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

by Juniper Leigh

  “Why?”

  “For just showing up here like this. It was stupid. I thought I was being… cute.”

  “Cute?” I canted my head to the side, an errant lock of jet-black hair falling into my eyes. He reached forward to tuck it gently behind my ear and I shivered at his touch.

  “I’ve admired you for a long time.”

  I smiled, averting my eyes. “Well, you have excellent taste.” He laughed, full-bodied and warm, and hooked a forefinger through my belt loop to tug me closer. The gap closed between our bodies, and I placed my hands on his chest as he bent forward to press his lips against mine. A hunger was born instantly between us, and I wrapped my arms around his neck even as his snaked around my waist. I wanted to rip the clothes from his body so that he was bared to me once more, so that I could match his face with the image I had of his beautiful body. But I broke away, and took a step back, lifting my hand to my lips where I could still feel the warm pressure of his kiss.

  “I can’t,” I whispered, “I’m working.”

  “Will you be at the club tonight?”

  My breath caught in the back of my throat and I arched my shoulders in a shrug. “Madame Rousseau didn’t care overmuch for me,” I said by way of an excuse.

  “Please come,” he took my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. “I will inform Rousseau that I’ve asked for you by name.” I hesitated, shifting my weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “I won’t let you out of this bathroom stall until you agree to come to the club tonight.”

  I laughed and gave a slow shake of my head. But how could I resist those eyes, focused so intently on me as though I were the only girl in the universe. How, when he could recite one of my favorite poems, when he could instantly, instinctively navigate my body and bring me to climax as easily as if he’d been my lover for years? “Fine, yes,” I conceded, a smile blossoming on my face. “I’ll come.”

  “You won’t regret it,” he said, and moved past me to the door.

  “Wait,” I said as he pulled it open, letting the bustling world of the restaurant in, “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Michael Cross,” came his reply.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Buchanan.”

  *

  That evening, I made my way down Fifth Avenue toward The Bacchanal Club, arriving freshly showered and without makeup or styling, just as I had the night before. The same young woman greeted me, holding the door open as I crossed the threshold.

  “Emma, right?”

  She smiled, bobbing her head in a nod that sent her blond curls bouncing. “Nice to see you again, Fiona,” she said amiably.

  “I’m not sure Madame Rousseau feels the same way.” Emma led me through the foyer and up the winding staircase to the aesthetician’s lobby, where she handed me a terry cloth robe.

  “Don’t worry about Madame,” she said as I began to undress, “Mr. Cross asked for you by name, and we’re not in the habit of denying him much of anything.” Tugging my shirt up over my head and wriggling out of my jeans, I reached up behind me to unclasp my bra without turning away.

  “Is that so?” I asked, sliding my panties down over my hips and allowing them to puddle at my feet. Emma remained casual, her eyes roving over the crests and valleys of my figure.

  “Mm,” she confirmed, moving toward a small cabinet in the corner of the room and squatting down to rifle through it. “He’s one of our most highly regarded patrons. He’s been coming here for years.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” I asked, sliding my arms into the robe and enjoying the feel of the fabric against my flesh.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Emma said, taking me by the elbow and leading me into the aesthetician’s room. “Lay down.” I got up onto the table, paper crinkling beneath me, and did as I was told. The table seemed out of place in a room decorated with oversized oil paintings and heavy velvet curtains. “I’m just going to apply some aloe, your skin looks a bit tender.”

  “All right,” I said, and she opened my robe and squirted a bit of cool gel onto my pubic area, rubbing it in gently and deftly with two fingers. She leaned forward to blow a cool stream of air onto it and I sighed, enjoying the sensation. It was only yesterday that, in this very room, I had been rather abruptly relieved of all pubic hair by an aggressive wax lady. This was a pleasant change.

  “My first Brazilian,” I said by way of making conversation.

  “You get used to them,” she said, putting more gel on her fingertips and working them down along the velvety folds of my vulva.

