The Billionaires Club
Jacqueline D Cirque
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Published by J D Cirque
Copyright © 2013 by J D Cirque
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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As the head of house marches down the line, I want more than anything to be back at home in bed with my cat and chocolate so dark it’s practically coal. Instead, this jerk-off pulls up right in front of me.
“Your shirt is creased.”
So is your face, I long to reply.
I say nothing. He shakes his head and moves on to another poor waitress. Given the 50 or so of us they have on staff tonight for this most secret of occasions, I imagine he’s got bigger issues than the state of my shirt, which yes, is creased. Truth is, I haven’t washed it since the last dinner.
He shouts, his voice echoing in the expansive kitchen we inhabit, white and impeccably clean in keeping with the opulence that is almost oozing from the very walls. “Let me tell you that our guests tonight are some of the most important individuals on the planet. They are millionaires and billionaires, the combined incomes of which outweigh nations. Keep our service high and do not embarrass this company. Am I understood?”
Heads nod. No one makes eye contact.
“All electronic devices and cell phones into the box, please. You can pick them up at the end of your shift.”
I place my cell into the box being passed down the line. A rent-a-cop passes a wand over me to check there’s nothing electronic left on my person I could use to snap some celebrity making a faux pas or fucking a staffer in the stairwell.
“Who do you think will be here?” The girl to my left is asking, a petite specimen of the human race complete with short, pixie hair.
I shrug my shoulders. “No idea. They’re all the same anyway.” Arrogant arseholes with more money than manners. I’ve attended enough of these high-roller shindigs to know it as fact. These guys are all carbon copies.
When service starts the kitchen descends into chaos. Plates are flying around the room, flames flares in the background and those who are uninitiated to such events flail around not knowing where to turn. A seasoned pro, I scoop up a tray of champagne flutes and dart out into the ballroom.
It’s grand indeed, filled with hustle and bustle, stereotypical business-type characters all standing around in polite little circles talking shop. Most are old, lumbering dinosaurs. There’s an Arab sheik or two, Asian high-flyers. A European catches my eye. I notice more than a few glances my way. They don’t linger on my face, gazes dropping down my body that looks nothing short of average in this waitress get-up of white shirt, black pants and hair in a tight ponytail as per company guidelines.
The truth is, I’m horny as fuck. My standards have slipped during this great sexual drought of 2013 and I fear my parts might soon close up shop for good if I don’t put them to use. Besides, shouldn’t a moderately attractive twenty-year-old be reeling in the catches, bedding men with ease? It seems so. These should be the glory days for me, but instead I continue to study, work and wither away in my apartment without so much as an orgasm in two years.
A short, balding gentleman is lingering a little too long after he’s taken his glass. My path trapped, he begins to unnerve me. Banker, for sure. I make a game of working out exactly what it is people do. It’s something of a sixth, useless sense.
I smile back and push past him, using the tray as a weapon. As I’m doing so I notice a man in the corner of my vision, well-dressed and around my own age, far too young to be part of this crowd. He’s standing by the bar, staring at me with nothing on his face giving away his game. He looks familiar, many faces do, but there’s an air about him I cannot quite place my finger on.
It’s while I’m staring back at him I collide into another gentleman, sending flutes clattering to the floor and Salon Blanc de Blancs down the front of his shirt. People turn and I flush an instant, deep red. If there was a grand sin, this is it.
I turn to find the young man, but he’s gone from the bar. I’m helpless.
I start to apologise. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
This guy raises his hand. “Please, do you know how much this suit cost?”
I look over the stained shirt, the jacket. It does looks expensive. It looks like it costs more than my damn apartment.
“No,” I reply sheepishly.
“I take it you cannot afford dry-cleaning?”
I shake my head.
“You better come with me then.”
He signals one of his bodyguards to take my tray. I let it go and begin to follow this man through the crowd out into one of the foyers wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this fuck-up.
“Please, I’ll find a way to pay. I really need this job.”
He doesn’t reply but walks steadfastly on, swatting at his shirt every now and then.
We enter a small hallway and come to a security guard. When he sees the man he steps aside and lets us through. We come to a door. The suited stranger swipes a card and the door swings open. He stands aside, “After you.”
I walk into the room, my head hanging low, the smell of champagne heavy on my own clothes, the dampness already filtering through the fabric of my pants.
The door closes behind us and for a moment the room plunges into darkness before soft light slowly brings out muted features.
It’s a bedroom, that much is clear, a large, sparsely furnished bedroom with a massive, circular bed at the centre.
The stranger motions me towards it and I can’t stop the unease that’s bashing against my brain. Get the hell out of here. Yet, all the while some other, hedonistic part of myself keeps me planted.
I move towards the bed, raking my eyes over the stranger, his features carved out gently by the light.
