I don't think we have much time. I need him to finish inside me before his wife comes through that door.
I reach around, clutching his bare cheeks and tugging him even closer against me. I buck my ass against his cock, slamming his balls harder against my clit. He groans, and my grip intensifies as I pull him into me as far as he will go.
His head beats against my cervix, I stifle a whimper and my hips jolt.
There is the sound of footsteps against concrete coming up to the door. My hips gyrate and my walls contract and release, trying to coax his load into me.
His cock throbs hard against my walls as I hold him in place. The tingling warmth at my core continues to build. The subtle pulsations of his cock are enough to send me over the edge.
The orgasmic electricity spreads to every extremity and I scream, throwing restraint to the wind as my mind goes blank with ecstasy. My body shudders and my walls continue to squeeze the girth of him.
There is a fumbling and clanging of keys at the doorstep.
"Please, Mr. Parker! I need your cum!" And in a final moan of resignation, Mr. Parker can no longer hold on. His legs shake violently as he shoots his load into the very depths of me. Light returns to my eyes when I feel his warm, thick spunk filling me whole.
His torso spasms and his grip on my tits tightens, then releases slowly. Again and again his cock throbs and squirts more of his seed, enough so that a bit of it is dribbling out from my wet hole.
The door handle jiggles and turns. I hear Mr. Parker's wife coming down the hallway.
Mr. Parker's torso collapses onto my back and he can barely stand. The weight of him on top of me causes my knees to buckle and we fall to the floor. I strain my neck up to catch Mrs. Parker's eyes standing at the edge of the hallway.
She blinks slowly and her chin drops, staring in utter shock and disbelief. We stare at one another a moment, then her expression changes quickly. She looks positively mortified at the sight of us on her living room carpet, and I can't help but feel a bit sorry for her.
But I got what I came for.
I feel the warmth and thickness of his spunk dripping between my legs and I know that he has given me a child. Their marriage cannot possibly not survive this. But Mr. Parker and I can be together at last.
I will finally move out of my mother's house and live happily with him while we build a family of our own.
His body is slumped on top of me, and I can still feel him cumming. I don't think he even noticed his wife come home. Mrs. Parker is still standing in the doorway, stunned and speechless.
But all I can think about is how I can't wait to tell Mom that Mr. Parker had taken my virginity and impregnated me.
Filled by the Billionaire
When he hands me the keys to his car and tells me his name, I know I’ve heard it before.
“It’s Mr. Stone,” he says with a perfect smile, placing the silver keys into my open palm, “take good care of her for me.” His touch is warm and electrifying—the touch of a man with absolute power. The touch of a billionaire.
And now his yellow Lamborghini is mine.
Okay, not really—but at least for the next five minutes. See, I’m just the girl who drives expensive cars for the rich people who are too busy or can’t be bothered to drive it themselves. But in these brief moments, it’s always fun to imagine.
It’s funny how they’d rather trust me, a nineteen-year-old, to drive their car into the hotel parking lot. I might look the part of a responsible, trustworthy valet, but I’m truly reckless at heart.
It’s amazing how well just a little professional attire can deceive people.
“Absolutely, Mr. Stone. It’s my pleasure,” I say to him, the same way I say it to anyone else in an expensive suit. I see them all the time—rich pricks with too much money and too much time—but this one is more handsome than most. Still, the last thing I’d want to do is give any indication that I think so.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” I ask in the sort of monotone voice people use when they’ve repeated the same line more times than they can count.
The truth is, no one in their right mind should be handing me the keys to anything worth more than I make in a decade. Especially to a valet like me who really doesn’t give a shit. I don’t care if your McClarren just got a new paint job, or that you just bought it last week.
In fact, with most of these assholes, I’d love be the one to flick a lit match onto their pride and joy after I doused it in gasoline. Most of these douchebags never earned it anyway. Not like the way I have to earn mine.
The tips aren’t bad though. In this business, it pays to have cleavage like I do. A low cut blouse will earn you a couple hundred a day.
Hell, one guy tipped me with a hundred bucks stuffed between my tits and a hard slap on the ass. He paid me for the service and for his disrespect at the same time. But I’ll take it.
It isn’t even fair really, since the guy valets are forced to wear those stupid black penguin vests. But thanks to a little assertiveness on my part, my boss let me be an exception. I may or may not have given him a slobbery wet blowjob in his office just for being so understanding.
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 doors 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 primi
tive 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…”
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