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A BDSM, Billionaire, Erotic Romance
Part Three of the
‘Bought by the Billionaire’ Series
Author: Simone Leigh
Part Three
The Master’s Courtesan
I wake up in my dingy bedroom, and for a moment, I stare up in confusion at the ceiling, the events of the previous day swirling up inside me.
It seems unreal—fantastic but unreal. I shake my head. After meeting and having mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger, he offered me a job as his ... his what? Courtesan? Call girl? And I accepted.
He said he owned the hotel. He said he owned a huge company. And I believed it all. Took it at face value.
My stomach churns. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. Was I taken in by some con man, after a quick roll with the maid?
I wrote a letter last night, resigning my old, horrible job cleaning at the hotel.
Oh my God! I resigned my job! What did I do with the letter?
Then I remember. It’s still in his suite. I’ve not delivered it yet, so technically, I’m still working at the hotel, and due to start my shift again this afternoon.
I shake my head. Can it be real? The whole of the previous day feels surreal to me — from my foolish decision to use the stranger’s shower, to the mind-boggling sex, when he found me there, naked in his bathroom.
I haul myself out of bed and set about making some coffee and toast. My head doesn’t work in the morning until I have coffee inside me.
The intercom buzzes. “Delivery for Elizabeth Kimberley.”
I buzz back. “Just leave it in the pigeonhole.”
“Sorry. Needs a signature.”
“Okay, I’m coming down.”
What could it be? Am I expecting anything? I shake my head, trying to think if I have perhaps ordered something on the internet and forgotten about it. Not very likely on my very limited budget.
The courier is waiting in the tatty lobby, with its peeling paint and the smell of dampness. In fact, he has two items for me, a letter and a package. Puzzled, I sign for them and take them back to my apartment. Opening the letter first, I take a deep breath as I read the contents on Haswell Corporation letterhead.
“Dear Miss Kimberley,
We are pleased to inform you that your application for an internship with our company has been accepted.
Please report to our offices ...”
I read on, catching my breath as I do so at the stated salary, which is much, much more than I earn now in my miserable cleaning job. Then I do a double-take. I am being instructed to report to the offices this afternoon!
My eyes drift to the parcel. With slightly trembling fingers, I open it to find a skirt and jacket, blouses, and a pair of shoes, all very sensible and business-like, but beautifully made and expensive looking. I check the labels and take a deep breath. These designer brands cost a fortune. I would never be able to buy them myself.
I try them on, smoothing down the gorgeous slinky fabric over my curves. Looking at myself in my cracked mirror, I have to admit, the outfit looks great, and not quite as sensible as I had first thought. The jacket is tightly tailored to my trim waist and large breasts. The blouse is cut just low enough to suggest cleavage without actually revealing anything. The shoes have just enough of a heel to show off my legs, and the skirt, whilst at a business-like knee-length, is cut with a sexy swirl at the hem.
I love it. Obviously, it is a gift from him, but how did he know my size? For that matter, how did he know my address to have them delivered?
I check the time. I have two hours before I must report for my new job. I gulp down my coffee. A little low-key makeup and my long red hair confined into an orderly bun, and I feel ready to take on the world.
*****
Arriving at the Haswell Corporation office building, all steel and plate glass, I hand over the letter at the reception. The receptionist checks my name against a day book and directs me to the tenth floor, where I find a second reception desk, with a pleasant-looking woman sitting behind it.
Again, I hold out the letter. “Hello, my name is Elizabeth Kimberley. I was told to report here.”
The woman smiles. “Ah, yes, Miss Kimberley. Mr Haswell is expecting you. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She buzzes through on an intercom. “Mr Haswell, Elizabeth Kimberley for you.”
“Thank you, Francis,” replies the voice I came to know so well yesterday, under such unusual circumstances. “I’ll just be five minutes. Please ask her to take a seat.”
Francis points me to a row of low chairs, and gesturing to a coffee thermos on a low table, she says, “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Kimberley. Do help yourself to some coffee.” But I am feeling too nervous already to want more coffee now.
After a short time, the intercom buzzes. “Francis, please show her in.”
“Come with me.” She smiles. “It’s just through here.”
Francis leads me through, taps on a door, and then after a moment opens it. “Miss Kimberley for you, sir.” Then she leaves, pulling the door closed behind her.
