Slaves of the Billionaire

by Raven, Winter

  Trent walked around and stood behind me. I felt his warm hand pressing down on my neck.

  “You are never to call me by my name,” he said. “Not Trent. Not Mr. Raider. Master. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t hear you.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I repeated.

  He ran his hands through my hair. “Such beautiful hair.” His other hand slid between my legs. I moved into his hand. “Don’t move.” He then slapped me hard on my buttocks. I yelped. He hit again and again. “That was just a warm up. I’m going to hit you again. Five times. I want you to count. Each time I hit you, I want you to say the number. One, two, three and so forth. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  He took his hands away from my body. I heard a rustling, a clinking and then a swoosh. Trent had taken off his belt. A second later the belt cracked against my buttocks. He hit hard and I cried out. I forgot to say the number.

  “You’re not following the rules.”

  “One,” I said.

  “Too late. You get five more. Starting counting to ten.” He then hit me with the belt, harder than the first time, and I yelled “one” in a strangled moan. The belt struck me again. Two. Again. Three. Again. Four. My buttocks felt raw and sore. I was conflicted. I wanted the pain to both stop and continue. Five. Again. Six. Again. Seven. I started crying. Tears were pooling on the desk. Eight. Again. Nine. Again. Ten. I was whimpering.

  “Good. Good. You did well.”

  I started to stand up but he pushed me down again. “We’re not done. Spread your legs more.” I did as told. I heard his zipper open. I could then feel his penis jutting against my ass.

  “What…”

  “Don’t move.” Trent then grabbed my hair, pulled back on my head so I lifted off the desk with an arched back and plunged his cock in my ass. I had never had anal sex before and a wave of shock crashed over me. He was fucking me like a dog and I loved it. Back and forth. In and out. Roughly. Oh, Trent. I am painfully yours, I screamed in my head.

  Trent pulled out. “Get on your knees and face me.”

  I turned and fell to my knees. His large cock was level with my eyes. “Turn your face up,” he said. He then stroked his cock with his hand twice and erupted onto my face. I could feel it dripping down my cheeks, nose and into the corners of my mouth. Trent zipped his pants, put on his belt and tucked in his shirt. He then took his right hand and smeared his semen all over my face and down my neck.

  “What a filthy whore. Go clean up.” He pointed to a door.

  In the bathroom, I washed my face with soap and water. My hair was floating around my shoulders and my green eyes were shiny with desire. I smoothed my dress and went out into the office. Trent was on the phone talking about margin calls. I stood by his desk, smiling.

  “Excuse me,” he said into the phone. He looked at me impatiently. “I’ll let you know when I want to see you again. See yourself out.” He went back to talking. My smile faded and I began to grimace as I rode the elevator down.

  I didn’t hear from Trent again until two weeks later. He called my cell phone. I was at home loading the dishwasher. I was wearing old sweats and a stained t-shirt. I was comfortable and had no idea Trent would call.

  “Hello?” I answered the phone impatiently.

  “Come down. There is a car waiting outside your building.”

  “Master,” I whispered. I was thrilled. “I’m not properly dressed. I wasn’t expecting to go out.”

  “You have exactly five minutes. Wear black nylons, a skirt, a tank top, no panties, no bra. Wear high heels. Put on red lipstick. You have five minutes. My car will leave and I will no longer be your master.” The phone clicked off.

  I ran into my bedroom and rummaged in my closet and dresser for the wardrobe he requested. All my thigh high black nylons had holes so I shimmied into pantyhose. I ran a brush through my hair and slicked on Chanel lipstick, the Inimitable shade. I grabbed my purse and phone and hurried to the elevator. Mrs. Dorsey, my next door neighbor with five poodles, entered the elevator with me. She eyed me up and down, looked away and hugged her white poodle closer to her. The dog growled. The elevator dinged and I ran, as fast as I could in 5 inch heels, to the street. There was a stretch limousine double parked in the street. The door opened. I ducked and sat in the back seat. Trent was sitting in the gray interior with a crystal glass in his hand.

