Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day

by Sierra Sparks

  The bartender catches my attention again. This time with his feather-soft voice. “Would you like me to find someone to walk you back up to your room?”

  “No, thank you.” I kick my foot back, showing him the business end of a stiletto. “I think I’ve got it covered, young man.”

  The bartender blushes deeply under this. “Okay. Whatever you say, ma’am,” he murmurs, and proceeds to get busy with polishing his glasses. Organizing his booze. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  “I will,” I say, and make my way out of the bar and up to my room. On the way, I solidify my plan. Room service for sure. A shower next. And then some me time. Definitely.

  ***

  Back in my room, I quickly find the room service menu and find something on it that seems worth the money and worth eating alone. Bacon mac & cheese—a go-to comfort food for me, also a convenient sponge for the alcohol in my system.

  I order it, along with a piece of chocolate cake. Since I don’t have a sweetheart, might as well have something sweet instead. A lot less trouble anyway.

  Now that my order is placed, I head to the cavernous bathroom to take a shower. A long, hot one. According to the person at the front desk, my room service will take at least 25 minutes to finish and deliver. More than enough time to get the scuzzy from that guy off me. Ugh! I hate the image of him forcing its way into my brain. His smell. His cheap cologne and his even cheaper suit.

  As I slip out of my clothes and get the water warming for my shower, I think about the bartender. How he was so service minded, no matter if he were serving me a drink or offering me protection. If only a guy like him could be comfortable with the kind of woman I am and the kinds of things I need.

  Steam fills the bathroom as the water warms, but I barely pay attention because I’m lost in my thoughts. I’m the kind of woman I don’t think most men want. I want to be worshiped. Adored. As a goddess — a woman in charge of her domain — not a princess who needs rescuing. I sigh. Most men don’t want what I want. Some pretend they do in the hope I'll fuck them — I never do — but they always end up showing their true colors in the end.

  Stepping into the shower, now that the steam is thick and luxurious, I picture what I want and don’t think I can have: a man who’s willing to be dominated completely by me.

  I imagine my Mr. Submissive as muscled, but not beefy. Manly, but not rugged. Briefly, I imagine Mr. Submissive’s face is something like the bartender’s. Angelic. Innocent. Soft. Sweet. I’m intrigued by that idea, but as I imagine the cute bartender on his knees servicing me — taking orders from me — he’s too soft. Too pliable.

  No, I think washing the warm water down my hair, back, and breasts. The cold, like my memories of Greaser Boy, melt off me and down the drain. Not like the bartender. I return my mind to the image of having my good boy kneeling before me. My ultimate devotee. He still has a boyish appearance and demeanor to him, but where the bartender turned to putty under my hand, this man has a bit of feistiness to him. Some punkish habits and attitudes I have to curb. Mold to fit my needs.

  I need more of a bad boy for my good boy, I decide, soaping up my hands and preparing to bring them down to my breasts and pussy. Some guy with a little fight in him. Something that will take some work to bring to heel.

  Thinking these things, a matching image follows of the man under my control giving me a little attitude. Being a brat even in restraints. Even from his place in the corner where I put him for a timeout. He’s been put there for not following orders exactly. But even as he gives me attitude, he knows he’s in trouble. He knows he deserves what I’m about to give him, which is a paddling with a black, studded paddle. “If you want to be a good boy again,” I imagine saying to him as I saunter over to his exposed ass, “you’ll have to take your punishment first.”

  I imagine my sub trembling with excitement and fear. Not in reality, but as part of an act we do when he steps out of line. “I do want to be a good boy,” he says, and that’s when my clit swells under my fingers. Twitching against the strokes I’ve delivered. In my head, I imagine my boy scowling, even with the paddle in my hand.

  I'm stroking the wet, hot body of my clit now. “I am a good boy, but your rules are too strict,” my sub will say with a pout.

