Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (9 page)

Compelled to the will of my master, I do as he desires, seizing his rod within my hand, and stroking it up and down several times, all while he continues his meeting above, speaking confidently and assertively, providing no clue as to the heady delights occurring below. I feel him harden to a rigid excitement in my hand - the bulging veins along the surface of his dick standing out impetuously - and increase my pace, quickly jerking him as any good mistress should.

"And what of the complexities of shooting within Tunisia?" he says, as though nothing were happening, "can we exploit the new foreign taxation legislation?"

I'm not listening; nothing interests me quite as much as my sordid duties for my billionaire boss. Reaching back below the table as he listens to the pair's reply, he seizes another lock of my hair, and forces me closer to him; forcing my face directly upon his raging hard-on. Again, I know exactly what's expected of me.

The roots of my hair throb with pain, in time with the furious, nervous beating of my heart as I open my mouth, close my eyes, and take him inside my throat, enveloping his entire length within me for only the second time. I suck, slurp and guzzle upon it - hopefully quiet enough not to arouse suspicion - as I wash it in a tide of saliva, building up a forceful suction upon it, and feel his tip nudge the back of my throat gently, almost arousing my gag reflex. I'm wrought with terror, dreading the fanciful moment that we're exposed; my fingers tremble, and my lips tremor around the swollen flesh of his cock. But to my shameful, embarrassed chagrin, I kinda like it.

He doesn't make a sound - no groans, no moans, no labored sighs and absolutely no indication that I'm pleasuring him so diligently beneath the board room table - even as he speaks at length about something so tedious I don't care to repeat it to myself. I'm so caught up in my work in fact that I don't realize his hands sneaking up behind my head, grasping handfuls of hair, and forcing my face down upon his cock with a brutal, selfish force. I take the entire thing within my mouth; all six bountiful inches ploughing senselessly into my throat, arousing a gag and a splutter. Craftily, he synchronizes my noise with a feigned coughing fit of his own, hiding our shameful liaison.

"Excuse me," he says, coughing into his fist. "Please continue."

I take the duality of those words' meaning with relish, wringing him of everything I can with one hand, whilst bobbing up and down upon it relentlessly. His hands pull my hair from side to side, before forcing me back down upon it again. The pain is palpable - I hear roots torn from my head - but I won't give up. I
can't
give up. I'm
forbidden
to say no.

Promptly, I hear him wrapping the meeting up above, closing what sounds like a folder with a
slam
, and stating pleasantries;
how nice it is to meet
, and other boardroom lingo so far removed from the sordid spectacle occurring elsewhere that they surely wouldn't believe it. All of a sudden, he pushes my face away - losing me in a stream of unkempt black hair - and goes to zip his pants back up, adjusting himself to somehow hide the very sizeable erection still standing out from his body.

"Let's do it over lunch sometime," one of them says. Part of me wonders whether I'll be there, hidden beneath the table, silently servicing my host.

Feet clatter upon the carpeted floor, and before I know it we're all alone again; just his majestic, shining black shoes visible to me.

"It's okay," he finally utters, beckoning me to reveal myself. "You can get up now."

I climb out, grazing my palm on the abrasive carpet on the way out, crawling on my hands and knees like the clumsiest acrobat you've ever seen.

"What was that?" I ask, feeling an errant bead of gooey saliva dripping down my chin. I don't know how to feel; the righteously moral half of me, hidden away inside beneath all the nerves and bravado demands some sort of explanation for the spectacle that just took place. Dare I admit the other half just wonders why I wasn't able to make him come...?

"
That
-" he replies, his eyes large, blue, and aflame with desire, " - was the job."

He's silenced me; my moral indignation quickly sapping away, replaced in kind by the glowing, warm realization inside my belly that I'm giving myself to him, slowly but surely.

"Come," he beckons, waving me closer with one hand. "Take a look at this, Miss Everett."

