Slaves of the Billionaire (2 page)

             
Trent was shorter than I had imagined. He was slightly less than six feet and his hair was threaded with gray. He was handsome, but I attributed that to his self-confidence rather than any one feature. Trent nodded in my direction and went up to Alexia who was drinking a twelve dollar bottle of water that Vogue had supplied at her request. Alexia set down her water bottle on the vanity and stared at Trent through the mirror. Trent put his hand on Alexia’s shoulder and then slowly moved it down until he was cupping her breast. Alexia was very still. She closed her eyes. I then saw Trent squeeze her breast. It was not a gentle movement. He gripped her breast with brutality. Alexia’s faced tensed, but she did not cry out. I stood staring at them as I held a Dolce & Gabana frock in my hands. Trent looked away from gazing at Alexia and noticed me. My mouth was agape and I was flushed. I felt hot in the superbly air conditioned studio. Trent walked toward me and I fiddled with hanging the dress.

             
“How do you do? I’m Trent Raider. Alexia is mine.”

             
I didn’t dare make eye contact. I looked down at my blue painted toe nails sticking out of my peep toed shoes.

             
“You’re girlfriend?” I muttered.

             
“I suppose she is. Can you look at me?”

             
“I...” I looked up and noticed his gray eyes were as welcoming as a blade.

             
He looked me up and down openly. “Interesting. What’s your name?”

             
“Megan Jasper.”

             
“Why can’t you look me in the eye, Megan Jasper?”

             
“I...I don’t know.”

             
“Are you owned?”

             
“What?”

             
“Are you owned?” He spoke slowly, as if he were talking to a mentally challenged person.

             
“I don’t know what you mean.”

             
“Interesting. Can you come to my office?”

             
I finally looked up. “About Vogue?”

             
“No.”

             
“About...”

             
“Come at 6PM. Carnegie Tower. Thirty ninth floor.”

             
Trent turned smoothly and left the studio. I saw Alexia eyeing me through the vanity mirror. Her usual neutral expression looked unhappy. I smiled quickly and her cat eye’s narrowed. She mouthed, “Slave.”

             
At 5:50 PM I was sitting on the 39th floor in the reception area. The receptionist was a slender, black woman with high cheekbones. Her voice was pleasant, but firm. She had asked if I wanted water and I shook my head. She went back to answering phones and typing. There were several business magazines on the table before me. I flipped through them, but they had none of the gloss and beauty of the fashion magazines. I had no interest and decided to read my email on my phone. At 6:10 PM I was still waiting. I looked at the receptionist expectantly, but she paid no attention to me. At 6:30 PM I asked the receptionist if Trent knew I was here.

“Of course, he does.” She smiled and then answered an incoming call.

At 7:00 PM the receptionist signed off on her computer and gathered her purse and cell phone.

“I’m sure he’ll be out shortly,” she said. She then went to the bank of elevators pressed the down button. A door clicked. The double doors to the left of me opened and Trent emerged. His jacket and tie were off and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

“Come in.”

His office was as large as I expected it to be, which is to say a middle class family home could probably fit very comfortably in it. He had an exciting view of Central Park, the Hudson River and the Palisades. I stood in the middle of all the vastness and waited.
The sky was darkening and soon it would be night and all the lights of Manhattan would be shining brightly.

Trent stood behind his desk, which had the size and elegance of a high speed motorboat. He pressed a button under the desk and the vast windows slowly shuttered with a gauzy black fabric. The office dimmed.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Everyone does.” I laughed nervously.

“No. Do you really know who I am?”

I was confused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You saw me with Alexia. You witnessed a moment between us.”

“I’m sorry. I was just...”

“Shhhh. You witnessed a moment and you were excited. I could see it in you.”

I looked at the leafy greenness of Central Park. I was panicked, but trying desperately not to show it. “Were you turned on?”

I hesitated. Trent seemed the type to appreciate honesty and yet he had the power to rob me of my job with Vogue. I gambled. “Yes.”

“Alexia is my girlfriend. She is a prop. She props up my public life. But I have a private life.
A varied private life. A life hidden from all but a select few. Would you like to be the few?”

I didn’t answer.

“Who are you Megan?”

I didn’t like that question because I didn’t know.

“I know who you are.” It was a simple declaration that sent shivers throughout my body. “Lift up your skirt, pull down your panties. Lean over my desk.”

“No.” It was a reflexive statement. I wanted to protect myself, but somewhere inside was the Alcott Prep
girl who had begged her cousin to choke her. There was inside me a person who craved submission. I could only come while masturbating if I thought about being spanked, slapped or choked.

Trent said nothing. I think he knew I was wrestling with myself, confronting my true desires. I walked slowly towards his desk, lifted my lavender dress, pulled down my white cotton panties and leaned over. My head was turned to the right and my cheek was pressed flat on the cool surface of the desk.

Trent walked around and stood behind me. I felt his warm hand pressing down on my neck.

“You are never to call me by my name,” he said. “Not Trent. Not Mr. Raider.
Master. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t hear you.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I repeated.

He ran his hands through my hair. “Such beautiful hair.” His other hand slid between my legs. I moved into his hand. “Don’t move.” He then slapped me hard on my buttocks. I yelped. He hit again and again. “That was just a warm up. I’m going to hit you again. Five times. I want you to count. Each time I hit you, I want you to say the number. One, two, three and so forth. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

He took his hands away from my body. I heard a rustling, a clinking and then a swoosh. Trent had taken off his belt. A second later the belt cracked against my buttocks. He hit hard and I cried out. I forgot to say the number.

