Forced to Bloom, The Complete Series: (BBW Alpha Male Billionaire BDSM Romance)

by Alexis Adaire

  Rachel

  By Monday I was a wreck, way too anxious to get anything done at work. I still hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to go through with the meeting, but luckily this guy’s office was just six blocks from my own. During the morning, I decided I would go to the address in his email and take a look at the building. If it looked respectable, I’d proceed to the twenty-seventh floor and slyly check out his office from the hallway. Assuming everything looked legit, I would meet with this man. Just as likely, though, I’d get spooked and instead go eat lunch at a food truck before heading back at my office.

  It was a gorgeous spring day and downtown Portland shone like a gem as I made my way toward Madison Street. I wore navy blue pants and an ivory silk blouse with a dark gray wool jacket and matching gray heels. My stomach was in knots and I had no idea how to act or what to say to a dom. I couldn’t lie about my lack of experience as a sub, since he’d surely discern the truth at some point. Instead I would take the approach of being totally honest and see where that got me.

  I arrived at the building quickly, and the fact that his office was in the Bank of Portland building didn’t calm me at all; I think I would have preferred it be some sketchy place so I could bail out without feeling cowardly. Instead it was a beautiful gleaming glass skyscraper, the tallest building in town at 45 stories. Going to his place of business was reassuring, as we would no doubt be restricted to simple conversation for this initial meeting. I stood outside in the sun for a few moments, then entered through the huge doors.

  The elevator dropped me off at the twenty-seventh floor. On the way up I had imagined a huge group of offices taking up the entire floor, his personal space being a corner suite overlooking the Willamette River. I located suite 2721 and was surprised to see a single glass door with a small sign on the wall next to it reading “Regency Office Suites.” I walked past it, glancing in to see a woman sitting behind a plain reception desk. Definitely nothing as fancy as the word “billionaire” implied.

  I ducked into a nearby ladies’ room and checked my phone. 12:17. Now or never. Do or die.

  The face in the mirror exuded a lack of confidence. I told myself that meeting with him didn’t necessarily mean he’d choose me for a submissive, or that I’d have to agree to it if he did want me. It was just a meeting. I could do this.

  No more stalling. I took a deep breath and straightened my outfit. Doubling back to the suite, I opened the door and walked in with as much self-assurance as I could muster.

  The receptionist was a young, pretty woman, early twenties I’d guess. Nice, trim figure. She was reading a paperback and didn’t have the look of a receptionist for a powerful organization. Her simple desk and the tacky picture of sailboats on the wall screamed “cheap.” “Can I help you?” she asked politely, looking up from her book.

  “Hi, my name is Rachel Malinsky,” I said. “I’m here to see…”

  Oh, shit. I didn’t know his name. All he’d given me was an initial.

  She broke the awkward pause by saying, “You have a 12:15 appointment with M, right?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Third door on the left,” she said, pointing her pen down a hallway, then ignoring me as she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  I thanked her, again surprised by her lack of professionalism. I’d expected to be escorted to his office, but instead walked alone. The first door on my left had a sign that read “Sparq CyberSecurity” and across the hall was “Adesso Imports.” The second door on the left was open, and as I passed it I saw a single desk with a man behind it, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window while talking on the phone. The sign on that door read “Brandon Publishing.” These all seemed like distinct businesses, not a large single entity.

  Arriving at the third door, I knew I was at the right place. The sign on it said simply “M.”

  Nervous as could be, I knocked and a few seconds later heard a voice from inside with an odd accent say, “Come in.”

  If I’d come this far, I had to see it through. Steeling myself, I opened the door.

  3

  The office was small, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains or blinds, and the bright midday sunlight streamed through and illuminated the room. It contained only two pieces of furniture, a desk facing the window and a leather executive chair. On the desk was one single item: an opened laptop computer, opened so the screen and keyboard were visible, though the screen was currently blank. I looked around and saw nothing else at all — no other furniture, no telephone, no printer, not even a trash can.

  And there was nobody in the office.

  A little weirded out, I turned back to the door to leave and I heard the voice again.

  “Shut the door and have a seat.”

  That was no accent. It was a computerized voice, coming from the computer’s speaker. I noticed a red light atop the screen. This was definitely strange. I closed the door and sat in the chair. The monitor flickered, then I saw the picture of the woman on the MAX car.

  “You are late.” The mechanized voice coming from the speaker was unnerving.

  “I apologize,” I said, my voice quavering. “I needed a moment to gather my courage.”

  “Do not be late again,” he said.

  “I won’t, I promise,” I managed.

  “I am M,” he said. “You look even better than in your picture.”

  I tried to smile. “You can see me?” I asked.

  “The computer has a camera,” he replied.

  This one-sided video hardly seemed fair. “Can I see you?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” came the reply. “The image you see before you is representative of me.”

  His voice was calm and commanding, just as one might expect from a dom, but it sounded more like a calm, commanding robot.

