by Mimi Strong
Borrowed Billionaire #3, Return to Mr. Thorne
© 2012 Mimi Strong
Description: Billionaire Luthor Thorne asks to meet with Lexie Ross, but he won't actually see her. They'll be meeting in a restaurant that serves food in the dark. It's a very different date from the ones she's been having with her special friend, sexy fireman Jacob.
Length: 13,000 words, or 53 book pages long. This is #3 in a 5-part series.
Spice Level: Erotic. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.
1: Calling for Candy
Mr. Luthor Thorne phoned me and demanded sex while I was having lunch. I was at a lovely cafe with my friend and business partner/boss Suzanne.
Suzanne pulled a slice of cucumber from her iced water with mint and cucumber then nibbled it while studying me. We were on the outdoor patio, next to the sidewalk, enjoying the late-summer sunshine.
I held the cell phone to my chest and hissed at her, “Don't you need to check messages on your own phone or something?”
“Nu-uh,” she said, then she put her elbows on the table, and, chin in hands, continued to study me. The lady was married, so my sex life was endlessly fascinating to her.
Up until my phone started vibrating, over and over, unrelentingly, we'd been having a great conversation about our favorite topic: sex. She wasn't taking her birth control pills, because they wreaked havoc on her skin and her moods, so she and her husband were using condoms, except for the fact that he didn't like condoms.
“Nobody likes condoms,” I'd said to her. Still, I used them most of the time, even though I'd been on the pill myself for about five years. “You don't want a baby yet, do you? Oh, Suze, be careful.”
“He mostly does me in the ass,” she said matter-of-factly.
I nearly choked on my tuna salad sandwich. “Since when did you start doing … you-know.”
She did that face where she squints one eye and rolls up the other one, looking like a cartoon version of herself, her dyed-to-match-her-hair red eyebrows exaggerating the expression. “Lexie Ross, if you can't even say anal sex, you'll never get to do it.”
“Duh.”
“There are so many nerve endings in your butt. Like, so many. Your butt's like your clit, but shaped like an O.”
“Bleh.” I finished chewing my mouthful of sandwich and said, “Not on my sensual tourism list.”
“Sensual tourism, what? Is this a real list? Like a bucket list? I'd like to see this sensual tourism list. I bet it's not very long, on account of all the things you won't do.” She counted off on her fingers and said, “You won't eat pussy, and you won't take it in the back door, and what else? Oh, right, you won't say I love you to anyone but your parents.”
“That's not true,” I said. “I love you, Suzanne, you saucy little fake-redheaded lambchop.”
That was when my phone rang for the tenth time in a row. Rather than let it go to voicemail, again, I decided to answer the damn thing before all the vibrating ran down the battery. (Don't you hate it when your vibrating things are down on battery life?)
Despite the blocked number, I knew by the voice that the caller was Mr. Thorne, as expected.
As Suzanne watched me intently, her chin on her hands, I said, into the phone, “Sorry, sir, Candy's not available. She's at lunch with her gorgeous girlfriend. Candy does have a life you know.”
He laughed from his side, lightly, as though this was all part of the foreplay to the phone sex he wanted and was sure I'd give him.
“This sounds to me like Candy,” he said.
“Nope.”
“You sound sexy. I bet you have a tight ass. What's your name?”
“I'm the receptionist. My name is Helga and I have ...” I tried to think of something gross, but I didn't want to say something revolting, because even though I wanted to get him off the phone, I didn't want him to imagine me in a gross way. Finally, I said, “I'm Helga and I was born without a vagina.”
He'd already seen my vag—been inside it, in fact, so that was a pretty safe lie.
“Transitioning, huh?” he said. “That's cool. Tell me more about yourself, about your ideal lover.”
I snorted. “Do you have all day?”
“I have a few minutes, and if you don't have a vagina, I'd like you to tell me about putting my cock into one of your other holes, whichever one's available.” He paused, and I imagined him licking his lips. “The mouth is always nice.”
I frowned at Suzanne, who was still watching and listening intently. She whispered, “You should do it. Give him the phone sex.”
I shook my head at her.
I'd given Mr. Luthor Thorne phone sex—oral phone sex, specifically—once before, and I'd vowed not to do it again. Technically, I'm not sure if it was phone sex or real sex, because I'd had my friend Jacob's cock in my mouth for most of it. I was basically multi-tasking.
And now Mr. Thorne wanted me to give him cell phone oral, or something like it, again.
No.
I wasn't getting paid per minute, not like actual phone sex girls, and there was no way I'd be satisfying Mr. Thorne again, not without so much as a nice date beforehand. I'd been doing some really filthy (but fun) things recently, but I did have some standards.
“Put me in your hot, sticky hole, Helga. Though I really want Candy,” he purred into the phone, and in response, I felt the pink lips I was sitting on ballooning, swelling in size, excited for his big, throbbing sex, even if it was only over the phone.
I snapped, “Candy's busy.”
Suzanne waved her hand at me and snapped her fingers. “Suzie can take this one,” she said.
I hadn't told Suzanne who it was who'd been calling me for days trying to get phone sex, as Mr. Thorne was a client of our professional organizing services, and I didn't want her to know I'd been fraternizing, but she did know that someone had been calling.
