The Billionaires Club ~ Books 1-3: SOLD AUCTION OWNED (Dark Erotica Ganged)

by Q. Zayne

  He growled, he pumped her deep and hard, giving her his all. Her slender arms and small hands gripped him. Her legs shook. Her heartbeat matched his with her big breasts pushing so hard against him he mashed them with his muscular chest.

  She moaned with pleasure as he drove her harder, riding that tight, hot pussy harder than he’d ever ridden anything in his life She matched his force with her counter thrusts, rocking him on her luscious, perfect sex doll body. Delicious, impossible, the grip of her tight pussy sucking him, the mouth of her womb kissing the tip of his cock. He reared back, making her flat belly stick out, showing the outline of his wide cock head through her sweet young flesh. Cheers erupted. He squeezed her pale, bountiful breasts, squeezing her nipples between his fingers. He plundered her sweet, responsive mouth.

  She jolted out of control under him, climaxing as his piss-slit pressed hard against the mouth of her womb in an intense interior kiss. Roaring over her small body he shot, spewing his super seed into her uterus, grinding his cock balls-deep with her pussy clenching him with satiny hot squeezes until he gave her every drop of his sperm.

  He held her with his arms and legs and motioned the others to leave them. The show was over. Justice wanted Hailey all to himself.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Doctor. I obeyed your orders, I surrendered.” Hailey’s voice was hoarse from hours of screaming and moaning. She wiped sperm off her lashes, blinking and blinking until she could see her doctor. His cock throbbed inside her, their hearts beating in time.

  “Good girl. You’re sure you’re okay?” His blue-gray eyes showed such concern, Hailey blinked back tears.

  “I’m okay. Only —” she bit her lip and looked up at him.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I think you made me pregnant.” She grinned. She could swear she felt it, the doctor’s seed claiming her egg, knocking out all others, king of fertility, knocking her up. She wanted it to be true.

  A huge smile transformed her doctor’s lined, handsome face. He became a much younger man. He squeezed her close.

  “Will you make your baby daddy even happier?”

  “How can I do that, Doctor?”

  “Say you’ll marry me.”

  Hailey blinked in shock. There’d been nothing in all those contracts about getting married. She couldn’t speak. The uncertainty on Justice’s face jarred her out of being stunned.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you.”

  “You’ve fulfilled the best day of my entire life, Hailey. I will love you forever.”

  “And I love you, Justice.”

  Hailey rested as Justice’s cock softened enough for him to disengage.

  “You’ll move into my house tonight. Once you recover from this, be ready for the ultimate house call.”

  By the devilish look in his eye, Hailey felt sure she’d enjoy married life.

  The End

  Stay tuned for the next show at The Billionaires Club: OWNED — Bare Show

  Minx submits to ex-cons!

  OWNED

  OWNED

  Bare Show

  Minx Submits to Ex Cons

  By Q. Zayne

  For T

  And you readers! SOLD, the 1st episode, hit #56 in Amazon’s Top 100 Erotica!

  A Dazzling Stranger

  It was over. I ran out of the night club and down the sidewalk. I slipped in a puddle in my high dancing heels and pinwheeled my arms to keep from falling. A guy holding a newspaper over his head against the downpour elbowed past and knocked me against the wall. The rain soaked my red mini dress and plastered my gold hair down my back. Blinded by tears, I groped along the wall, feeling for a doorway to duck into. Pedestrians rushing on their lunch hour almost knocked me over.

  My shift wasn’t over. I never left work before my shift was over. But Frank fired me. I couldn’t believe it.

  My hand gripped something soft and dry; it felt like cashmere. I couldn’t stop in time. I collided with a tall, broad-shouldered man. He reached out and steadied me, with the same care he might use to keep a priceless vase from falling over. A gentleman’s touch, not a creep’s. I’d had a lot of practice telling the difference.

  “Here, share my umbrella. My name is Gabe.” He gave me his arm and led me into the shelter of a hotel’s awning.

