Love In Handcuffs: The Secret Billionaire (Part One) (BDSM And Domination Erotic Romance Novelette)

by Ashley Spector

  I told him about my life; getting my degree in liberal arts, thinking that I was going to go to grad school and become either a writer or an anthropologist, and then discovering that if I wanted to continue my education, I’d more or less have to go into enough debt that I could have bought a house for less. How I’d gotten the job I had been working for a few years now, stuck with it even though it was utterly soulless. I told him about writing in my spare time, about how I never seemed to be able to get the kind of push to do more than submit and receive rejection notices. I also told him about the incident at work that had spurred my actions. It seemed so neat and tidy, the way I explained it to him; but I knew deep down that it was more complex than I was making it out to be. I was honest enough to know that the biggest single factor in my decision to break the law and flee the country was that I was terrified that I’d be 40 years old and either still getting groped and hit on, or I’d find myself fired for some other 20-something who could be groped and hit on. And then what would the last 20 years of my life have amounted to?

  Whether it was the walking, the incredible sex, or the sea air, as the older folks called it, eventually we both agreed that we were starving. Michael led me into a private restaurant onboard, and I fought against the sensation that I was underdressed. He must have noticed my moment of discomfort, because he leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry; there are plenty of women who are more dressed down than you in here.” I glanced around and saw that it was true; there were some women in the designer equivalent of a nice shirt and jeans. My linen skirt-suit and heels was certainly not out of place in the tiny, intimate dining room.

  Michael took the lead in ordering for us, and I tried not to laugh at the fact that the whole situation was more than a little like Pretty Woman. While I had taken French in high school, it had been years since I had cracked open a textbook, and there weren’t very many opportunities for me to practice the language after about my second year in college. My Spanish was much better, thankfully. The maître d’ brought us each aperitifs, a negroni cocktail and tiny one-bite canapés. I wondered briefly what I would have been eating if I hadn’t taken up with Michael; my stateroom would have let me into one of the nicer restaurants on board, but nothing so personalized, so deeply civil, as this place. There couldn’t be more than two dozen diners in the room, occupying tables with crisp white cloths, real silverware laid, crystal glasses, and low music floating through the air. Michael and I continued to chat through dinner; talking about our favorite films and music through the salad, discussing places we wanted to travel with the soup.

  Course after course of food was brought to us, all perfectly seasoned and prepared, and I was torn between my enjoyment of the flavors and textures passing my lips and my fascination with Michael’s opinions about everything. Towards the end of the meal, he was critiquing the others in the dining room, some of whom he knew personally, and telling me tidbits of corporate or personal gossip. “When you have the chance to, take a look at the woman with the old man on my right,” Michael said, gesturing subtly to a couple a few tables away. I pretended to be looking around the dining room as a whole and spotted the couple he was referring to. I watched them as I took a long sip of wine. “The woman he’s here with is a Dutch prostitute. He has her on a retainer of sorts.” I tried not to choke on my wine at the revelation, and caught sight of Michael smiling.

  “She must be something,” I commented, setting down my wineglass. Michael nodded, the smile still playing at the corners of his lips. I considered that, apart from the man being so old, being a companion for events like this might not be that bad. Then I got another glance at the man in question. He wasn’t completely ugly, but he didn’t seem to be the kind to take very good care of himself, either; apart from dressing well, he was running gradually too fat, and there was a puffy look about his face that looked like alcoholism. I wondered if he was even able to put the prostitute to her intended use. “She’s earning every penny.” Michael chuckled, pouring more wine for me.

  Between the rich food and the copious alcohol in my system, by the time we finished dessert, my head was spinning. We stepped out onto the deck again and Michael lit a cigarette for me, though he didn’t smoke himself. The night was pitch dark around the bright lights of the ship, the ocean and sky melding together. I smoked my cigarette slowly, feeling Michael’s presence close to me all over my body; every shift of his clothing, every movement of his hand or foot, was like a pressure against my nerves in the best possible way. “We could go back up to my room,” Michael suggested quietly, his hand going to my hip. I could feel the warmth of his touch through my clothes. An errant breeze blew up my skirt and I could feel the cool ocean air against my still-wet pussy. “I have a balcony I haven’t even put to use yet.” He leaned in and kissed my neck softly, brushing his lips up to my earlobe. My heart was pounding again—but not with anxiety this time. Instead, I felt such a sudden, intense arousal that I almost couldn’t believe it. “Alternately, we could find a relatively secluded spot on the deck.” I was blushing, the blood rushing into my face. Part of me was intrigued by the possibility—and part of me was terrified. The balcony, with its mixture of seclusion and open air, was much more my speed.

