by Q. Zayne
The ones in my pussy and ass sawed at me deep and hard.
They jackhammered me deeper and faster, even harder, as the billionaires egged them on.
“That skinny girl’s going to be limping when those studs are done!”
“Fuck her as hard as you can!”
Yes, they did. I saw stars, eyes rolling back in my head as they filled my mouth and spewed in my raw holes.
More men crowded around, putting dicks in my hands, my mouth, rubbing them on my face, flipping me over and rubbing them on my tits and legs and feet. Cum kept flying at me and splatting, in my hair, my mouth, all over my face. Ryan had showed me some glazed-donut-style bukakke shots. I thought they were fake. But these guys made it real on me, glazed my face like a donut in black sperm and billionaire sperm all running in my eyes and nose and mouth and down my chin. I caught a glimpse of Gabe jacking his swollen cock before cream filled my eyes.
“Take it, good girl.” Gabe sounded pleased. I kept blinking but my eyelashes were stuck together with his cum and I couldn’t see.
“Here’s another load for your creamed white pussy.” One black guy pushed just the big head of his cock into my sore pussy. He spermed me right in my opening and I came.
My ribs were sore. My throat was sore. My cunt and ass were raw.
The hard cocks kept coming at me, penetrating me and filling me with sperm. I hovered in a dreamlike state, accepting all those cocks, three and four at a time, sometimes opening my eyes and noticing which man was on me, the rest of the time floating in the dark, my body shaking like a rag doll with the force of the fucking, the men competing to last longer, fuck me harder, and all I could do was take it. Party toy. Cum dump, as Ryan would say, his favorite term for a haughty girl he could never have. Did the billionaires feel like that, like they were still high school boys who couldn’t get pussy? Boys who wanted to make the hot-looking girls pay for being unattainable — girls now only attainable because of their money? Were they just angry, sad, lonely boys who needed a girl to act like their cocks and sperm were the best things on earth? They wielded their power by proxy, hiring huge Black studs to bang a girl who looked like a model, to fuck her hard, make her pay — then they could pay her and she’d go away, their fantasies fulfilled, the desirable girl taken down, defiled, made into a whore they could look down on instead of the girl they’d always wanted, the one who’d never want them back.
A fucker picked me up, laid down on his back and impaled me. He spun me on his cock. I squealed.
“I knew you were a spinner! Skinny little white girls are the best!” More men laid down and they passed me from one man to the next, spinning me on each huge black cock. I was shaking and raw.
It felt like this was my whole life from now on.
A couple times Axe helped me up and supported me to limp to a bathroom. I didn’t bother washing up. I was the men’s cum dump, this was the gig.
Axe gave me some water and a smoothie.
“Try to drink some nourishment. Girl cannot live on sperm alone.” His crooked grin charmed me. I liked that he was so real, so blunt, and even had a sense of humor in this craziness. He let me breathe and finish the smoothie, a little break. He stood up and led me back. Cheers went up. They were ready for more fun with their party toy.
Axe lifted me onto the swing. The mirrors gave the audience a good view of my body. He positioned cuffs on the ropes and secured my wrists. Not to bind me, but so I wouldn’t fall off. It was a good precaution, because I was heady and disoriented. Nothing existed anymore except for being filled with cock. In an odd way, I’d missed it during my few minutes away.
He lowered the swing so I was at the right height. He put one hand tenderly around my throat and guided his cock right into my pussy where it belonged. He stroked into me slow and easy, using the swing to ease my pussy up and down on his massive, throbbing black cock.
It was so intense I could barely breathe. After being fucked for countless hours it amazed me that my pussy could feel so much. Oh, I felt him. I felt Axe. He pulled the swing and impaled me all the way and I sang for him, a sound I’d never made before, the pure female sound of a woman filled to her core.
He made me keep singing, giving me the best fuck of my life, standing there with his muscles gleaming, swinging me up and down his erection.
He pulled me close, gripped me in his arms and kissed me.