He’s early 40s perhaps, clean facial lines and short, auburn hair. He’s tall with good posture, the marker of quality breeding. His eyes glow luminescent.
“Sit,” he instructs.
I sit on the edge of the bed and it conforms to my backside below me.
The stranger moves in front of me. I bring my eyes up to meet his. I’m literally shaking even though the temperature in this room is moderate. I casually rub the sleeves of my shirt.
“Five thousand American dollars,” he says, his voice soft, welcoming.
“I’m sorry?”
“This suit. It cost five thousand dollars. How do you suggest you will pay for it?”
“Please,” I start, “it was an accident. I can’t afford…”
“Shhh,” he brings a finger to his lips. He sits beside me, closer than I anticipated. My skin grows warmer.
“You cannot afford it. I’m the second richest man in the world and you, you’re just a poor waitress.”
Fuck. I blush deeply and lower my head. My ponytail feels too tight. Tears pinprick the corners of my eyes. I didn’t need this, not now, not tonight. There is a pile of bills laid up on my table at home half
a metre high.
“You do, however, know.”
“I don’t understand,” I reply, my voice small and fragile.
“You know you are the most beautiful woman in this entire place.”
I don’t know what to say. I blush deeper, my face burning hot, my cheeks on fire. I press my hands between my legs and stiffen my back.
His gaze never leaves me.
“Do you know how I made my first billion?”
I shake my head.
“Fashion, clothes, making people look beautiful. I know beauty when I see it, true beauty, not a Peruvian model of stick and bone. I know people. I wouldn’t be a successful businessman otherwise, and that’s all we are: master readers, mentalists.” He pauses. “I know you.”
I go to open my mouth, no one knows me, but stop.
“You lust for attention, your body demands it, but you’ve neglected it. It’s grown hungry in your absence.” His hand moves across my thigh, sliding south. “You will pay me back now, with your body. Do you understand?”
I nod. I cannot help myself. He knows. He knows my need. Against all better intuition, take me, my body is screaming, fucking take me now.
I’m breathing hard, still avoiding eye contact but aware of his body’s proximity to my own, the heat it’s giving off, the raw aroma of champagne still floating around us, expensive scents mingling, wrapping themselves around my head until I’m in a lusty trance, seduced by this stranger.
His head cradles into my shoulder and he presses his lips against my neck. The apex of his tongue darts out and runs over my jugular, falling down into the soft skin above my shoulder. He moves his head deeper into that nook, taking in my scent, his hand wrapping around my ponytail, pulling my head aside and trailing kisses up the untouched skin at the back of my neck.
Inhibitions slide off. My mouth opens. I close my eyes. Actions escalate. The world’s second richest man throws off his jacket.
His lips are at my ear, his hand between my legs, which part freely. “First, you must be punished.”
He takes me by the shoulders and throws me over his knee, my face pressed into the bedspread. I’m about to protest when he takes the hem of my pants and underwear together in his hand and draws them down around my legs, exposing my buttocks.
Time hangs. I’m aware of a clock ticking in the distance, the smell of clean linen and goose bumps rising up on my exposed skin before the full span of his hand smacks into my ass. My head flies up, I scream, but he presses my shoulders back down and strikes me again.
Again comes the blow, my skin a stinging mess, deep nerves smashed as he brings his hand to my flesh, groaning with the effort above, lambasting me with compliments. Tears snake into my mouth, salty and wet, but I don’t ask him to stop.
I clench my buttocks together for the next blow and feel his dick grow hard against my stomach.
Smack. Smack. Smack. They come relentlessly until finally, after a barrage of energy, he leaves me alone, my skin red and raw.
He picks me up from his lap as if I’m nothing, tosses me across the bed and drags my pants completely off in the process, my shoes, still tied, clattering to the marble floor. He takes me by the ankles and drags me to the edge of the bed.
I don’t resist. I don’t know if I have the energy.
He kneels there and places a hand under each of my thighs, bending them back so that my cunt’s utterly open to him.
When his mouth comes against it, his tongue pressed to my clit, my eyes roll back. I stretch my arms out behind me and arch my back powerlessly, the touch of his mouth, lips, face against me too much to process. Sensations overwhelm me as he works.
Further he bends me back, my knees against my breasts, my ass hanging over the edge of the bed, now cupped by his hands as they drink from my very core, his tongue snaking inside and my tunnel opening further for him, a hungry mouth of my own meeting his.
His tongue slides past the thick membrane at the base of my opening and slides against my asshole, the point of it trying to ease its way inside but blocked out by the knot of muscle there. Over and over it presses, relenting and flicking back over my clit to keep my entire lower torso a tingling, haywire bundle of light and fire.
He stands and my legs flop back onto the bed. He takes the front of my shirt in two tufts and pulls, buttons ricocheting across the bed and my shirt tearing open to reveal my naked abdomen. He pushes at the bottom of my bra cups until my breasts pop free, nipples like tiny diamonds stiff in the air. He pushes them together, his eyes hungry.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt, “fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Do you understand?”