  “That feels nice,” I murmured, allowing my heavy lids to come to a close. There was an energy about the Bacchanal Club, an inexplicable force that made me feel safe doing things and experiencing things I may never have done outside of its dark, damask walls. It was as though the spirit of Dionysus himself hung heavy in the incense-scented air and infused us all with a sort of reckless abandon. When I opened my eyes, Emma was staring at me, though she was no longer touching me.

  “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like this.” I smiled, reaching out to tug her forward by the front of her dress shirt. I wanted her to keep touching me. “Unmasked,” she continued, “fresh and clean and just as you are.”

  I drew her in and she came willingly, bending to kiss me sweetly, shyly. She unknotted the belt of my robe and it dropped open, exposing my breasts to the air. Her hands found them and cupped them gently, toying lightly with my pert nipples. “You have a full night of subservience ahead of you,” she whispered, “let me serve you now.” We locked our eyes on one another and I gave a quick nod of my head. I spread my legs wide for her and she disappeared between them until all that existed in the world was her proficient little tongue that lapped expertly at my throbbing, pink clit. She toyed with me at first, and I moaned and sighed my pleasures and my protests. She moved her tongue in circles around my clit instead of directly over it. But then she inserted one long, agile finger inside me and moved it in and out, in and out, in rhythm with her tongue.

  “Please,” I moaned, arching my back as she worked her magic on me, “don’t stop.” I could feel my orgasm mounting, the pressure building and ready to boil over.

  But that was when Madame Rousseau came bursting into the room, sending Emma crashing backwards in shock.

  “Emma!” Madame shouted, perfectly scandalized as though she had not, in fact, orchestrated an orgy the night before. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “Forgive me, Madame,” Emma stammered, rising to her feet again and blushing a beautiful deep red. “I just… I was trying to help her relax.”

  “She is not for you,” Madame snapped, and I closed my legs, and my robe, and sat upright.

  “It’s not Emma’s fault,” I protested, frustrated that the fruits of Emma’s labors would never blossom.

  “No, I didn’t think that it was,” Madame replied, eyeing me dubiously. “You wouldn’t be here, Ms. Buchanan, if Mr. Cross hadn’t specifically requested you. So, here you are, and I can only pray that you won’t drop another tray of cocktails, spend another night gawking at our clientele or pervert any other members of my personal staff.”

  “I—”

  “Enough talk. Emma, clean yourself up. I have you assisting Mr. Cross this evening and, I suppose by extension, Ms. Buchanan.” Emma nodded quickly and darted from the room. “As for you, Ms. Buchanan,” Madame Rousseau continued, “I have a special garment sent over from Mr. Cross. We’ll have you in hair and makeup and dressed in no more than an hour. You’re to do anything he says tonight, is that quite understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” She asked, stern.

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Good.” She stared at me, inclining her head slightly. “For the life of me I can’t see why he would want you when I have dozens of more experienced girls to offer him. Mais, c’est la vie.” And with that she turned on her heel and let the ae
stheticians descend.

  *

  The gown Mr. Cross had chosen for me was white and thin and lacey, and hit just at my upper thigh. My black hair was curled and left to hang down, loose and elegant. They didn’t give me a mask this time, making me feel even more exposed, particularly because every other member of the staff and every patron had their mask. Instead, I had wisps like white smoke painted on my face, and small rhinestones glued to my skin to give the impression of a mask without actually wearing one. I felt truly beautiful when I was escorted into the main hall. Beautiful, but exposed.

  The feast was already well underway, the masked patrons enjoying their food and champagne over chitchat that markedly avoided talk of the naked staff. But there was no one on the table as there had been last night, no one to be auctioned off it seemed.

  But then I realized that I was being escorted directly to the table, that I was being led up a small, removable staircase, that I was to be the item on display.

  “Ms. Buchanan,” came the unmistakable voice of my Mr. Cross, “I’m so pleased to see you again. You look stunning.”

