by Q. Zayne
Contents
The Billionaires Club
SOLD
The Bait
The Auction
The Third Black Man Out of 12
Creamed by All
AUCTION
The Accident
Hailey Makes Her Decision
The Physical
Auctioned
OWNED
A Dazzling Stranger
A Special Auction
Given to the Ex Cons
More Hughes Empire Edgy Ebooks
Copyright
About the Author
The Billionaires Club Books 1-3 Description
The Billionaires Club
Books 1-3
SOLD ~ Party Toy
AUCTION ~ No Protection
OWNED ~ Bare Show
By Q. Zayne
Sold —Party Toy
Brittani Serves Black Men
By Q. Zayne
The Bait
I saw the notice on my apartment door when I reached the top of the stairs. The landlord had stapled it on, as though wanting to make his demand as public and humiliating as possible. Three days to pay rent or quit.
A shock went through me and I dropped my keys on on the threadbare, stinky hall carpet. He was evicting me. I had nowhere to go.
I picked up my keys, fumbled with them, unlocked the tiny San Francisco studio that had been my home all through college. I sat down at the kitchen table and put my face in my hands. This couldn’t be happening. But I was three months behind on my rent. He’d raised the rent over the summer and even with grabbing extra gigs on the weekends I couldn’t cover it. But I couldn’t find another place to live, either. The newspapers had finally started blaring about the housing crisis, as though it was a recent event that working people couldn’t afford to live here.
My weight was lower than when I started at the university, and I hadn’t had any to spare, despite being top-heavy and having a round ass. Now I looked like an underfed girl from the Ukraine due for a lingerie modeling contract. I opened my laptop. I could see my reflection in the screen, big waif-like eyes, straight hair, but a full mouth. I raked in tips serving cocktails, but it wasn’t enough. I could find a better-paying job, I had to. But it would take a miracle.
I hit up the classifieds without much hope. I’d been looking for weeks and the eviction notice had turned me numb. I felt heavy, like my body was turning to stone.
An unusual ad caught my eye.
`
Party hostess needed for one night on a private island.
Transportation provided. Generous compensation for 24-hour service.
I scanned the rest of the ad. The requirement for a swimsuit pic seemed odd, but I’d worked at clubs where looks were part of the hiring assessment even though they weren’t usually so blatant about it. Twenty-four hours was a long shift, but generous compensation and 24 hours away from my rat hole apartment might save my butt. Better not to be here until I had some money to get the landlord off my ass.
The ad could be the answer to my problem. Sure, it sounded far-fetched. But unbelievable stuff happened all the time. Someone needed a hostess for 24 hours for a party on a private island. I had a three-day notice to pay rent or quit. With my catering experience and model looks, I could get this gig.
No benefit in hesitating. Before I could chicken out or start worrying that maybe someone was collecting kidneys or sex slaves, I sent off my best bikini pic and answered the long page of personal questions on the website listed in the ad. Had to be a private gig — companies were a lot more careful about hiring practices. I don’t think they were allowed to ask if you’d ever been pregnant, stuff like that. But for a shot at making sure I didn’t end up on the street, I’d answer whatever questions anyone with money wanted to ask. I flipped my hair back.
I put down the smoothie I was making myself drink when my email alert sounded. I didn’t have any appetite, but I needed to be ready for anything. The furious landlord, a call from any of the many agencies I was signed up with for catering service, help. I’d spent an hour looking through job ads. There was nothing worth a shot.
My heart thudded as I checked my email. The new one was from The Billionaires Club. Was it a joke? I opened it.
It looked professional, with a well-designed logo, neat layout and perfect language.
I read it three times.
We’ve examined your qualifications and you’re the right fit for our needs. Bring your overnight bag and be punctual.
I did a map search for the address. It was a private airstrip in the East Bay.
My heart jumped in my throat when the time registered. I had three hours to get ready and get there. And I had to take the train under the bay. It was the only way I could make it there fast enough. I hated that, being on a train under the weight of the ocean in a tunnel that could collapse in the next earthquake or just from some flaw and trap me with screaming, panicked strangers with no hope of survival. I’d taken that train many times since I started school, but it still freaked me out every time.
I steeled myself. No time for fear. Made myself take some deep breaths in the shower. A 24-hour gig was stressful enough, I didn’t want to give myself fear sweat and make a bad impression.
There. Squeaky clean. I towel-dried my hair, breasts swinging. An under-wire bra and thong panties worked great under a black cocktail dress with a flared skirt. I was ready for anything. The letter didn’t give any instructions on service clothing, but you couldn’t go wrong with black. Scarlet lipstick accented my pale skin and dark hair. I picked low pumps since I’d be on my feet so long. Some girls I worked with wore running shoes, but that just didn’t look good. Most places wanted the wait staff to look polished, especially the ones that paid well.
I threw another outfit, comfy slip-ons, my laptop, cosmetics and a nightie in my overnight case. All set.
I rushed out and locked the apartment, ignoring the notice that had damned near stopped my heart. I was in deep trouble, but maybe this gig was the way out.
