The Dom's Secret

by Cassandra Dee

  And grabbing my jacket, I stand, striding out into the reception area.

  “Rach, what’s the itinerary for Paris like?”

  My assistant’s head swivels around, a jack plugged into her ear.

  “Mr. Channing!” she says, surprised at seeing my big form appear out of thin air. “Just the regular – private jet into CDG, private car to the venue. You’re there for four days, and then it’s back to New York.”

  Okay, that’s pretty standard.

  “Why, is there something you wanted to do in Paris?” Rachel asks curiously. “I can make arrangements.”

  Shit, there is something I want to do. Or someone, more accurately.

  And like that, the decision’s made.

  “Add a plus one,” are my curt words. “I’m bringing a guest.”

  Rachel’s mouth almost falls open, but then it snaps shut. She’s too professional to show her surprise.

  “Of course,” she nods. “Can I get your guest’s name?”

  And here it comes.

  “Carrie Newman,” is my smooth reply. “The same young lady who accompanied me to the gala last week.”

  Rachel nods, still scribbling onto her pad.

  “Got it,” she says. “One plus one for the Paris trip.”

  And like that, it’s done. On the one hand, it’s no big deal. Other executives bring their wives and girlfriends all the time. You practically need it at some of these functions.

  But there’s a big difference with Carrie. Because she’s not exactly a wife or girlfriend. She’s a sugar baby, the kind rich men pay.

  Shit.

  What am I doing?

  Am I really thinking of bringing her to Paris?

  Fuck.

  But it feels right, and shrugging my shoulders, I go with it.

  Because I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Two decades ago, the decision was made. I was marrying my career. So women to me are mistresses only, my one true attachment the Channing empire. Obviously, boundaries are needed. You can’t have your mistress busting in while you’re with your wife. And as a result, this set-up is perfect. The females need money, I want sex on call, so it’s a match made in heaven.

  Typically, I pay an allowance, drill a girl once or twice a week, and go on about my business. There’s never been cuddles or even conversation. But now I’m considering going on vacation with Carrie. That means a full five days in her presence, that sweet form tied up tight, her ecstatic screams filling my nights.

  Shit.

  I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  Carrie’s just so perfect.

  So sweet and sincere, without a mean bone in her body.

  What are the chances?

  Against all odds, I found an amazing woman on a mercenary site like Sugar Babiez.

  None of it makes sense, but sometimes, you just gotta roll with it. Like I said, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Too much thinking will fuck up a good thing, and right now, I’m ready to take it up a notch. Carrie deserves to be on my arm. She deserves more than that. She deserves everything.

  Thoughts racing, I step into the apartment.

  And shit, but a tempting sight greets my eyes. Holding an index finger to her mouth, my sweet brunette’s lost in concentration, poking her hip out while looking over two swatches of cloth.

  Tiny jean shorts hug her curves perfectly, and her breasts look practically edible. But then the brunette looks up, and time stops.

  Literally stops.

  Our eyes meet and everything else disappears.

  “Hi,” she greets me melodically. I’m not sure that anyone else can hear the words but me.

  But shit, there are other people here. Gina the realtor for one. Interior designers. Nicole.

  “Hey,” is my casual grunt. “The apartment looks like it’s coming together.”

  “It is,” she smiles happily. “Thank you Mason.”

  “No worries, honey,” is my casual drawl. “Show me what you’ve done?”

  And the brunette almost bounces up and down, she’s so excited.

  “Sure,” she chirps, prancing down the hall, that big ass jiggling. “Come on, let’s start with the guest room.”

  Good thing this place is enormous because it’s a long ways from where we are to the other people. And the minute the guest bedroom door shuts, I’m on her.

  “Shit,” is my growl. “I’ve been waiting to see you all morning.”

  But my girl is just as horny, just as ready.

  “Me too,” she mewls against my lips, big boobies already pressing against my chest. “Me too Mason.”

  We’re a match made in heaven for sure. Because as she writhes and mewls, my cock rises, desperate to be in her. But weren’t we just doing this at seven a.m.? Didn’t I fuck that sweet body into submission hours ago?

  But it’s never enough.

  “Mason,” she pants. “I need it. I need you.”

  “I know sweetheart,” is my growl. “And you’re gonna get it.”

  Because we were never going to talk about interior decoration. All that was a ruse. We wanted to be with one another, and sure enough, my hand pulls her tank top, one big breast bouncing out. Immediately, I’m sucking at that nip hungrily like a baby.

  “Mason!” she cries in a sharp whisper and I release her, kissing the bright red skin softly before pulling her top back up and reaching into my suit jacket.

  But shit, we can’t just fuck like lemmings, there’s people outside. So roughly, before I get too carried away, I reach into my pocket.

  “This is for you,” I say, pressing an envelope into her hand. Because my baby needs money, and she’s gonna get more than enough.

  But her mouth drops open.

  “Mason?” she says blankly.

  “You know, for your service,” is my harsh growl. “Five thousand sweetheart, just like we agreed.”

  I expect her to tuck it into her jean shorts, maybe pull her other booby out to thank me. But instead, she stares at the envelope, fingers nerveless.

