Charming: A Cinderella Billionaire Story

by Sophie Brooks

  Charming

  A Cinderella Billionaire Story

  Sophie Brooks

  Contents

  1. Autumn

  2. Autumn

  3. Ford

  4. Autumn

  5. Ford

  6. Ford

  7. Autumn

  8. Autumn

  9. Autumn

  10. Ford

  11. Autumn

  12. Autumn

  13. Ford

  14. Autumn

  15. Ford

  16. Autumn

  17. Ford

  18. Autumn

  19. Autumn

  20. Autumn

  21. Ford

  22. Autumn

  23. Autumn

  24. Autumn

  25. Ford

  26. Autumn

  27. Ford

  28. Autumn

  29. Ford

  30. Autumn

  31. Autumn

  32. Autumn

  33. Autumn

  34. Ford

  35. Autumn

  36. Ford

  Epilogue

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  Also by Sophie Brooks

  Charming: A Cinderella Billionaire Story

  Copyright © 2016 by Sophie Brooks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  1

  Autumn

  “What are you wearing?” asked the raspy male voice at the other end of the line.

  “A black lace bra. It looks so dark against my creamy white skin. And a matching thong,” I said, letting out a little giggle.

  “And black thigh stockings? And high heels?”

  “Five-inch heels,” I purred, making my voice low and throaty. “I’m wearing them just for you, Rick. Do you like that?”

  “Oh, yes. That sounds so fucking hot. I bet you look incredible. Run your hands up and down your tits.”

  “Mmm, that feels so good,” I moaned from deep in my throat, and the heavy breathing in my ear sped up. “I’m cupping my breasts, holding them up for you.”

  “Does that feel good, Summer?” Summer wasn’t my real name, but I’d gotten used to answering to it.

  “Oh, yes… but not as good as if you were doing it.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m squeezing my nipples, tugging on them, making sure they’re extra hard for you.”

  “That is so hot. Squeeze them again. Hard.”

  “Mmmm, you get me so hot and bothered when you say things like that,” I purred. “What do you want me to do next?”

  “Run your hand down your belly, honey, and—wait, what was that?”

  “What was what?” I asked, still using my sultry voice.

  “That clicking noise,” he said.

  “You heard that? I mean, that was… that was me banging my fingernails against the headboard. I just can’t help it… you’ve got me so turned on. I wish you were here on the bed with me. Would you like that, Rick?”

  “Fuck yeah. You’re so sexy, Summer. I’d throw you onto the bed, and then I’d...”

  I sighed in relief as Rick launched into a rather exhaustive list of not-very-inventive things he’d like to do with me. I still couldn’t believe he’d heard the sound of my knitting needles clanking together. Yes, I was paid to provide a fantasy for the men who called the Sultry Sirens hotline, but it wasn’t exactly rocket science. Most guys wanted the same thing: someone to listen to them. Someone to tell them how wonderful they were. Someone to make them feel special and sexual and masculine. Mostly, they wanted attention.

  And, well, an orgasm.

  So that’s what I provided. It paid well, and I needed the money. Three nights a week, I sat at this desk in my sweats—knitting, doodling, sometimes even playing solitaire online—and pretending to be the ultimate male fantasy. And in those three sessions, I earned almost as much as I did from waitressing five days a week. Plus, I was averaging five scarves and two hats per month. If one could measure wealth by knitted winter headgear, my sister and I would be considered richer than 99 percent of the population.

  When Rick ended the call—another satisfied customer—I didn’t have to wait too long for my next client. I’d only finished another half row on my current project when my computer chimed, signaling another caller. The laptop screen indicated that this was a new caller, and that he was interested in talking to a submissive woman. When clients called the Sultry Sirens fantasy hotline, they were given a choice of nine different fantasy women:

  1. Girl Next Door

  2. Virgin

  3. Cheerleader

  4. College Coed

  5. Naughty Nurse

  6. MILF

  7. Exotic Dancer

  8. Submissive

  9. Dominatrix

  My prior caller, Rick, had chosen Girl Next Door, which I could do in my sleep. But my new client wanted something different. A Submissive. Pretending to be a Submissive was a little trickier. For one thing, I had to use props. He wanted to hear me spank myself. I accomplished that by taking a Ping-Pong paddle and smacking it against a bag of flour wrapped in a towel. I also had a flexible little plastic rod I could use to simulate a whip. It used to be part of a cat toy.

  It wasn’t easy, but the submissive one wasn’t even the hardest of them. Seriously, how was one supposed to sound like a Naughty Nurse? I’d truly love to get my hands on the person—most likely a man—who’d come up with those nine options for new clients. But that’s how the job worked, and there was a manual which I dutifully kept open on the desk next to me. It provided samples of opening lines, hints and tactics for each role.

  About sixty minutes before my three-hour shift ended, another new client called. He’d chosen Cheerleader, so I assumed a perky, excited, breathy voice when I answered. “We won the game! I’m so excited! Are you going to help me celebrate?”

