Hunted by Billionaires Box Set

by Ryan Ramsay

  I mean, she’s got the entire package: Charisma. Zest. Enough energy to light up a continent. A never-ending smile that emanates only from the corner of her thin lips. Thin shoulders that always seem to fit perfectly in whatever she’s wearing, but somehow, also, curvy hips that sashay back and forth as she walks.

  Quip. Wit. A big brain. That’s her. And she never makes sense. Really, why would a girl who was valedictorian in high school waste her talents on organizing events for such a rinky-dink church like this one?

  Better yet, I think she’s got someone watching over her. And I’m not talking fairy godparents here. I mean serious backers.

  Just last week I heard from a trusted source- Grandma- that Mia booked some televangelist on Channel 9 for the midnight to three slot, to mention our church and invite new parishioners, as well as ask for donations. I mean, jeez girl, what kind of connections do you have?

  Despite Mia’s zeal for Christian activities, she and Amy aren’t friends, either. Amy seems scared of Mia. I am too, but I’m often scared of everyone. For Amy to be scared of someone means that I should probably be friends with that person.

  At this point, I’m thinking of trying to befriend both Mia and Stephanie. Though on the surface they’re a strange mix, I think the two would balance me out. I think.

  Sadly enough, though, one of them is missing. Mia is huddling together a group of parish ministers - musky old balding men with thick enough paunches and smooth chins to attract nothing but a harem of wandering goats – who seem to be taking a joke she said pretty seriously.

  Stephanie is not here; that much is for certain. I even stand on my toes and lean on the rotting tree hovering above the blue, newly painted bench. I cannot see the thick lock of hair anywhere. And it sinks my heart.

  Her parents, on the other hand, are here, as usual. Her dad, the ever charming but strict churchman, is at the entrance of the huge hall. Clearly, he had his OJ this morning: the man’s flirting with a new parishioner, making it a group of five women who are enamored by him right now, including Mrs. Orwell, the widowed teacher of the blind at our refurbished high school; Miss Clarita, the thick Latina barista at the old coffee house; Mrs. Clement, an artist currently in town opening up a gallery of her work, and – damn. Grandma.

  I am not too surprised. Poor Grandma is lonely. But she should have better taste than to join a flock of admirers of Stephanie’s married father.

  All the women who are gathered around him look fresh and flowery in their colorful dresses and are laughing as some of them are slowly stroking Stephanie’s dad’s arm, and in full view of her mom. I almost tut, knowing how embarrassed she must be.

  Then again, this is normal for him. As it is normal for Stephanie’s mom to look away and do nothing to stop his obvious flirting. But perhaps I judge too harshly. Maybe it doesn’t lead to infidelity, as I would assume it would.

  I certainly wouldn’t want to be married to him. I want a faithful, loyal man, at least for husband purposes. I plan to sow my wild oats beforehand, and at that point men can give me lots of orgasms and be on their way. But if I ever settle down, I want it to be for love.

  I don’t know Stephanie’s mom well, though, so I shouldn’t judge. Maybe they have an open relationship. She doesn’t have to think about life and love exactly the same way I do, I remind myself.

  Mia is done with the ministers and I see her waving them off. Time to move. Man, my heart is all up in my throat right now- pumping away and throwing some of that adrenaline nonsense around like crazy.

  If I find it this hard to make a friend, I know I’ll never have a boyfriend. I need to get out more and do some challenging things now and again, I remind myself.

  I walk closer and closer to my unsuspecting target as Mia inches around the cobblestone and smiles to the passing members of the congregation. I can almost smell her charisma now, and if I just move three steps close, I can finally introduce myself.

  Ding Dong. Ding Dong. Ding Dong.

  Thrice the church bells toll, and only once are my efforts impaled.

  “Let’s get blessed, people,” hollers Mia to everyone walking through the door.

  Crap.

  I missed my chance. Now it’s time for church to start, so I follow everyone else in, managing to smile at Mia as I pass. She smiles back, but I tell myself she has to do that. She’s the events organizer.

  The altar heaves brown and heavy as Pastor Jeff walks upon it with his ever-increasing weight. I know it’s a rude thought, but I can’t help but giggle to myself as I note that he must be feeding on more than the Word of God lately.

  The choir behind him ushers in the new word for the week in harmonious tune, and above them all a nest of birds frolic up and about with twigs and stuff in their beaks. They seem to enjoy the song.

  It’s always a warm affair underneath the building that wishes it was a church; the roof has been done in by the winter waves of ice; the floors, although cracked, defy the laws of gravity day by day, despite there being a collection for its refurbishing each quarter; and the few things that turn for the better have been the choir’s uniforms, the ladies’ restroom, and a newly Armageddon-secure door for the pastor.

  “Good morning. I will start with a simple question. If we could all turn to our utmost desires at this moment, who would we become?” asks good ole Pastor Jeff, once the choir finishes their song.