The room is a wide-open office; one wall is entirely glass and overlooks the stunning cityscape far below. Neutral colours and minimalist decor only accentuate a large desk in a beautiful polished timber, walnut perhaps. I do not study it, because behind the desk, sits Richard Haswell.
He rises, smiling. In a dark suit, white shirt, tie, and immaculately polished shoes, his slightly greying hair contrasts against deeply tanned skin and piercingly blue eyes. Ye gods, but he is handsome. And that smile makes me melt inside, as I remember the same smile the night before.
“Ah, Elizabeth, good to see you again. Have a seat.” He waves me to a couch overlooking the amazing vista. “Coffee?”
“Please, yes.” Still a little anxious, not knowing quite what is expected of me, perhaps some caffeine pumping through my bloodstream might help. We have a contract, this man and I, and so far, he is fulfilling his end of it perfectly. Does he expect me to perform my end of it here?
He buzzes through, “Francis, coffee for two, please.” Then he looks at me, perhaps divining my confusion. “Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Here and now, in this place, you are a trainee, an intern. Your other duties come later.”
I smile nervously and nod my head.
“The suit looks good on you. I see I got the sizes right.”
“It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Elizabeth, but it is not simply a gift. Working here, you are representing my corporation, and I cannot have my representatives looking like, forgive me, but looking like hotel cleaners. Those clothes you were wearing last night, while well-chosen I’m sure on your limited budget, are not the kind of clothes I want my people to be seen in.”
“However,” and he smiles again, arching his brows, “there will be others. Some should be waiting for you when you get home. I expect you to wear them when you visit me this evening.”
There is a tap at the door; Francis silently enters with a tray bearing a coffee pot and two cups, sets it down on the coffee table and just as silently, departs.
I gulp, then ask, “How did you know my address to send the things?”
“I asked the driver I sent you home with last night to make a note of it, and aren’t you forgetting? You wrote your resignation letter on my laptop. Your address was on the letter too.” He hesitates. “That’s not a good address, Elizabeth. Not a safe place for a single girl to live.” He pauses. “I am assuming you are single? No jealous husband out there?”
I shake my head.
“Boyfriend?”
I shake my head again. “I’ve been working so hard. My job and my studies ...”
He nods in satisfaction. “Of course. Good. That’s one potential problem dealt with then. Now ... and I must ask you this ...” He leans forward, closer to me. “Are you still happy with our arrangement? You need to tell me.”
I nod, my mouth a little dry. “Yes, you’ve done everything you promised so far. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”
He nods his head in approval. “Perfect answer, Elizabeth. Yes, I always keep my promises, and I deliver my end of any agreement. It’s good to know that you see it that way too.”
“Won’t people think it a bit odd that I suddenly appear like this? Out of the blue? It’s not as though I had an interview or anything.”
He laughs. “I think you did rather well at your interview last night, Elizabeth. As for people thinking it odd, no, they won’t. I have a number of employees who I met outside of normal channels and have offered them a job.”
He sees my expression and laughs. “No, not quite like you and I met, and no, not with the same agreement. But, Francis out there, for example, my personal assistant, I met her on a train. She was reading the business pages of her newspaper, quite unusual in a woman, if you don’t mind me saying so. We started talking about her views on equities and a city merger that was coming up. She was working as a waitress—all that potential going to waste. I hired her on the spot. A good personal assistant needs to understand the business of her employer. So, no, don’t worry, the staff here know that I choose employees for my own reasons.”
I am feeling more reassured. “So, what happens now?”
“Francis will take you to HR. They’ll take you through the usual formalities, and then we’ll put you through the usual intern routine. You will spend time in every department of the company: finance, procurement, marketing, everything. You will see the whole machine, and we can find out how much you already know and see where you can fit in best.”
He leans back in his seat, holding me with his eyes. “Now, about your other duties—when you finish here for the day, you will go home and put on the clothes you will find waiting for you. Wear your hair up, as you have it now. I expect to see you in my suite at eight o’clock. Any questions?”
“Um, I’m not sure what to call you.”
He laughs. “Here, I am Mr Haswell. When I take you out to dinner, I am Richard. In my apartment, you will call me Master. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr Haswell.”