  “Ten more seconds and I was going to leave.”

  “Hi,” I gushed.

  “Shhh. No talking.” Trent pressed a button. “Davis, you can pull away now. Drive as I directed.”

  “Yes,” said a male voice over the intercom. There was solid black glass separating the back of the car from the chauffeur.

  Trent then turned and looked at me. He pulled my tank top and then rubbed my nipple through the fabric. It was erect and tingled. He pulled my skirt up.

  “No thigh highs.”

  “They were all ripped.”

  “I see. Spread your legs.”

  I hiked my skirt up. He then reached over and ripped my nylons in the crotch. He then took a pen out of his pocket and poked three holes in the legs of my stockings. Several runs coursed down my legs to my toes.

  “Looks like your nylons are ripped.”

  Trent then took the glass in his hand, which was filled with clear liquid, and threw it on my tank top. I could smell vodka. My white tank top was soaked and my breasts were visible. Trent looked angry. He looked, briefly, like a madman who would destroy me. Trent grabbed me by my hair and yanked me.

  “You’re such a slut. A worthless slut.”

  I whimpered. He pulled me onto the floor of the car and yanked me back and forth.

  “Did you think this would be easy? Did you think it would be easy being my slut? My slave?”

  “No,” I yelled.

  “No, what?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Come here.” He patted his lap. I crawled onto him. I was careful not to expose the wet front of my top to his shirt. He smoothed my hair and placed an arm around my shoulders. I could smell his cologne. Deep and rich like his voice. I rested my head on his shoulder and I felt peace. My breath mirrored the rhythm of his breathing. His hand tightened in my hair and I knew he was going to be brutal again. He pushed me off of him and grabbed me by my face. He unzipped his pants and shoved his cock into my mouth. My mouth was filled with him. I choked. He pulled out, so I could catch my breath. He jabbed his cock in again.

  “Deeper,” he said. “Deeper.”

  I choked and spittle dribbled down my chin.

  “Good girl.” He then moved his cock into my mouth again, but for a longer time. I breathed through my nose and tried to take more of him into my mouth.

  Then I pulled away. He slapped me. Hard across my right cheek. I laughed with pleasure.

  “You like that don’t you?”

  I begged for more.

  “You’re a mess.” He reached down and smeared my lipstick across my face. He pressed the button on the door. “Driver. Pull over.”

  The car stopped.

  “Get out. You disgust me. Walk all the way home. No taxis. No subways. You look like a whore. Do you know that? You look like a filthy whore who sucks cocks in the backs of cars. Get out.” He pulled me up by my hair and pushed me out the door. He threw my purse into the street. The car door slammed and Trent pulled away.

  I walked home, teetering in my heels, wondering when I would see Trent again. The two weeks I had waited to see him were painful. I wanted to be in his grip again. I wanted to be his slave, his slut, his girl to punish. I wanted to be his. Always.

  The following day, Alexia came into the Vogue offices. She was signing a contract with the finance department. She passed by my cubicle and stood in front of my computer.

  “How is it?” Alexia’s lips were full. It always looked as if she were pouting.

  “What?”

  “Trent.”

  “How…”


  “I know who his slaves are. Listen, I don’t care. He can have his slaves. But you will never have him. Do you understand that? He’s mine. He can punish any woman he wants, but he is mine. Know your place.” She stalked off with a flick of her long hair.

  That evening I was restless. I went to a bar and ordered vodka and tonic. It was a dive bar and Journey was playing on the jukebox. I looked up when a muscular man in a maroon t-shirt walked in. He had several tattoos on his arms and his head was bald. He was good looking in a rough way. He nodded in my direction and sat two seats down from me.

  “Whiskey,” he hollered. The bartender poured him a glass and the man placed money on the table. He took a long drink.

  He turned his gaze on me. “Why are you staring?”