After I survived my white-knuckled train ride, a cab left me off at the airstrip. It looked deserted and I had only five minutes to find the plane to meet the demand to be punctual. My palms were still sweating from my trip under the ocean. The train moved fast, its segments shaking. I’d shut my eyes and didn’t open them until daylight signaled we’d emerged from under the bay. My stomach was still flipping.
Thin strips of clouds marked the clear blue sky. I’d never been in a small plane before, but I had no time to sweat that.
I ran down the runway with my overnight bag banging my hip. Once I got past the long building, the plane came into view. It wasn’t so small. It looked like a jet. It looked expensive.
I faltered and stopped at the sight of the broad-shouldered man standing next to the plane. He wore a flight jacket and jeans that clung to his muscular thighs. Lines radiated around his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes glittered like he was pleased. My breasts bounced I was breathing so fast from rushing to be on time.
He had the bearing of a master of the universe in a movie, someone poised to take over planets with a gesture from his chin. He wasn’t someone’s pilot. No one had to tell me that man owned that plane.
He raised his hand and motioned me to come closer. Sun flared from his watch. I caught sight of complicated dials, a whole instrument panel on his wrist. That watch probably cost more than everyone in my family made in all their lives. Before they all died too young, leaving me alone in my own mess. No one knew where I was. I felt queasy. What had
I gotten myself into?
Forcing myself, I approached, my legs leaden. I closed the distance between us and stopped just out of his reach.
His expression chilled me. Wind kicked up and blew dust down the runway in big swirls like ghostly tumbleweeds.
I might have made a mistake. The tall, older, arrogant stranger didn’t just undress me with his eyes, he used me right there on the pavement. Deviant desires seemed to radiate from him.
My cute cocktail dress felt transparent.
He pulled a black leather dog collar out of his pocket. I glanced around for a dog. No canine in sight. Nothing humorous in his expression. He wasn’t joking. Maybe that was this gig’s idea of a server’s uniform. It didn’t seem like a good sign. I swallowed. Well, maybe it was goth, not whips and chains. But he didn’t look like he was into goth.
“Wait. You have to sign this before we do anything. Read it.” He handed me a contract.
The wind swept a bottle down the runway and blew my skirt up. It was hard to read with his dark eyes looking right through my underwear and into my secret places. I batted my skirt down but needed both hands to control the contract pages. I gave up on my skirt. Let him look. The key points started to sink in. Hostess was a euphemism.
“This is a mistake. I didn’t know the ad meant —.”
“You thought you were going to serve canapes on a tray?” He chuckled. “No, Brittani. You’re the main course.” His eyes worked me over again. “And you’re perfect.” He handed me a pen that probably cost more than my laptop. “Just sign at the bottom of the page. Full disclosure, full consent. That’s the way I do business.” The flesh around his eyes crinkled. His eyes were a shade between green and blue like rare turquoise. He was older than my father and he looked so pleased with himself. But so masculine and too handsome by far. I bristled like a cat.
“Can I leave?”
“Of course you can leave. If you leave now.” His strong, silky voice caressed me. “But you don’t get paid if you leave. Once we get to the island, you’re ours for 24-hours.” He tapped the contract with his long finger. “When your service is over, I transfer the $10,000 to your account and send you home.”
“$10,000?” I choked on it. That was more than generous. I scanned the contract again. It had long, dense paragraphs of disclaimers and waivers but not much in the way of details. “I’ll be — okay — when it’s over?”
“You’ll be okay, Brittani. My name is Gabe. I keep my word.” He smiled.
I liked his smile. I needed the money. I signed.
He put the collar around my neck and buckled it.
Gabe made a smooth landing on an island that had looked like a toy from the air. My stomach wobbled and I took slow deep breaths like I was in training to have a baby. Damn him. Bizarre to be on a first name basis with a billionaire. Gabe. I bet it wasn’t his real name.
“Come on.” I jogged to keep up with him as he led me to a mansion. No time to gape. He handed me off to a servant and gave me another suave smile. “I’ll see you soon, Brittani. Ralph will show you to your room. No lingering! The party is about to begin.” I looked around in a panic, but there was no sign of guests. I raced up the stairs after Ralph.
As soon as I’d put my bag in a spacious suite that could have fit two of my apartments with room to spare, I freshened up. Good thing I was fast. As soon as I’d peed and repaired my scarlet lipstick, someone tapped on the suite’s door. I opened it to a guy in a houseman’s uniform.
“This way.”
I wanted to ask questions, but he looked so serious that I didn’t think I should. He led me into an enormous windowless basement filled with a stage and tiered seating. The chairs were luxurious recliners that could be positioned in any direction and most of the expensively dressed men had drinks in hand or in reach on side tables. The Billionaires Club. It wasn’t a joke. I’d served at enough high-end parties and perused enough luxury magazines to recognize handmade leather shoes and real diamonds when I saw them. The place smelled like wealth. Countless eyes, all male, looked at me. The dim lighting didn’t allow me to make out anyone’s expressions, or recognize any of the men. All the lighting was focused on the stage where a man in a tux who didn’t look like a billionaire stood next to a fishbowl filled with envelopes.