“Finish your coffee.” He buzzes the intercom again. “Francis, can you take Elizabeth to HR please?”
The rest of the day passes in a blur as I sign my contract of employment, am introduced to people, shown my office, and talked through rules and procedures. By five-thirty I am exhausted, my head is spinning, and I am ready to go home. I am eager too, to see what is waiting for me.
There are a number of parcels waiting for me in the tatty lobby. Dashing up to my room, I open them with trembling anticipation.
There is a pair of shoes, black satin with impossibly high heels; they are beautiful but not intended for actually walking in. Richard is tall, but standing whilst wearing them, I might be taller. Or perhaps not, as he is well over six feet tall. And, I reflect, we are all the same height lying down ...
There are also stockings and underwear, mainly in black, but some in red and others in white. A bodice, with long silk laces dangling invitingly. A skirt, with a long slit up the side, in a far more daring cut than I would normally wear. Another skirt, this one a wraparound style, and I notice it’s cut for easy access. The list goes on, and I am dazzled at suddenly having so many beautiful things.
I cannot wear them all, and so I take my time, trying them on, in turn, twisting this way and that, trying to see myself from all angles in the stained mirror. Eventually, I make my choice, adding only a small necklace from my own things—a glass dewdrop on a silver chain. I take a long dark coat to cover my outfit.
I do not want to walk through the dark streets, and with my new and gloriously high salary, I can afford a taxi. At the hotel, I spot Ricardo at the reception desk. Damn. This could be embarrassing.
I decide to be brazen and simply walk to take the lift, behaving as though I have every right to do so. Then it dawns on me. I do have every right to do so. I have been invited. I cross the lobby, only to hear Ricardo’s voice behind me.
“Excuse me, madam. That’s a private lift. The main lift for the hotel is over there.” I turn to see him pointing, then recognition dawns across his face and his polite talk to the guests face turns into a scowl. “Beth! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? First, you don’t turn up to work, and then you march in hours late as though you owned the place?”
Words stick in my throat. I wrote my resignation letter. Surely Richard would have given it to the hotel manager?
“Mr Chambers is fucking furious with you. He told me to send you down to the office if you turned up.”
What do I say? I have no idea, so I settle for the truth. “I’m sorry, Ricardo, and please tell Mr Chambers so, but I’ll have to talk to him later. I have an appointment upstairs now.”
“The fuck you do! Get your ass into the office. I’ll tell Mr Chambers that you’re here.”
I don’t know what to do. “Ricardo, I’ll come back to explain, but right now I have to go.” And I walk back to the lift, pressing the up button.
Ricardo is talking on the phone. I overhear some of it. “...don’t know what the fuck she thinks she’s doing ...” and as he finishes speaking, Mr Chambers, my old boss, stomps into the lobby.
“What is all this about? Beth, you didn’t turn up to work today. Where were you? And what do you think you’re doing trying to take the penthouse lift?”
His face changes as he registers my appearance and how I am dressed. “What’s this then? Get your lazy butt ...”
The reception phone rings and Ricardo picks it up. “Good evening, Hotel Haswell. How can I help you? Oh, yes, Mr Haswell ... Yes?” His eyes cross over to me. “Yes, sir, she’s here. We were just having a little chat. Yes, I’ll send her right up.”
He puts the phone down and looks me up and down. “Got our feet right under the table, haven’t we?” he says, his voice dripping venom. “Go on then. Off you go. Mr Haswell wants to see you.” His lip curls. Unnerved, but determined not to show it, I lift my head high and take the lift to the penthouse.
*****
I knock on the door and Richard Haswell, billionaire owner of one of the largest corporations in the world, my Master, opens the suite door, inviting me in with an outstretched arm. Inside, he takes my coat, slipping it from my shoulders, and hanging it carefully in a closet. Dressed casually again, he wears a loose white linen shirt and tight black jeans.
He leans in to kiss me, looking closely at my face. “Are you all right, Elizabeth? You seem upset.”
I nod, not wanting to discuss what has just happened. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
He holds my gaze, clearly not believing me, but then changes the subject. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”
“Err, yes, I’m hungry. Actually, I didn’t eat,” I say. Then flushing, I add, “I was excited by all the lovely things you sent. Thank you.”
