Slaves of the Billionaire

by Raven, Winter

  Slaves of the Billionaire

  Winter Raven

  Copyright@ 2013 Risa Peris writing as Winter Raven

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art photographer – Josefine Jonsson. Model, Sister Sinister

  Copyediting and interior book design by Blue Bow Media.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author.

  Megan

  I lost my virginity to my second cousin after the Harvest Moon dance. I went to an all-girls boarding school, Alcott Preparatory, in the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts. There was a neighboring boys school and every October there was a dance held at Alcott where all the boys were invited. My Mother had called me a week before the dance and told me that my cousin was now attending Cushing Prep, the boys school on the other side of the hill, and that she hoped that I would contact him.

  “Maybe you can get some ice cream together or a root beer float. You love root beer floats.”

  “Sure, Mom. Gotta go. Latin test tomorrow.”

  The next evening I perused the Cushing directory that was stuffed between two Western Massachusetts phone books in the library. There was only one Mark Whitestone. I called his number. A roommate answered and I left a message.

  The next day, as I was leaving for LaCrosse practice, Mark called.

  “What’s up?” He said. “My Mom’s been after me to call you. Glad you reached out.” I had a vague recollection of him from summers spent in Cape Cod. He had been tall, bony and constantly grubby looking. He liked to fish, swim, climb trees and pull my hair. I hadn’t seen him in over five years.

  “Things are cool. You coming to the dance?”

  “Yep. Want me to take you? Unless, of course, you got people lined up.”

  “People?” I laughed.

  “Well, guys.”

  “Nope. No one. You can take me, but let’s not tell anyone we are cousins.” Taking a family member to a dance seemed too rural for my cosmopolitan inclinations.

  “Sure thing. Hope you’re still cute.” He hung up the phone before I could respond.

  We decided to meet at the Cold Moon Diner prior to the dance. I was wearing a long, black strapless dress and a silver, ornate cross on a long chain. The cross had been a gift from mother a few years ago. She had bought it in Brazil from, what my Mother termed, a street urchin. I was doubtful that street urchins were peddling such fine silver, but mother was adamant.

  The diner was full of old people eating the Saturday night special, chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes. Mark was sitting at a booth with a tie and jacket. His brown, medium length hair was slicked back and his face was smooth and free of pimples. I sat across from him and we both stared at each other for a few seconds and then broke into laughter.

  “What up, coz?”

  “What up?” I twirled my necklace in my hand.

  “You’re hot.” Mark was eyeing my breasts.

  “You look different. Clean and cute.”

  “Was I dirty before?”

  “Yeah. I thought you had cooties.”

  “Do you think that still?”

  “No, you don’t seem to have cooties. You’re cute.”

  Mark blushed and I reached out my hand and stroked his fingers. “Let’s go,” I said.

  We walked down the street and across the South end of the Alcott campus. We chatted about Cape Cod, college and how much we hated Latin. Occasionally, our arms would bump into each other and Mark would pull back and mumble that he was sorry. The dance was held in the cafeteria as dictated by the Headmaster who didn’t want spiky heels clawing into our shiny, new gym floor funded by the Regis Endowment, which was basically rich alumni with fond memories of Alcott. The cafeteria was a silvery, stenciled mess. It was like tinsel from Christmas’ past had been vomited up and draped around every surface for decoration.

  “Wow.” Mark looked appalled.

  “I wasn’t on the decorating committee.” The dance floor was already crowded with gelled hair teens. I could see a lot of surreptitious groping. The air smelled thick with Calvin Klein perfume and remnants of Friday’s lunch, fish sticks and macaroni salad.

  I grabbed hold of Mark’s hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”

  He pulled backward on my hand. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Dance.”

  I laughed. “Everyone dances.”

  “Not me.” He looked scared. His jaw was jutting forth as if he were about to cry. A couple backed into him as they were dancing to Moby. Mark moved away from the dance floor and headed to the snack table teetering with soda, pretzels and M&Ms.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Sorry.” He fingered the pretzel bowl.

  “Want to go to my secret place?”

  Mark looked curious and a sudden blooming of confidence made him stand taller. “Sure.”

  My secret place was in the chapel. It was always open in case an Alcott girl got a sudden inspiration to pray. There was a second floor to the chapel that housed old theater equipment and stage decorations. Behind giant wooden cut-out flowers and a large canvas depicting Venice for Shakespeare play was a little nest that I had created from blankets and pillows. There were two half empty wine bottles in the corner. I had brought other Cushing Prep boys here. One time I had kissed and fondled a senior while several girls prayed below us in the chapel.

  “Cool spot,” said Mark. He stood looking around in the dark.

  “Come sit down.” I patted the blanket next to me.

  Mark stretched out on the blanket and rested his head on a Hello Kitty pillow that had nestled on my bed until I was twelve.

  “Really, cool.” Mark looked relaxed and content for the first time that night.

  I lay down next to him and listened to the distant laughter and thudding music drifting from the cafeteria across the Quad.