  “Let’s try out your balcony,” I said, carefully reaching down and brushing my fingers against the bulge at Michael’s crotch. I could remember the way his cock had looked, freed of the confines of his boxer-briefs, and I knew that I had to have it again. Michael gave me a little smile, taking me by the hand. I realized that, since I had been unconscious when he brought me to his room, and still partly in an orgasmic haze when we had rejoined the general population, I didn’t have even a remotely good idea of where his stateroom was on the ship. He led me up, around, through corridors that were almost empty, past entertainment areas, until we came to an utterly silent portion of the ship. I vaguely recognized the doors that opened up on the section, obedient to his key-card. Even the hallway was opulent, with rich carpeting and thick walls muffling the sound of us walking through. Michael glanced around as we turned a corner and pushed me up against a wall in an alcove, kissing me quickly while his hand moved down from my waist. I moaned softly against his mouth as his hand slipped up under my skirt, unerringly finding my pussy and stroking my wet folds for just a moment. He broke away from the kiss almost before I could adjust to the sudden maneuver, smirking slightly.

  We walked the rest of the way to his stateroom without any further detours, Michael leading me quickly and opening the door to his enormous quarters for me. He flicked a switch on the door. “That tells everyone on the ship that I do not wish to be disturbed,” he told me, pulling me to him as he leaned back against the door. His hands moved over my body in quick, devastating touches, finding my nipples through my clothes, kneading my hips and teasing every inch of me within easy reach. He kissed me hungrily, almost stealing my breath away with his aggressive, probing tongue, his teeth worrying at my bottom lip and sending sparks of heat from my mouth to my breasts. I arched into his touches, trying to get control of the kiss, becoming distracted and failing miserably to gain any ground. I knew that Michael was completely in command of this encounter, just as he had been before. I couldn’t even motivate myself to make him stop—and what he was doing to me felt too good to argue with.

  I whimpered when his lips broke from mine, his hands leaving my body. “Come on,” he said quietly, gesturing to a set of French doors at the other end of the living area of his suite. I started off in that direction with him behind me, his hand going to the small of my back to guide me—or maybe just because he enjoyed touching me. I noticed that there was a bucket of ice housing a bottle of champagne, which Michael picked up and brought with us onto the balcony.

  The balcony was situated in such a way that there wasn’t a very easy way to see the deck below, but the view of the ocean and the horizon were perfect. It was wide enough to contain a small three-person table with an umbrella that could be put up for shade, with a couple of lo
unge chairs on the opposite end. A medium-height railing wrapped around the whole structure, just at my hips—short enough to prevent a small child or a shorter adult from easily climbing it, but I’ve always been tall. Michael opened the bottle of champagne and poured two glasses, setting them on the table. He sat down in one of the chairs, pulling me into his lap and gesturing for me to take one of the glasses. I shifted in his lap and I could feel Michael’s hard cock against my ass. He let out a soft moan, settling me against his chest with my legs spread slightly. “You’ll have to be quiet,” he murmured in my ear, his hand gliding up my leg slowly. “No soundproofing out here.” He chuckled lowly, slipping his fingers underneath my skirt and brushing them against my pussy. I stifled the urge to moan at his touch, leaning back against him as he spread my labia, quickly finding my clit and beginning to stroke it slowly. “I think that you’ve been in need of a good fuck for a while now,” Michael murmured, trailing his lips over my neck as he started to rub my clit more firmly.

  “I’m not exactly a virgin,” I whispered back, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I’m not a prude either.” Michael laughed, spreading my legs wider and continuing to tease me.