He smiles, nodding in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome, Elizabeth, and I see you have used them well. Come over here into the light. I want to see you.” He leads me to stand by the window, then sits in an armchair, looking at me. “Turn around. Let me look at you.”
A little self-consciously, I turn around under his fixed gaze. I am wearing a simple blouse, very low-cut that shows off my cleavage. The teardrop pendant dangles between my breasts. The wraparound skirt, tight on my tiny waist, flares out, silky and sensuous over my long legs. I pull the skirt slightly to one side, showing my Master one stocking covered thigh.
He sits, head on one hand, propped on the chair arm, just watching, drinking me in. He looks simply astonishing, dark-haired and dark-eyed as he gazes on, his beautifully chiselled features fixed on me. He is my Master now, but I have never felt so powerful, so alive.
“You look beautiful, Elizabeth.”
I flush again, unsure now of his wishes.
“Unbutton your blouse,” he says, “slowly.” Then seeing my eyes glance at the window, he adds, “It’s mirrored glass. No one can see in. Now, unbutton your blouse.”
My Master expects to be obeyed, and so, one by one, I slip the buttons free, until the silken garment hangs loosely from my shoulders, my full breasts protruding beyond the folds.
“Take it off.” Obediently, I let the blouse slide to the ground where it ripples onto the thick soft carpet. My bra, chosen to enhance my cleavage, is black satin, matching the thong I am wearing. I start to take off the bra, but he says, “No. Come here.” And compliantly, I approach.
I feel incredibly erotic. My total surrender of will to this man’s wishes is arousing something in me, which, until only the previous day, I had not suspected in myself. I warm from within, embers of arousal beginning to fan into flame.
“Closer. I want to be able to touch you, to smell you.”
As I stand over him, he reaches into the folds of the skirt, pulling the fabric back in a train behind me, exposing the thong panties along with my stockings. His hands continue their journey behind me to the tops of my thighs, gathering me in and pulling me close, his face against my stomach as he kisses and nibbles my skin. Then, one hand still clasping me from behind, with a single finger he slides inside the front of my panties, pulling them slightly to one side, and lowering his head, nuzzling his face against me.
I can feel his hot breath against me as he softly bites at my skin. My breathing quickens, and he smiles as he hears it. “Good girl, Elizabeth. That’s right. I’ll have you screaming soon enough, but you have to earn it.”
He laps slowly at my sex, tongue exploring, then says, “Part your legs. Spread your thighs for me.”
He slides two fingers between my legs, over my bud, and towards my pussy, stroking gently, fondling my clit, massaging my pussy lips. I begin to gasp, and I stagger slightly as my body reacts to the oh-so-gentle stimulation he is giving me, waves of arousal fanning over me.
“Did I say you could move?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not easy to stand still when you’re doing that.”
He glances up into my eyes. “Is that so? We’d better do something about it then.”
In a swift change of mood, grabbing my wrists, he pulls me into the bedroom and pushes me roughly back against a wall. Hand hard on me, flat between my breasts, he simply says, “Stay.”
On a side table, there are several items laid out: vibes, ropes, dildos, handcuffs ...
He selects the cuffs. Snapping them onto my wrists, he says, “What’s it to be? Stretched up or bending over?”
I don’t know what to say, so with my heart beginning to race, I say nothing.
“Silent again, Elizabeth? Let’s see what we can do to change that.”
Grabbing my arms roughly, he raises my arms above my head, to where I notice for the first time, a hook in the wall. Attaching the cuffs to the hook, he produces the spreader bar I saw the night before, cuffing in first one ankle, and then the other. He pulls the pins from my hair, and it cascades down over my breasts to my waist, a tumble of auburn waves.
He stands back to admire his handiwork and then shakes his head. Kneeling, he adjusts the bar, pushing it and my ankles wider. “Spread your legs. I want you open.” His voice is harsh, intense.
It is difficult to move at all, and as I try to obey, I totter, all my weight on my wrists for a moment. From his kneeling position, my Master forces my ankles farther apart, and farther, until I can barely stand at all, my wrists taking the strain. He unwraps my legs from the folds of the skirt, tucking the fabric behind me.
“That’s better,” he says. “Now we have you properly presented.”