  I lowered my face, watching my red patent leather shoes splash along the pavement. Shop lights and the sky reflected from the water. Rain water sluiced down my long, smooth leg over a constellation of small moles by my knee. I tugged at my skirt, it clung tighter and rode up more from being so wet, almost exposing the cheeks of my ass and my thong.

  “I’m Minx.” I’d been using my dancing name so long it came out. Ordinarily, I’d still be on duty, still be Minx. My other name was for college and official papers. This stretch of sidewalk so near the nightclub where I’d been dancing for more than a year was Minx’s world.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Minx.” He had a low, warm voice and his gaze warmed me, too.

  The man handed me a clean handkerchief from inside his fine black suit jacket. I stared at it. I hadn’t known a man to carry a handkerchief since Dad. He was dead. That’s how I’d ended up an erotic dancer. I cried harder, embarrassed to be losing it in front of the handsome stranger. The man had a strong, masculine face, glints of silver in his hair — and even covered in a coat, his physique was impressive.

  “Take your time. I noticed you came out of the club. I was about to go in there.” He gave me a smile. “This is better. Let’s talk here. Are you all right?” His brows furrowed and he looked right into me with bright eyes.

  He looked far too well-off and refined to be seeking converts, so I figured there was no harm in talking. And I had a nodding acquaintance with the hotel’s door man, so it was a safe enough place to take a break from the rain until I decided what to do. What was I going to do? I realized I was still clutching his handkerchief. I dabbed my eyes with it. It came away smeared with mascara and taupe eyeshadow. My face felt too hot. I glanced at him again. He looked like a good man. And sexy as Hell. I didn’t usually spill my guts, but I needed to talk with someone. I was shocked.

  “I just got fired.”

  “What happened?”

  “They fired me for accepting a customer’s proposition.”

  “That’s rough. Seems a funny place to have a morals clause.” He arched a brow.

  His take on it made me smile, but inside, panic demons started work. I was in trouble. Without that dancing job, my whole plan for getting my degree might be shot. And I didn’t want the dazzling man to think I was a whore.

  “I’d never done that before. Never. My rent went up. My school fees went up. My textbooks came to $300 for this term. I was desperate. The guy was old and fat, but he seemed nice, like it would be easy to please him. He just wanted a private show and a hand job at his hotel, one of the best hotels in town, so I figured that was safe. He said he’d send a cab for me at the end of the shift. Maybe one of the other dancers overheard and reported me. Prostitution is against the rules. No selling services or items of any kind . Right after I got hired, they canned a girl for selling her panties. Used panties, of course. It’s one of the things men like. She danced in them and sent them to the customer via one of the club’s runners, who took a cut for his service. And also got fired. Probably there are hidden cams all over the place. So, I knew the risks, but I had to have the money. If I didn’t pay my rent, I’d lose my room and I had no place to go. My room’s a rat hole in the Tenderloin, but it beats ending up on the street.”

  “I understand.”

  He looked at me with such gorgeous blue-green eyes, with no judgment whatsoever. My embarrassment ebbed away, I felt absolved, like the good stuff I hoped for from religion when I was a kid but never got.

  “Thanks.” I looked at raindrops making round splashes in the puddles beyond the awning’s shelter. People hurried by, all the downtown workers rushing through the shortest hour of the work da
y.

  “How did you end up as a dancer, if you don’t mind my asking?” He didn’t stare at me, just glanced out at the crowd as though he was content to pass the time in the rain people watching.

  I liked him. I didn’t want him to go away. Once I stopped talking, I’d have to figure out what to do about the mess I’d just made of my life — alone in San Francisco with no family, no savings, and the prospect of losing my home. I talked.