  “You wouldn’t be here if you were either,” he told me, slowly pushing one finger inside of my pussy. I squirmed on his lap, trying to control my breathing, trying not to make any noises. I could still feel Michael’s cock through his pants, rubbing against my ass as I writhed. I could imagine it clearly in my mind, the way it had looked earlier when he had stripped out of his clothes. Michael pulled back from my neck and picked up his glass of champagne, taking a quick sip as his hand worked me, torturing me with slow penetration and just enough pressure on my clit to make my hips move of their own accord. I was completely distracted, not even noticing his movement behind me, wrapped up in the sensations of my pussy; when I felt the sudden sharp cold of the ice cube sliding down my chest, I gasped involuntarily, arching almost out of Michael’s lap. He pulled me back against him, holding me pinned down with his arm while he slid the ice along my breast, slipping underneath my bra and running it around my nipple. I was torn between the cold pain and an intense pleasure I hadn’t experienced before, making me even wetter. Michael moved away from one nipple with the ice and toward the other, chilling me to my bones, it seemed. I could feel the cold water dripping down along my skin where the ice melted, teasing me almost as thoroughly as Michael’s fingers were.

  I started to whimper and bit my lip hard, realizing the truth in Michael’s observation; his balcony was above the decks—if I moaned out like I wanted to, anyone below us would know exactly what was going on. I reached down and gripped Michael’s thigh through his pants, squeezing it as hard as I could to try and keep a grip on the intense sensuality running throughout my body. I had to maintain control. I couldn’t give in to my body’s insistence on making noise. I almost lost control again as Michael’s lips traced a path along the base of my neck—and then his teeth sank into the sensitive area where my neck and shoulder met, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough that I was gasping and panting, as quietly as I could, fighting the urge to moan. “You are surprisingly good at this,” Michael commented, his lips barely off of my neck, and I could hear the laughter in his voice. “I’ll have to raise the stakes.” I didn’t have time to consider what he meant before Michael’s fingers found one of my nipples again and he pinched it hard, twisting it slightly—cruelly—I brought my hand up to my mouth and bit down on my palm, muffling the sound of the cry of pleasure and pain that ripped through my throat. Michael spread my legs wider still, and I heard the sound of ice rattling in the bucket, just as I realized his hand was no longer between my legs.

  I bit into my palm again as the wet cold sensation of the ice sliding slowly into my pussy distracted me from everything else in the world. I could feel the nails of my other hand digging into Michael’s thigh as I trembled on his lap, freezing cold from the inside out and so intensely aroused that I couldn’t believe I had ever been turned on before—even with the earlier tryst still fresh in my mind. “Hold it, Katrina,” Michael whispered, his fingers brushing against my clit. “Let’s see how long it takes to melt.” I was shaking all over, all of my awareness focused on my pussy, the dripping, melting ice so cold I felt it in the core of my body, stealing all of my heat. I could feel Michael’s lips against my neck curving in a smile, and then he pinched my other nipple, sharp and sudden, and I was reeling against him, trying to hold the ice in my pussy as I pushed my hips down into his touch, as my back arched from the pain and pleasure in my breast.

  “Oh,” I choked on the word, bringing my hand back to my mouth to try and muffle the sound—I wanted to scream out; wanted to moan like an absolute whore from the warring sensations rocking me. Michael was enjoying this, I could tell—his cock was as hard as a rock against me, and I could feel him trembling with laughter and arousal. “Michael, I can’t stand it,” I whispered, driven to distraction—I couldn’t even quite finish a thought, my body was so attentive to the sensation of his touch, this torture. Michael hummed against my neck, nipping at my sensitive flesh with his teeth and lips.

  “I know you can, Katrina,” he murmured against my skin, soothing my abused nipple with a soft touch of his fingers that somehow didn’t make anything better, but only worse. “You have to tolerate it, after all.” He pulled me tightly against him, rubbing my clit firmly with his thumb as the ice continued to melt. I was losing the ability to hold it inside of me as it shrank, dripping cold water out of my body. The sensation of Michael’s warm hand against my clit was another battle—hot and cold, pain and pleasure—that brought me right to the edge of orgasm. How had he done this to me so quickly? The last sliver of the ice slipped out of my pussy, and Michael chuckled softly, continuing to rub my clit and tease my breasts. “You’re doing so well, my dear,” he told me, standing and bringing me with him. He settled me on my feet and guided me slowly to the railing on the balcony. I felt like a puppet in his arms, like a marionette without strings—until he began touching me again. Then I knew exactly where the strings were.

