Bound for Him: (A Billionaire BDSM Boxed Set - 9 Stories) the Bacchanalia Collection

by Juniper Leigh

  “Three.” This from a man.

  “Four.” Another woman.

  “Five,” the first woman.

  And so on and so on until the bidding ceased at twelve thousand five hundred dollars. What, I wondered, could make any fuck worth twelve thousand five hundred dollars? The woman who first bid on him had won him, and after the auction ended, the man finally moved, smiling at his patron, and climbed down from off of the table to sit at her feet. She petted him happily, like some sort of lap dog, and I hurried with my tray of dishes into the kitchen.

  “Cora,” I whispered, grabbing her arm even as she was heading back out into the main hall. “I don’t understand – what is going on here?”

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Rich people. They like to think they own us, and we like to let them.”

  “We do?”

  “Well,” she grinned. “Some of us.”

  Back out in the main hall, the bidding had begun for the kneeling woman, who looked strained having to hold that pose for so long. People were touching her with frequency as Madame Rousseau read her description: “The delicate Lily White is a professional Submissive from Lady Josephine’s in the Financial District. An expert in all forms of humiliation, Lily White has never allowed a client to penetrate her, until now.” Patrons approached her and opened her mouth, kneaded her breasts and slipped fingers into her exposed orifices. One woman slid a finger inside of her, probing her gently, and turned to her male companion and muttered, “Very innocent.”

  The bidding began, and I took tray load after tray load of dirty glasses and dishes into the kitchen until no evidence of the feast remained. At that point, Lily White had gone for twenty six thousand dollars, and the bidding on the professional dominatrix had already gone up to seven. I was heading back to the servant’s area when a familiar hand curled once more around my wrist and tugged me toward an alcove out of sight of the rest of the party.

  “Fiona,” came that orotund tone, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “You have got to stop grabbing people like that,” I said, somewhat startled. “Don’t touch me again.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, putting his hands up. “I meant no offense.”

  I stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, the light catching his eyes and revealing them to be a beautiful, pellucid brown: port in sunlight. “I have to go back to work,”I stammered.

  “Wait,” he said quickly, “please. Just for a moment. I’ve been watching you all evening.”

  “Like I said, I’m not on tonight’s menu.”

  “Fiona—”

  “Excuse me.” And I turned on my heel to go, but then his voice followed after: “Our desires will always be kept sharp by a kind of perversity. A need to be each forever alone.” I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “How do you know that poem?” I asked, turning back to face him, my mask annihilating my peripheral vision. He grinned, perfect white teeth framed by deep dimples.

  “I like poetry,” he said casually.

  “So you saw The Basketball Diaries and picked up a book of poetry by Jim Carroll.” He shrugged.

  “More or less.”

  “It’s just…” I hesitated, canting my head to the side. “I love that poem.” We stood there together, staring at each other, before I shook my head to clear it of all nonsense and stepped back out into the main room.

  And right into Cora, whose tray full of cocktails came crashing to the floor with us.

  Madame Rousseau darted over and dragged us both to our feet. “You two will proceed immediately to the lobby where you will fetch your things, collect your wage for the night and see yourselves out. Am I understood?”

  “Please, Madame,” Cora begged in hushed tones, “I just quit my job. I need to stay on.”

  “You know the rules, Cora. And you said your friend was a quick learner, discreet, but she’s been staring at our auctionees and patrons all night, and I simply cannot abide it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Madame,” I said, my eyes darting desperately between Cora and Madame Rousseau. I could feel the heat swell up into my cheeks as I tugged the robe back down to my knees, though I know I had exposed myself, and Cora, in the tumble.

  “No, I’m sorry, girls,” Madame said. “I must ask you to leave. We have exceptionally high standards here, and I’m afraid you’ve not met them.”

  “No, Madame. Please.” Cora clutched Madame Rousseau’s hand. “Punish us instead. Only let us go back to work.”

  “Punish you?”

  “Yes. We’ll put on a fine show, won’t we, Fiona?”