Was it a game show? I looked for a camera, but didn’t see one. It would have been a relief if someone yelled surprise and let me in on the fun. I had a creepy crawling sensation up my spine, sliding from my tail bone to the nape of my neck. I had my jaw clamped so tight my teeth hurt. A room with this many men and only one girl was giving me flashbacks to my only close friend’s favorite raunchy stories. I might be in trouble. I hadn’t called Ryan about the three-day notice. He was a stand-up comic and as broke as I was. He shared a flat with five other guys.
The houseman prodded me to keep walking. The man in the tux reached his hand out to me when I approached. I felt silly in my cocktail dress but there were some admiring noises from the audience. The absence of women gave me a bad feeling. A secret, all-male enclave on a private island. Anything could happen. I took his hand. Silver glinted in his hair. He looked like a character actor. He squeezed my hands. His eyes gave me a long greedy look. Even if he wasn’t holding my hand, even if the houseman wasn’t still standing right next to the stage, I didn’t see any way out.
I was here. I’d signed a contract. Everyone was watching. Billionaires. Billionaires were watching me.
The Auction
The stranger kept my hand as I stood stock still on the stage. With a deft move he twirled me around as though we were dancing. I did it automatically. It was the kind of move that once you learned it, you took your cue. Whistles split the darkness. My eyes were dazzled by the stage lights.
“As you know gentlemen, the buyer gets to dictate the entertainment. Today, due to the presence of an outsider, we’ll conduct this as a silent auction. What am I bid for this lovely hostess?”
I stood there, frozen. Bid? They were selling me?
Too dazed to follow it, in some arcane ritual of hand signals the auction took place and someone won. Polite applause. Me, gaping like a fish. I craned my neck but couldn’t get a good look at the winner because of the glare of the spot lights and the deep offstage shadows. Would it be Gabe? What would he do to me if he won me? I shook my head, tried to clear my thoughts. This was unreal, but it was really happening. Some man just bought me at an auction at a Billionaire’s auction. If I ran, would it do any good? Private island, accessed by private plane. Where would I go? I worked my hands together, looking down at my pumps. What in the hell was I in for?
The auctioneer cleared his throat and searched through the fishbowl. He opened the envelope and read the winning card. “The hostess will service 12 black studs.” He smiled. “No use limits.”
Applause and hoots of approval filled the room. The winner accepted congratulatory handshakes from men nearby.
A burly guy got up on the stage and stood next to me. His role as a guard was obvious. I didn’t move. Other workers rolled out a platform. It was like a huge round bed covered in a white sheet. A leather swing and several mirror panels came down from the ceiling. The men in the audience took their seats . Lighters flared. I smelled cigars.
I trembled. The hostess will service 12 black studs.
The biggest, blackest men I’d ever seen in my life crowded onto the stage and surrounded me. Music with a hard thumping beat rose around us. The huge men undressed and my terror increased. I was eye-level with eight-pack abdominals and flat nipples. Looking down was terrifying, dongs thick as fire hoses. Get me out of here. No doubt these guys were chosen for being hung huge. Maybe a porn star could take those cocks, but not me.
Was that why they asked if I’d been pregnant? They wanted to make sure they got a girl who’d never given birth for their entertainment? It must be more fun for them to watch the stuffing of a pussy that hadn’t been stretched. I felt shaky. I wanted to sit down. But I’d be down soon enough. I rem
ained standing, as though doing so could keep the rest of it from happening.
I’d signed the contract. And I needed the money. What was that line, the olden days phrase for doing the marital duty, back when women weren’t supposed to like it? Close your eyes and think of England.
I closed my eyes. That helped, actually. That way I could block out the broad chests and rippled abs of the men surrounding me, their gleaming dark skin, their nappy pubes and big dark balls. Their impossibly massive dicks, some of them already hard. Oh, hell, what was I doing? Despite my resolve to toughen, up and see it through, a few tears squeezed out and slid down my cheeks.
Cheers went up from the billionaires.
“That’s it honey, we like to see you cry!”
Warmth, wet warmth. A tongue licking away the tears.
“Easy girl,” a deep voice right in my ear. “You’ll be all right. I’m right here with you. I’m Axe. You say my name and I’ll help you.” He took my hand and squeezed it.
The unexpected tenderness and warmth almost undid me. I imagined collapsing on the stage and bawling like a baby. I swallowed, took a deep breath. Returned his squeeze. I opened my eyes so I’d be sure to recognize him. A few hairs curled around his nipples on his bare, shining chest. That was my view at eye level. I craned my neck and the tall, hugely muscled man smiled down on me. He had sideburns, a mustache and a soul patch. Big, kind eyes.
Okay. I could do this.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Let’s give them a show. That’s what they’re paying for.” He picked me up and carried me to the platform. He undressed me. I was too numb to help. He was good with his hands. He skinned the dress right off of me, deftly unhooked my bra, steadied me as he slid down my thong. My face flamed. I hadn’t been expecting to model my underwear. Lots of whistles and lewd noises greeted my naked body. My nipples hardened. I couldn’t help it.