  “Remove your jacket.”

  I paused. Something inside me bristled at the command. The situation seemed pervy. Still, I was alone in the office and there was someone next door and the receptionist just a few feet away. If I removed my jacket, though, M would clearly see my size. I imagined him saying, “No thank you, please leave” when he realized I was a big girl. If he was actually wealthy, he could have his pick of women, even for a submissive.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  I waited a second, then said, “No” and stood up, removing my jacket and draping it over the back of the chair.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.” I was way more nervous than I was going to let on.

  “You said you had to gather your courage before meeting me. Why is that?”

  The moment of truth had arrived. I stuck to my plan of total honesty.

  “I’ve never done anything like this before,” I said.

  “You have never served as a submissive before?” He sounded perturbed.

  “I haven’t,” I replied, looking at the floor. “I know your ad said ‘experienced only,’ but I assure you I have given this careful consideration and I think in the right situa—”

  “Stop talking,” he said insistently. “And look directly at the screen.” I did as told, once again looking at the faces of the commuters in the presence of the semi-exposed woman.

  A moment passed. I could feel my breasts swell with every breath and wondered if it was noticeable on his end.

  “I will only consider you for the position, Rachel, if you can pass a simple test. Would you like to try?”

  “Yes, please.” My words came quickly, before I’d had time to think about it.

  “Show me one breast,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t exactly stunned by the request, considering the image I was currently looking at, but I refused to fulfill it.

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “Then you are not the person I’m looking for.”

  I remained seated, staring at the woman’s breast.


  “Is there something else?” said the robotic voice.

  I stared at the red light above the monitor. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you yet. I have no idea whether this might end up on the Internet, or broadcast live, for that matter.”

  “I see. Not an entirely unreasonable fear.”

  A moment of silence, then he said, “A modified version, then: Go to the window and stand facing the street. Take out your breast there.”

  I knew I had only seconds to decide whether to do it. The camera was facing away from that direction and M might not even know whether or not I followed his order. I stood and walked to the window, looking out at the street below. There was typical daytime traffic, both on the street and the sidewalk. Nobody was looking up where I was, though. I wasn’t even sure if the windows were tinted, as they often are in office buildings. Directly across from me was another office building, shorter than this one but still taller than the floor I was on. I couldn’t see into that building at all.

  He probably wouldn’t know either way — should I actually do this? It wasn’t likely that anyone would see me, so why not? I slowly unbuttoned my blouse and realized I was simultaneously scared and excited. Reaching a hand into my bra, I took out my breast, all of it, and pulled back my blouse to expose myself. My nipple stiffened immediately. Nobody looked up from below. I remained like that for all of two seconds, then pulled my bra back on and buttoned my blouse.

  Feeling brave and excited and strangely proud of myself, I returned to the chair and sat, looking at the monitor with a slight smirk.

  Immediately, the screen flickered again and the image disappeared. Then the red light went off.

  “Are you there?” I asked.

  No response.

  “Hello?”

  He was gone.

  What the hell?

  I put my jacket back on, then pushed a few keys on the keyboard. Enter, escape… it was still powered on, but nothing worked. I stood there for a minute, flipped my middle finger at the camera in case he was still watching, then left the office. As I walked past the office next door, the man looked up and smiled. Was it him? I wondered.

  I asked the receptionist if she knew how I could get in touch with M, telling her that our online meeting had been interrupted.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We rent out offices to businesses that aren’t yet big enough to have anything more. Some people rent by the month, some by the week. That one was just rented a few days ago and the only people I’ve seen going in are the women who have had appointments.”

  I thanked her for her time and walked back to my office, then sat at my desk trying to figure out what happened. I had done what M asked me to, and it was a big step for me. I normally don’t go around exposing myself; I have body issues and I’ve never flashed anyone before, ever. I began to wonder if there might have been another camera in the office somewhere, if he actually had seen me expose myself. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw. Maybe he wanted someone thinner. He certainly wouldn’t be the first guy who’d made that same decision.

  4

  As the afternoon wore on, the more irritated I got. I was mad at M for disappearing, mad at myself both for following his orders and for not doing what he said the first time and exposing myself to the camera. I know that makes little sense, but I was confused and angry; I had begun to think I might actually pursue this strange type of relationship, and after getting this far, I was back to square one. Eventually I calmed down enough to consider finding out what had happened and maybe salvaging the situation. Besides, I wanted to know why someone claiming to be a billionaire would have such a tiny office. I logged off of the corporate wifi network on my phone and pulled up my Gmail app. After finding our email correspondence, I sent M a message.

  I did what you asked. Was I not what you were looking for?

  Less than a minute passed before I received a reply.

  Give me your phone number.

  I sent him my number and waited. Within seconds a text came in from a Portland number I didn’t recognize.

  I told you to stand in the window with your breast exposed.

  I quickly texted back:

  And I did as instructed. Not an easy thing for me, mind you.

  The reply came quickly.