  As it turns out, he did want to help me celebrate. Surprise, surprise. But he also wanted to hear me do some cheers. I’d memorized a few simple ones when I’d taken this job, but this guy wanted it to be even more authentic than that.

  “I want to hear you, baby. I want to hear you jump up and down.”

  “I am. I can’t help it, I’m so excited,” I claimed, trying to sound a little winded. “And every time I jump, my tiny little skirt flies up. And everyone around me can see my panties...”

  “I can’t hear you,” he said.

  “I said, everyone can see my panties.”

  “No, I can’t hear you jump. Are you on your floor? Get on the bed instead. Jump up and down on the bed.”

  Rolling my eyes, I glanced around at my desk. There was nothing I could use to simulate bedsprings creaking, so I got up and climbed on my double bed, feeling extremely foolish. Sitting up on my knees, I tentatively bounced up and down. “Can you hear that?”

  “No… hold the phone down so I can hear the mattress squeak.”

  That wasn’t possible, since I was using a hands-free headset, so I bounced harder, hoping the people next door couldn’t hear it. The walls were thin in my apartment. “Can you hear it now?”

  It got a little tiring after a while. Soon, I didn’t have to fake being a little breathless. “Do you like seeing me jump in the air?” I panted. �
�Seeing me bring my legs up to touch my hands?”

  He did. And ten minutes later, he hung up, another happy customer. I sat on the bed and turned on my laptop around so that I could see the screen. I still had about half an hour left on my shift, and I’d likely get at least one more call.

  It felt odd sitting here instead of at my desk. At my desk, it was business. It was a job. I put on an act and I got paid for it. In the bed, well… it felt strange to be waiting for a man to call me when I was on my bed. There hadn’t been a real, live man in my bed for quite some time. Actually never, now that I thought about it. My sister and I had moved to this apartment a few years back, when I was twenty. I’d had one real boyfriend since then, but the few times we’d managed some alone time, we’d gone to his place. And I’d never stayed the night—I would never leave Cara by herself all night.

  The laptop beeped, and I glanced over. A repeat customer. He’d punched in my personal extension, which meant I’d spoken with him before, and he was allowed to bypass the original nine choices. I squinted, but I couldn’t see his client number from here.

  I tapped the button on the side of my headset. “Good evening,” I said in a low, sexy tone.

  “Those are the sexiest three syllables I’ve heard all day.”

  “Ford!” I said, breaking into a smile, the tension fading from my shoulders. “Long time, no speak.”

  “Did you think I’d disappeared on you? Not going to happen. I value my summertime,” he said, making a pun about “Summer,” my Sultry Sirens name. I felt a pang of guilt that really made no sense. It didn’t bother me to use a fake name with anyone else, so why should it with him? Of course, there was no guarantee that Ford was his real name, either. It probably wasn’t. But somehow it suited him. Masculine. Different. Distinctive. “You’re not going to get rid of me unless you get that sultry voice surgically removed,” he said.

  “That’s twice,” I said in a mock-stern voice. “You’re breaking the rules.” We had a long-standing agreement he could only compliment my voice once per phone call.

  “No, before I said that the syllables were sexy. Not your voice. But I like it when you get all bossy. Were you a Dominatrix today?”

  “Nope. A Cheerleader, the Girl Next Door twice, a Naughty Nurse, and a Submissive. No requests for a Dominatrix.”

  “Too bad. I need someone to whip me into shape.”

  I snorted at that before I realized that it wasn’t a very sensual sound. But with Ford, it didn’t matter. With him, I didn’t have to pretend. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you following orders.”

  “You think I can’t take orders from a woman?” He sounded amused. His own voice was pretty spectacular, in my opinion. Warm, rich, often teasing.

  “Actually, I think you probably can’t take orders from anyone,” I said truthfully.

  “Have I mentioned how perceptive you are?” he asked, and I laughed, sinking down to rest my head on the pillow, pulling my knees up. “Any hang-ups today?”

  He was referring to something I’d told him about before. Sometimes, clients would immediately hang up after coming. It was always disconcerting to hear a man groaning, crying out with pleasure, and then total silence. “None today. Two last Friday.”

  “I can’t believe they get the wham and the bam but forget the thank you ma’am. I’d never do that.”

  “Yeah, but you never get the wham and the bam, either.” Which was something I’d spent quite a lot of time thinking about. He was obviously a smart, friendly, funny guy. I didn’t know what he looked like, but he sounded cute. I know, I know, I couldn’t know that for sure… but I’d bet my last seven skeins of yarn that he would have no problem getting a date. But on the phone, he never wanted to engage in any kind of role-play. He never wanted me to pretend. He flirted, yes, but he never asked me to do anything. I tried, during his first few calls, to get him involved in a fantasy scenario, but he just wanted to talk. Most guys wouldn’t pay a small fortune to talk to a woman, but he’d been calling at least once a week for the last six weeks or so. Which made me think about his first phone call. “What did you pick?”