  My eyes went wide and I felt all the blood drain from my face. “Cora, I don’t think—”

  “Just say yes, please. I have to keep this job.” She turned her desperate eyes on me then, and I began to wonder if Cora wasn’t perhaps in more dire straits than she’d let on.

  “Get up this instant,” Madame said, and Cora and I clambered to our feet. “We can make this look staged, and if we pull it off, then you both may keep your positions.” Madame Rousseau straightened up and looked around at our captive audience. “It seems these two young ladies need to learn a proper lesson about serving their betters.” A light applause sounded throughout the room and two of the male servers came over to use, curled their fingers around our arms and dragged us toward the table, whereupon we were hoisted bodily up onto it.

  I was violently deprived of my robe, and didn’t realize what a comfort it had been, even though it was see-through. Now I was completely bare in front of a group of strangers; I was grateful for the mask that I was hiding behind. Without it, the shame and discomfort would have sent me running.

  I turned to look at Cora, who was whispering with the male servant, his cock at perfect attention. “Do you consent?” he asked, and she gave a quick nod of her head. It was at that moment that she was forced down onto her knees on the tabletop. The crowd had gathered in front of us, and I could see my mystery man watching with impassive eyes, the bulge in his tuxedo pants visible even from a distance.

  “Place your hands in front of you, and press your cheek to the table cloth,” Cora was instructed, and she did as she was told, baring her bottom and sex to the whole party. The male servant positioned herself in front of her, his cock brushing against the fleshy part of her backside as he moved. I felt a tingling in between my legs as I thought with envy that he might just fuck her right there in front of all of us. Is that what I wanted? To be penetrated in front of a group of strangers?

  But he didn’t, at least not yet: He brought his hand back and spanked her with a resounding smack that left a pink handprint across her ass and elicited a shriek of dismay from her lips. He spanked her again, and again, until she was grunting each time he made contact. At one point, he re-positioned her so that her legs were spread farther apart and he smacked at the exposed parts of her most intimate places, slicking them with excitement and turning them red with pain. “Do you like that?” he asked as the crowd drew nearer.

  “Yes,” she managed to mutter, and I wondered if perhaps it were true.

  “Do you consent?” I turned to see another male servant speaking to me, and I went completely mute. How could I consent to this public humiliation? And why did I want to? “Well? Do you?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, hardly able to believe that I’d said it, and dropped down onto my knees. The man pressed my face into the tablecloth, and adjusted my hips so that my ass was as high in the air as I could manage. Then he kicked my legs apart, showing my tender, freshly-waxed nethers to the whole group.

  “Wait,” came the sound of a familiar voice, and my mystery man stepped forward. “I would like to handle this one,” he said, and the servant stepped aside. The mystery man sat on the edge of the table next to me and brushed a few stray locks of black hair away from my mask. “May I touch you?” he asked, and I said yes. His smile grew devilish, bright eyes glistening in the lamplight, and he disappeared from my view.

  I couldn’t see what was happening
to Cora, but I could hear her every sigh, every moan, and the rhythm of skin on skin had changed: she was letting one of them fuck her. Would I do the same?

  All this, over spilled cocktails.

  My heart was a timpani thrumming in the hollow of my chest as I felt the first electric shock of his touch. Not a smack, but one finger, gently probing me and coming to rest for a moment on the crest of my clitoris. He rubbed me gently at first, then more insistently until I was moving my hips to accommodate his movements. My limbic system was taking over: my body wanted what my mind was unsure of. He pressed a kiss to the small of my back and murmured, “Good girl,” even as he dipped his index and middle finger into the crevice between my legs. He pressed both fingers deep inside me with a come-hither gesture that hit my G-Spot and I began to buck my hips back and forth in opposition to his movements, wanting him as deep inside me as he could get with just two fingers.

  “Is this what you wanted?” He asked. “When you came here tonight? Is this what you desired? To come in front of fifty strangers?”

