Kept for His Appetites

by Alice May Ball

  For His

  Appetites

  by

  Alice May Balls

  Curvy Girl

  Held by the Billionaire

  Parts I-III

  The Yacht

  Contents

  Billionaire Ahoy

  Billionaire Aboard

  Billionaire Ablaze

  Billionaire

  Ahoy

  by

  Alice May Balls

  I’m not such a hard girl to please, am I? The sparkling night view over New York out through the penthouse terrace is as dreamy and lustrous as ever. The full moon still looks pretty good behind the pointed shaft of the Chrysler building. Even through these slats. And really, a New York view from a five-star hotel penthouse suite - how bad can it get? Peering out at it through the louvred doors from inside a closet takes the shine off noticeably, I’ll admit it. Not that big a closet, it has to be said. And I’m really not that small a girl. There’s only just enough space for me to stand, and my heart is thumping so hard, I’m afraid it’s going to bang the door open. At times like this, I wonder whether I’ve made all the best choices.

  It seems a world away from the little diner where it all started, just a few weeks ago. The drunken chef had sloped off early, while his wife, the owner, was out at the bank, or at least that’s where she always said she’d spent those afternoons. Must have been hard going, twice a week with the bankers, judging from how flushed she always looked when she got back, and the way her hair was often kind of mussed up. So, a hellish-hot, still afternoon, and there was just little me, well, not so little me, and an empty diner on a noisy, dusty corner of the big apple. And then this man, filled the doorway.

  He stood there, holding the door open, big and fantastically proportioned with a crown of silver hair, and he looked slowly all around the restaurant before he strutted in. His dark suit looked like it cost a lot more than this whole diner, but even with the immaculate linen shirt and silk tie, the ruby and sliver cuff-links and the black shoes that looked soft as gloves and heavy as bullion, he wore it all like a t-shirt and jeans. Like the clothes just hung on for the ride, and were kind of lucky to drape across that – it must be said – that fine form of a man. He just rolled in from the off-Broadway clatter and din like we were in some fragrant walled garden, lined with honeysuckle and thronged with butterflies. And those dark eyes. My breath was in buckets, most of them going the wrong way. I said,

  “Sit wherever you like,”

  He looked at me, thinking about it. Considering the options. I was feeling the heat in pretty some unexpected places. My red and gingham waitress uniform is tight around the waist, and opens quite low at the front. It even further emphasises my very large breasts, my generous hips and my stupendous round ass. It also constrains my breathing, if I start to breathe heavily. Not an eventuality I’ve had to cope with too much at work. I was beginning to struggle with it now, though.

  I got out of there and back to the waitress station, poured a glass of water for him. I drank it, poured another, drank it, poured one more and then took it over to the booth that he’d slid into and occupied. He sprawled across the bench, carelessly draped but perfectly elegant. I stood by the table, pencil and pad ready, trying to look like business, felling more like crime. I said,

  “We’ve got coffee and we’ve got cherry pie, that’s about all right now.”

  He looked up at me. I felt awkward and ridiculous. His look said, ‘That’s not what I want,’ like it was all some big joke and only he knew the punch line. I said,

  “The chef isn’t here, and there’s just me,”

  I have no idea what else I babbled at him, I explained everything about how the chef wasn’t here, I probably explained what a chef was, told him why I was wearing what appeared to be a waitress’ uniform. I felt like I was delivering some really long, random speech out of Shakespeare or the Gettysburg address or something equally ridiculous and meaningless, and I was doing it really badly anyway because I kept on losing my place, and I was completely out of breath, and he interrupted.

  “I’m hungry.”

  His voice seemed even bigger than he was. It came from somewhere way below the floor. It was rich, dark and cultured. But firm. Almost rigid. His eyes twinkled like he was playing a game. I was hanging on to the side of the booth just to keep steady. He said,

  “You can fix me something,”

  and I was thinking, ‘Oh, I really could,’ and he said,

  “Can’t you?”

  I just managed to say,

  “yes.”

  It was the only way I could think of to get away, and if I didn’t get away I was going to suffocate. Or something.

  Only, now what? I didn’t cook here. That idiot chef would be reaching for a knife if he caught me on the kitchen side of the counter. But I had to do something. I looked at my pad for help. Guess what, there was still nothing written on it. Well, I’m OK with food, you know? I love it, you could maybe guess, and I like to think that I have a little style with it. Simple ingredients, nicely presented, pleasing cock - no, NO, pleasing combinations. It was hot in the kitchen.

  I put a soft poached egg into some fresh leaves of lettuce and watercress and shook some dressing. It would be better with smoked salmon, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you’d ever find in this kitchen. I did find some potatoes cut for fries, though, and a fish, so I put the the fries on to fry and got the fish ready to grill, and I picked up the salad to take it out to him. What was I doing? He didn’t ask for any of this. He just said, ‘I’m hungry.’ What kind of an order was that? And what kind of manners are they? And who the hell did he think he was? And who the hell was he? And worst of all, what if he didn’t like what I brought him? What if he didn’t want what I had to offer?