  “My life’s straight out of a sleazy day-time talk show. I had the classic molester step-dad and the tough knocks of a runaway, complete with textbook PTSD symptoms and an alcohol problem. I made the predictable career choice of stripper, or erotic dancer, as the ad called it.” I glanced at him. He had the serene face of a Buddha, if the Buddha looked like a hunk with chiseled good looks from Hollywood’s golden era. I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t a loser. “On the positive side, I evaded being raped at home, I stopped drinking, and I took the California High School Proficiency Exam. I took junior college courses to make up for my academic deficiencies and I applied to universities. U.C. Berkeley declined, but I made it into San Francisco State and tried for every grant and scholarship available. I made it through my freshman year, but the rising expenses are too much. Really too much.” I mauled his handkerchief between my hands, wringing it as hard as I wished I could wring the manager Gino’s neck for firing me.

  “Yes. The academic fees keep going up, taxes, rent, food and transportation expenses keep going up, but the job opportunities and wages aren’t matching what people need to live here, except for at the top.” He nodded.

  He had a kind face. He looked interested and didn’t seem to think I was just a complainer.

  “I’ve been working six days a week shaking my naked ass. I nod off in classes. I take caffeine tabs but I’m irritable all the time and have trouble concentrating enough to study. I feel tired all the time. I’m 22 years old and I wake up tired. My grades are falling for the first time. If they go one point lower, I lose my one merit-bases scholarship and I won’t be able to cover next year’s fees. My college plan will be over.” I stopped, afraid I was talking too much, worried that he’d think I was hopeless, a mess.

  “You’re not bad. You just did what you needed to under the circumstances. You got caught and the club fired you. There was probably nothing personal about it. If they got caught with girls turning tricks out of there, their business could come under fire. They’d probably lose their liquor license just for starters. It’s rough on you, but what happened doesn’t make you a bad person.” He had a warm, persuasive voice. We’d never met, but he seemed to get what I was feeling. “The big picture is what matters. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re trying to do. It’s valiant. You’re refusing to be a statistic, another young woman who drops out, goes down the alcoholic or drug-user road to numb pain, and opts out of choosing her life. You’re different.”

  His words helped me so much. Tears ran down my face. I turned away and tried to repair my makeup with his hankie.

  “I want to help you, but I don’t want you to do anything that’s bad for you.” He paused, waited for me to look at him. “Given your history, what I’d propose might be difficult for you. Yet you’re a warrior, and if you want to give it a go, we’ll take good care of you. You can stay at the island after the show. We’ve got therapists and a doctor on staff, bodyguards,” he smiled, “Excellent security. We can give you a safe home. You can finish your degree via an online program and I’ll pay for it. It’s not the same as the experience of attending college, of course, and I’m sorry about that, because I do look back on my college years with fondness. But San Francisco has changed since that time. It’s become a much more harsh place for the have-nots. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I wouldn’t want my daughter living in your crime-ridden neighborhood and taking public transportation to school here. And the rising rates of college rapes is a national disgrace. There are parts of the world where young women can live alone in a city and get a college education without being treated as prey by criminal men, but this area is not among them. I can give you a way out.” He spread his hands, hesitated. “The thing is, I’ve been recruiting for my private club for months, and you’re different. There’s something about you. And I’m not sure if this is the right opportunity for you.” He smiled again, making me weak in the knees. “I’d like it to be.”

  “Let me decide. Just what are you proposing?” Given his discomfort, how we met, and his delicate reference to my history, it must be something sexual. But no one as hot as this guy needed to recruit a mistress. Maybe he was kinky. The girls at work told stories of all kinds of johns. Some of them turned tricks before turning to dancing as a less dangerous line of work, free of disease, beatings and the risk of johns who injured girls or tried to take what they wanted and not pay. None of them wanted to report being raped.

  So I knew about George, a lawyer who liked to be pelted with grapefruits by a girl wearing vintage lingerie including a girdle holding up silk stockings, while standing there in the kind of thick-heeled shoes modeled by WWII pinup models. The outfit was as crucial to his satisfaction as the grapefruit-lobbing. And Ryan, a banker who liked to nurse, cooing like a baby while pretending to breastfeed. His needs required someone with a large cup size. My big girls were about his minimum, Shelley told me. And Conrad, a dry cleaning mogul who couldn’t get off unless a girl with long red nails spanked him on his peter and called him a bad boy. Jason, a CEO, liked to dress up as “Diane,” complete with wig, makeup, falsies, crotch-flattener, butt-and-hip-pad panties and a business women’s suit. Once she got him dressed, his paid date took him to a dive bar where “Diane” tried to pick up a man. If he succeeded, the girl went with them to a hotel, because Jason felt better about giving a blow-job and getting reamed with a woman watching. The stories went on and on with fetishes and sex acts beyond anything I’d ever imagined. Guys who liked to be trussed up and hang in imaginative bondage, guys who liked to wear diapers, guys who liked their cocks and balls squeezed and ground under a high heeled shoe.

