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

by Alexis Adaire

  “No,” I replied.

  “Why not? Where are they?”

  “They’re on my desk,” I said. “I removed them before I took the picture. You told me to take off everything.”

  I could almost sense a smile coming through the phone. “Let me briefly tell you what I would expect from you as my submissive,” M said. “Then you can decide whether you are still interested.”

  “Okay,” I said, my heart in my throat.

  “First of all, you will make yourself available to me whenever I ask. I will make sure not to interfere with your work schedule and your career.”

  He paused briefly, then continued, “You will do anything I instruct you to. Failure to obey me will terminate our relationship. And you may end it on your own at any point, should you decide you no longer wish to participate. Do you understand these terms?”

  “Yes,” I gulped. I still was unsure as to whether I could follow through with this. I imagined being asked to come to his house to administer a blowjob, then being dispatched back home. Maybe handcuffs or ropes? Spanking? I really had no idea what he would be asking of me.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

  “Will you require anything painful?”

  “No, never. Physical pain is not my thing, neither giving nor receiving.”

  That was a relief. I could handle the sex part of a submissive relationship. I actually liked sex and considered myself reasonably skilled. Once guys got past the idea that they were with a chubby girl, they always seemed to enjoy themselves. That thought led me to another question I had to ask. I fumbled for the right words. “Did you like the photo?”

  “Very much,” he replied. “You are quite lovely.”

  I was stunned. Nobody had ever used that word to describe my body before.

  “You aren’t blind, are you?” I asked, half-laughing.

  His reply was quick, “You are a very sexy woman, Rachel.”

  Was he serious? I couldn’t tell. “Don’t joke about my body, please.”

  “I’m not joking. Your naked body has given me an erection.”

  “You’re hard now?” The words slipped out.

  “Quite.”

  My brain turned to mush and I struggled to think of what to say. “I’m glad I please you,” I said softly. The mental image of this total stranger with my picture in one hand and his hard-on in the other was both creepy and thrilling.

  I gathered my wits. “How many women responded to the ad? And how many have you interviewed?”

  “I received nearly a hundred replies,” M said casually. “Of those, most refused to follow instructions and sent multiple pictures. I responded to the ones who obeyed. At this point, I’ve interviewed a dozen women and have six more to go.”

  Great. The odds of me being the prettiest or sexiest woman out of so many were remote.

  “Any more questions, Rachel?”

  I thought for a moment. “Are you actually worth a billion dollars?” I inquired, thinking about that tiny office.

  “No,” he said. Part of me was disappointed, but I suspected that would be the case. Then M added, “Technically I’m worth somewhere between two and three billion. You stop counting at some point.”

  My jaw dropped, then something clicked inside of me.

  “Then why the small office?” I prodded.

  “I rented that just for the interviews resulting from this ad,” M said. “I couldn’t very well parade all these women into my real office without people wondering.”

  That’s bullshit, I thought.

  His explanation seemed too facile, his answers too pat. If he wasn’t who he claimed to be, I couldn’t be sure he actually did like my big body. Maybe he wasn’t excited by it at all. Everything that was so thrilling moments before was rapidly evaporating. Suddenly I had to get off the phone; this was happening too fast and I needed time to think. Thank God he hadn’t asked for a picture of my face and naked body in the same shot; there was nothing in the one I’d sent him that would give me away if it ended up online.

  “So you’ll be in touch?” I asked, hoping to end the conversation quickly.

  “Yes, either way,” he said. “After I’ve completed the interviews.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you,” I said, only half meaning it, then bade a cordial goodbye to the faux-billionaire and his imaginary hard-on.

  5

  The longer the week went on, the more anxious I grew. I tried to keep a level head when thinking about M, but the fact was that, billionaire or not, he pushed certain buttons I’d never had pushed before. Our interactions had been scary and exciting, and that resonated with me sexually in a way I wasn’t accustomed to.

  I kept telling myself that it was silly to dwell on this, that he would surely be more interested in one of the other interviewees, some slender young thing who had peeled off her clothes without hesitation the instant he asked her to. Or maybe that wasn’t a part of the interview process for everyone — had he sensed my trepidation and asked me to do that just to see if I was daring enough to comply? The thought occurred to me that maybe he didn’t like big women at all and was just callously playing me, seeing if he could get me to strip for him. If that were the case, he’d definitely succeeded.

  I was just beginning to get him out of my mind when M texted me out of the blue late Friday night. I had been watching a movie with Mingus, my cat. As a joke, I’d created a ringtone for M’s texts using Pink Floyd’s “Money” and was shocked when I heard the familiar riff. I was honestly thinking I’d never hear from him again and had made a note to get to know someone better before sending them nude pics of myself, face or no. I grabbed my phone and opened the message.

  Are you sure you’re up for this?

