CAPTURE — Wrecked Innocent (The Billionaires Club Book 5)

by Q. Zayne

  “My life’s straight out of a sleazy day-time talk show. I had the classic molester step-dad and the tough knocks of a runaway, complete with textbook PTSD symptoms and an alcohol problem. I made the predictable career choice of stripper, or erotic dancer, as the ad called it.” I glanced at him. He had the serene face of a Buddha, if the Buddha looked like a hunk with chiseled good looks from Hollywood’s golden era. I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t a loser. “On the positive side, I evaded being raped at home, I stopped drinking, and I took the California High School Proficiency Exam. I took junior college courses to make up for my academic deficiencies and I applied to universities. U.C. Berkeley declined, but I made it into San Francisco State and tried for every grant and scholarship available. I made it through my freshman year, but the rising expenses are too much. Really too much.” I mauled his handkerchief between my hands, wringing it as hard as I wished I could wring the manager Gino’s neck for firing me.

  “Yes. The academic fees keep going up, taxes, rent, food and transportation expenses keep going up, but the job opportunities and wages aren’t matching what people need to live here, except for at the top.” He nodded.

  He had a kind face. He looked interested and didn’t seem to think I was just a complainer.

  “I’ve been working six days a week shaking my naked ass. I nod off in classes. I take caffeine tabs but I’m irritable all the time and have trouble concentrating enough to study. I feel tired all the time. I’m 22 years old and I wake up tired. My grades are falling for the first time. If they go one point lower, I lose my one merit-bases scholarship and I won’t be able to cover next year’s fees. My college plan will be over.” I stopped, afraid I was talking too much, worried that he’d think I was hopeless, a mess.

  “You’re not bad. You just did what you needed to under the circumstances. You got caught and the club fired you. There was probably nothing personal about it. If they got caught with girls turning tricks out of there, their business could come under fire. They’d probably lose their liquor license just for starters. It’s rough on you, but what happened doesn’t make you a bad person.” He had a warm, persuasive voice. We’d never met, but he seemed to get what I was feeling. “The big picture is what matters. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re trying to do. It’s valiant. You’re refusing to be a statistic, another young woman who drops out, goes down the alcoholic or drug-user road to numb pain, and opts out of choosing her life. You’re different.”

  His words helped me so much. Tears ran down my face. I turned away and tried to repair my makeup with his hankie.

  “I want to help you, but I don’t want you to do anything that’s bad for you.” He paused, waited for me to look at him. “Given your history, what I’d propose might be difficult for you. Yet you’re a warrior, and if you want to give it a go, we’ll take good care of you. You can stay at the island after the show. We’ve got therapists and a doctor on staff, bodyguards,” he smiled, “Excellent security. We can give you a safe home. You can finish your degree via an online program and I’ll pay for it. It’s not the same as the experience of attending college, of course, and I’m sorry about that, because I do look back on my college years with fondness. But San Francisco has changed since that time. It’s become a much more harsh place for the have-nots. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I wouldn’t want my daughter living in your crime-ridden neighborhood and taking public transportation to school here. And the rising rates of college rapes is a national disgrace. There are parts of the world where young women can live alone in a city and get a college education without being treated as prey by criminal men, but this area is not among them. I can give you a way out.” He spread his hands, hesitated. “The thing is, I’ve been recruiting for my private club for months, and you’re different. There’s something about you. And I’m not sure if this is the right opportunity for you.” He smiled again, making me weak in the knees. “I’d like it to be.”

  “Let me decide. Just what are you proposing?” Given his discomfort, how we met, and his delicate reference to my history, it must be something sexual. But no one as hot as this guy needed to recruit a mistress. Maybe he was kinky. The girls at work told stories of all kinds of johns. Some of them turned tricks before turning to dancing as a less dangerous line of work, free of disease, beatings and the risk of johns who injured girls or tried to take what they wanted and not pay. None of them wanted to report being raped.