  My breathing hitches in real life under a shot of intense tenderness, but in my head, I’m preparing to bring the paddle down on his ass. Which I do in short order, enjoying the groan he gives me. The jiggle in his cheeks even though the strike I gave him isn’t hard. Just purposeful. I give him another, then another. A few on each cheek. “Too strict, huh?” I imagine saying to him, “well, all your other mistresses have failed you, I’m sorry to say.” I imagine my naughty-boy and I making eye contact. I imagine the look on his face is somewhere between concern and intrigue. “They’ve taught you you can act like a ruffian and a brat, but I’m here to teach you some manners.”

  With this, I imagine returning the paddle to his ass. I settle into a gentle, but intense rhythm. Enough to mark him with impressions from the studded surface. He’s gotten hard under my punishment. Straight, tall and shiny. On the other side of my fantasy, my toes curl. My breathing becomes quicker though shallow.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress!” In my head, I can see the beautiful pink his ass has become under my attentions. Under the delicious sting of the paddle.

  Like his ass, his face is flushed with excitement. With the massive erection he still has, and that I haven’t allowed him to touch. “I’m sorry!” He says as I imagine bringing the paddle back down for one more swat. “I’m sorry!”

  My submissive’s moans become my own as I grip the handlebars in the shower. The one typically over the soap holder. I increase my stroking, loving the feel of my milky pussy juice slide around on my fingers, even in the middle of my hot waterfall.

  “Are you going to be a good boy from now on?” I imagine asking him, as I get him away from the wall, and away from his punishment corner. His butt is warm from my loving, committed attention.

  My submissive nods. “Your best boy,” he murmurs. As he speaks, his dick bobs.

  Inside and outside of my fantasy, the sight drives me wild. Makes me want to release him, but I can’t. Not until he’s finished with me.

  “Good,” I imagine saying, as I bring him gently but resolutely to his knees. I guide his face and mouth to my thick, natural muff. The silky petals underneath, hungering for the mouth and lips of a good boy. A man with manners, and proper respect for me. “If you do a good job serving me. If you follow my directions to the letter, I’ll let you come.”

  With that, I slump over in the shower. Bend toward the climbing circles of pleasure. I grab the soap from where I remember setting it and rub it over my fingers. I then rub those fingers over myself again, imagining my fingertips have turned into my boy-toy’s diligent, obedient tongue.

  As he tastes me deeply, I imagine I hear him say “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for showing me the error of my ways.” Around these words, he licks and sucks my clit. My folds. With the kind of abandon only a man who truly appreciates my goddess qualities would. “For you, I will be the best boy in the world.”

  Under his words, a second stream of water splashes onto the shower floor. In one single moment of pleasure, I’ve ejaculated. Shot my cum into the already-flowing water, like a liquid-clear bullet from a pistol.

  I shudder under the release, feeling both weakened and invigorated by the waves of pleasure still coursing through me. I’m shaking under it, like I’ve put my hand in an electric socket.

  I pull away slowly, enjoying the beads of fluid clinging to me. They cling desperately there, even in hot water. As I straighten my posture, and get back to getting clean, I bid goodbye to my fantasy. I hold onto bits of it though, giving my subby a backwards baseball cap. A few gold or silver chains on his baby-soft chest.

  “God,” I whisper, letting him linger with me in the steam, “if only a guy like you actually existed.”

  Chapter 2 – Jor
dan

  After a busy day at my dispensaries, and some private deliveries of herbs and edibles (Valentine’s Day week is one of my busiest periods outside of Christmas), I finally make it to Aspen.

  To escape the swirling snow, I push in through the main doors of the lodge and I immediately see my friend Alex, his brother Paul, and their respective girlfriends Jane and Mariah.

  Girlfriends they met at The Exchange Club during Christmas. I raise a hand in greeting.

  Alex saunters over and gives his customary, “‘Sup, Jordan?”

  “I’m freezing, that’s what’s up.”

  I try my best to smile even though my face has gone numb from the cold. I manage to grin, but it’s uneasy. Half-baked.

  Jane waves and smiles hello. Her ring twinkles and flashes everywhere. It’s like a handheld ten-carat strobe, constantly reminding me of what I don’t have. The way the diamond twinkles, it’s like it’s laughing at me. Laughing because I'm unable to find happiness for myself.

