Forced to Bloom, The Complete Series: (BBW Alpha Male Billionaire BDSM Romance)
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Forced to Bloom, The Complete Series
by Alexis Adaire
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Copyright © 2015 by Alexis Adaire
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without
the express written permission of the publisher,
except for brief quotations used in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and events are the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance
to actual living persons is purely coincidental.
UUID: f11a6ee6-aab6-455d-ae91-0d4ea0733338
Published by Twisted Pair Publishing
TwistedPairPublishing.com
Cover images:
Woman — ©MediablitzImages (Fotolia.com)
Flower — ©siberianlena (Fotolia.com)
Forced to Bloom
The Complete Series
by Alexis Adaire
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright Page
Title Page
Book 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Book 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Book 5
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book 6
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
More From Alexis Adaire
Alexis Adaire Biography
Forced to Bloom
The Complete Series
Book 1
by Alexis Adaire
1
Billionaire seeks submissive
I laughed out loud at my computer screen. It had to be a joke, right? Surely an actual billionaire wouldn’t be posting an ad in Craigslist’s “Casual Encounters” section. There it was, right between Young man for MILFs and cougars and Looking for mutual masturbation partner. I had been checking out Craigslist ads for a couple of weeks. Everyone on the popular websites OK Cupid and Match.com seemed to want to date, and I wanted… well, I wanted something else. I just wasn’t sure exactly what. Whatever it was, though, I wanted it badly enough to be looking through ads on a Monday morning before I left for work.
Billionaire seeks submissive
I’m not sure which word jumped out at me more, “billionaire” or “submissive.” Submissive unquestionably stirred something inside of me, but I was also curious whether the person who posted the ad was indeed worth that kind of money. And if so, why would he be trying to attract a submissive via Craigslist of all places — the Walmart of hookup sites?
Next to the phrase was the word “pic” in orange, Craigslist’s way of letting me know the ad contained a picture. My curiosity now thoroughly piqued, I clicked on the link.
The image jumped out at me. It was a crowded MAX car, Portland’s light-rail transit system, in which one woman sat with her blouse open, a single breast and its perfect nipple visible. Around her people were staring, some blatantly and some surreptitiously, while others were obviously forcing themselves not to stare. Everyone seemed fully cognizant of the fact that the woman was exposed in a way that women usually are not, at least not in public. The woman herself was either unaware that her breast was plainly visible or just unconcerned about it.
The text below the picture offered little explanation:
Billionaire male seeks submissive female.
You will do whatever I instruct you to.
Experienced only — not for “Fifty Shades” fans.
No compensation; this is a relationship, not a job.
Send a reply with ONE picture to be considered.
So he’s not a real billionaire, I thought. Someone with that much money wouldn’t be so stingy about it. Or would he? Maybe he was just attempting to weed out professionals and golddiggers. By explicitly stating there was no money involved, he would reduce replies from women who were interested for reasons other than a desire to submit to a dominant male. That was fine by me; I didn’t need money. Well, I did need it, but I wouldn’t want to base a relationship around money, even an unconventional one. I had a good-paying career as Social Media Coordinator for a large Portland healthcare business. Unlike many almost-thirty women, I was frugal and had very little debt. No credit card balances, and just my monthly rent, car note and student loans.
But why would I respond to the ad? Was I genuinely interested, or just titillated?
I was six months out of my previous relationship, one that had lasted two full years. Gerald and I were great fuckbuddies for a while, but as the initial great sex stage of our relationship faded away, he dumped me for an older woman — an older, thinner woman. I’m sure that her lithe, toned body was a welcome relief to him after my large frame. Gerald had never seemed thrilled with my size and regularly suggested I join a gym or eat paleo or whatever was the diet-of-the-week. After Gerald, I was too depressed to date for a while, thinking I needed time to focus on myself before jumping back into the pool. Soon I found I had no desire to go on traditional dates. What I really wanted for a while was no-strings-attached sex, which led me first to OK Cupid and Match.com, where I had little success, then to Craigslist and its Casual Encounters.