  My eyes flew open at that and I darted from face to face as they watched me. Some of the men had their cocks out and were rubbing them as they watched me, some of the women hand their hands up their own skirts, and others still hade made use of the staff: a few men were being sucked off by the women in gold, a few women had legs hoisted over the men wearing nothing but rings. It was a panoply of decadence, and I was at the center of it.

  “Well?” My mystery man insisted, using his fingers to fuck me, faster and faster. “Do you want to come?”

  “Yes,” I said on the wings of an exhale. My entire body was alert, my nipples hard and aching to be touched, my cheeks and neck hot from the excitement. “Yes, please, may I come?”

  “Come for me. I want to feel what you feel like when you climax.” I was riding the crest of a wave, and when it nearly broke over, he stopped and drew his hand away. “But not yet.”

  In one sweeping, easy gesture, he turned me over and picked me up, lifting me easily off the table and curling me up in his arms. Madame Rousseau seemed satisfied enough: her well-orchestrated orgy seemed to be underway, with couples copulating in any number of ways all over the dining room. I turned to look at Cora, who had been mounted by the servant spanking her, and who was taking one of the patrons in her mouth. A third still was standing by, his cock in his hand, ready to insert it where he was able. I turned away then, and leaned my head against my mystery man’s chest, my fingers curling around the front of his shirt, wanting to tug it from his body, wanting him to shield me from the insanity of the room behind us, wanting to take part in that insanity.

  We disappeared into our alcove, and he drew a curtain behind us, concealing us from the rest of the world. He laid me down on a divan and smiled. “Not on the menu, eh?”

  “Well,” I said, stretching my arms up over my head, “I hadn’t planned to be, at any rate.”

  “I’m glad you are.”

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” I said, and sat upright. He was tugging his bowtie off to let it hang limp around his neck.

  “Oh you’re no safer in here with me than you would be out there,” he grinned wolfishly.

  “Is that so?” I asked, and he came forward, his hand snaking around the back of my head and tugging me up and into a deep and probing kiss. I kissed him back, the urgency of all of the night’s stimuli inhabiting my body as my fingers struggled with the buttons of his dress shirt. His tongue darted into my mouth and I opened up for him, feeling safe even in my state of vulnerability.

  “Yes,” he breathed heavy, moving back so that he could tug his shirt off over his head: he had no time for stubborn buttons. “And besides, you still have a lesson to learn.” His chest was broad and smooth, and stomach boasted the outline of abs like a Calvin Klein model. I froze, staring up at this fine specimen of a man as he began to undo his belt, and got lost in his eyes. Eyes the color of fine sherry in a crystal glass.

  “I’ve seen you before,” I said, even as he removed his pants and boxer briefs to reveal the finest cock I’d ever laid eyes on, smooth and erect and begging to be sucked.

  “Yes,” he said, grinning. “You’ve seen me a lot.”

  A lot? He curled his hand around my throat and forced me to stand. He kissed me again then and when he let go, I dropped to my knees in front of him. We were two people, wearing nothing but masks, and I took his beautiful cock into my mouth and tasted the salty sweetness of his manhood even as he tossed his head back and groaned. He tangled his fingers in my hair and helped me keep rhythm, taking him deeper and deeper into my throat with each thrust. My jaw ached from the size of him, and after a few minutes, he drew away and lifted me to my feet.

  He said nothing as he directed us both toward the divan. He didn’t need to say anything. Because we kissed like two magnets coming together, and when he entered my aching cunt, it welcomed him easily, so slick was it from his previous ministrations. He filled me utterly, thrusting in and out, in and out with a newfound urgency. My fingernails scraped down the smooth slope of his back and came to rest on his ass. I pulled him in, wanting him deeper, as deep as he could get. We rolled together so that I was on top of him, our hips moving in synch, and he reached up to cup my breasts in two, strong hands. I couldn’t get enough of him, I wanted to take more and more of him inside of me. “Deeper,” I demanded. And, “Harder.” And he obliged, flipping me over so that I was on my hands and knees, and he could pound into me from behind, until my existence became the single point where he entered me, where he filled me up.