  Mariah’s ring is big too, but she’s past the point of needing to show it off to everyone, everywhere, and at every angle. Jane isn’t past that phase yet. She’s not likely to be for the next year, and probably not even after she gets married.

  “Come sit by the fire,” Alex says.

  I follow him toward some cushy, leather seating by the crackling log-filled fire. A woody scent of Cedar and Oak wafts from the smoking flames.

  “What took you so long?” he asks.

  Jane follows behind us, saying, “Yeah, Jordan.” I catch her big eyes briefly, just as Alex sits me down on an overstuffed leather chair closest to the fire.

  As Jane and Alex sit down on a couch across from me (the same couch Paul and Mariah are cuddled up on) she adds, “we were worried sick about you. You weren't answering our calls. Thought maybe you got in an accident.”

  “Or pulled over by the fashion police,” Paul says, gesturing towards my big fur coat. “What’s up with that, anyway? You look like a discount-store pimp.” Paul laughs, cracking himself up, and doesn't stop until Mariah swats his arm. “Yet another reason you can’t get a girl,” he continues. You dress in more frills than they do.”

  I blush deeply. Angrily. Sure, the coat’s a tad ostentatious. Over the top with all the fur and the huge neckline. But I don’t look or feel like a discount pimp. This coat is fucking cool. Definitely worth the ten-plus grand I spent on it. I deserved it especially after I spent so much money on everyone else during Christmas.

  I glare at Paul, who now seems to be on the receiving end of a lecture from Mariah. First, he wants to bust my balls about wearing my baseball cap. Now it’s my coat. I sniff loudly. To get his attention, and to present him with body language that says, “I don’t give two fucks about you.”

  I clear my throat, and say, “Whatever, man. Discount pimp or not, you’re just fucking jealous, that’s what you are.” I pause, flapping the edges of the coat luxuriously. Showing off just how fuzzy they are. How plush. “You wish you had money to spend on this kind of shit, and you know it.”

  Paul bats my accusation away, and I let it go.

  My attention’s been brought back to Jane and Mariah. How happy they look cuddled into the arms of their chosen ones. And how happy my friend’s look to have their one true loves completing them. Filling what was once empty.

  Not gonna lie. It’d be great to have what they have, I think, stifling any hint of a sigh.

  If Alex or Paul suspect a hint of yearning from me, it’ll be yet another thing to tease me about.

  I would love to have someone in my life who looks at me the way Mariah and Jane look at my friends, but all the women I’ve ever been with aren’t really women. They’re girls. Pillow princesses looking at me to give and give and give, without once being willing to ever take charge. To not just demand things from me, but to let me serve them, to spoil them.

  My mind wanders to the type of women I get easily. The ones who fall into my bed with a snap of my fingers are airheads. Silly. Shallow. Their breast implants have more personality than they do.

  None of those “women” have done anything special for me. Nothing unique or different. Just release. A place to put my tensions until they want more weed or another gift. I suppress another sigh.

  My eyes wander to Jane, who’s now absorbed in saying something to Alex. Leaning forward to nuzzle him. I’m afraid I’ll never experience what Alex has. A woman who’s willing to be a place for him to put his stresses. His fears. Someone he can be himself with. I let my mind touch the edge of something I haven’t wanted to admit to myself. My need for control and obedience.

  Alex’s eyes catch me looking lost. Deep in thought. He must think I have more depression than brains, because he says, “Don’t look so down, Jordan. We promised this weekend was gonna be your weekend to have a bit of fun, but you can’t have any fun if you just sit there like that.” He mimics what I must look like. Sitting with my shoulders slumped, and my face set in a serious expression.

  I pop out of my thoughts, slipping my mask of sarcasm and untouchability on. “Is that so, asshole?”

  Paul smirks in my direction. Even as he cuddles Mariah to him, I see that look in his eyes again: the look that says he’s about to enjoy another moment of roasting me. "You need a woman to beat some sense into your scrawny ass."

  “So this weekend is supposed to be about me? I couldn’t tell. What, with all the busting you guys are doing.”