  “What are you thinking?” Mark had rolled on his side and was staring at me.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Mark laughed and blushed redder than a beet. “No.”

  “When did it happen?”

  Mark hesitated. “Last year.”

  “With some woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “A friend of my mother’s. A cougar. I was staying at her house in the Hamptons.”

  “I came...”

  “What?”

  “It was quick.” Mark’s voice was barely audible.

  “You came too fast.” Mark suddenly looked serious and rolled away from me.

  I touched his belt and fingered the buckle. Mark grew very still. “I’m a virgin,” I said. My hand moved down to his crotch and I felt his thick, hard penis. I felt flushed and bold. I let my hand massage him as I listened to his breath grow quick and heavy.

  “Take my virginity, Mark.”

  “You’re my cousin.”

  “Second. If it’s legal to get married, then it’s legal to fuck.”

  I unbuckled his belt and slid down the zipper. With my left hand I pulled out his cock. He was thick, but not very long. Somehow I knew, even as a virgin, that I could swallow him whole and not choke. Mark rolled over and got on top of me. His hand pulled up my dress and his fingers slid under my panties.

  “Is this what you want?”

  �
��Yes.”

  His index finger slid lower and fingered my opening. I was breathless. Mark sat up and pulled off my panties. My dress was hiked around my hips and my legs were wide open, exposing my vagina to the cool air. Mark pushed my legs apart even further and looked at me. He then took his right hand and stroked his cock. He seemed to be waiting.

  “Please,” I said.

  He leaned forward and thrusted. His cock didn’t go in. Mark moved his penis back and forth frantically in my pubic hair. He was huffing and his eyes were tightly shut.

  “Mark.” There was no answer. “Mark!”

  He looked at me with wide eyes. “What?”

  “You’re not in.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He looked back down at my vagina and moved his penis towards my opening. “Ready?”

  “Please.” I was starting to feel frustrated.

  It was a sharp pain I felt and I cried out. I knew there would be discomfort, but not what I was feeling. I didn’t feel scared though. I wanted the pain deeper. Mark was thrusting wildly and I kept my legs open and marveled at my changing feelings. The pain was lessening with each swift movement inside me I could feel my body opening up.

  “I want more,” I yelled.

  “Yes,” grunted Mark.

  “More pain.” It was a simple declaration that would forever change my sexual

  experiences.

  “What?” Mark looked confused.

  “Choke me.”

  “What?”

  “Do it.”

  Mark pulled out of me. “You’re weird.” He quickly pulled his pants up and zipped them.

  “Why am I weird?” I was crying.

  Mark didn’t answer me. Instead, he stood up and smoothed his pants and jacket. “I should be going. See ya around.” He walked into the dark and down the stairs.

  I saw Mark sporadically after that at family weddings, reunions and vacations at Cape Cod. He would nod in my direction and then ignore me for the rest of the time. I was embarrassed and wondered if he told any family member about our fiasco, as I called it.

  After the incident with Mark, I spent the rest of the time at Alcott Preparatory chaste. Nearly every day, I thought about Mark and the fiasco. Sometimes, late at night, I would stroke my clit and think of Mark choking me and I would feel myself drowning in so many pleasant sensations. Eventually, the word ‘weird’ would jolt me and I would curl up and cry.

  After graduating from Alcott Preparatory, I went to Columbia University and majored in English. I really didn’t know what to do with my life. I knew I had a trust fund to draw on when I turned twenty-one years old and because of this my drive was dampened. There were plenty of students all around me with fiery ambitions and huge plans. My father wanted me to go to law school, but I had no interest. I didn’t tell him that. I just selected a major that focused on reading and writing to satisfy my father’s wishes. My senior year I applied for an internship at Vogue and somehow secured it. I honestly think the interviewer was impressed by my Prada suit and Louis Vuitton handbag, both gifts of my adoring grandmother. Father seemed happy with the internship and was comforted that my trust fund meant I would live comfortably. I knew though he was still expecting me to go to law school.

  My Vogue internship turned into a job offer. I am good at hustling. I fetched coffee, fat free muffins, managed online marketing, answered phones, coordinated with designers and booked photographers. After a few years, I became a photographer’s assistant and official Vogue liaison. Father wasn’t happy that I had bypassed graduate school, but mother was convinced that a Vogue position could secure me a successful husband. In many ways, my mother had a 1950s mindset.

  I met Trent Raider, who would become my master, at a photo-shoot for Alexia Carlton. Alexia was, according to People Magazine, one of the most beautiful people in the world. She walked into the studio carrying a large, stylish bag and talking on her iPhone. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was free of all makeup. She was reedy and willowy, like a tall weed. After her makeup and hair was styled she bloomed into a stunning flower. She didn’t smile. Not once. After an hour she insisted on a break and stalked off to her dressing table in her stiletto boots. I busied myself with wardrobe when I noticed Trent enter and walk towards Alexia. I knew about Trent from the newspapers, magazines and the gossip columns. He was the CEO of Push Pull Enterprises, which supplied cutting edge technology to nearly every important industry in the world. He was also a playboy. He dated movie stars and models and threw lavish parties. An invitation to one of his parties was considered a coup de grace. At one point, Trent had been slated for a political appointment, but he turned it down for unknown reasons. The gossip columnists whispered about “skeletons in his closet”, but they never cited anything specific.