  I blushed. “Didn’t realize I was. Sorry.”

  He finished off his drink, stood and then sat next to me. “Another whiskey,” he told the bartender. He touched my hand. “You’re a pretty girl. Why are you here?”

  “I wanted a drink.”

  “In this dump? What are you looking for?”

  I grabbed the whiskey that the bartender set before him and I swallowed in one gulp.

  “Are you brutal?” I asked. His eyes grew large and then narrowed.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes.” The whiskey made me bold.

  “Hey, Cruz,” the man yelled.

  The bartender turned. “Yeah?”

  “Is that back pool room empty?”

  “Yeah. Nobody has been back there.”

  “Thanks.” The man smiled. “Follow me.”

  The pool room had a door and the man closed it and locked it. I stood touching the green felt on the pool table. He grabbed my hair and pulled me down onto my knees.

  “Is this what you want? To be treated like a whore?”

  “Please.”

  The man yanked me up and started whacking my buttocks. His hand was strong and it stung. I whimpered and yelped. He then dragged me on top of the pool table and yanked off my pants and panties. I was sprawled and gripping the edges. He stuck a finger in me, then two, then three, then four. The pain was intense, but exciting. He moved his four fingers in and out.

  “Your hole is mine.” He then balled his hand into a fist and began trying to shove it inside me. He twisted and turned his hand then pushed. He kept repeating that. I felt like I was being split open but it felt wonderful in a strange way. I was crying, panting, moaning and groaning. I knew the patrons in the bar could hear me. The man was egged on by my noises and he kept twisting, turning and pushing.

  “My fist is in you,” he said quietly. I pushed myself up and saw only the edge of his wrist and his hand. His fist was deep inside me. I collapsed onto the pool table and felt a powerful orgasm course through by body. My vagina clamped tighter over his fist. This is what ecstasy is, I thought.

  A week later, I got an invitation from Trent. It came through the mail. The paper was thick and blue. It was handwritten in an elegant script.

  You are invited to my dungeon on September 10th. Wear black. Make yourself beautiful. You will be meeting my other slaves.

  I placed the invitation on my kitchen table and wondered what pleasures I would experience.

  Carice

  I have a criminal record. That’s what you should know about me. I grew up in the Bronx. My Dad was an alcoholic dependent on social security disability checks. He had broken his back at a construction site and developed chronic pain. I knew his drinking was a way of coping with the pain, but he got aggressive when he was drunk. He would yell at me. I was called a cunt and a bitch several times a day starting at age eight.

  “Carice, you stupid cunt! Clean up this mess,” he would yell.

  I tried to ignore my Dad, but sometimes the words wormed their way in and made me cry.

  “You’re garbage, Carice,” Dad would yell.

  Dad was also violent. He liked throwing punches. He would hit my arms, my legs, my stomach and sometimes my face. I would get bruises. Sometimes a teacher would ask what happened and I would tell them I got into a fight with someone in the neighborhood. They didn’t question it further. I was rough, poor and defiant. If I said I got into a fight, they believed me.

  In high school, I started smoking marijuana, drinking and having sex. The first time I had sex I was drunk. I can’t remember who I lost my virginity to. I have a vague memory of the smell of Twinkies from the boy’s breath and the feel of fine stubble on his chin. I got a reputation in high school. If a boy wanted his dick sucked or wanted to have sex, they went to me. They lured me with marijuana, money and sometimes food. There was rarely food in my home, so promises of Big Macs and fried chicken swayed me and got me to open my legs.

  When I was fifteen, I was charged with delinquency. Six months later, I was charged with possession of marijuana. When I was sixteen, I spent time in a detention facility for violating probation. This pattern continued for several more years until I turned eighteen. I got married to a neighborhood boy because I got pregnant. We went to a justice of the peace and we both got tattoos instead of getting rings. I got Chinese script inked onto my back. It was a quote by Confucius: Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

  Two months after I was married, I miscarried. Rocco, my husband, was angry.

