The Billionaire's Little Secret

by Carmen Quick

  Mr. Forsythe got out of the cab and we walked up to the doors together. ‘Good evening, John,’ he said to the doorman.

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Forsythe,’ said the doorman.

  We walked into the reception area and I almost lost my breath for a moment. It was incredible. The biggest, most iridescent chandelier I had ever seen, along with a marble floor, marble countertops, and plush Persian rugs. I felt like I was walking in to a fairytale. ‘You live here?’ I gasped. Mr. Forsythe just smiled.

  We got into an elevator, operated by another man, this time a younger one, but in the same maroon and gold uniform. Without asking Mr. Forsythe for his number, he pressed the number forty-one. The building only had forty-three floors, so we were going to be really near the top. I hoped I wouldn’t faint again.

  As the elevator rose in silence, I became aware of the overpowering scent of my boss’ aftershave. He smelt of musky eastern spices; the smell seemed so intoxicating in the tightness of the elevator that my mind felt foggy, relaxed, like I could easily be lulled into a deep, dreamy sleep. Fortunately, the doors opened, jolting me awake, and Mr. Forsythe led me out into a smart hallway. There was a very short corridor here, and I could only see one door. Number One. ‘You live at number one?’ I asked. ‘Yours is the only apartment on this entire floor?’

  Mr. Forsythe put his key in the lock. ‘I live on this floor, yes,’ he replied. ‘And the two above it.’

  At that moment, he opened the door, revealing an astonishingly magnificent sight. The entrance foyer was in itself a work of art. It had a high ceiling, with a huge, twisting staircase, leading up to the next two floors. The floor and steps were again made of marble (hand-laid African St. Laurent, Mr. Forsythe told me when I asked him about it), and there was a marble statue of a young, naked girl at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘That’s Artemis,’ Mr. Forsythe told me as I walked towards it.

  I longed to run my hands over her smooth marble skin, but didn’t dare touch something so perfect.

  ‘She’s the goddess of wild animals and the hunt, among other things.’

  ‘What other things?’ I asked, marveling at the delicate curls of her hair, her strong slender neck, her determined eyes. Perhaps she is preparing to hunt.

  ‘Virginity,’ he replied softly.

  I noticed an arrow, clutched in one of her hands. Perhaps she has already locked eyes onto her pray.

  ‘Let’s go to the sitting room.’ Mr. Forsythe began climbing the marble staircase, and I went after him. I wondered what was behind the many doors we were passing by. How many bedrooms this place had. How many bathrooms. Whether this was one of those luxury penthouse apartments you’d see advertised in the newspaper as in ‘triple mint condition’. I wondered how many zeroes were on the end of the price for this place. At least six, I figured. Maybe seven.

  As we reached the top of the stairs, I was stunned to see that this level was all open plan. The floor space was massive. There were no brick walls either; just like at the office, everything was glass. From where I was standing now, I had a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr. Forsythe. ‘Over here. Take a proper look at the view.’

  I swallowed nervously, terrified of another fainting attack, like the one at the office. But fainting at the office was an entirely different matter to fainting in my boss’ home.

  Oh god, I’m in my boss’ home, I suddenly thought. Why am I here? Why did I agree to this?

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mr. Forsythe smiled. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’ He walked past several plush sofas, past another statue, of a young man this time, and he reached the glass. He stood with his back to me. ‘Walk over here to me,’ he said.

  I began, very slowly, to walk towards him, focusing on the objects in the room. The statue, I saw when I was closer, was not of a man, but a satyr. It had hooves, a horse’s tail, and horselike ears. And I couldn’t help but notice it had an erect, horselike phallus too.

  ‘Satyrs are Dionysian creatures,’ said Mr. Forsythe, who had noticed my footsteps coming to a halt behind the statue. ‘Sensual and spontaneous. They love wine and women, and physical pleasures.’

  I felt a strange tingle of disgust (was it disgust? or excitement?) looking at the bulging phallus, and then I continued walking, up to the window. I didn’t step quite as far as Mr. Forsythe, right up to the edge. I stood half a meter or so behind it, and focused my attention on the immaculate polished floor.

  ‘If you follow my instructions,’ said the firm voice to my left, ‘you won’t be afraid of being up this high.’

  I doubted whatever he was about to say was going to work. I’d suffered from this fear my entire life.

  ‘First of all, close your eyes.’

  I was happy to oblige with that part, so that I didn’t have to look out of the window.

  ‘Now take a deep breath in through your nose,’ he said. ‘And then a nice, long steady breath out of your mouth.’

  I did as he said.

  ‘Feel the pressure in your chest, falling away, feel the soles of your feet rooted firmly on the floor.’

  I imagined the soles of my feet growing roots, imagining that the floor was the earthy ground of a forest, that I was growing into it, becoming a part of the wilderness. I liked that feeling.

  ‘Next, I want you to open your eyes, very slowly, and as you do, I want you to remember to take a deep breath again. Don’t focus on anything when your eyes are fully open; just let them watch the air in front of your face, nice and soft.’