  In my crossed stance from the back of the pews, I can see his balding patch shine under a halo-like hole through the roof, past the prism cross that is fixed right above the choir’s bench. The crowd goes ‘mmhmm.’ And I think I go in a way different direction than is intended.

  My utmost desire is to have a man who can take my virginity. I stop seeing Pastor Jeff on the pulpit and instead, in my mind’s eye, I see a movie star I like to fantasize about, and he’s on the Balkan sea, chest flayed and bare to the sun.

  It’s as if I am hovering above the water, my toe-tips just barely skimming the cool, almost cold, edge. My mystery man movie star has his eyes on the horizon, as if waiting for a lost ship. And I sigh.

  In my fantasy, now his eyes shoot right at me from his glare. I feel their energy shoot straight down my cheeks to my thighs. Then he smiles.

  In real life, my eyes pop open right before I catch the moan about to escape my lips.

  Close. Too close.

  The tingling grows worse, better, with each ignored minute. Around me, everyone is hooked on the real world boring sex-deprived Pastor Jeff, and from where I’m at, the ladies’ room seems like the best place to get some of this heat really going.

  Yes, you caught my drift correctly. This virgin needs to go masturbate in church.

  I may be an innocent young woman who has only been kissed by one douchebag named Andrew. But it’s been a goal of mine to have sex ever since the night I saw my former babysitter Nancy, and her boyfriend Duke, having sex in the barn at the youth group hayride event, within the bales of hay.

  I had tired of the hayrides and was out taking a stroll, alone as usual, thinking hard about the price of getting a book from the bookstore on the way home, as well as Amy’s obsessive nature when it comes to having her peas and beef on one side of the plate, for reasons unbeknownst to me and probably to her, as well, when I saw them.

  No. I heard them. They were subtle sounds at first. Nancy. Then Duke. I inched closer from the back entrance of the barn and got to investigating. I couldn’t see them yet, not until I kneed and crawled under the tractor to really see what was going on.

  Nancy’s mouth slobbered over a thick, veined cock. Her thighs were clamped on a face, a face that was connected to a body with the only scorpion tattoo this south of the country, or at least, the only scorpion-tattooed left arm I had ever seen.

  I had heard about this particular sex act. Nancy was sixty-nining Duke. And it was then that I felt that sweet itch between my thighs beg for attention. I began to worry that they would catch me there and rat me out to my sister, just as Andrew had.

>   And I also had no interest in watching those two people in particular; it was just the sexual act itself that excited me. So I hurried out of there without either of them realizing I had ever been there, thankfully.

  Nothing in the world ever felt the same since then. That’s why I say all I can think about is sex, and losing my virginity, and masturbating. I experience burning desire often, and the need to satisfy myself. Just like right now.

  I get up fast enough to catching my sister’s attention.

  “Sorry. I need to use the bathroom,” I whisper to her.

  She rolls her eyes and moves her legs to the side to give me room.

  “Hurry back,” she hisses. “You’d better not be conveniently leaving right now just to avoid hearing the sermon.”

  “Of course not,” I mouth, batting my eyelashes.

  Sure, Pastor Jeff’s sermons can get boring. But I’m leaving for much more nefarious purposes.

  Chapter Two

  Ron

  “So, there was this dog that was barking its head off outside my window last night. And it was super fucking annoying,” Logan is in the middle of saying.

  He has the tendency to tell long, drawn out, overly dramatic stories about his sex life.

  “And what did you do about it?” asks a mystified Damien.

  He has a tendency to get wrapped up in Logan’s stories. All I ever want to do is get back to golfing.

  Logan shrugs.

  “I kept on banging the redhead, dummy. Made sure I came just before it made its final woof. Man, it felt like I was one with nature.”

  He adds this last part with a gruff imitation and mimics a scrunched up face.

  “You’re a dick,” I say.

  “And what about that makes me a dick, dear Ron?” asks Logan.

  “Well,” I start, as I line up my club and feet to the angle the golf ball should stride, “that’s your usual M.O., isn’t it? Every two days it’s a different chick with crazy hair or weirdly shaped boobs—"

  “Yeah, what’s up with that, bro?” pipes up Damien.

  Logan flaps his lips together.

  “And then you let us know you came,” I holler, with a perfect swing and hit.

  The ball soars high above the pristine clear waters and lands on a patch of tuft, three inches to the hole.

  “Do you ever even make her cum? Asking for a friend.”

  Logan raises a thick middle finger and smirks.

  “Fuck you. You’re the dick here. When was the last time you actually got yourself a good lay? Like an actual, proper, mind-numbingly awesome lay that blew your cock to bits?”

  I sigh.

  “Let’s talk about the projections, bro. How’re sales in the food department?”

  “As cold as your bed, my man,” says Damien.

  “Seriously, guys.”

