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

by Juniper Leigh

  I followed him with my eyes, noticing how the masked patrons gathered around me to watch our little show. Michael was hunched over a side table along the wall, and I couldn’t see what he was doing until he turned back toward me, a red butt plug shining with lubricant in his hand.

  “Spread your legs,” he said, and I tried to comply but it was difficult to move, suspended as I was. He hoisted one of my legs up and slipped the plug into my puckered anus, securing it as I moaned my protests. I felt filled in every space, save one.

  Michael crossed the room again to rifle through the side table for more toys. I spied Emma and Cora both seated with masked clients around the room. Emma had her fingers plunged deep into a woman in a golden mask, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Cora was sitting on a gentleman’s lap, grinding her bottom into his crotch. I would have smiled at her, if not for the ball gag.

  Mr. Cross returned with a large red dildo in one hand, a leather flogger in the other. He dropped to his knees in front of me, lifted my leg and tossed it over his shoulder as his tongue flicked out to lap at my engorged clitoris. I moaned deep in my throat as he dragged me deeper into my desire, the fluids of my wanting intermingling with his saliva until I was positively dripping. Just as abruptly as he began, he pulled away, and slid the red dildo deep into my aching pussy.

  “Hold that in,” he commanded, and rose to his feet, retrieving the flogger as he went. I clamped the muscles of my vaginal wall around the dildo, doing my best to obey. Michael stood in front of me, one foot in front of the other, and held the flogger up so I could see it. It was a Cat O’ Nine Tails in black leather, expertly crafted. He swung it in a small arc so that the tassels slapped lightly against my breasts, making my nipples hard and leaving thin, pink welts in their wake. I groaned loudly behind the ball gag, squeezing my eyes shut as he flogged me over and over, with the steady rhythm of a wheel turning. He focused on one breast, then the other, until I could feel the blood rush to the abused area.

  He paused and leaned forward to take a nipple into his mouth, then the other, and he blew cool air across both of them, the sensation in stark contrast to the sting and burn from the flogger. I shuddered, and felt the dildo slip out from between my legs and hit the rug beneath my feet with a resounding thud. Mr. Cross smirked; I could see his eyes glittering in the dim light of the great hall. He allowed his gaze to rove over the crowd that had gathered around us, in all manner of undress, grinding against one another. Heads moved up and down, torsos pressed up against torsos, and when I closed my eyes, I could hear a sweet symphony of lovers’ noises.

  Michael came around behind me and smacked my ass with surprising power. The gesture made my flesh sting and made the plug plunge slightly deeper into my ass. I whimpered, biting down a bit on the gag, and he spanked me again and again with the full force of his considerable strength. He struck me a third time, a fourth, and it had hurt more than anything else he’d done to me since we met. The pain brought me out of myself and stood in stark contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of the feel the swollen, pink head of his cock at the slick entrance to my sex. He gripped the abused flesh of my backside and lifted my feet up off of the floor, spreading my legs so that he could slide effortlessly into me. He thrust forward, sinking the full length of his cock into me and sent me rocking back in the suspended restraints. He held me by the upper thighs and allowed gravity to aid him in plowing deeper and deeper into me. I tossed my head back and allowed myself to be taken, giving myself over to his control. I relished the feel of forty pairs of eyes on me as this gorgeous, masked millionaire showed them how I was utterly under his command.