  So I knew about George, a lawyer who liked to be pelted with grapefruits by a girl wearing vintage lingerie including a girdle holding up silk stockings, while standing there in the kind of thick-heeled shoes modeled by WWII pinup models. The outfit was as crucial to his satisfaction as the grapefruit-lobbing. And Ryan, a banker who liked to nurse, cooing like a baby while pretending to breastfeed. His needs required someone with a large cup size. My big girls were about his minimum, Shelley told me. And Conrad, a dry cleaning mogul who couldn’t get off unless a girl with long red nails spanked him on his peter and called him a bad boy. Jason, a CEO, liked to dress up as “Diane,” complete with wig, makeup, falsies, crotch-flattener, butt-and-hip-pad panties and a business women’s suit. Once she got him dressed, his paid date took him to a dive bar where “Diane” tried to pick up a man. If he succeeded, the girl went with them to a hotel, because Jason felt better about giving a blow-job and getting reamed with a woman watching. The stories went on and on with fetishes and sex acts beyond anything I’d ever imagined. Guys who liked to be trussed up and hang in imaginative bondage, guys who liked to wear diapers, guys who liked their cocks and balls squeezed and ground under a high heeled shoe.

  The main point that emerged was that many high-powered men were submissive or fetishists — not sadists, not dominants, not the kinds of men who starred in women’s fantasies, except those of the probably small number of women who would engage in those men’s fantasies without being paid.

  I read part of a popular BDSM novel and howled. I laughed so hard I cried. I couldn’t finish the book. When the giggles died away, I felt sad. I grew up wanting to be a princess. And look how that turned out. So many women wanting a wealthy, improbably dominant man to see her as super special and seduce her into doing naughty, naughty things… That could never happen.

  Unlike most guys I’d spent time with, Gabe didn’t need to fill every silence by talking about himself or working toward getting me out of my panties. He let me think. I looked right into his eyes.

  “I mean it. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not exactly sheltered. I promise not to slap you.” I meant it as a joke, but he winced. I bet he’d been slapped, more than once.

  “This is the deal. The usual deal is I offer a young woman who needs help a special opportunity to put on a show on my private island, The Billionaires Club. A sex show.” He raised his brows, no doubt knowing he was confirming what I already suspected. “She signs a contract for the job that includes a detailed non-disclosure agreement. After the show, I transfer $10,000 into her account and we give her safe transportation home.” He raised his brows, eying me, assessing me. “In your case, I’m making a different offer. Instead of the one-time payment, I propose that you live on the island after the show and complete your degree — all expenses paid.”

  “That’s a hell of a deal, for a one-night sex show. Or are you proposing that I be sexually available while I live on the island?” Something smelled rotten in Denmark. I had Hamlet on the brain. To be or not to be had crossed my mind more than once since xxx told me to pack my stuff and get out.

  Gabe’s eyes widened. “Nothing like that. The sex show is a one-night event. In some cases, as long as 24-hours, but we decided that was too hard on the girl. This show, the one I want you for, is a special event.” He frowned. “Well, I won’t waste time describing the usual auction with the club members.” He took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s rather — extreme.”

  I nodded. What on earth was it? Gabe didn’t seem the kind of man to h
esitate about anything. He seemed as eager to describe his proposition as a guy might be to ask his maiden aunt to pick him up some wank magazines.

  “This time, I’ve recruited recently-released convicts from maximum security prisons all over the world. Men who fit a profile for muscularity, genital size, and an array of psychological traits including dominant sexual proclivities toward women that will ensure an exciting show. We’ve heightened security throughout the island and have done a thorough medical screening on each man. The ex cons are guests at the island as we speak, awaiting participation in the show.”

  He said...the one I want you for. I suppose he had me right there.

  “You’re asking me to,” I swallowed, “Be gang banged by ex cons. Not just any ex cons, newly-released huge ex cons from maximum security pens — guys who haven’t had sex in freaking years. They don’t put jaywalkers in those place.” I flashed on the kinds of entertainment enjoyed by the ancient Romans. Those tastes hadn’t died out.

  His eyes gleamed. “I know.”

