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Copyright© 2020 Evernight Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0128-8
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BILLION DOLLAR LOVE:
MANLOVE EDITION
BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE ANTHOLOGY
Beautiful Chains by L.J. Longo
Or Something by Loralynne Summers
Fallen Angel by Louise Collins
Can’t Be Bought by Victoria Vallo
Possession by Pelaam
As Long as You Love Me by Megan Slayer
BEAUTIFUL CHAINS
L.J. Longo
Copyright © 2020
“Ladies, I know you all think of burlesque with holy reverence, but can we be a little less hymn and a lot more sex? Thank you. Once again, from the top.”
Mercy can harass the chorus girls mercilessly, because Faizz is at the piano. Scissors sits on the floor, sketchpad in her lap, growling over a costume plan at her elbow on the stage. Joanna and Van whisper in the mid-seats, the only audience.
Carlos stands downstage, his usual worn-out hoodie discarded. He’s wearing his sunglasses—because of course, he is—but his face tilts down contemplatively. His arms are out-stretched, accidentally flexing muscles I didn’t know he had. It’s a strange picture, the techie alone, center-stage, tanned skin and black tank top soaking in the too near light of the lowered grid.
For the first time, I give myself permission to stare at Carlos, because everyone else is looking, too, trying to figure out what he’s doing. Standing so still. Caressed by the light. Could be mistaken for hot if you were into shy guys. Which I’m not.
“Sweetness,” Van calls down. “You gonna sing us some Jesus Christ Superstar?”
Carlos shakes his head but otherwise doesn’t move. “I’m focusing the lights by the heat on my skin.”
That’s … too sexy for comfort.
He ruins his coolness at once, by cringing. “I mean if I’m in the way. I can, uh … fix it—the lights—later. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
There’s nothing for me in this damned squalid theater. Not right now, anyway. So, unnoticed by the chorus, company, or costumer, I steal away. Carlos sees me, but only because I wave to get Van’s attention.
“Got nothing for you, Harp.” She dismisses me.
“Bye.” Carlos really is too innocent and sweet for theater. “Get home safe.”
I smile over my shoulder at him, but I don’t answer because Mercy is not passive in his aggression.
“May we have some quiet, thank you. Ladies, once more. From Bar 12.”
****
Outside New York City, people’s heads turn when I pass—with as much confusion as admiration, as if tall, blond, and skinny is a new breed of humanity. But in NYC, no one stares when I get on the uptown B, no one points me out to their friends. No one tries to strike up a conversation or suggests with cheerful ignorance that I ought to be a model.
The doorman to the condo tower notices me. But doormen in historic apartments on 5th Ave. are as subtle as the gilding on the ceilings; they blend in with all the dizzy little details. They recognize who belongs and know when they want attention and when they want to slip past unseen.
But somebody is watching when I enter the penthouse suite.
It’s not a true penthouse, not in the sense of being the very top of the building or having the rooftop terrace. But with the decorative beams on the ceiling and the sunken marble floor, it’s damned close. Central Park peeks between other luxury apartments, and across the room, I can look slightly down on Rockefeller Center.
I unwrap my red scarf and peel out of my fall jacket, slinky as a showgirl. After all, there’s a genuine silver hook to hang it on. I bend to politely remove my shoes, then rake my hands through my curls to settle them. Putting on a little show for the man I can’t see yet.
The room is lit only by the city’s false starlight and the blinking lights of hidden electronics. The darkness purrs with machines. A smart tower to command the lights and heat and music. At least one camera and God knows what else this dark, minimalist décor is hiding.
The centerpiece is the kabuki mask on the far wall. Even in the darkness the silver and gold catch the light. It’s a demon face. Black and hollow-eyed, the lower half is carved away to let the performer rant and roar, but the cheeks and eyes and brow are extravagantly detailed. Inlaid with precious metal to give that inhuman face the impression of an ever-changing expression. The glowing big screen TV hangs beside it like a caption box.
“Welcome Home, Omocha.”
I freeze at the steps, poised to walk down into the sunken den, but helpless before that mask. My heart taps a ghoulish Bob Fosse routine, one frenetic pulse inside an ocean of darkness and calm. If I could remember free-will, I’d turn and flee, but he’s here, and he’s watching.
So, I stand tall and dignified, in a casual first position, and watch the mask and the screen for further instructions.
The text does not change.
It ought to be a command. Half-riddle. Half road-map. A precursor to tonight’s torture.
Once, it read: “Ice. Cool down in the kitchen.” And I’d found a bowl of ice in the freezer. I’d spent fifteen minutes gliding it over my lips, around my nipples, into my ass. Playing by myself while he watched from … somewhere. He’d emerged like a phantom, faceless in the shadows, but hot as the sun. He’d burned away the chill, stolen more than my breath and sanity as he fucked me.
Once, it read: “Ropes in the bedroom.” And I’d found a silken rope and a kimono to match folded on his huge bed. The light in the room transitioned to an eerie blue light when I changed into his costume. But my lover didn’t come until I looped my hands in a noose. Wearing only that strange mask, he’d more than explored my body that night, tying me down in a dozen different ways, opening and shutting the robe as if debating whether he preferred me to look more lascivious or innocent while he fucked me.
