Following the instinct (after all, they had guided her fairly well with him so far), she texted him back:
“Sudden invite?” You don’t even receive invites unless they go through me six weeks in advance.
His response only took a minute:
What can I say? I felt suddenly compelled to show you off. Aren’t you up to it, slave?
She grinned wickedly.
Yes, Master.
And then the quick response:
Good girl.
Her pussy moistening, Sophia put the car in gear to to make ready at his apartment.
* * * * *
Three hours later, he had landed and arrived at the condo.
“Are you ready?” he called out. “There's going to be a red carpet, photos and all of that, so make sure you're arranged.”
A red carpet? God. That was anxiety-spurring. Thank god she had gone out of her way to look perfect for him, just because he told her to already.
Holding her breath, she stepped out from the bathroom where she had been touching up her make-up, hoping she was dressed nice like he wanted.
Her gown was sparkling and violet, hugging her sexy curves all the way down her body. A corseted top framed her hourglass figure, sheer sides showing off her sexy bronze skin. Her shoulders stayed bare but for a loose dark mink fur shawl connected with a jeweled clasp over her hot cleavage. Slits on the gown ran up on either side up to the halfway point of her thighs, showing off just enough leg to let everyone know that, yes indeed, her gams were as gorgeous as the rest of her.
Her lusciously long dark hair was arranged in an elaborate double French braid that cascaded down one naked shoulder.
And, of course, she wore the diamond necklace he gave her—as she thought he would have wanted.
“You,” he said, shaking his head in admiration, “are a dream.”
He gave her a quick kiss and rushed to put on a tuxedo. He was ready within ten minutes—which Sophia would never get used to.
Within such a short time, he looked as sexy as a man possibly could, ever, without being completely naked. She had to work all afternoon to be as attractive as him.
But, as he hooked her on his arm, she decided she didn't care. It was nice, in a way, to work so much just to look nice because he told her to. It was so hot, still, following orders for him.
Downstairs, an entire security team surrounded his town car. Eight men, each of them large and carrying large guns.
“This is Dave,” said Sand, pointing out the biggest and burliest of the group. He was, in fact, the biggest and burliest man Sophia had ever seen.
Dave had a thick, dark handlebar mustache and burn scars down his right shoulder and hand. But when he smiled at her, it was full of warmth, not malice.
“Lovely to meet you, ma'am. We'll keep you safe.”
Sand ushered her into the back of the town car, and they were alone.
“Safe?” she asked. “Was that ever in question?”
Sand shrugged. “You don't get to be where I am without people at least wondering what it would be like if you were dead.” He pointed in front and behind of the town car, where the security team was loading up into two big, black SUVs. “They help people wonder less during my time in public.”
She shook her head. “Why haven't you been using them already?”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “They're always around. But I didn't want them to spook you. I told them to hang back a bit.”
“But they don't know...about you and me and...”
“How you're my perfect fuckslave?”
She blushed, pushing hard against him. But she nodded.
“No,” he said. “they don't know that.”
For the rest of the ride, she simply snuggled hard against him, enjoying his eyes on her. She was his decoration...and she enjoyed this bit of status with him.
Finally, they arrived. Outside, there was a bit of a red carpet, as he had warned her. Men and women lined the sides of the velvet ropes with cameras in their hands. Maybe twenty yards to make it through the door. He assured her that he didn't enjoy these sorts of photo ops, and would be walking as quickly as possible past it all.
“Two things,” he said, grabbing her hand before they exited the town car.
“Yes?”
“These people inside are...carnivorous. Be careful with them.”
It was an odd warning. She wasn't sure what he meant. But she could listen and obey.
“Yes, Sir. And the other thing?”
“You can’t be my personal assistant inside.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Too many questions. Too much attention. Make something up.”
“Make what up?”
“You’re a clever girl,” he said, opening the door. “You’ll figure something out.”
For a brief moment, she was mad at him.
She understood that, yes, probably, he felt she was more than capable of coming up with something. And that flattered her, that he thought so much of her intellect and improvisational ability. But at the same time...the car ride was twenty minutes long, for Pete’s sake! Give a girl some breathing room!
Unless...
Unless, it was punishment?
For whatever reason, she felt like he could sense that she was keeping something from him. Of course, he didn't know about Todd, but it wasn’t beyond him to guess that there was some kind of tumultuous activity in her love life.
So, as they stepped out onto the red carpet, the camera shutters sounding off like ten thousand mechanical birds, her mind raced.
As best she could, she waylaid the suspicion of his suspicions. She couldn't control such things anyway.
She tried instead to think of all the possible ways she could know Sand. Or rather, that a person could know Sand.
The charity for the night was some very specific kind of gland cancer that Sophia hadn't heard of. Several thousand people were affected—though of course none of them were invited. This was a ball for the rich and the few that the rich decided to bring along.
Inside the convention hall where the ball was held, all the men wore tuxedos, all the women had on beautiful evening gowns and furs. Sophia noted with satisfaction that at the very least, she looked as though she fit in.