  Okay, he was twisted. And despite the unlikeliness of it, he was apparently a sadist. Or at least, a sadistic voyeur, instead of a bottom boy like most powerful men. I quashed my urge to imagine what a certain racist, homophobic, asinine political candidate liked in the bedroom. Nope, couldn’t help it, saw him getting banged with a bit in his mouth and big, ruffled panties around his knees — by an androgynous hooker sporting a mammoth strap-on, dressed in nothing but red lipstick and cowboy boots with spurs. Ride that piggy hard, girl.

  “Sometime, I’d like you to tell me what goes though that mind of yours.” Gabe grinned.

  His killer smile brought me back. Right. The proposition was on the table. This guy, in all seriousness, was offering to change my life. To rescue me in a way I’d barely ever dared to dream of being rescued.

  In return, I would have to let some of the world’s most dangerous men ravage me for a night — in front of an audience of billionaires. Crazy. It was completely crazy. But Gabe didn’t look crazy. He looked sweetly sincere, enough to bring all my daddy issues, the good ones, right to the front of the line. In fact, I stood there creaming my panties over his wanting me, even though what he wanted me for was a sex show that sounded brutal and degrading.

  Yeah, that could be hard to take. But I’d been surviving for months as a sex object for guys who blew their loads watching me mime sex acts on stage. All for a lot less money, and for club owners with a lot less class.

  But would a girl survive what he had in mind?

  “This isn’t — snuff?”

  “Oh, no. No.” He turned pale and his sensual mouth turned down. He looked sickened by the idea. “In fact, the non-disclosure contract goes on for pages. The lighting is designed so you never see the club members. You won’t be able to identify anyone. And even as a resident of the island, you won’t have contact with club members. So provided you’re honest and sign the contract, you’re free to leave at any time. Our medical staff, overseen by my friend Justice, an eminent physician now exclusive to the club, has examined and screened every one of the men to ensure there will be no health risks. And we have the most qualified security staff. Should you agree, the activities will include deviant acts and unprotected sex with all the men, but I promise you that you won’t come to any harm. No damage, no scars. Although I’ll warn you the men are huge. It isn’t unusual for a girl to be sore and limping after a show at The Billionaires Club, and some BDSM activities involve pain, but no one will injure you, I swear to that.”

  I sat there speechless. It was too much to take in. Everything he said made a strange kind of sense. If he was bullshitting me, he was remarkably good at it. The details, the sincerity in his eyes and face, everything suggested that this was for real.

  But could I really do it?

  “Look, I know I’m asking a lot. I’ve never done this before, but I’m not going to ask you to sign the contract yet. Though I do ask you, on your honor, to never reveal anything about The Billionaires Club. If you agree, I’ll fly you to the island and let you take a look. No one will touch you. Just come for a visit. If you decide not to do the show, I’ll pay for your transportation home and make sure you’re back in time for class. If you decide to stay, we can send for your things and prepare you for the show. What do you say?”

  I never knew what a winsome smile was until I saw his. And at his mention of getting back to class, my heart sank. Going to class would be pointless if I was going to have to drop out due to lack of funds. What were the odds that I could get another job and get paid in time to evade eviction? “Yes. All right, Gabe. I’ll take a look. And cross my heart” I used my finger to make an X between my breasts, “I’ll keep your secrets.”

  “I’m delighted. I’m hoping you’ll be so entranced by my island you’ll want to stay. We’ve got everything you could possibly need, so you won’t have to pack. I’m betting you’ll love my place.” Gabe grinned and shook my hand. Wow, he had big hands. I blushed.

  My mother, God rest her soul, would be appalled. I’d just agreed to fly to a private island with a strange man. Going anywhere with a stranger was high on the list of things not to do if you’re a girl, but so were a lot of things that had happened in my life. This at least, was something I chose.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Ready? You mean right now??” I stared at him, my heart speeding.

  “Yes, right now. You’ve got the day free, I gather. There’s my car.” He nodded toward a shiny green Jaguar, a classic. My real dad loved vintage cars. He would have admired this beauty. Yeah, I wanted to take a ride in that. Could see myself in it with my gold hair flying, smiling next to Gabe, his big hands on the wheel. This was insane. Things like this did not happen in real life.