I shook and shook, kissing him back, milking his cock inside me like my life depended on me. If I was going to have a beautiful brown baby, this was the man I wanted to seed me.
He shot deep inside me and I came again, clamping on him in waves and waves of orgasm that left me weak. I felt grateful for the wrist cuffs and the swing holding me, and his big strong arms pulling me close.
I kissed his cheek, holding him with my arms and legs as aftershocks went through me. I kissed his mouth with all my passion, for him, not for show. I couldn’t help it. Even if if had been an act, it was the best sex of my life.
After a long sleep, breakfast, coffee, a hot tub and a welcome session with a massage therapist who rubbed me with a liniment that eased all my aches, I felt like a new woman.
Gabe met me in the lobby, looking more relaxed and younger. He no longer looked scary.
“You’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m okay.” I felt like I should thank him, but I didn’t really know what to say. I was sure some of his billionaire sperm had coated my face.
He leaned close. He smelled expensive, leather and good aftershave, not overpowering. He unbuckled the dog collar, put it back in the pocket of his flight jacket. I felt naked without it. I touched my neck. Sensitive, Axe’s big hands squeezed me there, made me come so hard.
“I made the payment to your bank account. Feel free to check before you leave.”
“Oh, okay.” I pulled out my phone and verified it.
“Yes. It’s there. Thanks.” I looked into his eyes. He smiled.
“I knew you were perfect.”
I wondered how he could tell. He looked at me in my swimsuit, looked at my waif-like eyes and read my answers to his personal questions and knew I was the one for their 24-hour party toy? Did it show that I was the kind of girl who’d get off on being stuffed with black cock and covered in sperm for hours?
I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to any of the questions going on inside me. Except for one.
“Would you do me a favor?”
He nodded, watching me.
I pulled a pen and paper out of my overnight bag and wrote my name and number. “Please give this to Axe.”
Gabe grinned. “I’ll do that. Here.” He reached into his jacket, handed me a card.
A big, powerful scrawl, Axe, and a phone number. I lit up inside.
I relaxed on the flight back. First thing I’d do when I got back was find a better place to live. I was right, I’d never be the same. That gig at The Billionaires Club had changed me forever. Only it wasn’t in the bad way I’d feared. Instead, I was opened up to life. And I wanted more of Axe. A lot more. As soon as possible.
I squeezed my legs together and hummed as the Golden Gate Bridge came into view.
The End
Get another standalone story of The Billionaires Club: http://www.amazon.com/AUCTION-Protection-Hailey-Doctors-Billionaires-ebook/dp/B01CYMMVHQ
AUCTION
AUCTION —
NO Protection
Hailey obeys Doctor’s orders
By Q. Zayne
The Accident
The Accident, from Hailey
My car hit the gleaming sports car in front of me. The convertible was the green of money and my headlights created glare on the crumpled chrome bumper.
I gripped my steering wheel, frozen in shock. My blonde hair covered my face. I sat there behind my pale gold curtain, not daring to face the driver of the car I banged. I'd let my insurance lapse because I was broke. This was bad, really bad. No question it was my fault. I’d been se
ething about a jerk at work and ran the stop sign. At least I hadn’t had a shift drink at the club.
In a few minutes I would have been home, away from the nightlife in North Beach, curled up with a book in my miracle South of Market studio. Now my future was in a stranger’s hands.
A tall man in an expensive trench coat unfolded from his crunched car. Instant relief: the driver was a man. Somehow, women often weren’t big fans of Hailey Lane. As soon as I developed, other girls seemed to resent that I was built like a lingerie model. I got out to meet him. Standing there in the hot pink mini dress I wore to the club, I tucked my hands in my armpits, which made my breasts stick out even more. My body brought in a lot of tips when I served cocktails, so I hoped this guy wouldn’t be immune. He approached me without anger, even though I’d just crunched his gorgeous, sleek car. I spotted the jaguar on the hood. He didn’t say a word, just looked me over as though I was something precious. The weirdest thing, I felt like he was reading me like a book. Chills crawled up my spine and down the crack of my ass with my gold thong. I squeezed myself harder, making my tits pop in the clinging sweater dress.