  “Thank you –” but before I could finish my sentence, I felt the stinging thwack of a riding crop across my thighs. He had smacked me and tucked the crop away again before I could even really lay eyes on it.

  “You will speak only when asked a direct question.” I nodded, mute, my eyes darting furtively from patron to patron. “Don’t look at them, Fiona,” Michael Cross said, and I focused my eyes intently on his. “You’re only here for me.”

  Who was he, that he could overtake the gathering in this manner? The room was full of New York’s wealthiest socialites, someone of whom I knew by reputation alone. But Michael Cross was truly a mystery.

  “For the remainder of dinner,” he continued, “I would like you to kneel on the table in front of me.” I did as commanded, moving cautiously so as not to knock anything over. The table was wide, more than wide enough to accommodate me, but I was on edge, not wanting to repeat the mistakes of last night. Once I was kneeling, Mr. Cross reached forward and parted my legs, then lifted my skirt so that I was exposed to him. “This,” he said, leaning in and sliding two fingers quickly and easily into my cunt, “is mine. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, he slid his fingers in and out, plunging them in deeper and I spread my legs even further to draw him in as deep as I could.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, and his sherry-colored eyes glittered in the light emanating from the crystal chandelier. I could feel the eyes of all the other patrons boring into me as well, and a blush rose into my face. He drew his hand away and returned his attention to his meal and conversations with his fellow elites. It wasn’t long until I felt they’d all forgotten about me entirely.

  My legs began to ache, holding that pose for as long as I did. My hands were clasped neatly behind my back, my chin inclined toward my sternum, my eyes downcast. My neck ached as well, and I longed for Mr. Cross to scoop me up into his arms as he had the night before and laid me out on our divan in the private little alcove I thought of as ours.

  But even when the meal was finished and he tossed his napkin onto his dinner plate, he stared at me for a long while, saying nothing. I could see the servers swirling all around me, clearing the table. Some of them, the ones clad only in golden bangles, collars and anklets, bent in front of a client to relieve some of the pressure that had built up in them, surrounded as they were by all manner of beautiful, naked flesh – my own included. I spied Cora, my dear friend, out of the corner of my eye. She wasn’t wearing the robe that delineated her as wait staff only. Instead, she wore the same golden Jewelry as the other professionals in the room, and I couldn’t help but let my eyes widen at the sight of her. I watched her wriggle her bottom in front of a man three seats down from Michael’s, watched in awe as he produced a large and throbbing member from his pants, and drew in a little gasp as Cora sat down in his lap, a gesture that took all of him straight up inside of her. She arched her back and bounced, and I felt a twinge between my legs as I longed to do with Mr. Cross what Cora was doing with her masked companion.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Cross rose to his feet in front of me. Even though I knelt on the table, he was still taller than I was. He hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face so that our eyes met, so that our lips met in a deep and passionate kiss.

  “You’re a vision,” he said, and I smiled. “I want everything form you.”

  And he could have it. I would gladly give him everything.

  “I am going to hurt you, because it gives me pleasure to do so, and I believe it will sharpen your own enjoyment of our time together. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He ran his fingers along the neckline of my white lace gown. “I want to show them all, everyone here, how exquisite you are.” And he reached up with both hands and tore my dress in half down the front. The sudden sound drew everyone’s attention to me as my full, milky white breasts were ripped free of their confines. He leaned in and took one of my rosy nipples into his mouth, sucking, biting with unspeakable urgency. I drew my hands up, running my fingers through his hair, desperate to take off the mask that hid him from me. I was exposed to everyone: didn’t he have the strength to expose himself with me?

  He drew away and retrieved the riding crop from where he’d abandoned it next to his chair. “On your hands and knees,” he commanded, and I did as he bid, facing Cora who continued to bounce happily, her eyes closed and throat open in ecstasy. But her patron’s eyes were on me, on the swell of my breasts as I moved to place my hands on the tabletop. I watched him watching me as I received the first sharp smack of the riding crop along my backside. I let out a little yelp, not expecting it to hurt as much as it did; not expecting to enjoy it so. The crop came down again and again, and I moaned from behind pursed lips each time it made contact. After the tenth lash, he came forward and rubbed the enflamed flesh of my bottom as gently as he could, pressing a kiss to the small of my back.

