by Linnea May
Even when I can feel his hot cum drenching and coating the skin on my behind, I have trouble believing this is happening. He's coming all over my ass and my back, groaning in ecstasy through his release, while I stay in position, shivering as he marks me with his semen, denying me my own release.
My arousal is still throbbing between my legs, and it begins turning into frustration when I realize that he's not planning on doing anything about it. All he wanted to do was to teach me a lesson. He used me and made me act this way just to prove a point. A single tear rolls down my face, a combination of humiliation and frustration and helpless fury.
"Turn around."
I don't want to obey him. Not right now. But when I refuse to move, he forces me to turn around by grabbing my upper arm and tugging me toward him. I try to evade his eyes, but he doesn't let me. He grabs my face and forces me to look up at him, to receive his angry glare.
"Fuck you," I hiss at him, no longer scared of the potential repercussions.
The smug smile on his face makes me want to spit at him.
"Button," he says. "That's what I'm going to call you. Button."
Chapter 15
Jared
I wish I had arranged for a new wardrobe to be delivered for her before bringing her here. I've never had this issue with any of the other girls. They were professionals who'd been earning a good living all along by serving men like me. And they cared about how they looked and dressed. All of them brought trunk after trunk full of designer clothes to my penthouse when they moved in. They brought everything, from casual chic to classy and - of course - expensive and slutty.
It shows that Ann never had the money nor the desire to spruce herself up to that level. She's wearing the same outfit she wore the very first day I met her. It's not terrible, and it will serve for today, but I make a mental note to replace her wardrobe as soon as possible.
She's mad at me, and I allow it. I haven't heard a single word from her since last night.
"Fuck you."
Those were the last words she spit out at me. Normally, this would merit a punishment beyond measure, but I let it go for now. I can't be as strict with her as I could with all the other girls. She's still too new to this, and I don't want to ruin things between us, especially based on the potential she shows otherwise.
We left the apartment together, walking next to each other in silence, and I've decided to treat her with the same disregard she's showing me. It's been fine with me, for now.
She doesn't even look at me when I open the car door for her, and I let that go, too. But I need to make sure that she's no longer in a huff once we get to the office.
"Be as mad at me as you want,” I tell her once we’re inside the car. “But you had better make sure to behave in front of my staff."
I glance over at her, but her eyes are focused on watching the scenery as we make our way through the city. She's wearing her beautiful hair in a ponytail again, and I hate that.
I reach over and pull out the hair tie in a slow but decisive motion.
She grunts angrily, but lifts her hand just a moment too late to prevent me from freeing her hair. Long, heavy strands of shiny ash blond hair fall down over her shoulders as she turns around to finally look me in the eye.
"What the f-"
"I like your hair down," I let her know. "This ponytail makes you look like a child."
She glares at me. "Oh, so you get to decide my hair style, too?"
We fixate on each other, and I know that the smug smile on my face does nothing to ease her anger. If anything, it only makes it worse.
"Glad to see you're still talking to me," I say. "I’ve missed that beautiful voice."
She snorts. "You're fucking unbelievable."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment, Sir."
There’s an undertone of disgust when she spits out the words, but the fact that she's still calling me Sir makes me smile.
"I decided to take it as one; that's all that matters."
She growls angrily and defiantly crosses her arms in front of her chest, choosing to divert her attention back to the window.
"Why do I even have to meet these people?" she asks without looking at me. "Is this just to humiliate me even further?"
"I don't know why you would say that," I reply. "You're meeting with my closest staff members and associates, people who we will be working with very closely once the campaigning starts. You need to get to know them, and they have to get to know you."
"You're going through a lot of trouble to win this seat," she says. "I still don't understand why you need me for this. Aren't there lots of single men in Congress - or in politics in general?"
"Maybe," I say. "But those men aren't me. I can't get away with the same things others can."
"Why not?"
She's looking at me now, her eyes questioning, searching for the answer.
"I think you already know part of the answer to that," I say, casting her a meaningful look. "We're here."
I can tell she has more questions to ask, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss these things.
"It won't take long," I promise her, and once we’ve exited the car, I lead her inside the high-rise office building.
"Is this yours?" she asks, hurrying to keep pace with my wide, deliberate steps.
"The building or the company? Yes to both."
"Oh, right," she says. "You founded it when you were still in college, right?"
"I see you did your research."
"Are you planning to sell once you're busy campaigning for Congress?" she probes as we approach the elevators. "Do you want to get out of this business?"
I can feel her eyes on me, but I don't return her attention. I don't like her questions. She will know a lot about me sooner or later, more than most people ever do, but she doesn't need to know everything, and especially not now. Not yet.
"That's none of your concern," I tell her once we're inside the elevator and the doors close. "You have other things to worry about right now."
She sighs, and I'm pretty sure she's rolling her eyes at me again, something that won't be forgotten by the time we get home later.