I had hooked up exactly twice via ads therein, once by replying to an ad (“NSA sex? I’m your man!”) and the other time by running an ad of my own (“Smart, sexy chick seeks penis with dumb, hot owner”). Both times I’d arranged to meet the guy at a bar first, then we moved back to my apartment for some naked fun. For the record, the “dumb, hot owner” wasn’t really that dumb or that hot, but he was hung, hard and enthusiastic. Nevertheless, those two encounters had served to convince me that I needed to look for something less physical and more cerebral in a sex partner. After finally bending to the will of my girlfriends and reading Fifty Shades of Grey, I began to think it might be interesting to explore a relationship as a submissive. I devoured a dozen more such novels. The romance I could do without, but I was inexplicably drawn to the dynamic of a woman being under the control of a man. Unlike those books, I didn’t want to save a man from his pain, I wanted him to save me from mine. I knew nothing about such things apart from what I’d read in erotica, and I was smart enough to realize most of that was probably wrong. So that lead me back to Craigslist in an attempt to discover what the real thing looked like.
This new ad, the one from the billionaire, appeared in the man-looking-for-woman section of Casual Encounters, and wasn’t the first one I’d seen seeking a submissive. The others, however, contained paragrap
h after paragraph explaining exactly what was expected of the woman lucky enough to be chosen. Some had bullet points (“absolutely no urinating or defecating without first asking permission”), and one even had a goddamn chart. The one I was currently looking at, though, was elegant in its brevity, sexy in its succinctness. I was intrigued by its lack of information.
I was also taken by the instruction to send “ONE” picture, not several. Another way of weeding out people who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow instructions. That meant the responder, the applicant, would be forced to choose a single image that would represent her to her potential future dom. Multiple pictures would have allowed for a variety, chosen from head shots, body shots, casual shots hanging with friends, risque shots, nude shots, explicit shots, etc. Nope, this guy wanted you to pick the ultimate “This is who I am” picture, most likely because he was interested in how a woman responding to his ad thinks of herself.
All of these thoughts running through my head had me excited. I clicked on the “reply” button and a new message window opened in my Gmail. When I failed to come up with something to say, though, I realized I was woefully unprepared for such a relationship, and certainly not ready to respond to the ad just yet.
I left my computer and drove to work, my thoughts preoccupied with this mysterious billionaire dom and what it would be like to apply for that job, to interview, to actually take part in a relationship of that kind. I imagined myself in various scenarios, being ordered to do things by a powerful man. This impulse was new to me; I don’t recall ever thinking along those lines before. Where was all this coming from?
The picture of the woman in the MAX car lingered in my mind throughout the day. Did the photographer know her? Was he or she a professional who had hired a model to do this, catching the other light-rail riders off-guard? Or was it merely someone who had their cell phone handy at a moment when an anonymous commuter was in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction? I wondered about the moments leading up to the picture, and especially about those coming after it was taken. Did someone politely point out that she was exposing herself? If so, did she remedy the situation or was she doing it on purpose and ignored the advice?
As I drove home, something occurred to me: The woman in the picture might have been a submissive of the man who ran the ad. Perhaps she was carrying out his orders by exposing herself to total strangers in that manner. Maybe he even took the picture personally. I thought of myself in that situation, having been instructed to open my blouse and expose a breast in a MAX car, pretending to not notice my partial nudity while simultaneously being the object of everyone’s incredulous stares. I was equal parts frightened and excited; terrified at the idea of exposing myself and excited by being ordered to do so by a powerful man. Could I actually do something like that? I doubted it. You’d have to love your body to invite strangers to look at it, and I certainly didn’t fit that description.
After dinner, I felt the need, the compulsion, to re-read the ad and look at the photo again. When I went to Craigslist and clicked on the link, my heart sank:
This posting has been deleted by its author.
After the momentary disappointment, I checked my email and realized that in the morning I’d opened a response window in Gmail to send a reply to the maybe-billionaire dom. That email window was still there, waiting for my reply to the ad. I had no idea whether he would receive it or not, since the email went to a temporary Craigslist address and then would hopefully be forwarded to him. But there was a chance, at least, and I needed to act quickly if I were going to do this. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to send a reply; even if he responded, I could always back out before or after meeting him.
How could I write a message that would separate me from the many other women who would certainly respond? A man like this would likely find intelligence attractive, so I had that going for me. I could simply out-think most of the others. I composed a carefully considered message, trying to find the right words and the perfect approach to catch this guy’s eye, to get into his brain. After several stops and restarts, I eventually deleted most of what I’d written and arrived at something I thought might do the trick. Following his lead of quality over quantity, I kept things extremely short:
I can’t get your ad out of my mind.
I keep seeing myself in that picture.
