5 AM on Friday—she expected to be tired. She expected, really, to have her original disdain of the job returned, and that all the interest that had built up the night before would have evaporated like so much smoke.
But no. She woke up, in fact, gripping her pillow tight, her fingers on top of her luscious mound, her consciousness switching on in fact to her moaning out, “Oh Masterr...oh Master...” again and again.
So, yes—she was going to follow through with the plan. Make him want her—online and at work—and then cash in on the build-up of his desire.
It felt so empowering to have a plan.
To that end, she hopped into the shower and quickly prepared herself—within an hour, the hot young twenty-two year-old was dressed as sexy as she dared.
She wore a tight white blouse, which she felt was sort of a staple in hot office fantasies. If at any time that felt too daring, she had a neutral (if also rather tight) black sweater to pull over her ample breasts. Smoky dark stockings lined her long legs, the lovely shape of which were advertised doubly by her sharp tight gray skirt, the hem ending right above her knee. Her high-heeled shoes provided a modest lift—three inches—enough to show off without overtly advertising.
In Service To The Billionaire Page 4