He walks back to the table, and tracing his large palms over its surface, finds a certain stack of papers to his particular liking. I clumsily make up the two or three steps towards him, feeling a slight carpet burn on my knees as I do so. I don't have my glasses - I've been somewhat hesitant to wear them around him - yet from what I can make out, it’s written in a language that I neither care for, nor understand.
Legalese
.

"This is a non-disclosure document necessary for your continued employment with me," he says, droning on in a monotone that would suggest an equal level of enthusiasm for the rigors of silencing your slaves. "Take it home, read it, sign it, bring it back to me. And then we can continue."

He steps away, allowing me the space to flick through it. Eight or nine pages, housing the tiniest font you've ever seen, composed of words that would make any regular person's head spin.
Indemnities, securities, obligations
, it's all here; the impenetrable terms of my so-called job. I pick the sheets up, fully intending to take them home with me, before spying the figure of Daniel in the corner of my eye, propping himself up against a window, looking upon all the tiny people going about their mundane lives below us. And then, I start to get ideas.

I should really take this thing home to show Carissa; just to make sure I'm not signing my life away to some kooky cult I've not yet been told of, or some other bizarre obligation I'll only find out about once it's too late. But then, wouldn't that invalidate the whole 'non-disclosure' thing? What of our little secret? I have to admit, I quite like the idea of the secretive billionaire romance, even if I do have to sign my life away in the process. Somewhere, deep inside me, I want to give up the choices I once enjoyed; maybe it's my training as an actor, maybe its my annoyance at all the tiny things in life that cause me grief. But hidden within a deep, dark compulsion, I just want to give myself up, and follow the lines on the script.

I scramble around on the table top, finding a ball-point pen, and quickly initial each page, without even glancing at the words and clauses on each, silencing my innermost reservations. Then, taking a deep breath as though I'm making the plunge into cold water, I sign the final page.

"Daniel," I say, feeling a little light-headed, "it's done."

He turns, basking amidst the rays of golden California light shining through the windows, and smiles at me; a smile lingering somewhere between politeness, surprise, and the overwhelming realization that he's gotten exactly what he wants. I drop my hands to my sides, jutting my bosom out proudly before me with another breath, and give up any last vestige of resistance. We both know it;
I'm his
.

"Okay Miss Everett. Why don't I show you to your office?"

He breezes past me, charging straight to the tinted double doors behind, before opening them with his hand and awaiting my company. My
office
? I didn't realize I'd signed up for any sort of desk work here. But then again, being
the girl who can't say no
must have its tedious moments too. Reaching back beneath the table, I pick up my 'shopping', and hurry.

I wordlessly go with him, and we walk back to the elevator, giving me opportunity to nervously crane my head up towards him and watch the steely, determined resolve on his face. He's so gorgeously and ineffably cold somehow. Like he has perfect control over his every expression; like he won't let the surprising moments in life get the better of him. Even when the janitor pushes a bucket of dirtied water out into our paths, and I barely save myself from comically falling into it, Daniel just raises an eyebrow and walks around it, neither speaking, nor making a scene. A well-rehearsed reaction, somehow.

Neither of us speak; I'm far too nervous, feeling those butterflies fluttering in and out of me once again, but content in the fact that I fully intend to give any last semblance of choice to my billionaire boss. I feel - what's the word? - tranquil? Serene? Both of those might imply I'm not nervous. I guess I'm just at peace.

And that's how I'd describe my so-called office, a solitary room in the penthouse suite occupying the top floor of this building. Black drapes stifling the morning Sun, walls painted a voluptuous red, and a single florescent light hanging from the ceiling, creating that frighteningly familiar buzzing sound. There's no furniture besides a single, mahogany armoire standing imposingly against the wall, and a lonely-looking table and chair. The whole room is maybe no more than three meters square, and I can't help but think back to another of Daniel's apparent ‘offices’: that above the restaurant. Sparse, characterless, devoid of any personality, or distractions.

"This looks familiar" I tell him, but he's already turned his back to me, adjusting his cufflinks, before carefully prizing them off one by one, and placing them upon the surface of the desk, out of sight and out of mind. His suit-jacket is the next to go, and all of a sudden I can't help but get the feeling he's making himself comfortable.