  I was grunting with each stroke, saliva accumulating around the corners of my mouth around the ball gag, until Michael reached up and tugged it from my mouth so that it was hanging, abandoned, around my neck. I filled the room, then, with my passionate cries, my arms tingling from the restraints over my head, my clit begging to be rubbed. Michael pulled away them, sending a stream of our fluids to drip down my leg, and he lowered the chain. Sweet relief rushed through my limbs as I stood steady on both feet. He came over and detached the cuffs from the chain, but left them on my wrists. He pushed me down onto my knees, and I placed my hands on the floor in front of me as he moved around behind me to shove himself inside me once more. Every thrust pushed his cock, and the plug, deeper into me, and I relished each sensation. But as soon as he reached around to rub my clit, I felt my climax mount. I was gasping for breath, my whole body tensing until, with one final, emphatic thrust, I shuddered, the muscles of my sex clamping down around Michael Cross’ glorious cock. His throaty moans mounted then as well until he shot his hot come deep inside me, trembling with the force of his orgasm. We collapsed in a heap together, just one pair of many such couples, and sprawled, panting, on the area rug beneath a crystal chandelier.

  *

  “I have one for you now,” I murmured later that night, snuggled up against Michael Cross between the crisp linen sheets of my new canopy bed.

  “Oh?” He turned toward me and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

  “Yes, it’s a favorite of mine.”

  “Who is it by?” The sun was peeking up slowly; it was the royal blue twilight of very early morning.

  “A delightful pervert, famous for being obtuse and sending his wife very steamy letters.” I paused and glanced up at him. “No guesses?” He shrugged, and leaned back, allowing his eyes to come to a close, dimples framing his grin. “Joyce,” I said.

  “Ok,” he murmured. “So let’s hear it.”

  I cleared my throat, turning over so that I could rest my cheek against his chest and trail my fingertips along the peaks and valleys of his collarbone. “My love is in a light attire, among the apple trees, where the gay winds do most desire to run in companies. There, where the gay winds stay to woo, the young leaves as they pass, my love goes slowly, bending to her shadow on the grass. And where the sky’s a pale blue cup, over the laughing land, my love goes lightly, holding up her dress with dainty hand.”

  “Mm,” he hummed, tucking a finger under my chin and tilting my face up so that he could press a kiss to my mouth. “Tomorrow, I shall have you hold up your dress with dainty hand.” I laughed, the sound filling the room. “And the day after that,” he said. “And the day after that.”

  The Billionaire Bondage Trilogy

  The Erotic Adventures of Fiona Buchanan

  By Juniper Leigh

  Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink

  Part One: The Billionaire Boys

  “Happy Three-Month Anniversary,” he said, popping the cork on a bottle of Cristal and pouring it into two Swarovski flutes. He approached me with the slow, predatory gait of a jungle cat, his bow tie hanging limp around the collar of his tuxedo shirt. His eyes, the color of fine cognac, were locked on my face and he bent to press a tender kiss to my lips before handing me a glass of the champagne. He clinked his against mine, and smiled.

  “Thank you,” I purred, happy as a housecat.

  It’s incredible what a person can get used to in just three short months. Before I met Michael Cross, the proprietor of the infamous Bacchanal Club, I was a waitress in Midtown, struggling to make her student loan payments each month. But since he had invited me to live in the apartments above the club, and work in service therein, everything had changed. I spent my days writing poetry, editing, and sorting them into collections. I composed queries, attended readings and lectures, and engaged in the kind of rigorous academic work that I had relished as a graduate student. My evenings I spent dining with Mr. Cross at any number of his favorite spots in Manhattan, riding in limousines, attending charity galas. And I spent my nights as a server at the club, nude save for golden bangles and a black lace mask. I gave myself over to Mr. Cross and his guests and found myself leaving each night feeling beautiful, confident and satiated.

  And the strangest things were suddenly routine. Michael would fuck me under the eyes of his patrons; or he would make love to me in the privacy of my rooms
. He would intricate Shibari rope work to tie me up and suspend me from the ceilings of the main hall, or flog me bent over the dining room table. And I adored his touch. I relished every instant that I was the focus of his intent attention. But I had to guard my heart from him. Michael Cross was so very easy to love – but I just couldn’t let myself. Not when I was so certain that I was one more in a string of women he’d plucked out of obscurity and into his lavish lifestyle. I was simply this week’s flavor.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Fiona,” he said, sipping once more form his champagne glass. “Dior suits you.”