She said, wiggling in her chair, “Let me suck him off. Oh, I really want to.”
Some people walked past us on the sidewalk, and I was sure they heard her.
I shook my head.
She pouted. “But phone sex with a stranger is on my sensual tourism list! What about my needs? Share, Lexie.”
I held the phone to my cleavage to mute my voice. I was wearing the backless and expensive red dress, the one a sexy silver fox had purchased for me the week before. It was a little dressy for day wear, but I felt like a million bucks in the expensive fabric and fine stitching, so I'd been wearing it every chance I got. I didn't think of myself as a materialistic person, but high-quality garments got my motor running in a way that nothing but the sight of a big, gorgeous, naked man could.
“He's a sick one,” I said to Suzanne.
She shrugged. “I'm married. I could use a little thrill. This isn't technically adultery, is it?” She pulled her hand away momentarily, then answered her own question with, “Of course not! I'm just doing you a favor and giving myself a little sensual tourism thrill. Gimme the phone. Gimme, gimme.”
I held the phone to my ear. “Sir, Candy's not available, but would you like to speak to one of our other girls?”
He paused, then played along, “Who's available?”
I answered him by making up the sluttiest names I could think of on the spot, until at last he pounced on one: Mitzi.
I rolled my eyes. “Mitzi's right here,” I said. “Her tits keep popping out of her dress, though, so she may have a wardrobe malfunction on you.”
Suzanne/Mitzi made a startled face and covered her chest. She was wearing her yoga clothes—black pants and a pink zip-up jacket, and in no danger of popping out. She had a tiny, modest figure, but Mr. Thorn
e didn't need to know that.
His voice cold and business-like, he said, “Let me speak to her.”
“Your wish is my command. Yes, sir.” I handed Suzanne the cell phone.
The waiter came by to refill our chilled cucumber water and clear our plates in time to catch Suzanne describing herself as, “Petite, with red hair, and ample, natural breasts.”
For the first time, I saw Suzanne as the hot little piece of ass she was. The girl was petite, and though her red hair came from a bottle, she did have nice breasts. I wouldn't call them ample, but they were big enough. As she spoke on the phone, breathlessly, she unzipped her pink yoga jacket and ran her fingertips along the top of her form-fitting yoga top.
The waiter, a teenaged boy, blushed and quickly ran off, practically tripping over himself in his haste.
“You gave that poor boy a boner,” I said to Suzanne, but she snapped her fingers and waved at me to stop talking.
I crossed my arms and slunk in my chair.
Suzanne was grinning, enjoying herself immensely, and I was … not happy.
Why wasn't I happy?
I looked around, seeking an answer. Attractive people were walking up and down the busy street, and an expensive-looking car drove by—one of those bright yellow sports cars designed to attract attention.
That was it. I wanted attention from Mr. Thorne.
Suzanne had him now, and I was jealous.
She was describing to him a full-on fantasy scenario, taking a lot more time to set up the scene than I had when I'd spoken to him. Damn, she was good. She created a luxurious suite, complete with a baby grand piano inside the room.
My jealous mind imagined the scenario as she described it over the phone to him, in tantalizing detail. When she got to the strawberries, I ceased to be in the sunshine at a sidewalk cafe, but was transported by her words, watching the fantasy scene unfold.
It went like this:
Suzanne met Mr. Thorne at the place of his choosing, which was a luxurious hotel suite downtown. They ordered room service: champagne and ripe, red strawberries. They requested a room with a piano, and she played a song for him—a beautiful song. All those years of lessons had really paid off.
(Just a reminder: this is me, telling you what I imagined, based on what Suzanne was saying to Mr. Thorne over my cell phone. At times, my imagination filled in a lot more than what Suzanne was saying. My imagination is just like that.)
He wore casual clothes, with a knit shirt, like what you'd see on a golf course. His strong biceps bulged as he popped open the champagne, and Suzanne squealed. (She wasn't Mitzi in my vision, but Suzanne, my dear friend.)
She got up from the piano stool, shy and nervous as a school girl, and stood in front of him, looking more petite than ever next to his imposing frame.
He picked out the biggest strawberry, stuck it in his mouth, and passed it to Suzanne with a passionate kiss.
She reached down with her manicured hand and stroked the crotch of his pants. He pushed her hand away and asked her to take it slow, not to rush. They were standing next to a table, in the middle of the luxurious open-plan suite. In addition to the piano, there was a sunken tub on one side and a King-sized bed on the other.
The sun was setting, and the curtains were open, revealing the city, all midnight blue sky and golden lights.
“You're all mine,” he said.
“I am.”
“You'll do as I say.”
She nodded obediently, and then he poured champagne for both of them, in tall, thin, crystal flutes.
“What shall we toast?” she asked.
“Eating strawberries,” he said. “I'm going to eat your strawberry.”
“I waxed it just for you.”
“Let me see.”
She trembled a little as he reached down with one thick finger and lifted the hem of her red dress. He caught a peek at her freshly-waxed and baby-powdered pussy. She arched her back, leaning her soft mound toward him, begging to be touched, but he only nodded, smiled, and dropped her hem.
