His Princess

by Sanya Sitter

  It’s not like my tits would’ve fit in those silly things anyway.

  To be perfectly honest, I have one of the most exciting jobs in the world. There’s enormous thrill in it all, knowing I could total this man’s car instead of park it. Or drive it off into the sunset.

  Every turn of the wheel fills me with adrenaline, every stomp on the gas pedal is exhilarating. Knowing I could cause so much headache for these rich fucks gives me such a rush. Sure, they can try to sue me all they want—but I ain’t got no assets, motha’ fuckas!

  “Well, I suppose there is one more thing I need help with…” says Mr. Stone.

  The keys dangle from my curled fingers as my eyes hold their contact with his. If only he knew the thoughts racing through my mind, he’d be grasping to get them back. But his words have triggered a sudden curiosity in me.

  “Claire, is it?” He looks down at the tacky name tag clipped to my white blouse, enveloped by the long, dark curls flowing over my shoulders. I’m glad I’d spent so much time on them this morning. It isn’t every day that a billionaire like Mr. Stone gives more than a glance and a nod.

  “I’m wondering if you might help me…” his expression turns bold and suggestive. What the hell is he getting at, anyway? “You see—I have a very particular job I need taken care of promptly.”

  His eyes study me up and down, resting on my chest a moment before saying, “and Claire—well, I believe you’d be most fitting.”

  It is an unusual request, to be sure. Mr. Stone had better be a damn good tipper.

  “It would be my pleasure to oblige you, Mr. Stone,” I say, beaming. It almost made me sound like a hooker, the way I said it.

  I almost meant it, too. Pleasing the customer is my primary job, after all. But I don’t have the slightest clue what he wants from me.

  “I’m staying in the Rockefeller suite on the top floor,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “Why don’t you meet me there around, say, eight o’clock?”

  Why is this beginning to sound more like an invitation than a request? If I had to guess, it’s almost like Mr. Stone is asking me out on a date. Suddenly I felt really shitty about wanting to wreck his Lamborghini.

  It doesn’t matter that my shift ends at six. Whatever the hell Mr. Stone needs me for, I’m sure it’s going to come with one hell of a tip. And the truth is, I’m desperate for money.

  I manage to squeak out a “Yes, that will be fine,” before he turns to hand his luggage to the bellhop. Mr. Stone nods politely and heads toward the group of hotel staff looking eager to greet him at the door.

  I have to walk past my asshole co-worker Jeremy to get to the driver’s side of the car. He must have heard the whole conversation, because he’s glaring at me more intensely than usual. Jeremy acts like he doesn’t, but I know he wants a piece of this chocolate ass.

  When I turn the ignition of Mr. Stone’s Lamborghini, he turns back toward me before entering the hotel. Even from here, the man is absolutely gorgeous. He’s got a muscular frame, broad shoulders, and a smile that can kill.

  I’m fumbling, awkwardly trying to shift the stupid thing into gear and feeling self-conscious. It takes a lot for a man to make me feel that way.

  I’m used to being able to handle men with power. Hell, I drive their cars for a living. But something about Mr. Stone has stirred something inside me—a burning between my legs that has my panties all soggy by the time I throw his Lambo into first gear.

  The engine roars. My legs tremble as they apply pressure to the gas pedal.

  And then I see it again—that same perfect smile. His brown hair swoops elegantly to the side as his head tilts toward me, the afternoon sun lighting the chiseled features of his face. The man is beyond handsome.

  “Mr. Stone.” The words keep repeating in my mind as the car rolls across the smooth blacktop. The tone of his voice carried such confidence, such authority.

  I don’t know what he wants with me up on the top floor in the hotel’s most expensive suite, but it’s clear that I don’t have a choice. No woman in the world could deny this man.

  I watch as he disappears in the rearview mirror, ascending the marble stairs beneath the archway to the Grand Morel Hotel.

  What could a billionaire playboy like Mr. Stone possibly want with a young broke girl woman like me?

  As I pulled the million dollar car into an empty space in the lot behind the hotel, for the first time in a long while, I took extra care parking it.

  ******

  As I approach the double doors of the Rockefeller suite, a man in black greets me with an expressionless nod and an outstretched arm to stop me from going in.

  He brings one hand up to his ear, tilting his head down and whispering, “The… woman has arrived.” He looks me up and down as he says it, judging me through those pitch-black sunglasses.

  I didn’t want to change out of my work attire, even though I had two hours to kill after my shift. But I couldn’t give Mr. Stone the impression that I had changed just for this—whatever this is, anyway. Yeah, I probably could have dressed up a little, but this guy doesn’t need to be a douche.

  He nods again, this time at the voice coming from the other end of his earpiece.

  “Right this way, Ms…” he pauses to look at my nametag, “Ms. Claire.”