"So," he finally says, breaking the silent tension, and causing me a certain rush of relief upon hearing his voice again. "Why don't you show me what you bought yesterday?"

I start by ferreting around inside my handbag for that shiny silver credit card of his, handing it back to a somewhat appreciative face, smiling courteously, albeit barely interested. What really gets his attention is the first item I happen to pull out of the bag; a single, incongruous root of ginger. He grins wildly, his cheekbones riding high in his face, arousing more than a question or two within me. I place it upon the desk beside us, and pull out the plastic curtain rail, completely unhidden within the plastic bag, but still managing to produce a smile from my host.

The cord and duct tape are next, followed by the clamps and the tangerine. By the time I'm finished, he's no longer watching the items I'm pulling out; he's switched his gaze to me instead, snaking his eyes up and down my body, practically burning the clothes from my skin with the intensity of his glare.

"Okay. Good. You did well."

I'm nothing more than a simple sycophant at heart. His words produce a warm, affectionate feeling within me, as if I've done my captor proud.

"Now. Go to your office."

And, of course, he soon has me confused again. I stand before him, first pulling a face of baffled wonder, and then as the seconds pass, opening my mouth to question him. I don't even manage to spit a single word out before he seizes my hand within his, and walks me the four steps to the huge armoire in the corner. What the fuck is this? A secret passage? A doorway to a mysterious billionaire's lair?

As he pulls the armoire open, my questions are answered:
it’s an armoire
. Empty, except for a solitary clothes railing, housing no coat hangers, or anything for that matter. Just a vacant walk-in wardrobe.

"Your office, Miss Everett."

I don't even have the chance to resist before he nudges me inside, and taking the string cords that he so duplicitously brought from the table, pushes my wrists up towards the railing and begins tying. As anyone could have predicted, I lose my breath to nerves, gasping relentlessly upon feeling the abrasive cords stinging against my skin, and realizing that my every movement is slowly being restricted. When he's done, and I'm tied in various knots that only a boy scout, or a domineering fanatic might know how to produce, he takes a couple of steps back, and admires his work.

"You look good."

I nod, subserviently. My hands are tied above me, affixing me to the clothes rail and giving me very little room to move around. I can still move my feet, and swing my body from side to side, but apart from that I'm stuck. For a second, my mind temporarily goes back to our second 'audition' together, being captive in that imaginary elevator.

"- but I know how to make you look better."

He strokes a hand through that jet-black head of hair, rubbing his bristled chin curiously, before jumping over to his desk and retrieving a pair of scissors, instantly making me gulp loudly in fright.
Scissors
!? No-one told me about sharp objects! I may sound more like a high school woodwork teacher, but I demand safety procedures here!

I pant loudly, fighting against my restraints with my wrists, but only bringing myself a painful rope-burn as the cords cut into my skin. He paces back to me, before putting the blades of the scissors to the straps of my dress at my shoulders, and cutting selfishly. My once-pristine blue dress falls to the floor of the armoire, and as I open my eyes once more, I'm standing in just a pair of panties, and my bra.

Maybe I should be scared. I think, perhaps on some level, I am. A man I've known for only a matter of days has me tied up, captive in a room so high in this building that I'm sure no-one could hear me scream. And what's more, this is a situation I've only myself to blame for getting into; I signed up, of course. So maybe that's why I feel how I feel; a tiny bit frightened, a little bit afraid for what he might pull out on me next, and a whole lot excited to find out just what he has in store for me. I fidget around in my 'office', swaying backwards and forwards with the gyrations of the cords, feeling the dampness growing between my legs. I'm an actress; my ability to make up my own fate has been
taken
from me. I'm at the every whim of Daniel Grant, and the script he writes for us.

I feel my face growing a scarlet red; my cheeks radiating to a sweaty heat. Am I blushing through embarrassment at being humiliated like this? Or blushing because of the irrefutable
hotness
of this situation? I don't know anymore.