  The main point that emerged was that many high-powered men were submissive or fetishists — not sadists, not dominants, not the kinds of men who starred in women’s fantasies, except those of the probably small number of women who would engage in those men’s fantasies without being paid.

  I read part of a popular BDSM novel and howled. I laughed so hard I cried. I couldn’t finish the book. When the giggles died away, I felt sad. I grew up wanting to be a princess. And look how that turned out. So many women wanting a wealthy, improbably dominant man to see her as super special and seduce her into doing naughty, naughty things… That could never happen.

  Unlike most guys I’d spent time with, Gabe didn’t need to fill every silence by talking about himself or working toward getting me out of my panties. He let me think. I looked right into his eyes.

  “I mean it. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not exactly sheltered. I promise not to slap you.” I meant it as a joke, but he winced. I bet he’d been slapped, more than once.

  “This is the deal. The usual deal is I offer a young woman who needs help a special opportunity to put on a show on my private island, The Billionaires Club. A sex show.” He raised his brows, no doubt knowing he was confirming what I already suspected. “She signs a contract for the job that includes a detailed non-disclosure agreement. After the show, I transfer $10,000 into her account and we give her safe transportation home.” He raised his brows, eying me, assessing me. “In your case, I’m making a different offer. Instead of the one-time payment, I propose that you live on the island after the show and complete your degree — all expenses paid.”

  “That’s a hell of a deal, for a one-night sex show. Or are you proposing that I be sexually available while I live on the island?” Something smelled rotten in Denmark. I had Hamlet on the brain. To be or not to be had crossed my mind more than once since xxx told me to pack my stuff and get out.

  Gabe’s eyes wi
dened. “Nothing like that. The sex show is a one-night event. In some cases, as long as 24-hours, but we decided that was too hard on the girl. This show, the one I want you for, is a special event.” He frowned. “Well, I won’t waste time describing the usual auction with the club members.” He took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s rather — extreme.”

  I nodded. What on earth was it? Gabe didn’t seem the kind of man to hesitate about anything. He seemed as eager to describe his proposition as a guy might be to ask his maiden aunt to pick him up some wank magazines.

  “This time, I’ve recruited recently-released convicts from maximum security prisons all over the world. Men who fit a profile for muscularity, genital size, and an array of psychological traits including dominant sexual proclivities toward women that will ensure an exciting show. We’ve heightened security throughout the island and have done a thorough medical screening on each man. The ex cons are guests at the island as we speak, awaiting participation in the show.”

  He said...the one I want you for. I suppose he had me right there.

  “You’re asking me to,” I swallowed, “Be gang banged by ex cons. Not just any ex cons, newly-released huge ex cons from maximum security pens — guys who haven’t had sex in freaking years. They don’t put jaywalkers in those place.” I flashed on the kinds of entertainment enjoyed by the ancient Romans. Those tastes hadn’t died out.

  His eyes gleamed. “I know.”

  Okay, he was twisted. And despite the unlikeliness of it, he was apparently a sadist. Or at least, a sadistic voyeur, instead of a bottom boy like most powerful men. I quashed my urge to imagine what a certain racist, homophobic, asinine political candidate liked in the bedroom. Nope, couldn’t help it, saw him getting banged with a bit in his mouth and big, ruffled panties around his knees — by an androgynous hooker sporting a mammoth strap-on, dressed in nothing but red lipstick and cowboy boots with spurs. Ride that piggy hard, girl.