Silas is already waiting for us when the elevator doors part. He's his usual self, very controlled and styled to the nines, his hands folded in front of him before he opens his arms to welcome us. He has been working for me for several years, and of all the people who are closely engaged with me, he's the one who knows me the best. He's also the only one - as far as I know - who shares my particular interest in women. He understands, and he doesn't judge. Both these things make him the perfect assistant for me.
"Silas," I greet him with a hand shake, something we rarely do. "This is Button."
The look on her face is beyond anything I could have dreamed up. Her face is lined with outrage when she looks up at me, and her eyes are narrowed to slits.
"Ann!" she snaps. "My name is Ann."
"Not as long as you're with me, it isn't," I tell her. "Button, this is Silas, my personal assistant and closest associate."
She bites her lip and glares at me for one more second before turning to Silas and shaking his hand.
"It's nice to meet you," he says, a smile playing around the corner of his mouth. He's used to my antics with these girls. Of course, I'm not going to let anyone else call her by the name I chose for her, but she doesn't need to know that. However, she will have to get used to her new name.
"Nice to meet you, too," she replies through gritted teeth.
Silas is one of four people I need her to meet today. The other three are my attorney, my campaign manager, and my publicist - all of whom are in the know about the nature of my relationship with Button and her role in the upcoming campaign, if she is to stay. She's the third girl I have introduced to them, and while I know there was a high degree of reluctance and raised eyebrows with her predecessors, I notice that she doesn't leave a similar impression on my team as the others did.
I have to admit, I'm surprised, too.
She's polite, friendly, and acts interested, answering questions directly and without blabbering, and barely poses any herself. I've never seen her behave this way around me. With me, she's always either suspicious and angry, or horny. It's as if the girl who's sitting next to me in the small conference room, politely chatting with my employees like it's second nature to her, is a completely different person than the one who either hisses or moans at me.
If this is all an act, she's even better than I could have hoped.
The only thing that keeps agitating me is the way she insists on being called by her name, Ann. I addressed her as Button every time I talked to or about her, and each and every single time she dared to correct me. Her defiance will get her in big trouble with me one day, that's for sure.
Otherwise, she did leave a favorable impression on everyone. Even Silas gives me an approving nod once we say our goodbyes.
But just as I’m about to praise her once we're alone in the elevator, she's back to the person I’m used to.
"I hope that pleased you," she says in a condescending tone. "I fucking hate small talk like that."
I want to grab her and spank that damn attitude out of her. I know it has to happen - and soon. But not here, not now.
"You did well," I say, my tone equally distant and annoyed as hers. "Except for one thing."
"What?"
"Don't undermine my authority in front of my employees," I say. "Your name is Button, and when I address you by that name, you're not to correct me. Especially when there are other people around."
She looks at me, narrowing her eyes. "But my name is Ann."
"Not as long as you're with me it isn’t."
She sighs and shakes her head. Her hair is still cascading over her shoulders, a bit messier than it was before, but still beautiful. I can't wait to see the wavy mess dance around her slim body when I finally have my way with her.
She notices that I'm looking at her and turns her eyes up to meet mine.
"Why do you insist on the name Button?" she asks. "Why not call me Ann like everyone else?"
"Because I'm not everyone else," I say. "And you're mine."
A hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. Look at that, my little Button is flattered.
"You're a weird man," she says, just before the doors of the elevator open as we reach the first floor. "A very weird man."
Chapter 16
Ann
I thought that he would accompany me home, but Jared had other plans. He just escorted me down to the car and instructed the driver to take me home, leaving me with a quick "I'll see you tonight" and a kiss on the cheek that caught me off guard.
I signed the papers and agreed to play the roles he asked of me for at least a year, but I'm still not entirely sure what exactly this job is asking of me. In fact, I feel a little tricked with what has happened between us so far. He lures me in with that incredibly mind-robbing orgasm just to humiliate me a few days later after I've signed the contract.
I spend the entire drive gazing out the window of the limousine, pondering about the odd turn my life has taken within such a short time. I don't regret it. I don't regret anything, not even dumb mistakes like that hook-up with co-working neighbor Brandon. It's a waste of time to torment oneself with things from the past, things we can no longer change. Besides, don't they say that every mistake helps you grow? If this entire endeavor is one huge mistake, just imagine how much I’m going to learn from it!
This doesn't feel like a mistake yet, though. Jared fascinates me. I know I can't fall for him, though, not for real. He has made it very clear that it’s not part of the deal, and it never will be.
And I'm fine with that.
Our arrangement is strictly professional. And sensual. Very fucking sensual.
The way my heart speeds up every time I think about him and the things he has done to me is very different than the butterflies I’ve felt with other men. I don't have to protect my heart from him because there's nothing to protect me from. This is not about love, it’s just about lust. Raw, carnal lust.