  I never gave you the order to cover your breast again. I barely got to see you.

  I sat looking at my phone, dumbfounded. So he expected me to stand there with my boob out until he told me stop? That’s a level of control I wasn’t expecting. And did he actually see me exposing myself? I texted him back.

  You could see me at the window?

  His response:

  Yes, I saw you.

  How could he see me? Immediately another text appeared.

  I liked what I saw, Rachel.

  This was riveting. This total stranger had seen me partially naked, and he claims he liked what he saw. I felt the blood pulsing in my veins and my breathing grew deeper.

  Nevertheless, you failed the test. I’m sorry. Thank you for your time.

  I felt a surge of panic. I was not ready for this to end. I wanted to see if I was capable of doing what was required of me in this situation, of following the orders of a powerful man without questioning him. I quickly sent another text.

  Test me again.

  As soon as I sent it, I sent another one.

  I’ll do anything you ask.

  I stared at the text I’d just sent, unsure of what part of me was brave enough — or crazy enough — to have sent it. What the hell was I doing? And why was I doing it?

  Do you have a private office?

  So I hadn’t lost him yet. This was becoming a game, a fascinating test of wills. I sensed a tingling between my legs that usually indicated sexual excitement. I texted him back the single word “yes,” then received his reply.

  Shut the door, then remove every single item of clothing. Everything. Take a picture of yourself naked from the neck down and send it to me.

  What? Could I actually do that? Furthermore, should I? A second later, a followup message popped up.

  Don’t think, Rachel. Just do as you are told.

  Something in that text, in the directness of its wording, spoke to me. Scared to death of what I was asked to do, I felt absolutely compelled to do it anyway. I texted my response.

  OK

  Rising from my chair, I crossed the office and shut my door. Luckily, it locked, though if anyone knocked I’d have to think quickly. I adjusted the blinds behind my desk to allow in some light, but prevent anyone from seeing anything in case someone happened to look.

  I removed my jacket and slipped off my shoes, then my pants. My blouse came off next, my nervous fingers clumsily fumbling with the buttons. Reaching behind me, I unclasped my bra and set it on my desk. Then I peeled off my pantyhose, taking my panties with them. I was naked — not wearing a stitch in my office at 4:20 in the afternoon on a regular workday, with my co-workers going about their business just outside, absolutely unaware of the large, naked woman nearby.

  Positioning my phone against a vase on the desk, I set the camera to three seconds and tried my best to get the framing and focus right, then stepped back and stood still. The flash went off and I checked — my face was in the frame and the focus was off. I saw my earrings reflecting the flash and remembered M saying to remove everything. I don’t know if jewelry counted, but I quickly took them off and put them on the desk before resetting the camera and posing again. Dammit, it was still not framed well, though the focus was better. I could only afford one more attempt, then I’d have to get dressed; I simply couldn’t risk being caught in such a compromising position. I set the camera and posed, then looked at the picture.

  Good enough. There was my naked body, from just below my mouth all the way down to my feet, every inch of me in focus and well lit by the flash. Less than a minute later I was fully dresse
d again, and I unlocked the door, opened the blinds and sat back behind my desk. My breathing was heavy and I felt alive, my entire body buzzing as if I’d consumed too much caffeine. I couldn’t believe I had actually been naked in my office in the middle of a workday.

  Then I looked at the picture and felt my heart sink. Every flaw I had was on perfect display: my belly, my hips, my thighs, my breasts — all too big. My nipples and areolae were one of the few parts of me I actually liked, and even they looked uneven, one slightly bigger than the other. Red lines from my panty hose crossed my abdomen just below my navel. A visible half-fuzz could be seen on my pussy, thanks to my not having waxed recently, and my labia were clearly visible.

  In short, I looked awful instead of sexy. Sure, sending M this picture would show I could do as instructed, but he would certainly lose interest when he saw the nude chubby girl. Still, it was all I had to send. This is who I am. I could either bail out now, or send the picture and hope for a miracle.

  I sent it.

  A minute passed, then another. And another. I waited, fearing the worst. When I was no longer able to stand the suspense, I decided a stated rejection would be better than silence and I sent a text.

  Did you receive the picture?

  Finally he replied.

  Yes.

  Again I waited, but nothing more came. I had to know what he thought.

  Are you looking at me right now?

  The seconds passed. This guy sure took his own sweet time with his responses. Then my phone rang in my hand and I was so shocked I nearly screamed. I looked at the number — it was him, calling me.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Rachel. This is M.” His voice was deep and authoritative, one of those voices that always seem to be narrating documentaries. I took a breath. “Thank you for the picture. I’m proud of you for taking it; I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

  How did he know that? Was I that easy to read earlier when he saw my face earlier? Or was he assuming that because of my fat body?

  “I did what I was told,” I said.

  “I can see that,” he said, making me blush. “Tell me, are you still wearing the pearl earrings I saw earlier? I can’t tell from the picture.”