  Fear gripped me. I felt cold. And shaken. What was I doing? No one would know where I was. But even if I went home or texted my roommates, who would care? I had no family, no boyfriend, nothing to be here for, no one to help me. If my instincts were right, no matter how much of a pervert he might be, Gabe did want to help me.

  I eyed the car, its gleaming chrome, the jaguar on the shapely hood leaping into the future. Gabe extended his hand. I gave him mine. He led me to his car and opened the passenger door. A gentleman. Major points. My skirt rode up so high, I couldn’t avoid giving him a flash of my new white lace thong. Something had made me want to wear white that morning, as though deep inside I knew I was about to get a shot at a new life. Gabe gave me a little salute, the side of his hand touching his brow, and closed the door. I was really doing this.

  He drove well, attentive to the crush of traffic with its fast cabs, lumbering busses, lost tourists and masses of people who didn’t belong behind the wheel. As we left the city, I managed to stop gripping the seat and relax. He took us across the bridge and into a hilly, relatively unpopulated part of the East Bay, unknown terrain for me. There were probably still wild animals out there in the golden fields with clumps of trees. A whole different world from San Francisco, closer to the rural landscape where I grew up. My eyes stung. No going home for me, not ever. When Mom died, the proceeds from the sale of the place covered her funeral, my computer, my move to San Francisco and a few months of rent. My inheritance was long gone, and that place, tainted with memories of my step-dad, stopped being home long before Mom died. But it still gave me an empty feeling inside; the place where I grew up belonged to someone else and I’d never have a home to go back to. I felt adrift in the world. It stunned me that someone, someone handsome, intelligent and wealthy, was offering me a home. My chest filled. I didn’t really know what to do. I felt too overwhelmed to talk. I was relieved when Gabe put on some music, old blues, and let the sultry music fill the silence between us.

  He pulled up at an airstrip and parked in a low white building, the only building in sight. Okay, I was going to trust this guy, though being driven to a remote location wasn’t helping. He led me out into the dazzling sunlight on the huge expanse of payment that led off into
the sky. Clicked a button and the door rolled down securing his Jag.

  “This way.” I had no idea what to expect, just teetered after him in my work shoes, rushing to catch up to his long-legged stride. His broad shoulders made him a joy to watch. The man had the fluid, strong moves of a former athlete. Baseball maybe. I could picture his fine ass in a baseball uniform.

  Once past the building, the jet came into view. “Holy —.”

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Come aboard.” He led the way. His amazing watch flashed in the sun. It had an instrument panel of dials. An aviator’s watch? Or maybe something else, a controlling device suited to a master of the universe, the utterly potent hero or villain of the future I was about to fly into.

  Once inside, he closed the hatch. I heard the step unit, whatever that was called, rolling away. Everything was automated. That’s why there was no one around. I’d stepped into a science fiction flick. That was one way to ensure privacy, set things up that required no staff. My heart raced and I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  Of course, this level of privacy would be ideal for abduction, say in case Gabe was actually involved in organ harvesting or sex trafficking. But seriously, while I was aware many men found me sexy, I wasn’t deluded as to my value. Sure, I was busty with a narrow waist, well-proportioned hips and ass with the curves that attracted men to turn their heads when I walked by, but so were countless women. Being blonde with blue eyes and delicate features with full lips was an advantage for getting jobs that depended on media-approved looks, but I wasn’t some rare beauty. Girls capable of exhibitionism or in any way suitable for prostitution, the abducted and drugged version or otherwise, were available everywhere. There was no reason to go to so much time and expense for one girl.

  I’d read that sex trafficking operations had moved to local abductions to save on transportation expenses, changing the game from one of luring poor girls from other countries with false job offers, to one of nabbing tourists. Unless I was confusing a movie with real life. Sex trafficking was the sort of thing that seemed to get sensationalized all the time by people looking to sell something. It was hard to believe in it, horrible to think about it happening to someone scared and trapped in that life, even though some reports seemed legitimate. More than the idea of forced prostitution, what really got to me was all the corrupt people that let it exist.