  Michael pushed me up against the balcony, his hands all over me through and over my clothes. “I think we’d probably better not get you entirely naked,” he said, slowly lifting my skirt from behind. I could feel the cool air against my ass and my burning face—even in my lust, I felt a little uncomfortable with being exposed in even this limited public place. No one could possibly see me, but I looked down to the deck below—what I could see of it—to make sure. I heard the rustling of Michael’s pants, the clink of his belt buckle. He spread my legs, pushing me down slightly and pulling my hips up. “I’d love to strip you down right here, let you feel the excitement and fear of being completely naked where anyone could look up and see you being screwed senseless.” Michael chuckled again, and I felt his hard cock rubbing against me from behind. “But I think for right now, we’ll be polite.” He guided his erection up against my pussy and spread me open, rubbing the tip against my clit. “Push yourself onto my cock,” Michael whispered in my ear, one hand reaching up underneath my blouse to play with my breasts again.

  I did as I was told, biting my lip against the moan that threatened to rip up from my chest at the delicious sensation of his cock penetrating my slick pussy. He was just as hot, just as big as I remembered. I leaned in and pressed my mouth against my arms, needing to moan, wanting to cry out with pleasure as he filled me up. Michael began to move his hips slowly, plunging deeper and deeper into me as I rocked my hips back in counterpoint, feeling completely needy for his cock. He began thrusting more deeply, reaching around my hip and under my skirt to stroke my clit. It was becoming more and more difficult to stifle my moans and cries, and I bit into the flesh of my arm, trying to hold on to my control. “You have very good self-control, Katrina,” Michael said, panting slightly as he picked up the pace of his thrusts. He stopped stroking my clit and reached for my arms.

  My chest fell against the railing as he pulled my arms out fr
om under me, pulling them back and pinning them against me. I almost didn’t notice the pain of the impact, my whole body consumed with the feeling of Michael inside of me, his hands gripping my wrists tightly. “Oh, oh,” I gasped, biting my lip to keep myself from screaming. The thought that at any moment I would lose control of myself; that I would just shout my pleasure to the world—to anyone who was on the deck below—was terrifying. At the same time, I almost wanted to give in, to moan like a slut without even caring who knew I was getting screwed senseless. Michael began to pound into me, trapping my wrists in one hand while he gripped my hip with the other. I could feel his pants against my legs, and I knew exactly how we must look—and the thought was so incredibly erotic that I knew I was right about to come from just the situation, just the fact that this man was taking me like any slut from behind, without any concern that anyone would see him. I struggled to get my arms free; I could feel the railing pressing against my chest, but the discomfort didn’t bother me as much as my need to get leverage, to be able to muffle the noises I made, was desperate. “I can’t,” I managed to say quietly, panting so hard I felt breathless, “I can’t stay quiet, Michael,” I heard him laugh lowly behind me, not losing a beat in his fast, hard thrusts.

  Michael’s hand left my hip and covered my mouth, leaving my nose clear. I could breathe and finally, I could moan helplessly against his hand, the sound muffled enough so that no one below would hear it unless they were listening for it specifically. I came, pushing my hips back against his as hard and fast as I could, my whole body shaking with the force of the pleasure that tore me apart. Michael continued to pound into me in quick, deep thrusts, his cock never quite entirely leaving my pussy as he hammered against me, his pants suppressing the sound of our bodies coming together. I moaned a final time, long and low, as I felt him twitching, his cock spreading delicious heat through me as he followed me into orgasm, letting go of my wrists to muffle the sound of his own pleasure. He finished deep inside of me, holding my body tight against his, breathing heavily. I held his weight as he leaned heavily against my body, his hands slowly caressing me all over as we both struggled to recover. After several long moments, he pulled out of me; I heard him fixing his clothes and I stood upright slowly, my body aching but still buzzing and humming with the pleasure of what we had just done. I smoothed my skirt down over my hips and turned to see Michael take the few steps back to the table, sitting down and flashing me a quick smile.