Tonight, the empty mask leers, as if it also remembers every time I’ve come.
“Welcome Home, Omocha.”
The flickering smile on the mask isn’t real. Just the product of an overworked imagination that’s already on high-alert and one hard shove from a drop into madness.
Welcome home? What the hell do I do with that?
“Mr. Ito?”
No change in the darkness or silence.
“Mr. Ito, are you here?”
Nothing.
The silence, the cool, the dark fills me. Like hiding backstage while the rest of the company frolicked as an ensemble. Only here I don’t even have the black-on-black of the stagehand’s silent, selfless dance to keep me company.
Just that strange silver and gold half-face on the wall.
Does it mean, “Find the maid costume and pretend to clean my spotless apartment?” Maybe, “Take up a position and be an object in my home.” Or maybe a pet? I told him I don’t do pet-play. And what the hell is Omocha?
According to the Internet, omocha is Japanese for “toy”. Judging by the anime, there might be sexual connotations.
Real cute, Ito.
The
minimalist room has no place for toys. Not children’s toys and not sexy ones either. Maybe in the coffee table drawer… I walk toward it to investigate.
As I step on the stairs, the lights change. One bright beam, like God’s eye, shines down from the high ceiling and illuminates an ornately folded black cloth.
The text of the screen changes at long last.
“Naked except for the hood. On knees and elbows. Find your light.”
A perverse relief fills me. I can give Mr. Ito what he wants.
And get what I need.
****
Memory is an odd dance partner. I saw Mr. Ito unmasked once, but all I can remember is the cut of his suit, the darkness of his eyes, the firm line of his unflinching mouth.
Mercy, Van, and I performed at Charity Ball. The kind of weird, wonderful combination of jazz ballet and neoclassical music that only the avant-garde tolerated. Big hit on YouTube in the next few hours. Well, big for our company.
Mr. Ito didn’t stand out right away, another black suit in a jungle of black suits. Only artists wore colors, and we swirled like beautiful birds, pecking for promises and destroying cocktails.
I flitted toward him because he watched me. Typically, all eyes are on Van—and why not, she’s a former Rockette and a stunning woman. But his gaze licked over my body, like a tiger watching a particularly drunk child playing too near to the wild. When I purposefully walked toward him, he detached from the suits he orbited and boldly faced me.
He bowed slightly. “Your performance was exquisite.”
“I appreciate that.”
His English was good. We talked about Van and the choreography, the room’s loudness. I made him laugh. He admitted to a career in technology, coding, marketing, something about a start-up sold to Microsoft.
My memory has given him the mask’s face, though that’s far too eccentric even for this clientele. So, I only remember his mouth. When I asked his name, he’d paused, and the two thin lines of his brown lips pressed tighter as if his own name was a detail he could decide. The expression settled into a formal frown. “Call me Mr. Ito. What’s your pitch?”
A summer camp for rural kids. The inverse of sending city kids to the country for a taste of nature, we’d pull in children from all across America to introduce them to NYC. Matinees on Broadway, art galleries, the museums, conclude with a talent showcase if we got the funding…
But Van, Mercy, and I had a formal pitch scheduled with Mr. Joji Ito and several others. I couldn’t pitch alone any more than I could dance the tango by myself.
So, I smiled wryly. “Mr. Ito, I’m shocked. I don’t perform on command. Not for free, anyway. You’ll have to wait until the proper pitch to see the full song and dance.”
For a moment, his calm shattered with surprise. Was that too flirtatious? Or was he just not used to being played with?
He smiled broadly, and his gaze grew bolder than before. “I look forward to it.”
****
Naked on the marble floor of his apartment, blind and deaf to the world, I’ve had plenty of time to consider this particular posture. I think it’s called a kowtow. I’ve seen it in Asian films when someone has serious begging to do. It’s an inherently vulnerable position, head on the floor, ass raised. Especially sexual when one is naked except for a hood.
It has a lot of potential as a dance. Like a cocoon or a seed ready to burst forward. An entire life cycle in a few choice poses. Rise to the feet. Stretch toward the light. Once upright, spiral on the foot. Reach for the air, the audience, the aether for attention and affection. Wilt unfulfilled. Die by degrees. Finish—no, not crumpled and lifeless, there’s too much desolation in that—finish in the same pose. Hopeful in rebirth.
Could be cute.
The muscles in my back twitch. Stillness is the hardest part of any performance for me. Especially when I little. So many people—photographers, choreographers, pornographers—want blond-haired children to be asleep.
The temperature rises. Like being under stage lights. I’ve laced the silk hood close to my neck, so there’s no space for me to peek out under.
But I know he’s arrived. Raising the lights, looking at me.
Or maybe it’s my imagination.
I read once, when deprived of its senses, the human brain will create artificial stimuli. Phantom sounds. Fairy lights.
