by Ann Steele
Killian still updated her whenever he moved. He only stopped doing it on a weekend when she threatened to quit. He calls me now if he goes out on a weekend and I'm not with him. I'm his safe person.
I rapped on his door.
"Come in, lock it behind you," he ordered. I slipped into his office, dead bolting it behind me. He sat behind his large, cherry wood desk, scowling at the monitor. I reached for my blouse buttons.
"On your knees, you don't need to get naked," he barked, spinning his chair, opening his legs so there was space for me.
"Yes, sir."
My stomach still back-flipped at the depravity he introduced me to. I dropped to my knees between his muscular thighs. He unzipped his pants. His thick nine and half inches sprang free. Pre-cum glistened on the tip.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked, grabbing a fist full of my hair. I always wore it down now. Killian liked it that way. I parted my lips, letting him guide into my throat, I chocked when he hit my gag reflex, easing past it slowly until I became accustomed to him. He rocked his hips, keeping his hand in my hair, dictating the pace. Tears streamed down my cheeks, saliva dripped from my chin. I snorted, gasping for breath whenever he pulled out. His cock pulsed in my mouth, thick, sticky ropes shot down my throat. He held me, waiting for me swallow it all down.
"ON my desk, open your legs," he demanded. He's the opposite of selfish in bed. If comes, I do. It's a rule he has. No matter how tired or grumpy he is, he won't sleep until I've screamed his name at least once. We sleep in the same bed now. In the guest room, not his room. I'm not allowed in there, not yet. I plan to change that today.
I hopped onto his desk, slipping my panties down, lifting my skirt, my knees apart. he gripped the edge of the desk, rolling forward over the floor. Without hesitation, he buried his face between my legs, lapping at my pussy until I panted. His tongue hit my clit with every stroke. I shuddered, dropping back to his glossy desk, wrapping my legs around his shoulders, trapping him in place between my legs. He grunted. he loves it when I take control. He said that's why he found me so interesting, I'm naturally submissive but not a pushover. I know what I want and I'm not afraid to get it.
His firm tongue lashed my clit, running circles around the edge. I bit my lip, growling out my climax so Muriel didn't hear us. My eyes closed, I pulled him away by his hair, breathing hard.
"Thank you, Abigail." he grinned. Whatever upset him wasn't important. Not now he'd had his fill of me. I slipped of his desk, curling up between his legs, resting my head on his thigh. His hand reached to my head, his fingers tangled in my hair.
"I love you," I whispered.
Silence. he froze, recoiling in his chair.
"It's okay, Killian," I reassured him. "I won't hurt you. I won't reject you the way your Dad did. You're safe with me."
He pushed me away. My heart raced. Had I read him wrong? The last six months have been amazing. He spends more time with me than he does at work.
"I have work to do, Abigail."
"I’ll see you tonight?"
"I have plans."
"Oh?"
"Maybe at the weekend," he suggested.
"What plans?"
"The twins want to catch up, if you must know."
"The twins?" I fumed, angrier than hurt. "The twins you fucked before we met?"
"Yes," he said, turning his attention to the computer screen.
"Are you telling me you're cheating me?" My fists balled. He hadn't changed at all. He spent the last six months playing me for a fool and I fell for it. Tears pooled behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
"I wasn't aware you thought we exclusive. I'm sorry if I gave that impression. It was unintentional."
His cool green eyes didn't budge from the screen, his was toneless and without emotion. It took everything I had not to smash my fist through his Mac computer and then his face. Not exclusive? Didn’t mean to give that impression? Is he serious? He's spent every night for the last two weeks with me. We had breakfast and drove to work this morning. What other impression did he think he was giving me? He bought me goddamn for fuck's sake.
Katya's words rang in my ears, "when he breaks your heart Abi, and he will break your heart, please keep the car. Don't throw the keys at him, no matter how satisfying you find it."
"You're not getting the car back."
"What car?"
"And just so you know, I'm going to drive it into the back of your precious Beamer."
"It's parked outside your house, Abigail. My car is parked in a secure lot which you don't have access to, but whatever floats you boat, I guess. Are you done now, or do I need to call security? Only this is my office, it's working hours and I'm busy. I will try to make time for you on Friday evening. I'm sure the twins will have had their fill of me by then. There's plenty of Killian to around, baby. Now, please get back to work. I don't pay you to threaten me."
He tapped at his keyboard.
"I don't work here, I quit."
"Speak to HR about your final pay check on your way out. They're on the ground floor, second door on the corridor to your right."
His pants still rested in a crumpled heap around his ankles.
"And I'll tell all the papers you have premature ejaculation issues."
"Okay. Muriel has the number for the local gossip rag. I am sure they'll pay you handsomely for that gem. I always said you'd look good in the center pages. Wear that little red number I bought you last week for the shoot they ask you to do. You look hot in that."
"Are you completely without emotion," I yelled, my voice cracking. He didn't look at me. Tears swam down my cheeks.
"Yes, I did warn you that, several times in fact."
"Well, I didn't believe you," I sniffed.
"That's your issue."