  Trent was shorter than I had imagined. He was slightly less than six feet and his hair was threaded with gray. He was handsome, but I attributed that to his self-confidence rather than any one feature. Trent nodded in my direction and went up to Alexia who was drinking a twelve dollar bottle of water that Vogue had supplied at her request. Alexia set down her water bottle on the vanity and stared at Trent through the mirror. Trent put his hand on Alexia’s shoulder and then slowly moved it down until he was cupping her breast. Alexia was very still. She closed her eyes. I then saw Trent squeeze her breast. It was not a gentle movement. He gripped her breast with brutality. Alexia’s faced tensed, but she did not cry out. I stood staring at them as I held a Dolce & Gabana frock in my hands. Trent looked away from gazing at Alexia and noticed me. My mouth was agape and I was flushed. I felt hot in the superbly air conditioned studio. Trent walked toward me and I fiddled with hanging the dress.

  “How do you do? I’m Trent Raider. Alexia is mine.”

  I didn’t dare make eye contact. I looked down at my blue painted toe nails sticking out of my peep toed shoes.

  “You’re girlfriend?” I muttered.

  “I suppose she is. Can you look at me?”

  “I...” I looked up and noticed his gray eyes were as welcoming as a blade.

  He looked me up and down openly. “Interesting. What’s your name?”

  “Megan Jasper.”

  “Why can’t you look me in the eye, Megan Jasper?”

  “I...I don’t know.”

  “Are you owned?”

  “What?”

  “Are you owned?” He spoke slowly, as if he were talking to a mentally challenged person.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Interesting. Can you come to my office?”

  I finally looked up. “About Vogue?”

  “No.”

  “About...”

  “Come at 6PM. Carnegie Tower. Thirty ninth floor.”

  Trent turned smoothly and left the studio. I saw Alexia eyeing me through the vanity mirror. Her usual neutral expression looked unhappy. I smiled quickly and her cat eye’s narrowed. She mouthed, “Slave.”

  At 5:50 PM I was sitting on the 39th floor in the reception area. The receptionist was a slender, black woman with high cheekbones. Her voice was pleasant, but firm. She had asked if I wanted water and I shook my head. She went back to answering phones and typing. There were several business magazines on the table before me. I flipped through them, but they had none of the gloss and beauty of the fashion magazines. I had no interest and decided to read my email on my phone. At 6:10 PM I was still waiting. I looked at the receptionist expectantly, but she paid no attention to me. At 6:30 PM I asked the receptionist if Trent knew I was here.

  “Of course, he does.” She smiled and then answered an incoming call.

  At 7:00 PM the receptionist signed off on her computer and gathered her purse and cell phone.

  “I’m sure he’ll be out shortly,” she said. She then went to the bank of elevators pressed the down button. A door clicked. The double doors to the left of me opened and Trent emerged. His jacket and tie were off and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

  “Come in.”<
br />
  His office was as large as I expected it to be, which is to say a middle class family home could probably fit very comfortably in it. He had an exciting view of Central Park, the Hudson River and the Palisades. I stood in the middle of all the vastness and waited. The sky was darkening and soon it would be night and all the lights of Manhattan would be shining brightly.

  Trent stood behind his desk, which had the size and elegance of a high speed motorboat. He pressed a button under the desk and the vast windows slowly shuttered with a gauzy black fabric. The office dimmed.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Everyone does.” I laughed nervously.

  “No. Do you really know who I am?”

  I was confused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You saw me with Alexia. You witnessed a moment between us.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just...”

  “Shhhh. You witnessed a moment and you were excited. I could see it in you.”

  I looked at the leafy greenness of Central Park. I was panicked, but trying desperately not to show it. “Were you turned on?”

  I hesitated. Trent seemed the type to appreciate honesty and yet he had the power to rob me of my job with Vogue. I gambled. “Yes.”

  “Alexia is my girlfriend. She is a prop. She props up my public life. But I have a private life. A varied private life. A life hidden from all but a select few. Would you like to be the few?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Who are you Megan?”

  I didn’t like that question because I didn’t know.

  “I know who you are.” It was a simple declaration that sent shivers throughout my body. “Lift up your skirt, pull down your panties. Lean over my desk.”

  “No.” It was a reflexive statement. I wanted to protect myself, but somewhere inside was the Alcott Prep girl who had begged her cousin to choke her. There was inside me a person who craved submission. I could only come while masturbating if I thought about being spanked, slapped or choked.

  Trent said nothing. I think he knew I was wrestling with myself, confronting my true desires. I walked slowly towards his desk, lifted my lavender dress, pulled down my white cotton panties and leaned over. My head was turned to the right and my cheek was pressed flat on the cool surface of the desk.