  But as soon as I enter, there is another man standing just inside, blocking my path down the hallway, sporting the same silly crew cut as the guy outside. The two of them could be twins.

  I catch a glimpse of the massive chandelier dangling in the main room just above, before douchebag number two directs me down a separate corridor. A prudish-looking woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail wearing thin-framed glasses is there to meet me at the end of it.

  “There isn’t much time,” she says, “your dinner attire is inside.” She turns the polished brass handle of the door next to her, opening into the restroom.

  Inside, everything seems to gleam, and it smells of too much cleaning product. There is a round bathtub with room enough for five, and black clothes resting on the seat of the toilet. I can only assume they’re for me.

  Is this how he treats all his women? This is ridiculous…

  The woman outside kept knocking on the door what seemed like every thirty seconds just to tell me to, “Hurry, Mr. Stone is waiting!” Well Mr. Stone can fucking wait, because I can’t even get my ass into this dress.

  The thing was so short, it rides all the way up to just below my crotch. I had to tug down on the thing and hold it there just so my ass didn’t fall out the bottom.

  When the dress is stretched enough to hold itself in place, I bend over to slip on the pair of black pumps sitting on the cold tile floor. My toes curl inside at the tips, totally scrunched and barely fitting.

  As I clomp across the bathroom floor, suffering the pain of the two black vices on my toes, I catch sight of a glinting object next to the sink. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

  It’s a gorgeous diamond necklace with an intricate garland, catching the light and sparkling as I step toward it. It’s the most expensive jewelry I have ever seen, or held.

  When I clasp it around my neck, it hangs naturally, elegantly resting over my cleavage. Immediately, my anger toward Mr. Stone for the tight dress and small shoes fades to the back of my mind. I do a sexy pose with my round ass toward the mirror and give it a little smack. I’m a damn fine looking chick.

  Feeling hot and confident, I open the door of the bathroom and see that annoying bitch staring at me.

  “No, no. That won’t do,” she says, pinching at parts of my hair and fixing them. “Come here—pucker your lips.” She grabs me by the shoulder and applies a thick coat of crimson lipstick. With a heavy sigh, she tells me, “That will have to do. Now, come with me.”

  The bitch clutches my wrist and pulls me farther down the corridor. My black heels stomp along the polished wooden floor until we reach the end. With two hands, the bitch pushes against the swinging double doo
rs leading into the dining room.

  And then I see him. Mr. Stone is standing beside a long dining table draped in white cloth, one hand resting on the polished wood of his chair, looking cool and magnificent. The room is dimly lit with wall candles that illuminate the glimmering wine glasses in front of me.

  I have to stop myself from wincing at the pain of each step as I walk toward him. It doesn’t help that I’m not used to walking in heels—especially ones that cut off the circulation to my feet.

  “Glad you could make it, Claire,” he says, pulling out a chair next to his. “Come, have a seat.”

  I can feel the tight dress riding up my thigh again as I squat down into the cushioned seat.

  “Tha—thank you for inviting me…” I say, as a man in a tuxedo comes up beside me, pouring a small glass of white wine. Mr. Stone nods toward it, urging me to give it a taste.

  “How do you like it?” He asks as the wine kisses my crimson lips. Setting the glass back down, a red stain is left on the glass where I had sipped it.

  “It’s quite goo—“

  “She’ll have the bottle, then.” He motions to our waiter, and he gives a nod of affirmation. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you to dine with me tonight…” Mr. Stone takes a seat at the head of the table, maintaining eye contact with me sitting at the corner.

  “Ah, here it is!” Mr. Stone claps his hands together at the two men approaching with covered silver platters.

  “Roast duck, sir…” says one of the men, placing the platters in front of us while the other pours me a full glass of the wine from before. Mr. Stone notices me staring down at the beautifully plated food in front of me, practically salivating.

  “Please, don’t let me stop you. We can discuss business after our meal,” he says.

  Business? What exactly does he mean? What the hell is all this, anyway? I take a bite of the duck, savoring the tenderness of it as it melts in my mouth. After that, a small sip of wine, looking everywhere but at Mr. Stone as we continue to eat in silence. This all just feels so damn awkward.

  “How do you like it?” He asks suddenly.

  “It’s so delicious!” I say, realizing that I haven’t completely finished swallowing. That must have looked so unattractive.

  “Cover your mouth if you’re going to speak and chew at the same time.”

  “S—sorry, Mr. Stone,” I say, catching myself stammering. It takes a lot to trip me up. His sudden rudeness has taken me completely off guard.

  “And the wine?”

  I want to tell him how amazing everything tastes, how much I appreciate his hospitality, but I end up choking a bit, hacking and coughing into my hands instead. I have to down the rest of the wine just to clear my throat.

  “If you’re going to insist on speaking to me in such a primitive manner, then I’d prefer for you to just be silent.” And so we remain in silence for the rest of the meal, and I order two more glasses. If Mr. Stone is going to invite me to dinner and then treat me with so much disrespect, I may as well try to enjoy myself.

