Training Her Curves - Dallas (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Romance)

About THC-Dallas

This is the fourth installment in the Training Her Curves series (follows THC-Boston) and is the final of three installments focusing on Jake and Alexa (THC Chicago and Miami).

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Training Her Curves
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Training Her Curves-Dallas

With a cell phone pushed hard against her ear, Riona Kehoe paced a few feet in front of me as a stylist worked on my hair and makeup. I had met Jake's little sister in person just three days prior, but anyone in the room would have to be an idiot not to comprehend that she was furious with the person on the other side of the call. Outrage painted her face a bright pink. Her words, while calmly voiced, were clipped at the edges. And every twenty seconds or so, she would pull the phone away and glare at the display for a second while the right corner of her top lip curled upward in a sneer.

The door on the far side of the studio opened to reveal a familiar and friendly face -- Marjolein Dekker. My heart started to thump a little harder and my eyes misted so much the stylist noticed. Thankfully, she was plucking a stray hair between my brows at the time.

"Tickle spot, sugar?" she asked in her light southern drawl as she rubbed a thumb against the area to soothe the flesh.

"Yeah," I lied. A month had passed since I last saw Jo-Jo in the flesh. That had been in Miami and I had become quite an accomplished liar in the meantime while dealing with Dylan and Jake's new executive assistant, Henry, an amiable young man who had the impossible task of getting a passport for me. With any foreign trip off the agenda for at least another two months because of the problems in Zurich, most of my lies to Henry had involved excuses for not yet providing him with a birth certificate that didn't exist.

I watched Jake hook Jo-Jo as she passed the stage where he was lending the photographer a helping hand. His sharp gaze had noticed the armful of magazines and newspapers she carried.

My month of fretting over the passport momentarily evaporated as Jake rifled through the newspapers. He mistakenly thought he was protecting me. The last two weeks had definitely been a new kind of hell. The tabloids finally caught on to the company's plans for the hotels. The first few days had been just a blip with an article buried in the lifestyle page of the
Tribune
. Then
Trash TV
came along and dug a little deeper to find me in all my overstuffed, tattooed and pierced glory.

Every damn picture of me that had ever made it onto the
Razor Dolls
site, along with user-created caricatures, filled a thread on
Reddit
that had reached over a hundred pages and half a million views as of Friday -- the last day Jake had allowed me computer access.

Now he screened everything.

I didn't blame him for the heavy handed attempt to shelter me. I had met his baby sister on Saturday with my face swollen from a night spent crying in his arms. He thought the tears were rooted in all the rude, nasty comments. True -- the things said about me stung. They also made me nervous about meeting Riona. I was supposed to be the public face of her new line of clothing, so it sucked for both of us that I was being raked over the coals in both pixel and print. Don't even get me started on what Dylan was probably whispering in Jake's ear.

All the comments and news coverage were just a run up to the real cause of all that crying.

Riona's studio was in Dallas -- the city I had run away from a decade ago.

The city that, for all I knew, was still home to my mother and her husband, Donald Pine.

The man I had run away from.

I sucked a deep breath in and ordered my brain to shut down. Hell hadn't broken loose yet. I still had at least a month to solve my passport issue and maybe Marjolein would have a solution I hadn't thought of yet. I couldn't imagine any of the adults I had known in Dallas paying much attention to
Reddit
or
Trash TV
-- certainly not my mother, who had left behind her white trash roots when she married Donald. The first and last name I had adopted a decade ago wouldn't attract her notice. Hopefully, if she stumbled upon a picture, my face wouldn't either.

Ending the call, Riona shoved the cell phone in her back pocket and prowled in my direction. Watching her, my mood ping-ponged in a new, more pleasant, direction.

Dressed in faded jeans and a red and white hoodie from Boston University, Jake's baby sister looked like a ferocious kitten. She was far too fresh-faced to be designing the racier pieces in her collection and directing the interior aesthetics of the Century Club and the private playrooms in the VIP suites.

Growling, she plopped down in one of the chairs surrounding the table that had her catalog layout scattered across its surface. She had been discarding images left and right before the call interrupted the process.

"I swear that man is the biggest pain in the rump!"

With the stylist outlining my lips, I raised an inquisitive brow at Riona because I had no idea who had called her and she seemed like she needed to vent.

"Simon," she explained. "The co-developer for the London hotel."

"Simon St. Simon," Marjolein chirped as she placed the pile of reading material on the table. "You have to wonder what kind of parents would do that to a child."

"Doesn't mean he has to take it out on everyone else," Riona groused. "He said he's sending a 'few tweaks' to my designs. That's exactly what he said about the last round of changes. They were neither few nor tweaks. The man has more than enough money to buy a dictionary, so why doesn't he?"

"You were always prone to hyperbole as a child," Jake said, coming to a stop behind Riona. He rubbed the tense muscles of his shoulders, but his gaze settled on me.

I offered as genuine a smile as I could muster to let him know I was coping. A second later, Marjolein shooed the stylist out of the way, wrapped her arms around my corseted waist and gave me a careful, but hard, squeeze.