The inside of the center was incredibly opulent. Enormous, ornate chandeliers hung down from the ceiling every dozen feet or so. Shrimp and caviar were served on small trays held by a veritable army of waiters. The tables had silk tablecloths, though no one sat at them. Everyone was just standing and drinking champagne.
“Why isn't anyone sitting down?” she asked Sand.
He shrugged. “No one really eats at these things. The tables are for when the old guard gets too drunk and want to start swapping stories.”
“The old guard?”
His hand gripped and re-gripped on her hip. “Old billionaires. Inheritors of billions, making billions more.”
That was the kind of crowd she was in now. It seemed beyond her, somehow.
She knew nothing about billionaires or how they lived, really. All she knew was Sand. He didn't seem to have any opinions on her class, but everyone that looked at her seemed to carry with their gaze a heavy dose of condescension. It confused Sophia...and it frightened her when she thought of her prospects with Sand.
“Come on,” he said, guiding her over to a group of women. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
“This is Bill and Anna Sanders,” he said, showing her to a young handsome man and his lovely wife. “They're the ones taking all my money to run for office next year.”
“You say 'taking,'” said Bill with a grin. “I say 'stealing wholeheartedly.'”
Everyone laughed.
“Who is this lovely date you have tonight, Gerald?” Anna asked.
Her voice was lilted and heavy, the kind that Sophia had only heard before in black-and-white movies about private detectives.
Sophia held out a hand. “Sharon Page,” she sai
d. It was a simple name, something she could remember.
“That's just lovely, dear,” said Anna.
And then Gerald and Bill were talking, with she and Anna drifting to the background, expected only to smile attentively. Sophia had crafted an entire backstory for Sharon Page—she was the daughter of expatriates from Slovenia who managed to escape the Iron Curtain and start a bottling business in Latin America...but for nothing.
These people didn't care at all who she was. She was just someone next to Sand.
In a way, she supposed she enjoyed that—being Sand's property. But at the same time, she was still existing, she still mattered enough to just hold a decent conversation, right?
After two more minutes, Sand led her through the crowd with her dangling on his arm. She tried to let herself have fun, drinking away at a flute of champagne that had been brought around on a tray by a waiter. He introduced her to an enterprising old software magnate and his congenial old wife, Greta.
“And who's this?” asked Greta.
What the hell, she figured, taking a long drought of champagne. These people didn't care.
“Maria Marmalada,” said Sophia.
“Marmalada? That's a lovely name.”
“Yes,” said Sophia. “You've heard of marmalade?”
“Of course!”
“Well, my family makes it.”
Sand's sudden snort of laughter turned into an impromptu coughing session while he regained his composure.
The rest of the night went something like that. Maria Marmalada lasted for about three more encounters and another glass of wine and a half. Sophia found herself caring less and less about what everyone there thought—you were only someone to them if you had something they could take.
She became:
“Yolanda Cruise. My mother owns three cruise lines.”
“Rebecca Statesman. My uncle is a senator and a judge.”
“Veronica Fork. My father invented the fork.”
With each new name, Sand could not stop chuckling. Most people were perfectly clueless as to her lies or—more likely—not actually interested in anything she had to say. Nothing that Sophia said or did would likely ever raise her status in their eyes.
After an hour or so of this, she extricated herself from the line of sycophants rushing to meet Sand, and slipped off to the bar at the edge of the floor. It was nearly abandoned. Sitting there alone was a petite, dark-haired woman with heavy glasses. She was staring at her scotch as if she wanted to dive into it.
“So who're you?” the woman asked, clearly a bit drunk. “Billionaire Gerald Sand doesn't go around with just anybody.”
“My name's Candy Stripes,” said Sophia wryly. “Gerald just picked me up from the club. He's gonna take me back there later, make it rain, do some blow with me, all that jazz.”
The woman looked Sophia up and down and gave her a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, jeez. Sorry.”
Leaning up against the bar next to her, Sophia gave her an apologetic look. “No, I'm sorry. It's just...this whole thing is...stressful.”
She nodded. “It is. I'm Harriet Hussman.”
“The editorialist?”
Downing her drink, she hiccuped a bit and laughed. “The one and only. “
“I've read your stuff! Your article on the banking system a few months ago was...wow! I loved it!”
“Well,” said Harriet. “You were alone, I'm afraid. They've moved me to gossip. I've no idea why. I'm terrible at gossip. I make most of it up.”
Suddenly, Sophia became afraid. It must have shown on her face.
“Oh, don't worry about me, sweetie. Billionaires with beautiful ladies on their arms isn't hot news for me, really. Now, if you were a hot guy...”
A small wave of relief washed over Sophia. “That's good to hear. At least there's one place where it's okay not to be of note.”
Harriet stood up a bit, surprised. “Oh, you figured it out already?”
“What do you mean?”