  Holy shit. My brain practically exploded. Was he saying I got the “job”? And if so, did I really want it? How could I have beaten twenty other women? Did he actually interview anyone else at all? Was I the only chick dumb enough to respond to his ad? And most of all, if I doubted him this much, why was I so fucking excited looking at his text?

  I knew I couldn’t keep M waiting. I had to answer promptly, but what would I say?

  I believe I am. Why do you ask?

  My phone rang and I dropped it on the couch out of surprise. It was him.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Rachel. Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do exactly as I say, okay?”

  The mental aspect of this was excruciating. I had no idea what I was about to be asked to do.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “Tell me where you are and what you’re wearing,” he said.

  “I’m at home, sitting on my couch. I’m wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt.”

  “Panties?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, blushing. “And socks. But no bra.”

  “Close your eyes.” His voice was deep, hypnotic. “Imagine me wearing a dark suit and tie, standing in my expensive office. I’m behind a gorgeous burled walnut desk. On my desk is my cell phone, with your naked picture displayed. Are you following me?”

  Was he kidding? I was hanging on his every word. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good. Are you right-handed?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Hold the phone in your left hand and slide your right into your pants, under your panties. I want you to stroke your clit for me.”

  I did as told without hesitation. As my finger found my clit, I smiled at the thought that this was already the best sex I’d had in a long time. “Okay,” I said. “I’m touching myself.”

  “Now imagine me at my desk, unzipping my fly and reaching in to take out my cock,” M continued. “I stroke it as I’m looking at your picture. People keep entering my office and seeing what I’m doing, then leaving immediately. I don’t care about them; I’m fixated on jerking off to your naked image. Can you picture that?”

  Fuck. At this point, I didn’t care if he was a real billionaire or not. “Y
es,” I said, my pussy flooding with wetness as I imagined the scene.

  “Don’t stop,” he said. “Continue to stroke your clit and think about my cock and your picture. I can’t control myself looking at your body. Imagine me reaching orgasm, spewing cum all over your image on my phone.”

  My breathing grew heavy. I waited for him to continue.

  “I’m going to stop talking now,” he continued. “Keep imagining that scene while you touch yourself. You will come for me, loud enough for me to hear.”

  It was an order, a command. I tried to forget that I was masturbating for a man I’d never met and cleared my head of all thoughts except M standing at his desk, stroking a large, beautiful rock-hard dick while looking at me naked. He ignored anyone who walked in then left in embarrassment. His own breathing was heavy now. I heard him moan — or was that me moaning? It was both of us, him in my mind and me in real life. I gave in to the mental picture of M jerking off, stroking his cock faster in time with my own stroking. His cock erupted, thick white cum spurting out across his polished desk, shot after shot landing over my naked body on his phone.

  I came quickly, much quicker than I usually do, even with a vibrator. My clit throbbed and I cried out as sparks shot through my body. I continued to coax the waves out of me, moaning loudly until I had nothing left. It was then that the embarrassment descended on me. My breathing was still coarse, my finger still hovering near my clit.

  M’s voice came through the phone, soft but firm. “Good girl.”

  I didn’t know what to say, how to respond to him. I withdrew my hand from my pants and waited for him to talk.

  “I had a feeling about you, Rachel.”

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “Have you concluded the interviews?” I asked.

  “I have,” M said. “You are now my property.”

  I wanted this. “Yes,” I replied. “I am.” A thought popped into my head. “Only me? Is there anyone else?”

  “Only you.”

  “Are you sure I’m the one you want?” I don’t know what made me ask. Maybe a need for approval, for verification that he’d actually thought it through and that my oversized body was the one he wanted to be controlling.

  “I have no doubt,” M said. “You are the perfect woman for this.”

  It felt so good to hear those words from a man, even one I’d never met.

  “Will we get tested for STDs first?”

  M’s answer surprised and confused me: “There’s no need. We won’t be having sex.”

  “Um… okay.” That seemed strange. Surely he meant not at first.

  “When can we meet?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he replied.

  Again I assumed he meant it wasn’t possible for the time being.

  “Goodnight, my dear,” he said. “We’ll talk soon. Do not contact me; wait for me to get in touch.”

  Just like that, he was gone.

  And I was a sub.

  6

  I awoke on Sunday riddled with doubt. I didn’t know this man, I had no idea what he even looked like or what his name was, and I didn’t have a clue about the whats, wheres and whens of his domming me. There were so many questions, and I couldn’t call, text or email M to ask.

  Fortunately, M texted me just before noon, while I was still at home. “Money” played and I picked up my phone.

  I will be busy all day today. Your day is your own.

  I dashed off a reply.

  M, we need to talk. Please. I have questions.

  The phone rang.

  “Hi,” I said sheepishly.

  “Don’t worry, this is common,” M said reassuringly. “Ask away.”

  I tried to gather my thoughts, but just talking to M moved me into a more sexual state of being. His voice, the thought of serving him, the orgasm I’d had the previous night… I was too easily aroused by him.