Pulling away, she flashed a bashful grin. "Sorry, email and Skype just don't cut it. I needed a hug to make sure you're really here."

"I expect another when I'm back in my street clothes," I laughed. I had been waiting weeks to talk to her in person. Some things couldn't be trusted to electronic exchanges. Not only did I face the possibility of confessing a felony to her, but, with the last few weeks of media attention, I didn't want to worry about some phone or computer hack revealing the juicier bits of girl talk.

And I knew she had plenty of salacious bits to spill about Dylan Kehoe after the Miami trip and her resignation. Thankfully, Jake and Riona had reeled her back into the company fold, so long as Dylan kept his distance. That meant Marjolein now worked directly with Riona and was given an official development role in Century Club. She had spent the last week in Los Angeles herding the architects and the law firm handling all the legal permits on the new build.

"Take a break, Bella," Riona said as the stylist picked up her canister of hairspray and a comb to fix the damage done by Marjolein's hug. Riona watched as Bella left the room and shut the studio door before she pointed a plump finger at the photographer up on the stage and barked a command at him. "You, come here."

I dipped my head to hide my amusement. Jake wasn't so diplomatic. He collapsed in the chair next to his sister and proceeded to laugh his ass off.

The photographer was Daddy Long Legs -- Rick Wells, the man who had photographed my audition at the Century Club in Chicago. In the last month, I'd learned that my original suspicions about him were correct. He was a dominant and a member of the club. He was also a self-made millionaire, his skill with the camera, his discretion and his portrait work in oils making him rich but unknown as an artist beyond his filthy rich clientele.

How Jake's little sister had roped him into shooting her layout still had me, and everyone around her, perplexed.

Rick stopped next to Riona as she spread the shots from the first catalog attempt that were taken by a different photographer.

"This is why you should have agreed from the beginning. It's absolute rubbish."

Jake shot a quick glance in my direction to gauge my reaction. At least a quarter of the pictures were of me. I wasn't angry or hurt by Riona's assessment. She was right. The photographer who had done the shots didn't like working with big girls. That, or he had no idea how to approach the shots with us in them, both for the camera angle and the lighting. The pictures he had taken of the size four and below models were better, but in all cases he had ignored Riona's styling instructions.

Fat or stick thin, we all came out looking like low rent prostitutes.

Rick's green gaze locked with Riona's gold-flecked one and he shrugged. "You weren't willing to pay my fee."

Her nose scrunched at his reply and then she swept the proofs from the first shoot off the table and into a trash can. "Now I have the right photographer and my star," she stopped to nod in my direction. Next she rifled the edge of a stack of current audition photos of models in the smallest sizes. "And a decent crop of littles."

Her nose scrunched again as she picked up a second stack of audition photos, the one comprised of size eights and tens who had been told their entire career that they were only suitable for plus size catalogs. The stack joined the proofs from the first shoot in the trashcan.

"But I'm short on luscious." Leaning back in her chair, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at Rick.

"I'm not responsible for finding the talent, darling, just shooting them."

She rolled her eyes until they landed on her brother.

"I don't think I'd look good in a corset, baby girl," he cracked.

His ready smile ended a second later when she delivered her reply.

"But I look great in them."

My gaze jumped around the table, first to Jake, then Rick and, finally, Jo-Jo.

"Ree," Marjolein joked. "You should have told me you wanted to do this, I would have brought popcorn and sodas for the showdown."

Jake growled, but I think he knew Riona had him trapped. What was he going to say? That no sister of his was going to be strapped into a corset and put on display for the whole world to look at? That it was okay for his lover to do so, but not his sister?

"Dylan--" Jake started, but Riona cut him off.

"Isn't here." She jerked her thumb at Wells. "And I can only justify his
fee
if everything comes out perfect and on schedule."

I watched as a vague understanding dawned on Jake's face. It took him about two seconds longer to assign some meaning to the emphasis she had placed on "fee" than it took me or Jo-Jo. Not that any of us understood perfectly, but, considering that Rick was a dominant and an artist who had never before displayed his work for any kind of mass consumption, not to mention the rumored submissive tastes that Riona harbored, I would have placed money on there being some sexual undertone to Rick's fee.

"What exactly are you saying?" Jake asked. He had wrapped his hands around the end of the chair's armrests and the plastic began to protest as his grip tightened.

"The money you already know about...plus a portrait for his personal collection. Just me, in whatever attire and position he desires."

My attention jumped to Rick. He couldn't hide the wicked fire lighting his gaze but his face was otherwise a perfect mask of indifference. I resisted the impulse to look down and see if his cock was equally indifferent under the loose khakis he had worn to the shoot. I didn't need to. I had seen his wolfish interest once already, directed at me that night in Chicago, and didn't doubt that he would have Riona in a very sexually submissive position while he painted her. The only question was whether he would have a toy buried inside her at the same time or maybe her nipples would be swelling from the pressure of clamps.