  “No, I am being serious. Things have been slow on my end. I’m working out a way to bump up the sales team and cut costs on weekend half-off offers. Logan here had this brilliant strategy to go ahead and do a weekly neighborhood sale, especially in areas full of people we know will buy—”

  Perfect. The sound of business.

  It gets me up in the morning as much of the thought of dominating a virgin does. That gets my blood pumping. It gets me off to think of that event that Mia woman came up with. And I thought I had the knack for crazy business ideas.

  But I had met Mia at a fundraiser she was doing for her church that our company was sponsoring. And she had suggested a treasure hunt – billionaires versus a virgin. Whoever found the treasure would take it all – including the virgin’s innocence.

  The idea is fascinating. Even if I don’t know all the rules. That just wants to make me find out more about it.

  “Were you even listening?”

  Damien seems miffed.

  “Of course I was,” I lie.

  “The game’s over. You won, of course. Just like usual. Let’s go have a drink. You game, Ron?” Logan asks.

  “Nah. I think I’ll head home. I need to regroup and think of how to turn those ideas of yours into more money, champ,” I add with a knowing wink.

  Damien throws his right hand up.

  “What’s with you, man?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The country club reception desk comes into full view as we drag along our bags. We don’t like to have the caddies come along, eavesdropping into our conversations and later gossiping about what we say, no doubt.

  I’m very protective and territorial when it comes to both my sex life and my business ideas. These two men I golf with and am in business with are the only ones I trust with either area of conversation.

  “You’ve been in a different head space of late,” Logan says. “And it’s not about you not getting the latest updates of my rampant sex life, but it seems to be more about life in general.”

  Logan’s head is tilted to reveal his bobbing Adam’s apple: his thinking face.

  “You’re out of the game, bro.”

  “The game of life,” adds a chill Damien.

  He rubs his gloved fingers through his scraggly beard and raises his eyebrow to a wink at the thick Latina at the other end of the receptionist’s desk. She blushes.

  “What am I to say, boys? I’m just not challenged,” I admit. “See that game right there? I won your money easily without any effort. The business is not as challenging as it used to be. The women are just too easy these days as well. That’s just it. I’ll see you around, fellas. Call a cab.”

  The valet brings around my car just in time and leaves my door open for me. I wave to my disgruntled boys – or should I say disgruntled boy: Damien seems to have his evening sorted already. The drive home is quiet and filled with contemplation.

  The black gates open on command to my car’s signal and shut immediately. I cross the threshold to my home. The incline feels great as I smoothly walk upward past the raspberry bushes, the freshly mowed and watered grass, the absolutely divine centerpiece that is replicated from Michelangelo’s David, and most importantly, the silence that encompasses my hundred-acre lot of real estate.

  At the heart of it all is my sanctuary: Victorian and gothic on the outside, the mansion stands tall enough to caress the clouds and wide enough to berth half the Titanic. Thirteen bedrooms, sixteen bathrooms, a ballroom, three dining rooms, a game room, several “secret” sex dungeons, seven kitchens, a kids’ entertainment rec center for when my guests come with children, three garages filled with the most exotic and affluent German machines, and the best part of it all is that there are no servants.

  No maids. No guards. I live solely on automation of my resources; otherwise I would have to deal with legal complaints about my questionable sexual appetites.

  I park the Audi with the rest of her sisters Mercedes, Bentley and Royce; among the seven speed bikes I had a hand in building. A man does need his toys.

  Quietly I go up the crispy clean elevator to the sixth floor that opens directly to my private bedroom. I snap my fingers twice and the expected humming of my house waking up to me is refreshing.

  As I walk, I pick off the fabrics restraining my body from breathing one by one and finally end up at the foot of the queen-sized bed.

  Naked. Hard.

  The curtains are thick and closed off from the rest of the world as I lay my head on the soft gentle covers. My right hand slips around the bottle of smooth lube as my left swiftly snaps its fingers as I utter the command “fireplace.”

  The hearth at the center of the room clicks and lights up to crackle and burn the wood piled up in it, and almost instantly I feel the warmth reach my toes. I lay my head on one side to watch the yellow and red flames spark and dance, and I tighten the grip around my cock as I fantasize about my dream girl: sexy, curvy, and sassy.

  I think about the sound of her mouth slurping away at my balls. She whimpers as I shove my cock down her throat but she takes it like a champ. She digs deep with both lips.

  I sigh as her bare sk
in ripples underneath my touch. She hums quietly to the stroke of my finger on her dripping pussy, and it invites me to pinch her cunt hard. She jumps a bit.

  “Did I tell you to stop, little dove?”

  “No,” she whimpers.

  I pinch the throbbing nub hard.

  “Come again?”

  “No, master. You did not.”

  “Good. Sit on my thighs.”

  She does so, without a word. Her eyes water in pain and pleasure as I keep my tight hold on her clit. She straddles me and gives me a full view of her beautiful sweaty breasts.