  The gown was exquisite: a strapless red satin A-line gown that boasted a black belt and was otherwise very simple in its elegance. I spun around once to give him the full view of the dress. “Anyone would look beautiful in this,” I commented, peering up at him through a forest of thick lashes. Though I had to admit I felt rather regal in the dress, my long, black hair swept up high in a French twist, leaving my shoulders bare.

  “Not true,” he said and kissed my cheek before taking a seat. “This gown was made for you.” We were sharing an intimate meal in his rooms, huddled together at one corner of a dining table with seating for eight. A pair of candles cast a warm glow over the space, leaving the far end of the room in shadow.

  I placed my champagne flute on the table and joined him. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and checked his watch. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he began, but the door at the far end of the room burst open and string of butlers came through with our plates: lobster tail served with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. The room filled immediately with the savory smell of spices and melted butter. I breathed in deeply, a smile forming on my lips.

  “This looks incredible,” I remarked, digging in with unbridled enthusiasm. The lobster veritably melted on my tongue, and I veritably melted into my chair. “Mmmm,” I hummed, contented.

  Michael chuckled. “I’m pleased that you’re pleased,” he said. It hadn’t taken him long to learn that the way to my heart truly was through my stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, around bites of food. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

  “Ah, yes,” Michael said, hesitating. “Ask you something, really.”

  I froze: a fancy dinner, an expensive bottle of champagne, a Dior couture gown. Was this what I thought it was…? My heart was a jackhammer in my chest, and all the color drained from my face. Was he going to propose? It had only been three months – and I didn’t even know how he felt about me. No, no, this was all wrong. It shouldn’t be this way. It was too soon.

  “The thing is,” he continued, running his tongue over his lips and clearing his throat. “I’ve come to care about you a great deal. More than anyone else in a long while.” I stuffed my mouth full of lobster. “Which is why I’m hesitant to even bring this up.”

  I swallowed down my shellfish. “It’s ok,” I said, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this.”

  He furrowed his brow, his head cocked slightly to one side as though he weren’t sure what I was talking about. I was definitely not sure what he was talking about, and just sort of blinked until he pressed forward.

  “I have some friends coming in from out of town,” he said. “Really close friends. And they have certain… proclivities.” He withdrew from my touch and raked his fingers through his full, dark hair, looking abashed. For my part, I was completely lost. Though I was pretty sure that even the strangest of marriage proposals would have nothing to do with his college friends and their sexual tendencies. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be back on familiar ground, but noting the small pang of regret somewhere in the pit of my stomach. Michael parted his lips as though he intended to continue, but his breath caught in the back of his throat and he remained silent.

  “Why, Michael Cross,” I said teasingly, “I do believe you’re blushing.” And he was; it was utterly charming.

  He laughed abruptly and nodded, unbuttoning the top button of his tuxedo shirt. “Yes,” he confirmed, leaning forward and peering into my eyes. “Please understand,” he continued, “as with everything else I’ve asked you to do for me and in my employment at the club, that you are free to refuse me.”

  “I know that,” I said, canting my head to the side. He took my hand in his and squeezed.

  “My friends,” he said, “have heard a great deal about you. They know what you’ve come to mean to me, and they have expressed an interest in tasting you themselves. All of them.” He paused. “At once.”

  I blinked owlishly and couldn’t help but laugh a little. What a fool I was, confusing a proposition for group sex for a marriage proposal. I deflated, if only slightly, and gave a slow shake of my head.

  “Is that a no, then?” He asked, smiling.

  “No,” I said, “No. That’s fine. I’d be happy to service your friends.” And I would be, if it meant I made him happy. Besides, it would add a little spice to a life that had fallen into a bit of a slump, excitement-wise. Because where do you go from playing a starring role at a sex club?

  “You don’t have to,” he said again. “It could just be you and me.”

  “I understand,” I said, lifting my hand to his cheek and cupping it tenderly. “I just want to make you happy. Besides,” I grinned, “It sounds fun.”