"Goodbye Killian, I hope you rot in hell surrounded by piles of money."
"If hell exists, I'm sure they have a room waiting for me. Good luck with your future Abigail. Be assured White Label Records will give you a glowing letter of recommendation."
"I hate you," I screamed.
"I wish that was true, Abigail," he sighed, finally turning to look at me.
I turned on my heel, storming from his office, not pausing to say Goodbye to my team or Muriel.
Katya rushed around with wine and ice-cream.
Epilogue
Three weeks ago, I ruined my second chance, quitting my job and the man I loved in one day. Killian had the gall to call me that Friday, inviting me around to his. Asshole. If he'd had the balls to come to my door, I would've punched him. My final pay check arrived five thousand dollars heavy and a week early. A gift for my lack of suing him or blabbing to the paparazzi, I guessed. Katya took my car, holing it up at her house in case I drove it into Kilian's wrought iron gates in a fit of suicidal rage.
I opened up my emails, checking for replies from any of the jobs I applied to, as generous as five thousand dollars is, it won't go far in New York City. Not, if I want to eat, anyway.
From: [email protected]
How far would you go for two million dollars?
Far, I thought bitterly, as far as possible. The moon would be good. Could two million dollars get me to the moon? One way would be perfect. I read on.
One auction. Two million dollars. Twenty-four hours with your 'owner'. The only rule? There are no limits..
I blinked at the screen. Is the spam mail asking me to sell myself as a sex slave? To a stranger? Disturbingly, I wasn't disgusted at the idea. Two million dollars could get me very, very far away from Killian White. And let's face it, there's nothing left to give I didn't enthusiastically give to Killian except my virgin asshole but how many billionaires have a nine and half inch dick?
I read on.
To register your interest, reply yes please, and who knows, this time next week, you could be chained in someone's basement being force fed pizza and cheesecake.
I glanced
at my empty fridge. The energy for anything but crying and self-pity left me the day I walked out on Killian. I haven't left my cluttered apartment for three weeks.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Yes, please.
My inbox pinged a second later. I almost dropped my laptop, I jolted so hard. I read the reply with my heart in my mouth.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Thank you for your interest in our auction. If your application is successful you will receive an invitation to an exclusive masquerade ball. You are permitted to bring a friend for moral support. The slaves are required to wear silver masks. Potential buyers will wear white masks.
At the end of the ball, a member of staff will invite you to an 'after party'. that will change your life. The twenty-four hours start an hour after the auction ends.
Good luck, Miss Koch.
I slammed the laptop closed. It's a joke, a stupid spam mail. Nothing will come of it. I pushed it to the back of my mind and carried on with my job hunt.
***
"Oh my God, Abigail," Katya hopped from foot in foot in my hallway, clutching my mail I asked her to retrieve from my mail box in the entrance. I gave her the key the day I left Killian and became a hermit. A gold envelope glittered in her hand.
"What?" I asked, feeling my stomach lurch at the thick, gold envelope.
"Do you know what this is?"
"An envelope? Probably junk mail."
It was addressed to Miss Abigail Koch, a little personal for junk mail but sales people will go any lengths to grab a sale these days.
"It's an invite to the Billionaire’s Masquerade ball, the hottest party in town. All the celebs go, all the billionaires."
"Does Killian go?"
"Um, I don't think so, I don't remember seeing him in the papers afterwards. It's probably too sophisticated for that jerk wad."
Yeah, but the after party is right up his street. I shook my head. Killian wouldn't spend two million dollars to get a woman to do anything he wanted for twenty-four hours. If he wants a woman to do anything he wants, all he has to do his drop his pants. I should know. I'm one of the women who fell for it. I snatched the envelope off Katya.
"Who are you gonna take?" She grinned.
"You, who else would I take?"
To be continued…
Sneak Peak: Apathy
Chapter 1: Hope
It was the beginning of dawn when I left the place I unfortunately called home. I ran out the door with an almighty crash, ignoring the piercings voices that were threatening me to come back in. I didn’t even turn around when I felt my foster brother’s warm, alcohol-filled breath breathing down my neck; if anything, it made me run even faster.
I tore across the unkempt grass, almost slipping on the morning dew that was invisible between the tall blades. I was careful not to fall over the various car parts that were lazily strewn on the lawn, constant reminders that my piece of shit foster father never completed or cared about anything in his life.
Wearing shoes that were a size too small, I tiptoed around half-dug holes that my foster mother excavated in her attempt to start a garden. The seeds laid on their sides, completely neglected. In the weeks since she decided to create one, I don’t think she’s watered them once.
I could still hear the screams blasting through the silence of the early morning tranquillity as my foster brother was screaming that he would call the cops on me. I knew he would never do it, so I kept on running. My feet hit the greying asphalt, and I dashed between the potholes that covered the street.
The only thing that I had brought with me was a bright green backpack. I heaved it tighter on my shoulders as it began to slip down. It was filled to the brim with my foster brother’s drugs, the only sweet relief that my shitty life offered.