He said, “You want me to touch you.”
Her voice shook as she said, “I really do.”
“Doesn't your husband touch you there?”
She shook her head, no.
“He doesn't know what he's missing. Let me see it again.”
She nodded and waited for him to look, but he didn't move.
“Go stand against that wall,” he said, gesturing to the side of the room, next to the bed.
She walked toward the wall and he directed her to stand with her back to it.
“Now spread your legs,” he said, standing a few feet in front of her.
She wore red shoes with very high heels, as she was so petite, and she was glad she had them on, so she could nearly look Mr. Thorne in the eyes.
“Spread them a little wider,” he said, and she did.
He took the champagne from her hand and set it on a nearby table, along with his. He undid the buckle of his belt, but went no further undressing himself.
Still standing before her, gazing into her eyes, not letting go, he said, “Lift up your dress without moving your feet.”
She timidly pulled at the hem of her skirt, inching it up along her pale thighs.
“Slowly,” he said. “Now. Now show me that strawberry pussy of yours.”
She raised the hem some more, revealing her mound, the front of her crease, and her folds, which were swelling in anticipation.
He took off his belt, dropped it on the floor, and undid the top button of his trousers.
Huskily, he said, “Do you want me to touch that strawberry pussy?”
She nodded.
“I didn't hear you.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?”
She blinked at him, looking confused.
He fed her the line, “Yes, please, sir.”
She repeated after him, “Yes, please, sir,” not breaking the connection of their gazes, she with her sparkly, pale blue eyes, he with his hazel eyes that wavered between green and brown.
“Do you know what I'm going to do to that strawberry pussy?”
She nodded.
He undid his zipper and slid his trousers down, and then his briefs.
When she saw his beautiful manhood, so big and strong, just like his arms, her mouth started to water. Her head felt light, like she might faint. Her sweaty palms still held up her skirt, and her legs were spread wide apart. With no underwear on, she was completely exposed, and they were utterly alone. Nobody knew she was there.
He pulled off his shirt so he was completely naked.
“Don't move a muscle,” he said, and he went to fetch the bowl of strawberries. He returned, and held one strawberry in front of her mouth. “Put this in your mouth, but don't chew, and don't swallow until I tell you to. Do you want it?”
“Yes, please, sir.”
He put the strawberry in his mouth and passed it to her with another kiss.
After the kiss, he knelt down at her feet on the carpeted floor. From below her, he swept his hands up and down her legs, first on the outside, and then on the inside. He stopped short of her crotch.
He said, “Why are you shaking? Are you cold?”
“Mm-mm,” she said, meaning no, around the strawberry in her mouth.
He laughed. “Just nervous, I suppose. And you should be.” He stroked her legs again.
Her mouth watered around the strawberry that was melting in her mouth, and her pussy felt red-hot, like it was burning up with a fever.
Mr. Thorne leaned in and gently applied the tip of his tongue to the top of her crease, to the part that looked like a keyhole in an antique door.
She fought the urge to thrust her hips at him, to push his tongue deep into her slit, where she wanted it. Patience, she told herself.
He ran his hands up and down her legs, and then he ate her, hungrily, putting his whole mouth against her mound, tonguing and licking and sucking, all at once.
She cried out in surprise at how good it felt, and nearly swallowed the strawberry in her mouth, but didn't.
The heat built up in waves, pushing her up, up, up, into ecstasy, nearly pushing her into the spasm of orgasm, but he pulled back. He pulled back and he blew gently on her pussy.
He voice hoarse and deep, he said, “You may swallow the strawberry now.”
She swallowed as his hands ran up and down the outer sides of her legs.
He said, “Do you want me to fuck you?”
She shook with nervousness, her elbows now slick against the wall with nervous sweat.
“Yes, please, sir,” she said.
He stood, and with one motion, he thrust his cock into her eager, wet, awaiting opening.
She cried out in surprise and pleasure, commingling emotions.
He thrust again, and he was in further.
It felt so good inside her, so hot and urgent. She wanted to feel nothing but his manhood, sliding in and out of her slick opening. Her clit burned, so hot, the width of his cock pulling at all her skin and making the loose skin of her hood taut, to rub deliciously against her clit.
This was what she wanted. It was exactly what she wanted.
He thrust again, and incredibly, he filled her up even more.
She felt her entire body shifting up, and realized her feet were no longer touching the ground.
He pinned her petite body, so much shorter than his own, against the wall, and thrust himself in and out of her. He moved his hands on the backs of her thighs, her ass, and now he lifted her up, supporting her weight with his cock and his arms, her back against the wall, the back of her hair being pulled down by her movement, exposing her throat.
She wrapped her legs around him as he devoured the skin of her throat, pressing his lips and tongue against the sensitive flesh of her neck.
Still he thrust in and out of her, the movements easy, even though he was so large, because her juices were flowing for him, inviting him in, deeper.
His rod seemed to stiffen even more, until she could scarcely believe it was flesh inside her, and not some man-made instrument, and he moved faster, pounding away at her.
The taste of strawberry still lingered in her mouth, and she sought his mouth, to taste him as well.