But I’m so still and so aware of my body, I’m sure there’s the slightest vibration in the stone. Which is impossible. I strain to hear his footstep or his breathing. Mr. Ito, such a quiet hunter.
I wish I could remember his face; wish I’d met him more than once before masks and blindfolds. He towers in my mind, broad and stern. Sometimes I remember a youthful innocence in his cheeks, though there’s nothing innocent about these private performances. Other times I remember an older man and a touch of silver, though that doesn’t track with his strength, his desperation when he finally gives in and fucks me.
He enjoys tempting himself. If he’s actually here, tonight’s game is called, “How long can I walk around my toy before I can’t control myself?” Maybe it’s “Who will break first?”
If he is actually here, I don’t need to tempt myself. I don’t mind losing his games, so I make a soft little moan and lift my ass.
He’s here all right.
He sucks in a breath as if the sight of me hurt him. Then he descends, like the king of the heavens stealing a beautiful golden-haired slave. Fingers dig into my hips, teeth graze the curve of my shoulder, lips brush my mid-back, palms press my head. He moves so quickly, I can’t pinpoint how he’s standing. Can’t anticipate where his next caress will crush me. Can’t decide if he wants me to fold and fall or if he wants resistance.
I squirm to avoid the kisses that hurt and the bites that excite. My own voice sounds oppressively loud, as if the silk echoes every pant, every gasp, every whimper.
As soon as his finger invades my ass, I hold my ground. He’s in a fierce mood tonight, and since I’ve prepared for his invasion, he takes full advantage. If he’d left me with more than a shred of dignity, I might be embarrassed that before I left the theater, I’d spent a good long time in the bathroom with a tube of liquid silicone, hoping for this exact attack.
Mr. Ito pauses, two fingers buried deep, staying still. His ragged breaths are choked by passion. Or is that my own labored breathing? When Mr. Ito starts making demands of my body, I get disoriented.
Something slithers. Not my hood. Nothing on my skin except the heat of the lights, the coolness of his breath, and the tiniest flick of his fingers far inside me.
No, that’s his trousers opening—I imagine what they look like. Black. Tight on his meaty legs, expensive stitching, and shiny buttons. He’s teased himself too much. The snake of his cock strains along his thigh, unable to find enough stretch to escape its perfectly tailored prison.
Once Mr. Ito helps it free, the head licks between my cheeks, under his fingers.
“Okay?” His voice is maddeningly calm. Unruffled by the brutal sex he’s about to inflict on his helpless toy. As if he’s deciding what shoes to wear and my opinion is a mere formality and won’t impact his choice.
I don’t trust my own voice. Too unreliable. It may come out too vulnerable, too breathy. Or worse, if I try to match his coolness, too sarcastic.
So, I nod.
He spreads his fingers and pushes his cock underneath them like he’s stroking his own head as he forces into me.
Fuck! Get a longer-lasting lube.
I control myself. Don’t use foul language in front of the patron. My squirming makes him crush my shoulders, sink his cock deeper. But he frees his hand. Much better.
He collapses my chest and head to the cold marble floor. His pelvis grinds against my ass, and he pulses forward, driving deeper. Every muscle in my body screams to fight off this violence, the sudden pain, and the smothering weight, but if someone could take a picture of me under this hood, they’d catch a stupidly satisfied grin. I’m glad I don’t
have to hide.
He tortures me with his insistent thrust, then kisses the nape of my neck, gentle as a drop of rain. This unworldly juxtaposition unleashes a flood of lust in me, and my body betrays me, pushing back—not to buck him—but to bring him deeper.
He only withdraws an instant, so he can slam back in. I yelp—yes, shamefully high-pitched and one airy breath away from a swear word. Then bury my head in my arms to stifle the sound.
“Let me hear you.”
He pummels in short, staccato thrusts, and I can’t help but yelp again. Not when Mr. Ito enjoys it. I’ve surrendered everything. All control over my body, my voice, myself. And he takes advantage, abusing the tender flesh in his care with a series of bites and hard gropes. I’ll be bruised all over in the morning—my spin-class students will get a good dirty chuckle about that—but I don’t give a damn.
His sex reduces me to a stifled curl. I am nothing but the small, bony thing for him to fuck. God, I can’t get enough of him. He wants me so bad it hurts him, and I love it. My forehead presses to the floor, my mouth to my arm. No sound and no movement from me, in case it makes his grip tighten, and his teeth worry my neck again.
Then soft fabric loops around my neck. His tie? It pulls gently back in his hand, tight around my throat.
“Okay?” His voice is husky with lust, deep and animal. He’s losing control, and he wants to leash me.
I nod. Who am I to tell Mr. Ito what to do with his toy?
He pulls the tie tight, and the pressure forces me to arch my back and extend my arms. My mind flashes insanely to yoga class. This is cow pose. Spine extended, not compressed. Gaze up. Shoulders relaxed down. Fingers spread.
Fuck.
I’ll never sink into this pose again without thinking of Mr. Ito. Of his cock buried to the hilt. Of his hand clawing at my chest. Of his tie tight on my throat. Going to make beginners’ yoga class more challenging.
Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition Page 1