  “Now—your job as a valet, do you like it?” He says finally, after the two waiters are coming to clear the table.

  “It pays the bills…” I say, pretending to be uninterested in our conversation.

  “Listen—Claire, is it?” I continue sipping my large glass of wine, fixating my attention on the cream colored wall in front me. “I have something of a proposition for you…”

  “A prop—“ I try to say, but he waves a hand in the air to silence me.

  “Interrupt me again and you’ll never get to hear it.”

  What an asshole. As much as I want to just get up and leave right now, Mr. Stone has me slightly intrigued. Growing up in the ghetto, my mom was never around. But I’m smart enough to know that if a billionaire is offering you something, you listen.

  “You have something I… desire…”

  “D—Desire?” Fuck, I’m stuttering again. The look on his face when I interrupt him again is one of total annoyance. What is it about this guy that makes me so anxious? I’m constantly around so many powerful men, but something about Mr. Stone is just so… different.

  “It’s a rare thing…” Mr. Stone pauses a moment to sip his wine with the air of a true high-class gentleman. It’s obvious that he has grown up rich. I wonder what that’s like, going your whole life never having to wonder about money. The sound of the polished glass against the dining table breaks the silence before he starts again.

  “A rare thing that I find myself in the presence of such elegant beauty,” he says.

  If he was anyone else, I wouldn’t have let it go to my head. But something about the sincerity in his eyes makes me want to believe every word. Keeping his eyes fixed and unblinking, he continues,

  “The truth of the matter is that I… desire you.” The words seem to echo across the suite. He wants me?

  Mr. Stone folds his hands in front of him, and the waiter standing by reacts immediately to refill his wine.

  “This is my proposition,” he says, tilting his head down slightly and taking a more serious posture. “You will accompany me to the bedroom and give me a child.”

  Why does his proposition sound a lot more like a demand?

  “Mr. Stone?” My voice is trembling.

  “I’m not finished,” he says, “Do this for me, Claire, and your days as a valet girl are over.”

  I am completely taken aback—yet, desire burns between my thighs at his words.

  “No more servicing people like me for mere scraps. Because you’ll be one of them. Money is no object for me. Any desire you have, consider it fulfilled.” He reaches for his glass, casually swirling the dark red liquid between two fingers at the top of the stem. He raises one eyebrow and says, “Are my terms agreeable?”

  What woman in her right mind could turn down such an offer? I’d have a dozen kids with Mr. Stone to live the freedom that comes with that kind of money.

  “Y—yes,” I squeak, lip trembling. My knees sway restlessly beneath the table; my panties are dripping at the thought of Mr. Stone entering me, filling me with his warm seed and granting me a life of luxury.

  “Yes, what?”

  “It is agreeable.”

  And with that, Mr. Stone nods to yet another man dressed in black standing in the doorway and gets up from his seat. He adjusts his necktie and straightens his jacket before turning away from to exit the dining room.

  The bodyguard marches over to me, extends a hand, saying, “Mr. Stone would like me to show you to his bedroom.”

  ******

  “Mr. Stone would like you to enter… undressed,” says the bodyguard when we arrive at the bedroom door. I’m not sure how to react, so I just continue staring, unblinking, until he turns away from me, saying, “Mr. Stone doesn’t like to be kept waiting…”

  Did he really want me to get naked right here in the middle of the hallway?

  “Just leave your garments on the floor and I will collect them after you,” he says, sounding impatient. Well, shit. I mustn’t keep Mr. Stone waiting.

  The black tube dress slips off easier than it had gone on. I step out of it and unclasp my bra, letting it fall and land across the toes of my heels. My black lace panties slip along my silky legs as I’m bent over, offering a perfect view of my bare ass to anyone behind me.

  “Leave the heels on,” the man barks. “And the necklace.”

  And with that, I step out of the mess of clothes on the floor, turn the handle, and enter the darkness in nothing but come-fuck-me pumps. If this were for anybody other than Mr. Stone, I would consider myself a genuine slut.

  The air smells subtly of musk and fire. Flickering candlelight illuminates my pale, bare skin and perky tits.

  My eyes work to make out the dark shapes of the room. The only thing I can recognize is the king size bed topped with satin sheets that seem to glow in the dim light.

  Where is Mr. Stone?

  “Get on your knees,” says a commanding v
oice from the corner, and I feel compelled to obey. I get down, slowly, letting my knees settle into the soft carpet as a figure approaches from the side.

  And then Mr. Stone is standing over me. The rippling muscles of his perfect body seem to flex and bulge in the dancing candlelight. His torso appears to be cut from marble, masterfully carved to showcase every masculine feature.

  Droplets of sweat pool between the crevices of his six-pack as my eyes lead themselves, down, down…