  “Come for me,” he demanded, his voice husky in his throat. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

  And, as though at the mere force of his command, I climaxed, the muscles inside of me spasming around his insistent presence. I let out a cry and he thrust into me once, and again, and a third time before collapsing atop me, his own lust satisfied.

  We stayed that way for several silent moments, slicked with sweat and panting for air, until I finally turned over onto my side to look at him.

  “Take off your mask,” I whispered.

  “You first,” came his throaty reply.

  But neither one of us was ready to let the magic dissipate. So we pressed our lips together in a kiss of surprising tenderness before I rose to my feet and slipped past the curtain, ending the encounter without ever having seen his face.

  *

  The next morning, I came in for the brunch shift at the restaurant, bleary eyed and achy, without Cora’s convictions that this new job would be a reliable source of steady income. I punched my timecard, got started on my sides, and felt a wave of relief when a flood of our normal patrons began to pour in. I could go back to the normal life I had scoffed only a day before, and I was comforted by the steady rhythm of my job waiting tables. The same people tipped well, the same tipped poorly, and the day was just so wonderfully normal.

  And yet, through it all, I couldn’t help but think of that poem by Jim Carroll, Our Desires. I have designed too well this vision of you. I cannot survive your eyes when they are scarred with a need for some lesser form of love. Was this life, this very normal, perfectly happy life, going to be enough? When I had tasted such raw decadence, such overwhelming freedom in letting myself be seen so completely? I didn’t know.

  All I knew was that I had a table in the front full of very fancy people, and they had ordered a pitcher of mimosas. So I delivered it to them. And after placing it on the table, a gentleman curled his fingers around my wrist, and I looked down into two whiskey colored eyes and he smiled and said, “Hello, Fiona.”

  Part Two: The Unmasking

  “Hello, Fiona.”

  I stood, slack-jawed and staring, in the middle of my shift, the bustle of the brunch rush swirling all around me. It was he: the mystery man to whom I had given myself the previous night at the Bacchanal Club. But here we were, in broad daylight, and without our masks. And I’d seen him here, in this very restaurant, a number of times before. Yes
, I recognized him as one of our regulars, usually accompanied by a beautifully dressed woman. And today was no exception, although he was a part of a four-top.

  “Hi,” I lamely replied, trying at a graceful recovery. “Hello.”

  “You do remember me, don’t you?” He asked, a familiar pair of dimples forming around his broad and devilish smile. I felt my face flush with heat and I averted my eyes, lest I give myself away.

  “Of course,” I stammered, “I… you were…”

  “I was in yesterday,” he said easily, raking his fingers through his full head of dark brown hair. “Elizabeth Dannecker and I,” he said to his companions. And then to me: “We both had the Nicoise salad.”

  “Yes,” I breathed, relieved. He had been in the restaurant yesterday: and inside my mouth a mere handful of hours earlier.

  “Fiona,” he said to his table, “can always be relied upon to provide most excellent service.” And my blush deepened as images of his exquisitely sculpted body flashed through my mind.

  “Would you like to hear the day’s specials?” I asked, fishing my notepad from my apron, poised to take their orders. But my mystery man just tossed his napkin onto the tabletop and rose to his feet.

  “Actually,” he said, “could you point me in the direction of the restroom?” At his full height he was easily six foot four, towering over me so that I had to sharply incline my head to meet his gaze. But I bobbed my head in a nod and pointed to the corridor toward the back of the restaurant. “Thanks,” he said, and sidled past me, his fingertips brushing lightly over my backside as he passed.

  I didn’t know what to make of his presence in my place of employment, or how to reconcile it with what had happened between us the previous night. So as I wandered in a daze toward the kitchen to put in his table’s appetizer order, I was startled back into reality when he grabbed my arm and dragged me bodily into the small, single bathroom and locked the door behind us.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, staring down at me as though he couldn’t believe I was standing there in front of him. And I imagine my face bore much the same expression.