  “I…I guess I don’t understand the part about us not meeting, not having sex,” I said.

  “That’s not really a question,” M laughed. “I’m not like other doms. Remember before, when I mentioned that there would be no physical pain involved? Instead, what makes me happy is to push you psychologically.”

  “Push me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Gently at times. Other times, it might be a little shove. But I will guide you, little by little, until you are the perfect submissive for me.”

  “But how will you do that if we don’t meet? Is this always over the phone?” I still didn’t understand.

  “No, not always,” M responded. “You’ll understand after a while. Until then, you will just have to trust me, Rachel.”

  I liked the way he said my name, like he cared about me. But that wasn’t enough.

  “I don’t know if I can trust you if I can’t even meet you,” I protested. “I need something a little more substantial than a voice, something to tell me you’re really who you say you are.”

  I could hear him breathing softly. “I anticipated this with you,” he said. “I knew you would need a little convincing.” I wondered where he was leading. “Where did you go to college?”

  That’s an odd question, I thought. “Stanford. Why?”

  “Expensive school. Were you on a scholarship?” M asked.

  “Partially, for the first year,” I replied. “My parents had a college fund that got me through two years. After that I worked and took out student loans.”

  “How much do you still owe?”

  Again M had me confused and on edge. “A bit over eleven thousand dollars.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice calm.

  “Yes, I just made a payment last week,” I said.

  “Check your account.”

  “I don’t un—”

  “Check the account, Rachel.”

  This was getting weird and I was suddenly anxious. “Just a moment,” I said as I walked to my computer and pulled up the student loan website in a browser window. I logged in, clicked on my account number and looked at the balance.

  $0.00

  My mind reeled. I had just checked this account a few days earlier and knew for a fact I still owed eleven thousand plus. I looked at the account detail and saw the most recent entry was a payment for $11,372.88. My breath caught in my throat.

  “Do you believe me now?” M asked. Before I could answer, he said, “I assure you that I am who I say I am. I will never lie to you, Rachel, nor should you lie to me. We should always be honest with one another.“

  “How did you do this?” I asked, my anxiety taking over despite his attempts to assuage my fears. “How did you get my account information? How do you even know my last name?”

  “It doesn’t take much to learn these things,” he said. “Only money, and I have plenty of that.”

  “If I’m being honest with you, I should tell you that this is freaking me out,” I said, my head buzzing and my voice quivering. “I don’t know whether to thank you or call the cops.”

  M paused, then said, “No need to do either. I merely wanted to demonstrate that money is no issue for me and that I care about your well-being.”

  I mulled over his words. Obviously, M was rich. Nobody would throw thousands of dollars away on phone sex unless they had that kind of money to burn. That wasn’t enough, though.

  “I want to see you,” I said.

  “Did you stop to consider that you may already have?”

  “What? When?” I implored.

  “You’ll learn that later, too. I must go now, my dear. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “No, wait!” I said.

  Too late. He’d already hung up.

  And I wasn’t allowed to call him back.

  7

  I was in my office on Monday, exactly a week to the day I’d gone for my interview with M. Since our conversation the day before, I’d been thinking non-stop about him, about me being a submissive, about me having a dom, and especially about my student loans. I’d called and confirmed
that my balance was now zero, that my loans had been paid in full.

  I also couldn’t stop thinking about M’s hint that I’d possibly seen him already. When could that have happened? I wondered if this was an elaborate hoax perpetrated by someone who knew me, but then remembered that I had answered a random Craigslist ad. It certainly seemed like M was for real.

  Strange maybe, but apparently legit. But not knowing anything about him was slowly making me crazy.

  Just before lunch, I was thinking about my interview in that little office with the computer, and being asked to bare my breast in the window for all of Portland to see. That’s when I remembered the man in the office next door who smiled as I walked past.

  It was him! It had to be.

  I took an early lunch and walked back to the building on Madison, taking the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor again. Walking into the suite, I saw the same receptionist behind the desk.

  “I just have a quick question for M,” I said, not stopping or waiting for permission. As I walked down the hallway I saw that the second door on the left was again open, the one with the sign reading, “Brandon Publishing.” I looked in and the man was behind the desk, busy on his computer.

  Looking up, he smiled and said, “Can I help you?”

  “You’re M, aren’t you?” I demanded.

  He looked bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know it’s you,” I said firmly, though it dawned on me I could be making a mistake. As if right on cue, I heard Pink Floyd’s “Money.”

  Shit. I looked at my phone. Sure enough, there was a text from M. I opened it.

  That’s not me. Come into my office.

  I looked up at the man and apologized profusely, continuing as I backed out of his office. The receptionist met me in the hallway with a glare and unlocked M’s office for me. I walked in and locked the door behind me, then sat forcefully in the chair and stared at the computer.

  A second later the screen powered clicked on and again I saw the image of the woman on the MAX car. This time I felt an affinity for her, as if we were members of the same club.