  “What the fuck did you do, Carice?”

  “Sometimes these things happen,” I explained.

  “Only if you’re a cunt.” He left our tiny apartment and didn’t come back until the next evening reeking of booze and pussy. I could smell it on his face.

  “Whose pussy did you bury your face in?”

  Rocco collapsed on the couch. “Carla.”

  “That Italian bitch!”

  He fell asleep and started snoring.

  I got a job as a cocktail waitress at a small hotel off the Long Island Expressway. It used to be a Howard Johnson’s, but the corporate family theme had devolved into a trucker’s paradise. The bar had orange, ratty booths and each night the lounge filled with long distance drivers, local riff raff looking for cheap drinks, loud music and drug dealers pushing their stash. One night, in the middle of August, I met Drake. I had stepped outside to smoke. The night was steamy and I could hear the sound of crickets causing a ruckus in the wooded lot next to the hotel bar.

  “Can I have a smoke?”

  I turned. “I don’t have anymore.” I went back to blowing circles.

  “You got a full pack stuck in your pants.”

  “What makes you think I want to share them with you?”

  “I’m Drake.” He extended his hand.

  “Nice to know,” I said.

  “What a tough girl.”

  “Got to be in this world.” I eyed him. He was around 5’7” and had a tattoo of a serpent crawling around his neck. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. He was average looking, but better looking than Rocco. I winced. Rocco had left me five months prior. He stole most of the furniture while I was at friend’s home and left me with two months unpaid rent. I moved into a residence hotel in Hicksville and then found the job at the hotel bar. I was saving for a little place of my own in Queens.

  “So true,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and started whistling.

  “I have to get back.” I ground out my cigarette on the ground.

  “Can I take you out?”

  “What?”

  “Can I take you to dinner?”

  “Listen…”

  “Drake.”

  “Drake. I’ve got baggage.”

  “We’ve all got baggage. Maybe I could carry some of your baggage for you.”

  I sighed. “Why not.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  Drake took me to an Italian restaurant near Cantiague Park. We shared a Caesar, ate lasagna crammed with ricotta and spinach and drank two bottles of red wine. Drake was a talker. He liked telling stories and he had plenty to share. He had just been discharged fro
m the Marines after spending a year in Afghanistan. His war stories were rich with detail and I got drawn into them the way I never could with a book. Drake had a daughter, who lived with his father in Plainview.

  “I love her. She’s the reason I wake up in the morning.”

  “Can I see a picture of her?”

  Drake took out his phone. His daughter was blue eyed with lank blonde hair. She had a pointy chin and freckles.

  “She’s pretty,” I said.

  “Her name’s Darlene. She takes after her mother.”

  “Where’s her mother?”

  “Don’t know. She packed up her belongings and left. I filed a missing person report. The police told me that some people just want to disappear.”

  I knew that. I had spent every day since I was a child wanting to disappear.

  “You’re a special girl, Carice.”

  “I’m not.” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Drake stroked my hand.

  Two months after the first date, Drake invited me to meet his daughter and father. The home was a white clapboard with a well-tended lawn. There was a child’s pink bike lying on the grass and when Drake and I walked up the driveway a little girl ran out with a chocolate smeared face.

  “Daddy!” Drake swooped her up and kissed her all around her face.

  “You have chocolate on you,” I told Drake.

  He leaned over and kissed me. “Now you have chocolate on you.”

  Drake’s father, Jon, had been a police officer in Queens. His wife had died five years prior from breast cancer, shortly after Darlene was born. Drake’s father was tall, well-built and had a full head of silvery hair. He hugged and shook Drake’s hand and then stared at me with, what I instantly recognized, as disgust.

  “Come in,” he said. His voice was polite and cold.

  After dinner, Drake took me home. Drake was in a good mood and was talking about Darlene’s school recital that he had gone to on Friday.

  “Drake.”

  “Yeah,” he looked at me and smiled.