“You’re not following the rules.”

“One,” I said.

“Too late.
You get five more. Starting counting to ten.” He then hit me with the belt, harder than the first time, and I yelled “one” in a strangled moan. The belt struck me again. Two. Again. Three. Again. Four. My buttocks felt raw and sore. I was conflicted. I wanted the pain to both stop and continue. Five. Again. Six. Again. Seven. I started crying. Tears were pooling on the desk. Eight. Again. Nine. Again. Ten. I was whimpering.

“Good. Good. You did well.”

I started to stand up but he pushed me down again. “We’re not done. Spread your legs more.” I did as told. I heard his zipper open. I could then feel his penis jutting against my ass.

“What…”

“Don’t move.” Trent then grabbed my hair, pulled back on my head so I lifted off the desk with an arched back and plunged his cock in my ass. I had never had anal sex before and a wave of shock crashed over me. He was fucking me like a dog and I loved it. Back and forth. In and out. Roughly. Oh, Trent.
I am painfully yours
, I screamed in my head.

Trent pulled out. “Get on your knees and face me.”

I turned and fell to my knees. His large cock was level with my eyes. “Turn your face up,” he said. He then stroked his cock with his hand twice and erupted onto my face. I could feel it dripping down my cheeks, nose and into the corners of my mouth. Trent zipped his pants, put on his belt and tucked in his shirt. He then took his right hand and smeared his semen all over my face and down my neck.

“What a filthy whore. Go clean up.” He pointed to a door.

In the bathroom, I washed my face with soap and water. My hair was floating around my shoulders and my green eyes were shiny with desire. I smoothed my dress and went out into the office. Trent was on the phone talking about margin calls. I stood by his desk, smiling.

“Excuse me,” he said into the phone. He looked at me impatiently. “I’ll let you know when I want to see you again. See yourself out.” He went back to talking. My smile faded and I began to grimace as I rode the elevator down.

I didn’t hear from Trent again until two weeks later. He called my cell phone. I was at home loading the dishwasher. I was wearing old sweats and a stained t-shirt. I was comfortable and had no idea Trent would call.

“Hello?” I answered the phone impatiently.

“Come down. There is a car waiting outside your building.”

“Master,” I whispered. I was thrilled. “I’m not properly dressed. I wasn’t expecting to go out.”

“You have exactly five minutes. Wear black nylons, a skirt, a tank top, no panties, no bra. Wear high heels. Put on red lipstick. You have five minutes. My car will leave and I will no longer be your master.” The phone clicked off.

I ran into my bedroom and rummaged in my closet and dresser for the wardrobe he requested. All my thigh high black nylons had holes so I shimmied into pantyhose. I ran a brush through my hair and slicked on Chanel lipstick, the Inimitable shade. I grabbed my purse and phone and hurried to the elevator. Mrs. Dorsey, my next door neighbor with five poodles, entered the elevator with me. She eyed me up and down, looked away and hugged her white poodle closer to her. The dog growled. The elevator
dinged and I ran, as fast as I could in 5 inch heels, to the street. There was a stretch limousine double parked in the street. The door opened. I ducked and sat in the back seat. Trent was sitting in the gray interior with a crystal glass in his hand.

“Ten more seconds and I was going to leave.”

“Hi,” I gushed.

“
Shhh. No talking.” Trent pressed a button. “Davis, you can pull away now. Drive as I directed.”

“Yes,” said a male voice over the intercom. There was solid black glass separating the back of the car from the chauffeur.

Trent then turned and looked at me. He pulled my tank top and then rubbed my nipple through the fabric. It was erect and tingled. He pulled my skirt up.

“No thigh highs.”

“They were all ripped.”

“I see. Spread you
r legs.”

I hiked my skirt up. He then reached over and ripped my nylons in the crotch. He then took a pen out of his pocket and poked three holes in the legs of my stockings. Several runs coursed down my legs to my toes.

“Looks like your nylons are ripped.”

Trent then took the glass in his hand, which was filled with c
lear liquid, and threw it on my tank top. I could smell vodka. My white tank top was soaked and my breasts were visible. Trent looked angry. He looked, briefly, like a madman who would destroy me. Trent grabbed me by my hair and yanked me.

“You’re such a slut.
A worthless slut.”

I whimpered. He pulled me onto the floor of the car and yanked me back and forth.

“Did you think this would be easy? Did you think it would be easy being my slut? My slave?”

“No,” I yelled.

“No, what?”

“No, Master.”

“Come here.” He patted his lap. I crawled onto him. I was careful not to expose the wet front of my top to his shirt. He smoothed my hair and placed an arm around my shoulders. I could smell his cologne. Deep and rich like his voice. I rested my head on his shoulder and I felt peace. My breath mirrored the rhythm of his breathing. His hand tightened in my hair and I knew he was going to be brutal again. He pushed me off of him and grabbed me by my face. He unzipped his pants and shoved his cock into my mouth. My mouth was filled with him. I choked. He pulled out, so I could catch my breath. He jabbed his cock in again.

“Deeper,” he said. “Deeper.”

I choked and spittle dribbled down my chin.

“Good girl.” He then moved his cock into my mouth again, but for a longer time. I breathed through my nose and tried to take more of him into my mouth.

Then I pulled away. He slapped me. Hard across my right cheek. I laughed with pleasure.

“You like that don’t you?”

I begged for more.

“You’re a mess.” He reached down and smeared my lipstick across my face. He pressed the button on the door.
“Driver. Pull over.”