“You're not part of this crowd. Can't you see?” She clearly thought Sophia took offense. “I don't mean anything by that, of course. But look around you—this is all old-hat to them. They don't care about any of this. Or about people, really. It's all a game to them, ways to create more wealth and own more people. That's the only thing that matters to a millionaire, billionaire, any of them. Controlling people. And once they're done controlling you and don't have to try to do it, boop! They're gone. I'm just glad the revolution's coming.”
Harriet's words struck right at the core of Sophia, the fear generated by this entire ordeal. That Sand, like the rest of them, would be done with her soon.
As if bidden by her thoughts, Sand approached then.
“Hello, Harriet,” he said, reserved.
“Mr. Gerald!” Harriet exclaimed drunkenly. “What a surprise. Who knew that you would actually be here while your date was too? Are you sure you don't have another date squirreled away in a corner somewhere?”
Suddenly, Sophia realized there was a history between them. It was written on both of their faces. Sand looked pained.
“Jealousy looks bad on you, Harriet.” He shook his head, taking Sophia's arm. “I wouldn't have expected you to react so poorly. I hope you feel better soon.”
Sand's hand slip up the back of Sophia's dress, pressing hard against her pussy behind the bar.
“Time to go,” he whispered in her ear.
* * * * *
“You look so fucking beautiful in that dress,” Sand whispered in her ear as they rode up the elevator.
“Thank you, Master.”
Sophia did her best to ignore all the trepidation that the night formed.
He kissed her sweetly on the lips, the neck. When she didn't moan or coo like usual, he pulled back
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“No, there is something. I feel like there has been for a while. What is it?”
Sophia's jaw worked, trying to formulate the thought. “It's nothing. It's just that was...odd. Being there so suddenly. And having to deal with all those people who I didn't know, and who clearly gave no shits about me, and...”
He laughed suddenly.
She blushed angrily. “What?”
“You think they didn't care about you? Sophia, every woman in there was drooling with jealousy over the way you look. And, not to be immodest, but who you were with.”
“Oh.”
“If they dismissed you? It's because making you small makes you less threatening to them. And they should feel threatened, because you left all of them in the dust.”
He kissed her again, and this time she kissed him back. The hottest girl at the ball. She liked that. His hot girl at the ball, his hot trophy to show off, better than all the other trophies.
She couldn't stop loving the thought of that, no matter what. Her lips crushed against his, her need quickly picking back up.
Soon, they made it to his enormous California king-sized bed—her expensive gown torn apart from Sand's desire.
“I want you so bad,” he groaned, pushing on top of her, his hardness rubbing up her naked thighs. “I need you. I need my slave.”
Her heart melted, all thoughts from the ball totally gone. “Yes,” she moaned. “I need you too!”
His thick, perfect length entered inside of her, and he pulled her body tight to his. His strong muscles crushed her frame, trapping her and guiding back and forth on his cock as he pistoned into her cunt.
And then, suddenly, his hands wrapped around her throat. Instantly, she thought of her suspicions earlier. Was this some payback? Was he teaching her a lesson for keeping something from him?
“H-hey,” she tried to breath out. “Th-that’s...that’s...”
But his face was full of the same furious passion as ever, lost in the throes of his lust even as he gripped her throat harder. It became hard to breath—and in fact harder and harder by the second.
With some dread, she
remembered his online profile—the insisting that she loved breath play. She thought she was open to it, but this was...this was not play. This was choking the fuck out of her.
And even as terrifying as it was to feel his strong grip close, it made her entire body vibrate with bliss.
She wanted to call out, tell him to stop or slow down, but he wasn't listening. He stared at her with such intensity that she was truly afraid if she said anything, he would choke even harder.
Fuck, but if she was so scared then why was she so fucking wet?
“M-Master...” she called out weakly, barely able to form a whisper. “Master...”
The breath continued to leave her, his thick, veiny shaft filling her up like never before. She thought again of Harriet's warning—as soon as he had controlled her enough, he would just get rid of her.
For several seconds, genuinely had no idea if he was going to kill her or not. And with as good as it felt, as hot as he continued to drill into her, she had no idea if she cared or not. It was twisted, hellish kind of heaven from one blissful stroke of his dick to the next.
“I'm gonna cum, slave,” he moaned, bringing up his other hand now, gripping her throat so tight. “Gonna cum for my slave.”
His face came right next to hers, breath pushing hard into her face. She could only moan, her body a torrent of slick hot need and desperate fear.
Finally, mercifully, he exploded inside of her and his grip relinquished off her throat. It felt so good—like returning from the dead. She gasped hard for breath, coughing and shaking her head.
She had to get out of there.
Quickly, she slipped out from under him, pacing around the room, holding her naked breasts tight.
“Come back to bed,” he said, his voice sluggish. “That was hot. I want to hold you. You were perfect.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, putting her things together—the outfit from earlier that day. “I’m sorry. I just...I just...that was really...I just...”
She was shaking, unable to form even one coherent sentence.
He got up on the bed, holding out a hand.
“Slave, come here,” he said.
It took all of her willpower not to obey him immediately. She bit her lip, looking at his outstretched hand, wanting to trust him so much.
In Service To The Billionaire Page 12