  “Spread your legs wider,” he said, and I obeyed. He administered a series of small smacks to my exposed sex with the leather tongue of the riding crop. I groaned loudly, squeezing my eyes shut until my entire existence narrowed to the space between my legs that stung with his every slap, that ached for him to fill it. After ten more lashes, he rubbed the delicate, raw flesh between my legs and his hand came away slick with my juices. He brought his fingers to my mouth and I sucked them clean, reveling in the taste of myself on him. Then he drew away and left me to wriggle in the open air.

  “Do you want me to touch you?” He asked, his tone sonorous and full of longing.

  “Yes,” I gasped. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d wanted anything more.

  “Lady, I will touch you and touch and touch until you give me suddenly a smile, shyly obscene and you utterly will become with infinite care the poem which I do not write.” He ran his fingertips ever so lightly along the curve of my back where the torn dress remained.

  “E.E. Cummings,” I said, before I could help myself. And he administered a quick, decisive spank to my already pink and bruised backside.

  “What did I say about speaking, hm? Only when asked a direct question.” He guided me up to kneeling once more and slipped the remains of the destroyed gown from off of my shoulders so that I was nude in the candlelight. “But yes. Cummings. One of my favorites. I thought you would appreciate it, what with you being such an accomplished poet yourself.”

  Accomplished? My expression said what my mouth could not, but he simply smiled and laid me down on the tabletop. The copulating crowd seemed to be drawing ever nearer, wanting to watch what happened to me even as the masked and eager staff serviced them. I spread my legs wide for them, I arched my back, I gave them what they wanted and felt beautiful and vulnerable and strong.

  He slid his fingers inside of me once more, and I sighed delightedly to have him there. I wanted to be ful
l of him, and before I could stop myself, my fingers reached out to his belt, which I began to unfasten. He didn’t stop me, simply fucked me with his long, full fingers until I’d freed his cock from the confines of his dress pants. I took him at once into my mouth, my eager sucking eliciting grunts of enjoyment from the back of his throat.

  “You’ve bewitched me,” he grumbled, even as I turned my green eyes up to his face with his beautiful cock in my mouth. There were dozens of other people all around us, fucking, sucking, spanking, and watching us with eager, hungry eyes. But they all just fell away. He drew away from me, his member falling form my lips with a pop, and he began to unbutton his shirt. But it was too slow, so he tugged it off over his head, and his mask came off with it. There was that handsome face that I’d seen all those times in my restaurant, that chiseled jaw, those pronounced cheekbones, those deep-set, whiskey-colored eyes. He slid his pants down his tanned, muscular legs and stepped out of them, a pair of black boxer briefs the only thing stand between him and total exposure.

  He climbed up onto the table, and I could hear the other patrons gasp and whisper to one another about how Michael Cross had let himself be unmasked in this room, how he’d let himself be so exposed. He hovered over me and pressed a warm and fervent kiss on my lips, one of his hands tugging down his briefs just enough to free his gorgeous member from its confines. He thrust into me fast and sure and I arched my back and let out a wail of delight. I bucked my hips to meet him, wanting only to have him deeper.

  He flipped me over so that I was on my stomach before gathering me up enough for me to get my hands and knees underneath me, then he ravaged me from behind, his hands gripping my hips with all his considerable might. He fucked me with a fury, groaning and sweating, and I met him in energy and enthusiasm. When I opened my eyes, I could see other couples around the room similarly lost to the energy. It was as though a spell had been cast over the entire room, and everyone was focused down to their fundamental desires: a pure, raw need for release. I saw Cora laid low on the ground underneath one patron, while a second had inserted his own aching member into her mouth. She was filled to bursting.