Before I stole them, I knew he would be pissed, but I didn’t care. I was planning my escape for weeks. I thought I had a fool proof method, but there must have been a snag somewhere along the way. I was hoping not to get caught; so soon at least.
This was only the most recent of terrible foster homes that I’ve been in. Ever since I was little I was bounced from location to location. Each of my foster parents were as horrible as the ones before them. They either neglected us or were too overprotective. Honestly, the only thing they cared about was the monthly checks that were coming in.
I only had one good set of foster parents: The Douglass. They were an older couple whose own children already moved away from home. Margaret and Anthony were two of the nicest people that I ever met. I lived with them for two years. They would always take me out to museums and aquariums. The two birthdays I celebrated with them were the only times I had actually received any worthwhile gifts. The other foster homes either didn’t acknowledge it or they gave me subpar presents.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Douglas died of a stroke, and her husband passed away shortly after. I cried when they took me out of the house. The social worker was nice to me and said that she’d find me a “happy” home to live in. That wasn’t the case though. I was beaten and bruised several times by my foster siblings. Every time the social worker came out, they’d make up an excuse as to why I had these marks all of my body. I was forced to lie to her face, telling her that I trip and fall or that I tumbled down the stairs. I could tell that she didn’t believe them, and I was relieved when she came by one and whisked me away from the house. She kept apologizing to me for sending me to that home, but I felt numb to it. That’s when I knew that my pain was deeper than just physical. My mind had been assaulted also, pummeled from years of verbal abuse.
That’s when I turned to drugs. They were the escape that I desperately needed. It was transporting me into another dimension. Each inhalation was a mini paradise, each injection was heaven on Earth, and each snort had me floating on Cloud Nine.
I started taking them when I was fourteen. My foster sister and her boyfriend got me hooked. I was hanging out with the two of them in the den. We were talking about some stupid, immature shit when, out of nowhere, he pulls out a baggie filled to the brim with white powder. It suddenly got quiet, and they both looked at each other with a wide smile on their face.
“Have you ever tried cocaine?” my foster sister asked.
“No.” I said nervously.
My eyes never left the white stuff, even as her boyfriend cut a line on the table. My fascination grew when I saw him take a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, roll it up and expertly snort the cocaine up in one inhale.
He wiped his nose as he handed the curled money to my foster sister. She inhaled it too. I watched it disappear up her nostrils like a vacuum cleaner.
She reached over and offered me the bill. My eyes widened, and a panic swept over my body. I was always told in school that drugs were bad for you. They made us sign contracts that stated that we’d never do drugs of any kind. It wasn’t that effective, considering more than fifty percent of the kids at my school smoked pot or did PCP.
“Come on.” she said, noticing my hesitancy. “Just try a little. It’s good for your health.”
I accepted the rolled up twenty with shaky hands. Her boyfriend placed more cocaine on the table and cut another line with a razor blade. It was nice and neat when he finished it. The drug looked so innocent sitting there like that. It amazed me that something so white and pure could be so dangerous.
“Just get as close as you can to the coke with the bill and take a deep snort.” her boyfriend instructed. I never thought I’d be getting a lesson on how to do a line of cocaine.
I slowly leaned forward and touched the table with the tip of the twenty. For a couple seconds I didn’t do anything. I was too nervous to move, too nervous to breathe. I felt their eyes on me, and I knew they were waiting for me to start.
I took a small snort at first, feeling a tiny amount of the powder fly up my nostrils. It burned a lit
tle, so I decided to quickly inhale the rest. It was the strangest sensation. It’s almost like I could feel each individual granule slide up my nose.
“How do you feel?” my foster sister asked when I finished.
I leaned back on the couch that I was sitting on and looked at her. Her pupils were gigantic, and I’m sure mine were the same. I was going to answer her, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. My lips felt so dry, and I needed something to drink.
I stood up, wanting to go to the kitchen to get some water. From that moment on, everything started to speed up. It was like watching a movie on fast forward.
“How do you feel?” she asked again. I watched her lips move, but the words seemed to explode out after she was done talking. I shook my head, and it felt like the whole room spun around like a tornado.
“I feel really good.” I admitted. I was feeling a lot of different emotions. There were sparks of euphoria and confidence circulating throughout my brain. I felt like I was invincible. I could jump off the tallest building, and I wouldn’t get hurt
More importantly, I felt beautiful. People were always tearing me down and saying how ugly and worthless I was, but for the first time in a while, I really felt powerful and beautiful. I felt amazing in my own skin. It was a refreshing feeling.
That was the first time I ever tried drugs. It only escalated from there. Before I knew it, I was smoking crack cocaine, doing Molly and finally, I was shooting up heroin. I’m eighteen now, so I’ve been addicted for four years. It was lucky for me that every home I went to after my foster sister got me hooked was full of drugs.
That’s why I’m running in the first place. I don’t have any money to pay for the drugs, so I had to do little favors for my current foster brother. It got to the point where I couldn’t do it anymore, and it made me emotionally and physically sick to be around him. I couldn’t bear to look at his stupid face, looking down at me every morning as he climbed into my bed as part of our agreement.