  “Sorry?” Apparently, my non sequitur confused him.

  “When you spoke to me the first time. You would’ve had to choose an option the first time. Do you remember which one it was?”

  “Hmmm…” he said contemplatively. “I think I picked Normal Woman. But somehow, they sent me to you anyway.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling into the pillow. But that wasn't one of the choices. “Maybe Girl Next Door? That’s probably the most normal one.”

  “Then that was probably it,” he said, his rich voice warm in my ear. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Now who’s being dominant? I was just wondering, that’s all. You know you’re a bit different than my usual clients.” Which was the understatement of the year.

  “Do you want me to be like them? Ordering you to touch yourself or moan or scream my name?”

  “No… but it’s pretty unusual to meet a man who pays $3.99 a minute to ask a woman how her day was.”

  “But when you tell me about your day, you’re being yourself. You’re being real. That’s what I want. Real. No overly theatrical moans and fake-sounding orgasms.”

  I rolled onto my back, readjusting my headset as I did so. “How do you know I sound fake? I can be pretty convincing, you know.”

  “I don’t doubt that. You’ve already got the most mesmerizing voice I’ve ever heard—and that was a fact, not a compliment, by the way. But I was objecting to the fakeness, not the sound quality. Or are you going to tell me that you really come every time you say you do for your customers?”

  No, I definitely couldn’t claim that. I squeezed my knees, suddenly feeling a tingling running up and down my thighs—a feeling I definitely hadn’t had talking to any of the other men who’d called tonight. “It’s all part of the fantasy. It’s what they want to hear.”

  “Well, it’s not what I want to hear. The first time I hear you moan, it’ll be for real.”

  A small gasp escaped my lips. With just a few simple sentences, he’d turned me on more than every other client put together tonight. And he’d also left me a bit tongue-tied. Still, I tried to recover. “So you call a fantasy hotline because you want something real? Do you know how strange that is?”

  He laughed softly, a low, sexy sound that made me think my attempt at a return to normal conversation had been rather transparent. “I do realize that that’s not why most men call you.”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “What else do you expect to be real? Reality TV? Wrestling?”

  “I don’t watch either,” Ford said. Which wasn’t surprising. He was definitely educated. Well-traveled. Intelligent. I didn’t imagine he watched much TV at all. “Do you have to go?”

  At his words, I looked at my watch. My shift had ended twenty minutes ago. Not that I minded a little overtime, and Sultry Sirens was always willing to pay for as long as the calls took. It was a surprisingly generous company that even provided benefits. I’d been shocked to find out I could get health insurance through them—my waitressing job certainly didn’t do that. But I had to leave to pick up Cara soon, even though the last thing I wanted to do was hang up.

  “Summer, you still there?”

  “Yes, but you’re right: I should go.”

  “Let’s talk tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday. I only work Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” He knew that.

  “Let’s talk anyway. Give me your number.”

  Several thoughts crossed through my mind. I was surprised he’d asked, when he’d never pressed for anything before the way my other clients sometimes did. But it was always a little alarming when customers asked for personal information or to do something outside of the Sultry Sirens arrangement. One creepy guy had said he’d pay me a hundred dollars if I’d send him a pair of my panties.

  I never gave out any
personal information. Never. And yet… somehow, I was tempted. But still, I knew it was a really bad idea. “It’s against company policy.”

  “Then let’s be legitimate. Can’t you request an extra shift tomorrow night?”

  “No,” I said, though I half wished I could. Maybe more than half. But Cara would be home tomorrow night, and I never, ever worked this job when she was in the apartment. “I can’t, not on Thursday nights.”

  “Do you live with someone?” This was getting more personal by the moment. But since I’d wondered the same thing about him, I couldn’t really judge.

  “Yes.”

  “Boyfriend? Husband?”

  “I’m not supposed to answer that,” I said, and then I sighed. “But no.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Nope, don’t have one of those either.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “Do you?” I blurted out before I could help myself. Here I’d been reprimanding him for getting too personal, and now I’d done the same thing. But I really wanted to know.

  “No,” he said. “Nor a wife or a boyfriend.” He chuckled. Evidently, my small sigh of relief hadn’t been as silent as I’d thought it had been. “If I really can’t convince you to talk tomorrow, then I’ll call on Friday.”

  “Sounds good to me. Good night, Ford.”

  “Good night, Summer.”

  2

  Autumn

  “Autumn!”

  At the sound of my sister’s voice, I hurried from the kitchen where I’d been warming up the fried chicken from my shift at the diner. “What is it?”

  Cara slammed the door behind her, stepping into our tiny living room. “You are never, ever going to believe this.”

  “What happened?” I asked, already smiling. Cara’s enthusiasm was always contagious.

  Dropping her backpack, she rushed over to me. “They picked my play.”

  “What?” I asked for the third time, this time in disbelief. “You can’t mean… for the end-of-the-semester performance? But…but…you’re only a sophomore.”