  I continued to do as he said, and found that the process of listening to his voice, so soothing and direct, so confident and strong, was in itself making me feel less afraid. Being told what to do felt sort of relaxing. Took some of the pressure away from me.

  ‘Now let your eyes fall upon something outside. Remember to take a deep breath in and out as your eyes focus. Now keep you eyes there and take a few more deep breaths. That’s good.’

  I looked at an aerial on top of a building and felt fine.

  I’m fine! I’m looking out of the window on the forty-second floor and I’m fine!

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I said, growing in bravery and letting my eyes move around as the adrenaline seeped away. The city looked stunning. It was dusk’, the lights had started to go on, and the last remaining light of the day was disappearing behind several tall skyscrapers, staining the sky behind it blood orange. I could see the dark mass of Central Park beneath me, dotted with lights and evening activity. I’d never seen a view more wonderful. I’d never been able to look at a view like this so calmly before. ‘How did you learn to do that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Mr. Forsythe said. ‘I was just guessing.’

  I almost gave him a playful push but remembered my place. And then I remembered what he’d said to me earlier and felt a rush of anger coming back to me. ‘Why did you invite me here?’ I asked, stern all of a sudden. ‘What more do we need to discuss?’

  ‘I want to put things right between us,’ he replied. ‘I want you to understand me better. I’m going to show you who I really am.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Dark Secret

  Mr. Forsythe led me over to the sofa, and told me to take a seat. He walked over to a bar counter, some twenty paces away, and began opening a bottle of wine. I hated to admit it, but I liked watching him. His movements were so controlled, so precise. He seemed to have all the brute strength of a warrior, and the precision of a fine artist. He checked two wine glasses for smudges before pouring two neat servings of wine, then took in a deep inhalation of the wine’s bouquet in one of the glasses. ‘Nothing beats an Argentinian red,’ he said. ‘This one’s like drinking liquid velvet.’

  He left the wine bottle on the countertop and brought the glasses over to us.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  He sat on the sofa beside me, clinking his glass against mine, and then drinking, letting the wine sit on his t
ongue for a moment before he swallowed. I did the same. He was right. The wine was very smooth, not acidic in the slightest, like the three dollar bottles I would pick up after my lectures at uni. It was delicious. I had another mouthful.

  ‘I can see that what I said to you in the restaurant must have seemed very strange,’ he said. ‘Disgusting, even.’ He seemed to struggle to spit out the word disgusting. I would have felt embarrassed for him, if it wasn’t for the fact he was keeping his composure so perfectly. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you about it. It wasn’t appropriate.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ I said quietly, feeling strangely warm and safe, sitting so close to this man, on the same sofa as one another, our knees just inches apart.

  ‘Now that I’ve said it, though, I can’t make it go away. Seeing how angry you were when I told you has made me determined to get this ironed out. I’m going to open up to you further now, Lilly. If I go too far, tell you more than you want to know, you can leave. I’ll call you a cab whenever you want. Okay?’

  I nodded. I don’t know why, but I wanted to stay. I wanted to see what he felt he needed to show me.

  ‘Now Lilly, I want you to know, that I’ve never shared what I am about to tell you with anyone else. Anyone at all. I feel as though I can trust you though. I can trust you, can’t I, Lilly?’

  ‘You can trust me, Mr. Forsythe.’

  ‘Good. When I was very young, my mother passed away. My father was a hard man, a military man, and he couldn’t look after me. I still believe that he meant well, Lilly, but I can never forgive him for the way he treated me. He never gave me any love, and the only attention I ever received from the brute was physical, and not pleasant. I think that my father continually beating me was perhaps the reason that I still suffered from bladder problems, well into my teens.’ I’d never seen Mr. Forsythe look the way he did now. Vulnerable, nervous. ‘You may have noticed, Lilly, that my eyes are different colours?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’d noticed that.’

  ‘Well, that’s not the way I was born. One night, when I was thirteen, I had a dreadful nightmare. I still remember it to this day. It was my mother, as I remembered her, but her face was somehow twisted and hurt, mangled into the shape of a demon, or a monster. She was screaming at me, telling me that her death was my fault, which was something my father used to tell me. Just when she was about to rip me apart, I woke. This time, I hadn’t just wet the bed. It was worse than that.’

  ‘You poor thing!’ I found it hard to imagine Mr. Forsythe as a little, vulnerable boy.

  ‘Well, I tried to hide it, because I knew that my father would be furious. But how are you meant to hide…that. My father hit me so hard on my face that he tore my cornea,’ he pointed at his left eye, and I looked closer, I could see the tear across the eye, now that he mentioned it. From that day forward, until the day I left home when I was sixteen, I was forced to wear diapers, every day. My father was a tyrant. But let’s just say I slowly gained control over my bladder.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, didn’t you hate that? Why would you want to make someone else wear diapers?’

  ‘Lilly, I can’t explain to you how or why I became the person I am, and truly I think the self is the great mystery of existence. All I know is that in those years of suffering, I slowly grew to love the feeling of that fabric against my body, slowly began to love how constricting and comforting it felt, I began to long to be able to share my feelings with someone else. And so I did, eventually.’