Standing back, he starts to strip, his eyes never leaving mine as he removes his shirt. I am entranced by his tight, lean muscled body, by the dark line of hair leading from his navel to his belt and below. Broad-shouldered and tight waisted, I want nothing more than for him to fuck me stupid. His black jeans, previously a perfect fit, are straining at the front, and as he unbelts and unzips, his manhood stands upright against him, firm against his flat stomach. I watch, hypnotised by his beautiful physique, staring at his erection.
He follows my stare and grins. “Like what you see, Elizabeth? Don’t worry, it’s all going to be inside you. I’m just deciding where.”
Coming close, he lifts my breasts from the confines of the lacy bra, cupping and kneading each in turn. He tweaks at the nipples, raising them to hard brown buds, then bends to suckle one, whilst pinching and squeezing the other, sending electric waves of arousal through my core to my pussy.
My breathing is so heavy now, so fast, and moisture is running down my skin, from the sweat of my rising heat, and from my pussy, now flowing freely down my legs. He looks at me, eyes lingering on my breasts, my flat belly, the parting of my legs.
“Too many clothes,” he says, grasping the skirt at the waist and tugging. With a pop of buttons and a rip of fabric, it tears free. I start to protest, but roughly he grabs my chin, turning my face to his. “No!” he says, then, more gently, “I’ll buy you another one.”
The ragged cloth of the beautiful skirt is cast to one side. And next, he reaches for my panties, pulling and tearing, ripping them off me.
I am still wearing the bra and stockings. “You can keep those on,” he says, then kisses me fiercely. There is nothing tender or gentle here. His mouth is hard on my lips, forcing my mouth open.
He drops to his knees, face up close, pulling my pussy lips apart and wrapping his tongue around my clit, working it mercilessly.
I moan, trying to struggle, but I have nowhere to go. Cuffed hand and foot, legs spread, and with my all my weight resting on my wrists, I cannot move. I can only writhe helplessly against the cascade of sensation. With his tongue working my clit, he slips fingers into my pussy and rubs hard against my inner walls. I can hear nothing, feel nothing, except the pain of my wrists and the inescapable pleasure, pain, delight, and torment of my Master’s tongue and fingers. My moaning increases, turning to squeals, fighting against the breathlessness of my rapid breathing.
My heart pounding, a climax wells up inside, and my squeals turn into a triumphant scream as my orgasm pulses through me, pounding through my pussy, belly, and thighs. My legs give out from under me and I hang by my wrists, writhing and shaking, helpless in the grip of my crashing climax.
I do not hang for long. Before the spasm passes, my Master rises, unhooks the handcuffs from the wall and propels me to the bed. Hobbled by the bar, legs asplay, I can barely move, and he picks me up, depositing me roughly kneeling facedown over the bed.
My legs spread-eagled by the bar, my pink and swollen sex is open and displayed to him as he kneels behind me, and with one hand on my back pinning me down, he thrusts his shaft hard into me.
He is huge, and at almost any other time, I would struggle to accommodate him, but in my state of screaming arousal, he sheathes himself, full-length, straight into my dripping passage, pounding into me.
I scream again, and an orgasm wells up once more, my pussy walls grasping and gripping as they throb around him.
His hand leaves my back and I feel him grasping me by the waist, forcing me back and forth against his rhythm, heightening the drive of his shaft, intensifying his already deep thrusting as he rams into me, plunging into my depths.
Through my own cries, I hear him moan and gasp, feel the pulsing of his cock spurting into me. For moments, he holds shuddering against me, then relaxes down onto me with a gasp.
For half a minute, he simply lies on top of me spent, before taking a couple of deep breaths. I feel him kiss the back of my neck. “That was good, Elizabeth. Thank you.” He pulls away, moving to unshackle me.
He throws me a white terry cloth robe and puts one on himself. “Ready to eat?” he asks.
I suddenly realise I am starving. “Oh, yes, I am.”
“We’ll have something sent up. Order what you want. I’ll have a steak, rare.”
I order the same for myself, slightly self-conscious to be asking for service from people I was working with only the day before.
“What happened downstairs in the lobby, Elizabeth? You looked upset as you came in.”
“I’d forgotten to give them my letter of resignation,” I said sheepishly. “They wanted to know why the maid was taking the private lift to the penthouse.”
He looks me in the eyes. “You di