Well, that and the money... I tend to push that aspect aside, even though it was the reason I first became interested in this deal to begin with. However, I only get paid if I see this through. I have to commit to this for at least twelve months, with the option for a possible extension, before there's a single cent deposited into my bank account. Until then, he’s provided me with my own credit card and limited access to his money for clothing and personal luxuries. It's hard for me to be comfortable with that, though, because I can't help but feel that somehow it’s going against everything that women have fought to achieve.
Then again, isn't this about a woman's right to choose? If this is what I choose to do to get ahead, what's so wrong about it?
I'm young - though rather sexually inexperienced - smart, and not bad to look at. There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing. On the contrary, a modern woman should explore her sexuality! Isn't that what feminists chant in marches and protests?
Oh, listen to me.
I laugh to myself, and the driver casts a quick look in the rear view mirror. It's funny how I still wage pretend arguments with my father in my head, manifesting his judgmental ideas of how his daughter - or any woman, for that matter - should live her life. In a way, this deal I’ve struck comes closer to his ideals than what true modern feminists aspire to. A woman who lives and breathes to make the man at her side look better, totally dependent on him and his money. If I'd cook and clean for Jared, I'd make the perfect housewife.
The car pulls into the familiar driveway, and I thank the driver - whose name I still don't know - when I get out of the car. Our eyes meet for a split second and he nods quietly, leaving me to wonder what he might know and think about all of this. Jared said that his closest staff is in the know about this arrangement. Does this include his driver? And why do I even care?
Because I've always cared what other people think about me, at least to some degree. I hate this trait about myself because I consider it a weakness, but it's hard to let go of it.
I’m greeted by the usual magnificent view and haunting silence when I walk through the door of the penthouse. The ping sound of the elevator resonates through the hall-like living room as the doors close noisily behind me, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I'm not used to this. I've never had an apartment to myself, not even for a few hours. I moved right from my student dorm, which I shared with two other girls, into a flat shared with four other people. As far as I can remember, there has never been a time when all four of them were out of the house for longer than just a few minutes. I've always had people around me, all the time. I did have my own tiny room in the flat I lived in for the past year, but privacy was non-existent outside of my eighty square foot cave. My roommates didn't even ask where I was going when I told them that I was moving out. All they cared about was the rent I'm obligated to pay until they find someone to sublet. Jared didn't bat an eye when I told him about it, and stated that he'd pay for it, without even asking the amount. I don't know how rich he is exactly, but it's pretty obvious that my rent is little more than peanuts to him.
The same situation applies for the desk I was renting at the co-working space. I'm trapped in a one-year contract that won't end for another three months. All of my stuff is still there, and as long as it's still there, as long as I still have a place out in the normal world - quite literally - I feel reassured that I'm still me. I had to leave everything behind when I agreed to become Jared's "partner," as he likes to call it, but keeping that desk space means that there are still traces out there to remind me of who I was before this.
"You're silly."
The echo of my voice cuts through the weird silence like a knife, even though it was a whisper. Yes, I am silly. I’m still the same person I was just a few days ago. I’m being melodramatic to think otherwise.
I roam over to the kitchen and immedi
ately notice that it has been stocked with food. There was nothing but whiskey and coffee here this morning before Jared and I left for his office, but now there’s a bowl of fresh fruit, filled to the brim in the middle of the kitchen island. I gasp in awe when I open the giant fridge and find it filled with vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese. Someone has also stocked the cabinets with spices, rice, and pasta.
I furrow my eyebrows. Does this mean that he expects me to cook for him after all?
I head over to the entryway where I left my handbag with my new phone. Jared gave it to me the day I signed the contract, and so far, he's the only person I've communicated with.
"Do you expect me to cook for you?" I type the text angrily, sending it before I can change my mind.
His reply follows within less than a minute.
"No, but I expect you to eat."
I roll my eyes, and luckily he can't see it this time. Why does he agitate me so much? I feel on edge and don't know what to do with myself. My stomach is growling, and though the obvious choice would be to take advantage of all those options in the kitchen, I can't eat when I'm so unraveled and flustered. I am tense and full of questions, and numerous thoughts and contemplations about my current situation roll through my head. I may be hungry, starving even, but my appetite is hidden somewhere behind the turmoil churning inside me.
I take a deep breath and walk up to the giant window in the living room, taking in the view of the city while I try to sort my thoughts. But it doesn't work this way – it never has. I've never been a person who can just sit and think. I always need an outlet, to be able to visualize what's going on inside my head.
I need to write.
I haven't written a word since I signed the contract, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure why. Writing has always been more than just a job for me. It has been an outlet for anything occupying my thoughts, good or bad. It's no surprise I’m in such an emotional turmoil; I need to let it out on paper.
A smile spreads across my face. I’m going to write. He never said I couldn't, he just said I couldn’t share it or publish it. And I've never had a better place and opportunity to write than I do right now, in a beautiful and empty penthouse, with an amazing view to spark the creative flow.