  Mariah gives me a soft, meaningful smile. “Don’t mind them. I’m sure you’ll find someone this time around, Jordan,” she says. “I thought I was going to be single forever too, but I found him.” She plays lovingly with the tufts of Paul’s hair.

  “Third time’s the charm,” Alex agrees, bending in to kiss Jane on the cheek, and then her little button nose.

  “But only because my brother and I have already been taken,” Paul chimes in, “so the ladies aren’t going to be distracted by us any longer.”

  I shrug off part of my coat from my shoulders. Though this is “typical” joking for Paul, I’m not stomaching it well right now. I’m not able to take it any other way other than seriously.

  “Oh, yeah, because anything else other than your macho, virile self is second best, is that it?” The venom I hear in my voice is not surprising to me, but it is surprising to Alex. To Mariah. To Jane.

  Both girls give Paul a warning glance. They disconnect from their better halves for a moment, sitting forward to comfort me.

  “You have a lot of good qualities,” Mariah says earnestly.

  “Totally cute and adorable qualities,” Jane adds, “ones I know will be number one on some lucky lady’s list, Jordan.” Unlike with most girls who look like Jane — full figured and fit — she’s amazingly genuine. Sincere, despite her “sex kitten” vibe at times.

  “For sure,” Mariah echoes.

  I look away and down, rubbing the back of my head nervously. I’m not comfortable with girls complimenting me like this. Especially not girls who are now my friend’s fiancées.

  “Yeah,” I say, though it probably sounds more like a grunt to them.

  “I’m serious.” That’s Jane. I look up, just in time to see her give Alex a meaningful look that says, help me out here, would you?

  “Don’t worry, Jordan,” Alex pipes up. “There are plenty of girls with different appetites at the Exchange Club where we're planning to take you.”

  I sigh, pretty sure that third time at the Club will equal a strikeout, not a charm.

  “A girl is definitely going to like what you have to offer, Jordan,” Jane says, pouring her heart into it now.

  Paul raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so you like punks now?”

  Jane doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “Yes,” she snaps back, as if she’s as tired of her fiancé’s brother as I am.

  Paul crosses one leg over the other, then crosses his arms over his chest. Mariah remains seated apart from him though still within arm’s reach.

  “Just so ever
yone knows right now,” Paul says, “I was joking when I said he should find a woman to beat some sense into him.” He glances at Mariah, then Jane. “With how serious everybody is suddenly, it begs to be said.”

  Jane catches Paul’s fleeting gaze. “I still don’t think that’s a bad idea,” she says. Meaningfully, she grabs Alex’s hand. Intertwines her fingers in his. “Well, maybe not with whips. But plenty of women like to be in charge, you know.”

  Paul grimaces.

  Jane rolls her eyes at him before looking at me. She gives me a small, encouraging smile before she showers Alex with more kisses. More caresses.

  As I’m left to sit there by the fire watching my friends’ lovefest, I become aware of something stirring in me. Curiosity. Intrigue at the idea Jane keeps throwing around and Paul keeps wanting to not take seriously.

  Being under someone’s control. Though I didn’t want to go there moments before, now my mind can’t stop exploring the possibility. Imagining what it would be like to give myself over completely to a woman. A real one. A woman with depth. Age. Experience. Hair in all the right places, who isn’t afraid to tell me not only what she wants from me, but what I can do for her.

  I shift in my seat. I might do just that. I might let a woman have her way with me. I glance at Paul, feeling a little resentful. Manliness doesn’t always mean ordering around. Sometimes it means submitting totally and completely to a woman who deserves it.

  Chapter 3 – Bianca

  After a deliciously decadent meal of mac & cheese and chocolate cake in my room, I decide on a whim to go for a soak in the hot tub. Not always the best thing to do after eating, but I could use a massage on my shoulders, back, and neck.

  Since I'm without an obedient, service-minded man to help me out, I’m left to rely on jet streams and water.

  Which is fine since I’ll probably have the hot tub and surrounding spa to myself for the most part. It’s close to eleven, and that means most people are probably already up in their rooms or schmoozing with each other elsewhere.