  Oh, no, I told myself. Don’t get off the subject. I grabbed the plate of salad and shoved myself through the swing-door.

  Anyway, he did like it. He liked it just fine. He wolfed the salad down, he relished all of the fish, left nothing but a bone. When I said,

  “Pie?”

  - I could really only manage one word at a time by then - his eyes raked up from the table and dragged the whole length of my body. He didn’t hurry over my curvy hips, he didn’t miss any of my waist, he took in all the slopes, valleys and curves he could see through the silly, too-tight waitress uniform, before he got to my shoulders. He looked slowly from the open collar up my neck to my ear, and he stayed there a while, before he finally wandered across to meet my eyes, and he said,

  “What pie?”

  My voice squeaked,

  “Cherry.”

  His eyes widened, I know he wasn’t thinking of anything in pastry. After what felt like a couple of long, dry summers he said,

  “Are you working at the weekend?”

  What did that have to do with anything? What did it have to do with him? What business was it of his if I was thinking about a weekend drenched in sweat, clawing and crawling all over the bulges and humps of his ramrod body? Just for instance. Which I wasn’t. Obviously. Before I could begin to put an answer together, he said,

  “I really need,”

  he paused on the word, ‘need.’ I remember it distinctly,

  “I really need someone to cook this weekend.”

  I was just staring at him, I’m sure of it. My mouth must have been hanging wide enough for… well, never mind what for, but he said,

  “Would you?”

  Ah, now I could safely roll back on the one word that I knew I could form and use without stammering or stumbling,

  “yes.”

  He began a grin, but he didn’t finish it. He pulled back about an acre of cuff, consulted a massive watch and said,

  “Got t
o go. If I send a car to pick you up, outside here? Saturday morning at 7.30? OK?”

  And I was thinking, ‘No. We’ll negotiate. We’ll discuss it, OK? Fix some terms and a price, and then maybe I’ll consider your offer, mister.’ So I nodded like an idiot. He said,

  “Good. Saturday.”

  He left two hundred dollar bills. TWO. On the table. As he stood up to leave, I began to say,

  “That’s too…”

  He was very close. Dark, musky cologne or aftershave filled my head, and his stiff white shirt rustled inside his suit. And he loomed over me. Most men aren’t big enough to do that. He put a massive finger to my lips, I can feel it now. I can taste it. I could draw the fingerprint with my tongue. I can feel the warm brush of his breath on my cheek as he said,

  “That’s two. OK?”

  That finger, on my lips. Just inside my mouth. I didn’t bite him, my teeth just took a hold of his finger. I didn’t plan to do it. I wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t. I wanted it so badly. And he’d just offered me work. You don’t mix work and… well, I don’t. His hard body, right in front of me. Right next to me. The scent of him. Almost against me. Just let his finger go, and it’s a funny little moment that we’ll both forget straight away. I knew that’s what I should do. I bit just a little more. His hand reached up. To push me away, presumably. It caught my breast. His brown eyes flashed. A big hand. An even bigger breast. My nipples strained against the bra. I decided to let go of his finger.

  It didn’t happen. Through my panties, through my skirt, I felt something swell just in front of me, something moving, stirring, something slow and heavy. Large. And hot. And there was the heat of my own. A Morse code of heat, pulsing, communicating, unmistakably, urgently. Messages in coded beats, exchanging. Pelvis to pelvis, are you reading me, over. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot. A call and a response. It could happen. Right here. Right now. His pants seemed to be under some strain, here in the huge windows of the diner. He said,

  “I’ve got…”

  I interrupted,

  “Here’s what you’ve got.”

  My hips pushed against him, greeting his swelling. With a big, wet smile. His hand, still on my breast, squeezed. His breath was getting thicker. My nipple swelled and burned inside the bra. I sat on the bench of the booth, my breasts pressed hard against his thighs. I brushed the swelling at the top of his pants with my cheek, then with my hands. I breathed through the fabric, right onto what felt like a hot, pulsing, enormous cock. I pulled down the zipper and he moaned. His hands were on my shoulders, trying to pull me up. But he wasn’t trying hard enough. White silk shorts were straining to cover it now, but I pulled them down. It was magnificent. I took the head in my mouth, he shuddered and moaned. He tasted bitter, but so sweet. The scent of my own heat was mingling with his. I slid my lips down the shaft, pressing it with my thick, wet tongue, all the way down. My hands were on the tops of his clenching thighs, tight, hard and huge as steel cables. The head came to the top of my throat and I was only a third of the way down the shaft. His hands were in my hair as I pulled off him and licked my way down to his balls. I took each one in my mouth and gently sucked them in turn. This was one wonderful piece of equipment. And I was determined to get all the way to the bottom of it. As I went back to the glistening purple head, my hands found their way inside the silk boxers and around to two big buns of solid muscle, clenching and quivering. I slipped my mouth back over him, and slowly crept my hot, wet lips all along the pulsing vibrations of his shaft until it got to the top of my throat. I’ve heard about it, but I’d never done it.