  “You’re sure—”

  “Yes, darling,” I breathed heavy, leaning back in my chair. “You can give me to whomever you like.”

  *

  The fact of the matter was that I had always been curious about what it would be like to be used by several men at once. It was a vision that had featured prominently in my private fantasies. And I knew that there would never be better place to make that fantasy into a reality than in the safe confines of Michael Cross’ private rooms. And if these were all men he trusted, so much the better.

  There were three of them coming in for a visit: Donovan Dane, Eric Aster, and Richard Embry. Donovan was a trust fund baby who would one day inherit his father’s Oil fortune. He was roguishly handsome, tall and muscular, and a rather renowned playboy with a penchant for big-breasted, ample-assed women, rather like myself. Eric was a self-made man, having made a series of fortuitous currency investments after graduating with his MBA from Harvard Business. He was barrel-chested and blond with a gregarious laugh and sparkling blue eyes. Recently divorced, Eric had been married to a lithe Asian supermodel and was, as he put it, rather in the mood for a different flavor. And Richard was a quiet, bookish type who, although his family was quite wealthy, lived humbly and taught anthropology at Princeton. He was tall and lean with skin the color of fresh brewed coffee and had a somewhat nervous air, despite his striking good looks and broad, white smile.

  I saw pictures of them, and heard bits and pieces of their life stories, while we waited for them to arrive. “Tonight?” I asked, brows darting up in surprise. “They’ll be here tonight?”

  “Yes,” Michael confirmed. “Forgive the short notice – they only finally asked me about you this afternoon.”

  “Not much for planning, I see.”

  “Well, it was only this morning that I sent them your picture.” After finishing up with our lobster and Cristal, we split a tray of fresh berries and stirred ourselves two vodka martinis, very dirty.

  When Michael tucked the photographs of his friends back into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, a cloud passed over his features.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked, peering curiously up into his face. He brightened and gave an insistent shake of his head.

  “No,” he said. “I’m fine.” He placed a kiss on my forehead, and as soon as he drew away, the door burst open and his three friends filled the room with their booming voices.

  “Mikey Cross!” they shouted, and I was instantly infected by their boisterous energy. Michael was as well, shaking hands with each in turn, and patting them on the back.

  “I simply love what you’ve done wit
h this place,” Donovan remarked. “Bondage dungeon meets House and Garden.” They all laughed.

  “It’s inspired by Le Roué in Paris,” Michael said. “You do remember that, don’t you?”

  “Mm, do I ever,” Donovan hummed, squeezing his eyes shut at what was obviously a pleasant memory. “I couldn’t walk for days after Madame La Croix was finished with me.”

  “Forgive me – gentlemen, allow me to introduce Ms. Fiona Buchanan.” I had been hovering quietly at Michael’s elbow, but came forward upon my introduction, extending my hand first to Richard, who took it and pressed the back of it to his lips.

  “Ms. Buchanan,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  I shook hands with Eric, then, a much more casual and jovial gesture. “Thank you for hosting us, Ms. Buchanan,” he said.

  “The pleasure’s mine,” I said. “Though, truly, Michael is your host.”

  “Ah,” Eric said, with a wave of his hand, “we know who’s really in charge.”

  I smiled and turned my attention then to Donovan, who squeezed my hand gently and said, “I can see why Michael loves you.”

  Loves?

  “Shall we take our cocktails in the boudoir?” Michael said quickly, pressing a hand to the small of my back to usher me through the antechamber, and into his private room. The space was large and well-appointed: a king sized Canopy bed in dark wood was at the far side of the room, framed by two matching end tables with lamps that cast the room in a warm glow. A large armoire hid a flat screen television; a writing desk was poised in front of one of the large picture windows, and a cluster of couches and divans was positioned across from the bed. Michael headed straight for the mini bar and began to pour his friends fingers of fine brandy.