  ‘You told someone?’

  ‘My first love. I thought she would look after me, the way no one had when I was younger, the way that my really mommy would have done.’ As he said the word mommy, I’m sure I saw dampness in his eye.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She laughed at me of course. Called me a pervert. Said I was disgusting. That’s when I decided I was going to have to bury that side of me. But the thing about repressing feelings is that when you do it, you’ve got to be prepared for them to…leak out, in other ways.’

  ‘You started to wet the bed again?’

  He nodded, and took another long draught of his wine.

  ‘Worse than ever before. When Carla left me, I was at rock bottom. I decided I needed to try something else. So, I began to dominate my partners, sexually. I got into ropes and chains, nipple clamps and,’ he looked me in the eye, ‘butt plugs.’ I gulped. ‘And as I played the role of the dominant, again I found myself growing as a person, keeping the unwanted urges of my body under control. But I knew there was something else I wanted. I knew that I needed to find someone like me, someone who needed looking after, someone who needed a daddy. Somone who would grow to love being diapered, as I had. Someone like you.’

  I found much of what he said confusing, and a lot of it went over my head, but as he spoke, something about his story resonated with me. I felt that vulnerability, that desire for innocence. He was right, we were similar. There was something about us that made me feel like we were kindred spirits. Suddenly I thought of Jacob, my ex-boyfriend, about how pathetic he’d been. There was something commanding and impressive about Mr. Forsythe, about the way he’d made decisions about the type of man he’d wanted to be, and then acted on those decisions.

  ‘You have no idea,’ Mr. Forsythe said, wiping a loose strand of hair away from my face, making me gasp, ‘how attractive you are, Lilly. And I find that incredibly attractive.’

  ‘So what if I let you do this to me? If I let you dress me as a baby? What then?’

  ‘There would be rules,’ he said gently. ‘There are ways it has to be done. You’d need to obey those rules.’

  ‘Would I have to be naked?’ I asked, fearfully.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Nudity is part of innocence.’

  I braced myself to ask the most terrifying question yet. ‘Is it about sex?’ I stammered, trembling. ‘Is this a sexual thing?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said.

  There was no way I could tell my boss that I’d never had sex. Besides, I didn’t think he wanted to have sex with me. He just wanted to do this diaper thing. For the sake of closeness, and innocence. Someone like Sheldon Forsythe would never actually want to have sex with me. Just humiliate me in some way.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shivered, aware of a growing tingle between my thighs, a gradual moistness spreading at the top of my legs.

  I looked into my boss’ eyes, and he stared back at me, harsh and serious, full of stern desire. ‘Think about it,’ he said. He reached down and spread his hand out over my thigh, before slowly drawing his fingers inward, lightly gripping my flesh, making my gasp.

  ‘Okay,’ I responded, luxuriating in the sensation of his hand on my body, as it sent quick ripples down into my buttocks. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you dress me as a baby.’ I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I don’t know if it was the saké, or the wine, or the smell of Mr. Forsythe’s aftershave, or the warm, wet feeling between my legs, but this wasn’t like me at all. I had no idea where I was going with this. I felt strangely free – and like I was tumbling forwards, unable to stop myself.

  Mr. Forsythe’s lips looked dry, and he ran his tongue across them quickly, looking down at my neck, my shoulders, not letting his gaze travel further, though I guessed he might want to. ‘If you agree to this, Lilly, then you know I’ll have to be in complete control. This isn’t something you can dip your toes into. You go all in. You surrender. Completely.’

  I felt the rope grazing my the back of my dress, looked at my boss’ big, strong hands. ‘I’m surrendering,’ I whispered. ‘I surrender.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  An Exercise In Imagination

  There’s nothing much to tell you about the rest of that night. Don’t believe me? I’m serious. We didn’t make out. I didn’t stay over. Nothing weird happened. No funny business whatsoever.

  In fact, after I’d finished my glass of wine, I felt pretty disappointed, heading home in the cab alone. I had been re
ady to give him everything that night. It was like I was under his spell. I’d have let him take my virginity. And that’s no small thing. I’d been waiting to pop my cherry in just the right way for years. How I thought losing it to my billionaire boss, while he trussed me up like a toddler. I suppose it felt so wrong that it just made nothing matter any more. Losing my virginity was never going to be perfect. Why not just accept that and make it as imperfect as possible?

  By the time I got back to my parents’ house, they were both in bed. I crept up the stairs, into my room, and took a long look in the mirror. My lips and teeth were stained red from the wine. I looked like I’d been drinking blood. I looked at the rest of my face. My high cheekbones, my small, delicate features. I think, now that my boss had seen something in me, it made me see myself differently. I took off my cardigan, and unzipped my dress. I looked at myself in just my bra. It was an old, white, cotton bra, that had turned gray in the wash over the years. Good job I didn’t let my boss see that! I needed to go underwear shopping, stat.