I nod lifelessly, rocking my head.
He discards his shirt, his body surprisingly supple and toned. His pants follow. He draws them down slowly, his cock flipping free, already fully erect, balls like baby apples below.
I think of everything that’s been inside me before and they pale in comparison. This is a dick.
He smiles. The fucker knows it.
He reaches into the bed and takes me around the waist, lifting me up into the air as if I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs against his own torso, my heels resting on the top of his buttocks as he takes a breast into his mouth, suckling a nipple, drawing it out with his lips and letting it fall back against me. I moan.
His hands fall under my ass cheeks and his fingers claw between them, opening my pussy up.
Lips spread like this he lets my weight fall onto him, his cock sliding up smoothly to the hilt. He holds me there, his tongue working against my own as a distraction, letting my womb stretch to his length, balls building slowly below.
He begins to lift me up and down. I lever myself off his back, working with him until we’re both grunting with the effort and ecstasy of it all. He takes one hand off my ass and reaches up to my ponytail, untying it and letting my hair fall down my back into the wet crevice there.
“Have you ever been fucked by a billionaire?” he asks, sliding up higher inside me, my pussy soaking wet from the action, the perverse slapping of our privates in juxtaposition to the soft tones of his voice.
“No,” I breathe out between thrusts, my own voice heavy with the effort.
“How about two?”
What?
I don’t have time to respond as two more hands find my waist. Another body presses up behind me. I saw no one come in, I felt no presence, but here they are.
“Remember me?” comes another, new voice at my ear as the stranger’s cock continues to fill me.
I twist my head as best I can and find the eyes of the young man from the bar. I don’t know what to say. He’s naked too, his own pink cock, similarly sized, stiff against his chest. He kisses my shoulder, wrapping my hair over it and running his fingers up my spine, which bends to his touch.
He waits at my ear, his cock wedged against my ass. “Bet you’ve never been fucked by the world’s richest man,” and with that he crouches, the head of his dick riding up against my asshole, pressing slowly forward into my most private of places, already wet from the stranger’s saliva. His arm wraps around my waist and I feel his cock push past the first ring of muscle into my hot ass.
He’s kissing my neck as my first suitor continues to stretch my pussy, that deep neglect he spoke of now replaced by a pool of fresh sensation and power sweeping through me, waves of pleasure I never knew washing afresh, my head spacey and light.
My jaw hangs open when the younger one rides forward deeper into my asshole. I grimace at first at the feeling, two cocks separated only by the thinnest of walls, my ass a virgin territory until now but currently filled by the world’s most expensive pole.
I’m being fucked by billionaires. Well hung, fit-as-fuck billionaires, and I’m loving every fucking, filthy minute of it.
I buck against them. The pain of my ass being stretched open is replaced by pleasure as these two cocks piston against me, one in, one out, both in, both out, these players, masters of d
ouble penetration, sandwiching me between their bodies.
Eyes closed, I feel their dicks ride up against each other at the centre of my body, skin against skin, balls against balls, sweat and scent all mixing together. I visualise it and the image becomes too much to bear. My legs begin to shake and my asshole closes tight around the young one’s cock as my first orgasm arrives, my pussy soon squeezing in unison as I shout at the ceiling. I don’t care who hears or what they think. I soak in the ecstasy of it all until I am little but weight against these two men, unable to form action or words, a lifeless doll at their disposal.
Dimly, I’m aware of the young one’s length leaving my ass, leaving it open and distended. Still inside me, the older man falls onto his back on the bed. I collapse against his chest as he slides in and out of me.
I see the wall on the far side of the room move back and forth. There’s a magnum of champagne on the bed beside me, rolling towards and away.
Out the corner of my eye I see the young one take it away, moving behind me. His cock is still fully erect, reaching past his belly button, its head a silky red.
The old one’s cock slides clean out of my pussy, his hands at my waist, flipping me over on top of him. His cock finds its way to my asshole and slides inside, resuming its frantic action, the tightness bringing a deep whimper from his mouth. His hands slide over my breasts, joining my own entwined around them. I fall back against him, his heavy breath at my neck.
The young one stands between us, crouching until their scrotums are flush, bending his member forward and angling himself inside my cunt, sliding with the rhythm of the world’s second richest man below. In his free hand I see the magnum of champagne swinging, a corkscrew wound into the top.
Both men are moving faster now and my second orgasm begins to build somewhere between them, my heart punching a quick tempo above, the older man’s even quicker against my back. The young one’s free thumb finds my clit and begins circling it, pressing his pad under my clitoral hood. New wetness falls from my body and I know I am, for the first time in my life, close to another climax.
The Billionaires Club Page 1