I had the strangest desire for him to take off his gloves and touch me. He had perceptive eyes and a mouth that could be cruel. Silver streaks shone in the hair over his ears. He was older than my father. I wanted him to kiss me until my lips bruised.
He handed me his card.
"This can be our secret." He glanced at my car. "I have enough insurance for both of us."
“Um, really?” What was he, a mind reader?
His eyes gleamed. "Go to the website on the card and apply. My exclusive club has some new positions. We're located on a private island. You'll find it peaceful. I think you’ll suit us well, if you pass the physical. Are you all right to get home?" He reached into his trench coat pocket, revealed an umbrella, and handed it to me.
"Yes. Yes, I am." I accepted the umbrella, not understanding why he gave it to me.
“Don’t worry. I won’t turn you in if you choose not to apply. I hope you do come to us.” He looked me over with his dark, shining eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” I wrung my hands, finally able to move. I’d been staring at him like a mouse mesmerized by a big snake. My face flamed, as I noticed other people watching. I tugged on my skirt, but it was in its usual position, high up my thighs and like a climbing cat, it didn’t want to come down.
He waved my apology away with his immaculate glove. The stranger got in his car and took off. It began to pour. I opened the umbrella and looked at his card.
Gabriel
The Billionaires Club
I turned it over. A website address crossed an aerial image of an island.
It made me think of a treasure map in a story book. I wanted to go there.
At home in my studio I hesitated over the keyboard. What would it hurt? I’d just look at the website. He assured me he wouldn't turn me in for the accident whether I applied or not. I wound my hair around my finger and chewed a cuticle.
That was the deciding factor. If he tried to hold that threat over me, and coerce me into working for him — but no. He was a gentleman. A crazy-hot daddy-gentleman. And there were worse things than the prospect of applying to have such a suave, hunky — and wealthy — boss. I let out a long breath and typed the address.
I scanned the information page on the website. The Billionaires Club, an exclusive club for gentlemen of means, was creating a new opportunity for women in need. No where on the site did it spell out what this opportunity entailed. It mentioned employment requirements, a non-disclosure agreement and a physical. What kind of work might it be that required a physical?
He mentioned an island. Could it be an exotic gig, like scuba instructor? Did masseuses need to pass a physical? Probably not. Made it seem like heavy lifting, but that was unlikely. Though just because Gabe was so dapper didn't mean he didn't expect other people to do the menial work.
Hailey Makes Her Decision
Something about the way he looked at her — she didn't think he wanted her as a housemaid.
Against her better judgment, she wanted to see him again. Maybe he thought she was a bimbo, easy to take advantage of. A lot of guys thought that. At work, she played it up. The dumb blonde was as popular a stereotype now as it was in old Hollywood when hardly anyone considered it offensive to portray women as empty-headed gold-diggers. But would she turn down the opportunity to dig for gold?
Hailey flashed on her fantasy of the map on the card as a treasure map from a story book. What would it be like to dig for treasure, literally? Hot, sweaty work, but no worse than racing around with a cocktail tray.
She had bruises on her ass from the club manager Alphonso’s pinches and grabs. He referred to her as a hot tail and made no secret of the fact that he wanted to fuck her. Even if his aftershave didn’t make her gag, the thought of him touching her repelled her more than the definition of necrophilia. She wasn’t empty headed. Sometimes she looked up words just for fun. That’s how she discovered that getting naked with Alphonso appealed to her less than the thought of sex with a stiff. It was a useful thing to know if she ever needed to make his wiener limp.
If she got a new job, at say, The Billionaires Club on a private island, she could quit serving cocktails and let her ass heal back to its natural color. It was a tempting thought. She gazed at the ocean pics on the site, day dreaming a life with that view. Wow. She looked up from the kitchenette table at the grimy fire escape and the building across the breezeway. When she first moved in to the South of Market apartment near a paint factory she put a red geranium on the fire escape. It soon died. She couldn’t blame it. The air out there was noxious. Paint fumes, exhaust and the miasma of San Francisco fog hung over the neighborhood like some yellow gray pall over a fresh corpse that didn’t know it was dead yet.