  “Oh,” is her stammered word. “Oh, I see.”

  What is there to oh about? This was our agreement.

  “It’s more than enough,” is my rough growl. “Buy yourself some nice clothes, honey, because I’m taking you to Paris.”

  The brunette lifts confused eyes then, emotion swirling in those caramel depths.

  “You are?” she asks softly.

  My chin jerks.

  “Absolutely,” I breathe into her ear, pressing my mouth against that sensitive lobe before trailing to her small chin. “Absolutely. The city of lights sweetheart, you ever seen it before?”

  But Carrie’s not excited. Or she is, but she’s not blown away like I expected. Because she stares at the envelope again before swinging big brown eyes to me. But then the girl takes a deep breath and nods, tucking the money away.

  “Thank you Mason,” she says quietly. “Thank you. Of course I’m excited to go to Paris.”

  I knew it.

  “Great sweetheart,” is my growl. “Will you do something to thank me?” I ask.

  She almost looks like she’s gonna refuse, but then the brunette takes another deep breath.

  “Yes of course,” she says calmly. “What is it?”

  I stare into those eyes.

  “Show me your cunt. Right now,” is my harsh command.

  And the girl’s cheeks color.

  “Mason, no, this isn’t a good time,” are her stammered words, even as the pink crawls across her breast. “We’re in the middle of decorating, and there are people outside, and ….”

  But I cut her off.

  “Show me your cunt,” are my harsh words. “Right now.”

  And this time, my sub obeys. Slowly, her hands unbutton those jean shorts, easing them over her hips. And oh shit, but those lacy panties underneath are enough to make a man spurt. Red and tight, they curve over those swollen lips, highlighting her need.

  Because oh yeah, my baby’s wet.

 
“Show me,” I order again.

  And slowly, with conflicted eyes, the brunette obeys. One small hand creeps down her thighs, sliding into that vee before lifting the lace and pulling it to the side, exposing her all.

  Oh shit, oh shit.

  She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

  Pink and exposed, clit already stiff and tall, her folds glistening with need.

  And like a man in a trance, I have to touch. One hand reaches out in slow motion, and I stroke along that soft labia, soothing her flesh before flicking against her clit with my fingertips.

  The girl shrieks involuntarily.

  “Oh Mason!” is her helpless pant. “Mason!”

  But this isn’t the time. I trail big fingers over her cunt again, getting it wet and slick, before finishing with another determined tweak to her clit.

  The brunette’s eyes fall closed as her hips jerk, trying to push that pussy into my hand for more.

  But it’s enough.

  I’ve got her where I want her.

  I’ve put her in her place

  Because this woman is mine, and leaving her on edge is my right.

  But why did she look at me that way? Because Carrie should be begging and panting, her body undulating with heat. And she is, for sure. But there’s also an air of reserve, like the woman’s holding back. WTF?

  No matter. I’ll get her to come around, and when she does … it’ll be even better.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Carrie

  I don’t know what to think. On the one hand, everything’s perfect. I just got paid, right? The bulging envelope sits on my dresser, cash practically spilling everywhere.

  But I can’t look at it. Something about all that money feels dirty.

  It shouldn’t feel dirty.

  This is what I signed up for after all.

  To be Mason Channing’s paid plaything, at his beck and call.

  He says jump, and I ask how high?

  Or more accurately, he says bend over, and I say yes please.

  But I thought it was becoming something different.

  I thought maybe, just maybe, I meant something to the billionaire. After all, why would he help my parents? My sister? Why would he rent a ginormous apartment for me and Nicole, if he didn’t feel anything?

  But that envelope made it all come crashing down. When he thrust it into my hands, my throat closed, the air freezing in my lungs.

  Because I knew what it was immediately.

  Money.

  An agreement.

  A transaction, nothing more.

  I’m just the help after all. Maybe not quite the maid, but only one step up. I’m a maid who does his decorating and takes off her clothes when he commands.

  I give him my pussy, I let him fuck my ass, and the entire time, there’s a smile on my lips and a winsome, “Yes sir.”

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Or even worse … it was.

  This is what being a paid submissive means.

  And staring at my reflection, self-hatred courses through my veins.

  So you caught feelings! my conscience screams. What did you expect? You were an eighteen year-old virgin desperate for money, up against a much older alpha male. What did you think was going to happen?

  And the thing is, it’s still true.

  I’m still eighteen.

  Maybe not a virgin anymore.

  But I still need money.

  So where does that leave me? What do I do now?

  And slowly, tears course down my cheeks. Mason invited me to Paris, but I don’t want to go. I don’t care about the clothes, the cars, or even the apartment. All I ever wanted was a safe space for me and my sister, somewhere cozy and warm where we wouldn’t be threatened.

  Mason’s given me that and so much more.

  I stare again at my reflection, the pale face with haunted brown eyes. Because it’s still Carrie, for sure. But I’m also someone different now. I’m a woman who’s known a man deep inside, pulsing and intimate. I’ve held a man’s heart in my hands as his lips breathe my name.

  My inner voice screeches again.