Rachel
Now came the hard part, choosing which picture to send him, which me to employ to introduce myself. Here’s the thing: I’m far from perfect. At 5’6” and 185 pounds, I’m not exactly Barbie. As a busty size 14, I attract attention for what I feel are the wrong reasons: my old-school hourglass figure and the size of my breasts. The problem with choosing one picture is that I had no idea what this man wanted. Did he want a nude, body-only picture? A chaste, face-only shot? As I considered the dilemma, I imagined what most women would likely send. I guessed there would be boudoir pics and sheer lingerie from the Fifty Shades crowd, and leather and chains from the more serious BDSM devotees. I refused to take either of those routes, and I certainly wasn’t going to send him a naked picture. I thought again about my new interpretation of the woman exposing herself in the MAX car — that she hadn’t done that by choice, but because she had been ordered to.
This man wanted a blank canvas, someone he could mold to his liking.
I chose a simple photo taken at a work function as a joke. I was professionally dressed, wearing a skirt and heels. I’d just had my hair done that afternoon and it looked gorgeous, long thick curly black locks cascading down over my shoulders toward a decent, though still professional, amount of cleavage. I had been in the hospitality suite of a ritzy hotel and I just happened to be surrounded by eight well-dressed men. My slate blue eyes looked huge set against the pale skin of my face, and there was just a hint of a lascivious smile on my ruby red lips. If that didn’t get his imagination whirring, I didn’t know what would. I attached the picture to my email, then hit send. For the next ten minutes, I kept refreshing my inbox, waiting for a message from Craigslist to inform me that the ad had been deleted and my message would not be delivered.
When I didn’t get such a message, I began to panic. What had I done? I was fascinated by the idea of submitting myself to the whims of a powerful man. The reality, though, might well be something I couldn’t handle.
I felt better after again reminding myself that I probably wouldn’t be chosen, and that even if I were, I didn’t have to follow through and actually meet this man. Thinking of it less as a possible reality and more as a simple, tentative exploration of my own curiosity, I waited to see if he would respond.
And waited.
2
By that weekend I’d given up hope of getting a response from the supposed billionaire. I hadn’t forgotten the ad and the picture, though. I really wished I’d saved a copy of both, but could still remember most of the text of the ad. The picture was seared into my brain and I thought about it often, the scene popping into my head at the most inopportune moments, like during a meeting at work.
Since I hadn’t gotten a reply to my message, I resumed looking through Craigslist in hopes of finding what I had begun to think of as a “beginner submissive” situation. I wanted someone to show me the ropes, as it were, to ease me into a relationship in which I would be expected primarily to fulfill the wishes of a man. My dom would need to be understanding of the fact that I wasn’t fully committed to that type of relationship yet. He would need to guide me slowly into it. I was seeking a kindler, gentler dom.
On Saturday night I clicked on a link that read: “Looking for a woman to serve me.” What I found inside was laughable. There was an actual contract, with twenty-three clauses that would need to be agreed upon, and instructions to print it out, initial each clause, sign and date it at the bottom, and bring the contract with you to the meeting — provided you were lucky enough to get one. There were also a dozen pictures, some obviously taken from porn sites and one of an erect cock that I assumed belonged to the dom-to-be. Very s
ubtle. The funniest part was clause number seventeen, which said, “Duties will include: cooking, cleaning, dusting, laundry, fellatio, dog-walking.” I wonder if the required fellatio would be restricted to the man himself and not Fido as well.
I finally gave up my search and did some reading, an erotica book titled Bossed Around, about a woman who takes a job as an administrative assistant then learns she’ll actually be serving as a submissive to her powerful new boss. The book was poorly written, but the situations were interesting enough for me to imagine myself in them. I was beginning to get drowsy when I heard the ding on my phone that signaled a new email message. I glanced at it, preparing for it to be spam, ready to delete it then turn off the light and drift off to sleep.
Re: Billionaire seeks submissive
I was instantly wide awake.
Oh my God, it was him. Maybe. There was always the chance it was an automated reply. I opened my email app and clicked on the message.
350 SW Madison, Suite 2721
Monday at 12:15 pm.
Dress casually.
M.
The email was sent from the address m@anonymizer.com. I quickly Googled that domain and discovered Anonymizer.com provided untraceable email forwarding. Googling the address and suite number was likewise unfruitful as it turned up the names of several unrelated businesses. Despite my advanced online snooping skills, I couldn’t glean anything at all about the sender.
It was difficult to fall asleep that night, with my mind filled with thoughts of hot billionaires, stern orders, intense sex and visible breasts on MAX cars. Not wanting to appear desperate, I waited until the following morning to respond, again keeping it simple.
Per your wishes, I will see you at 12:15.