Once upon a time the neighborhood was full of artists, leather-men, S&M clubs, funky residences, a wild bisexual bathhouse. It had been gentrified into another trendy area for people with money, yuppies, guppies and whatever other pod people who could afford to live in the city infested their upgraded warehouse lofts and took over the buildings that used to have a wide variety of unusual small businesses.
Hailey was one of the few students able to live alone in the neighborhood, thanks to an arrangement with a long-term resident who allowed her to pay an affordable rent in exchange for upgrading the place. She’d grown up on a ranch and had lots of skills, things she kept to herself around people who needed to see her as a bimbo. It wasn’t worth dealing with the tedious astonishment that she was capable of doing anything at all other than jiggling her large breasts.
Since she arrived she’d outfitted both apartments with hand-carved stair railings and banisters, hand-framed art, her own gel print photographs and hammered copper table tops.
Working with wood, metal, and black and white photos soothed her. She wanted to live in a world with those tones, be embraced by the sculptural black and white men of a Robert Maplethorpe photo. She wanted that to be her home. Month by month she remade the space with natural things, wood, metal and bone.
It wasn’t home, but it would do.
And it was done. Close enough anyway, that she wouldn’t mind leaving.
That night she hammered out a last coffee table top in copper and completed it. A parting gift to her landlord.
Over her morning coffee, she filled out the application form on The Billionaires Club website. She uploaded a swimsuit photo as requested. The white bikini squeezed her assets and tied at the hips, so easy to untie.
She thought of Rob untying it. A pang went through her. If he hadn’t joined the service, they’d be together. But she broke up with him when he enlisted. That wasn’t a life path she’d walk down with anyone. Her dad had gotten blown up. There wasn’t enough of him left to put in a box and send home. She had one of his medals. Fuck that.
The Billionaires Club. Plural, not possessive. Multiple billionaires. Gabriel said it was his club.
Did he mean he owned it, or that he was a member? Maybe he was the recruiting officer, ever alert for traffic violators in possible need of employment, provided the violator was a girl, and stacked. Who knew. But he seemed like someone who owned the world, not someone in a lower position. What did multiple billionaires talk to each other about? World politics? World domination? Girls?
She took her time with the application. She knew she was good with her hands, but she wasn’t certain she was smart. Even if it was an insecurity from how other people treated her, it affected her. She was afraid of making some mistake and being disqualified. She did okay in school, but not spectacular.
When she finished filling out all the questions, and checked the whole form over twice. She digitally signed it, promising to undergo a physical if accepted as a candidate, and she hit send with a lump in her throat.
With a heavy heart she wrapped the coffee table in a blanket and sent it down to Mr. Blake in the dumbwaiter. She’d miss him, and she’d miss this place, but things came to an end. That’s how things went, like how a blood clot burst in her mom’s brain and killed her. Just like that, she was over.
Even though she was 23, it sucked to be an orphan. No one to go home to, and there never would be, ever again. That’s how it felt. The break with Rob had felt like a relief. They’d been dating for two years and it got to the point like maybe something should happen, like you should move in together or marry, but she didn’t want that with Rob. Maybe not with anyone. If you have someone, you just lose them. Maybe not right away, but something happens some day and they’re gone. Or it could have been her. If she’d been driving faster when she hit Gabriel’s Jaguar, it could have been lights-out for her right then, a head injury she wouldn’t wake up from, or internal injuries that added up to death. The body was so fragile, life so insubstantial, so many things available to snuff it out. Sometimes she stayed awake thinking of all the things that killed, poisonous spiders, snakes, chemicals, plant substances, that suicide tree pod, hemlock, weird accidents, animal attacks, trains, gas, fire. The list went on for hours, her mind jumping from one thing to another and examining it like a magpie with its treasures. Maybe it was comforting, as though the lists proved she was still on the right side of the dividing line between life and death.