  Held his heart in your hands? His lips breathing your name? What, are you hallucinating? That’s just a fantasy, like unicorns and rainbows.

  And the tears come even faster then. Because it was a dream. I thought we felt something for one another, something that went beyond the pure physical. I thought the Dom cared about me, and in a way, I guess he does.

  Mason wants me to be safe.

  He wants me to be secure.

  He wants me to be happy.

  And you know why? Because a satisfied sub makes for a better fuck.

  There, I said it.

  He doesn’t care about Carrie as a person. He cares about having a willing and wet female, slutty and open, ready for his dick. That’s what Mason wants.

  And slowly, my heart crumples.

  He doesn’t want me, not really.

  It’s my own fault.

  My thoughts and dreams were fantasies only.

  I got carried away.

  Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re caving in, the silence pounding on my brain.

  I have to get out.

  I have to tell him I’m not going to Paris.

  I have to get real. I’ll figure it out somehow. I’ll tell Nicole we have to leave these digs, that we have to find another way to make a living. Maybe I’ll get a job as a waitress or a barista. Maybe Nicole can help, taking some babysitting gigs after school.

  But it’ll break her heart. This was our first stab at stability away from our parents. Our first attempt at setting up a household without Jim and Rhonda dragging us down.

  And look where we are now.

  In an impossible situation.

  My heart breaks, tears pouring down my cheeks.

  Get with it! the voice inside screams again. This is what you bargained for!

  And nodding slowly, I turn to survey the room. But my eyes see nothing, blurred with tears.

  Because I’m a big girl. Old enough to make it work.

  I can’t depend on Mason forever. That’s not how these things go.

  It’s not good for him.

  And it’s definitely not good for me.

  Slowly, my heart splinters once more, torn into pieces. I’ll never be the same. And falling to my knees, I show myself for who I truly am … a broken, devastated woman with no way of climbing back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Carrie

  It’s hard, really hard. Before leaving for Paris, Mason asked me to another industry function. And what could I say? I’m a sugar baby, and the only answer was yes.

  So I went.

  I put on the high heels and sexy cocktail dress.

  I smiled until my cheeks felt like they were cracking.

  I drank wine and made merry, like nothing was wrong.

  But inside, I was dying.

  I’m not his girlfriend, folks.

  I’m not even someone he’s dating.

  I’m a sugar baby, a woman who gets paid.

  So yes, it was really hard. Talking to the industry titan and his wizened wife, who were so nice. Pretending like I belonged there, when really, I was an imposter.

  Because that’s how I feel now. Like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m lying to all these people, and they don’t suspect.

  My heart thumps so fast in my chest I’m sure it’s gonna burst.

  My head hurts, a pain stabbing at the base of my skull.

  But this is a job.

  And I have to do it well.

  I just got paid after all.

  So after the function, I slip back into his limo like a good little girl who’s been given her orders.

  Standing in the foyer, I tremble like a doe. He’s going to pounce. The Dom’s been signaling his need to me for the last few hours, every look from those blue eyes sizzling. But instead, Mason pulls off his suit jacket to reveal broad shoulders, his look inscrutable.

 
“Let’s have a drink,” he nods towards the living room.

  Nodding silently, I follow him into the grand space. It’s a dimly lit room done in different shades of white illuminated by the cityscape outside. Mason takes a seat on the low sofa, and I follow his lead, sitting stiffly as he pours two glasses of wine.

  But the big man doesn’t pounce immediately. He doesn’t pull me into his lap, ravishing my figure. Instead, calmly, he hands me a glass of Bordeaux, the red liquid swirling gracefully in a big bowl-shaped glass.

  “Have a good time tonight?” he asks, leaning casually backwards into the cushion. “Did you like it?”

  I’m puzzled. Yes, of course I did. Did it seem otherwise?

  “It was wonderful,” are my parroted words. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  Hopefully, that wasn’t too mechanical.

  He nods.

  “Good sweetheart. What made it nice?”

  Why is he asking this? I pause for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

  “Well, the people of course. I don’t know anything about construction and development, or about city rules and regulations either,” comes my rushed voice. “But the folks I spoke with didn’t seem to mind. They were courteous, even friendly.”

  Mason tips that handsome head back and laughs then.

  “Oh sweetheart, I don’t think they were listening to your words. Or they were, but it’s more than that. It’s your charm honey, and how you look in that dress. All those guys were circling like hound dogs, ready to pick you off on a moment’s notice.”

  A flush runs over my cheek.

  “No, I’m sure that’s not it,” comes my strangled reply. “No one came onto me at all. They’re just friendly, that’s all.”

  The comment makes Mason rumble with laughter.

  “Sweet thing, you really don’t know, do you? You have no idea how tantalizing that figure is, how every guy there wanted to jump your bones. I swear, if Bobby Jones had looked your way one more time, I was gonna punch him in the gut. Although maybe I don’t have to,” Mason added thoughtfully. “Dude’s gonna have a crick in his neck from craning his head your way.”

  I blush again.

  “I don’t remember a Bobby Jones,” comes my stammer, fingers shaking a bit on the wine glass. “Who is that?”