  OK, I admit it, I’ve read about it, too.

  I really wanted to do it now, and I was determined. I relaxed, focused and very slowly, pressed on. He really growled. It felt great, like I really had him. Like I had consumed him, like I had complete control of him. But it was scary, and I wanted to get deeper, but little by little. As my mouth pulled back, he made the most delicious moan, and started pumping that gorgeous, salty, silky funk right into my mouth. I didn’t waste a drop.

  OK, no, I just made up all of that last bit. He left with his clothes and his gorgeous semen intact. He just said,

  “Saturday,”

  he left the money on the table, and was gone like a breeze.

  I ran back out of sight to the waitress station, and dreamed up that little scene, to try and help myself over the waves of my own heat. It didn’t help much. I could smell it. My hand slid up my stocking, up beneath my skirt, on up inside my thigh, up to my panties, and they were drenched. I slipped a finger inside, my lips were soft, swollen, hot and dripping. And they ached. The tips of two fingers found the hood of my little throbbing clit, stroked and pressed either side, I remembered his breath. I felt it on my cheek. On my neck. On my breasts. My breasts felt like they were about to spill out, over the top of the bra, out of the front of my uniform. I felt that I was melting like hot lava. I couldn’t stop, I thought of that urgent swelling in his pants. I couldn’t stop. Not now, NO! Not now… Oh, I rubbed and I gasped and I stroked and I gushed and I collapsed inwards, in waves of pulsing release. Not now, not now. NOW! I must have screamed, but I didn’t care. My skirt up around my waist, my panties aside, my fingers deep in heat, and massive windows right nearby, I was probably yelling, for all that I know. I have to admit that it left me floating, drifting, dissolving into a soft, disconnected, hazy, daze. And I loved it.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Saturday morning light, the early morning downtown was shrugging off a Friday night, long shadows dragged along the pavement and a biggish black car with darkened windows pulled up beside me at the curb. The back door opened and it waited. Should I get in? Bad enough getting into cars with strange men, but I couldn’t even see the driver. A voice from the front inside said, “You coming or what, lady? You’re the cook, right?” Yes or no? All my instinct said no. I got in. The door closed and we drove, through the almost empty streets, farther downtown until we reached a sign that said, ‘Battery Park Marina.’ Marina. We drove in, and along a dock, up to the back of a massive white boat. It had the word, ‘Splash’ in flowery lettering on the back. When he’d told me that he needed someone to cook for him, for the weekend, he had neglected to mention that it was to be on a boat. The car door opened, and when I didn’t get out straight away, the voice from the front said,

  “This is your stop, lady.”

  So I climbed onto the lower deck and aboard. The black car was already driving away.

  “I’m just making breakfast. Come on down.” I heard that voice, rich and cultured, like it could just command anything. Anything. And expect to get it. I followed the sound, down some steps to a kitchen area, a galley more than twice the size of the kitchen in my apartment. It looked just like a kitchen, except that there was a clip or a latch to fasten just about everything in sight. The sun blasted in through a long, skinny window and silhouetted him there in a white short-sleeved shirt, showing a golden tan on thick, muscled arms, with a dark down across the forearms. His crisp, creased white pants were just loose enough to hint at a sturdy form beneath. I checked. A couple of times, actually. For science, you know? He was putting out a pile of scrambled eggs and thick slices of buttered toast. He gestured to a table with two plates and settings. I was more confused than ever and I said,

  “I thought the idea was for me to cook,”

  He smiled with that cute, impish grin thing that made me want to dump a bucket of ice-water on his head. He said,

  “You’ll have plenty to do, don’t worry. Here, eat.”

  The eggs were just right, fluffy enough and still just a little creamy. I crunched a piece of toast and caught him watching me. I stopped. His mouth was just open and his tongue drew slowly across his lips, between perfect white teeth. I watched his tongue. He said,

  “Enjoy. Don’t worry.” He was talking about eggs. Right? His smile relaxed a moment, and he almost looked like a normal person. In as much as no
rmal people make their eggs for breakfast on yachts. He said,

  “Most of the day, perhaps most of the weekend, there will probably just be two of us,” I looked up from my toast and my eyes must have widened. Tell me that I misheard that. What did he say? Then he said,

  “I mean that I’m expecting one guest for most of today, possibly the whole weekend. There will be one, maybe two more people aboard this morning. After that, I can’t say yet, but I doubt there will be more than three of us, four at the most, at any time. I’d like you just to prepare snacks, and bring them out about every ninety minutes, OK?” Now he was watching me. It was unsettling. I felt like a specimen or a creature in a zoo. “Find whatever takes your fancy in the galley here, and bring out sandwiches, dips, salads, fruit, nuts, whatever. But more or less every hour and a half. You got that? Come and find us. Me or us. Wherever we are – the foredeck,”