Hunted by Billionaires Box Set

by Ryan Ramsay

  I hold her by the nape of her neck as Ron holds her entire body from underneath. Ron’s cock is deeply embedded in her ass. Mine rubs through her soft wet pussy.

  The sweet smell of amber and rosemary hit my senses as the bubbly bath froths once more. Logan teases her mouth with his cock on and on again until it gets veiny and hard.

  Man, all I can feel is her tight wet cunt pulse, and Ron’s cock stretch her insides right next to mine. The friction. The intensity of Christy’s moans. The sheer wickedness in making her watch two cocks impale her.

  Two thick cocks stretching her pussy and ass out while the third plays down her throat. My chest heats up. My body stiffens.

  I can hear my heartbeat, as well as feel two others. I see her breasts heave. I watch her mound quench my thirst. I plough and thrust deep and slow, timing to perfection Ron’s hits to her hilt. The bubbles froth again.

  My balls heat up. My tongue yearns for the taste of pussy. I drip inside out, waiting, feeling, and slapping Ron’s balls against mine to her throbbing swollen cunt. I hold her ankles tighter and clench my ass.

  “Fuck!” I grunt into her calves as jets of cum ebb out of me and deep into her. Ron too. Logan follows. Christy screams last into his cock and cocoons us into her.

  We lay by the side of the pool in silence, sequestered and sated.

  “I have a better idea,” I say out loud.

  Christy turns her matted head to me and raises a brow. I smile and rise. My skin is wet. All of us are. And so, with no words, I take a hold of Christy and let her legs straddle my waist.

  Her cunt smears pussy juice all over my torso as I violate her mouth with my tongue. Salty. I like that.

  “Come with me.”

  She is surprisingly light. I know my way around this house, and as we walk up the stairs and to the elevator door, Ron smiles all-knowingly. It slides shut, and we go up. Christy’s cunt soaks my pubic hair hard.

  The doors slide open to reveal a hidden room. Dark. Tantalizingly hellish. Comfortable. I let her down slowly and move her along to the edge of the bed. My comrades follow my lead and huddle around her, fully clothing her with our limbs and now-drying cocks.

  We huddle around each other under a dimly illuminated ceiling. Ron snaps his fingers and commands the fireplace to light up. It crackles to life, and the room slowly warms up around us.

  “I can’t believe I wasted all this time pining over Anastasia,” I say.

  “Who’s Anastasia?” she asks.

  “His ex,” says Ron.

  “The love of his former life,” says Logan.

  “Oh,” she says. “Are you okay now? Still pining?”

  “Fuck no. Ever since that afternoon I haven’t had a single nightmare about her. She is nowhere near how great you are.”

  “You had nightmares with your ex?” she asks cheekily. “What was she doing to you in there?”

  “Yeah, tell us Damien,” says Ron. “Don’t be shy.”

  “Guys…”

  “I’m kidding!” she laughs and lightly slaps my chest. “The past is the past. I’m glad I helped.”

  “He’s not the only one you helped. I’ve been searching for the perfect challenge for years now,” says Ron.

  “Clearly,” states Christy with a quick sweep of the room. “This place looks like a sex dungeon.”

  “That’s because it is. Well, was. Now it’s the room where we fuck and cuddle like maniacs.”

  “‘Where we fuck and cuddle like maniacs’ is such an awesome title for an autobiography,” jokes Logan.

  Christy turns to him.

  “And what have you got to be thankful for, Logan? Any new changes?”

  He pauses and licks his lips.

  “I’m at peace with myself. That’s something I never thought possible. But now… well, look at us.”

  There is contentment in the air, and it is filling. I listen to the sounds of her breathing on me, the lick of the flames as they rise and fall and dance and sing. The heartbeats of my fellow men. The nothingness of the night outside.

  Slowly we drift off. Christy smiles, looking right at me from my chest. Logan and Ron lightly snore in the background.

  “This is the happiest I have ever been, Damien. Thank you.”

  “Same here, my pet. Same here.”

  Epilogue

  Christy

  In all honesty, life is what you make it. I never thought this to be true. It always seemed to be a life fit for movie stars or pornstars: whatever the thin line called it.

  No amount of church or polite fingering behind my door could satisfy my heart at this moment. This flash of life. An instance of mortality.

  I sit here watching my now best friend get married to the loves of her life. Stephanie stands as a symbol of beauty: untouched, loved and glowing. Frank, Nathan and William all kiss Stephanie at the altar, calling one after the other; her husbands; their wife.

  “I am so happy for you, girl!” I say in her ear.

  She turns and slaps me with a glazed look, the happiest I have known her in the month we’ve been friends.

  “You are one to talk. Look at you, enjoying the fruits of love,” says Stephanie.

  Mia comes from behind me and places a hug around my shoulders. Ever bubbly. Ever so warm.

  “That’s my job, you know. Spreading happiness and causing weddings.”

  We laugh and chat and gossip about where the honeymoon will be. Steph keeps a tight lip about it, but pinky swears us not to tell that she told us.

  “Bahamas. Then the International Space Station.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” gasps Mia.

  “No, I’m not. The first foursome in space. Exciting, right?” shrieks Stephanie.

  “I don’t know how to process that love. Go get yours!” I say.

  Wow. Sex in space.

  I can’t even imagine the orgasm process. How does Mia do it, though? This level of energy is insane.

  She told me two weeks ago how to access my money, and a few other things I wish I could think about, but can’t. Not because of secrecy. Or NDAs. Nah. It’s just astounding what she has been accomplished in such a short space of time. It blows my mind.

  It is insane how she maintains inner peace and joy like this; you’d think she would never be a part of something like, well, like sexual adventures. She brought us together. She made me whole. She became my friend.

  I have had the most amazing time with my men. Switching houses has been fun, but the best part has been having one of them torture and fuck me while the others watch and scream and jerk off to me.

  And when they come inside of me… God almighty, is that the best feeling or what!

  “Hey,” says Damien, a couple hours later.

  We are at the private reception. Just us couples and Mia, far away, on the private mansion where this all began.

  “Hey, babe,” I say, with a kiss I plant on his lips. “Everything okay? Have you had cake? It’s cherry vanilla. Your favorite.”

  “I have, love. Thanks. Would you mind if we got out of here? It’s getting a little too crowded. The guys and I want to take you somewhere… private.”

  “Oh,” I say with a wink to Mia and Stephanie. “Fancy. I’ll see you guys around? Stephanie, congrats again. And have a great honeymoon. You better send me photos of everything. Everything.”

  Winks all round.

  Ron and Logan lead the way as Damien holds my hand and leads me to the outside lawn. Just then, my phone buzzes. They stop in their tracks just as I have. I don’t believe it.

  “What’s wrong, little minx?” asks Ron.

  “It’s… Amy. She just texted.”

  ‘Hey sis. It’s been a while. I hope you’re okay. I’m just saying thank you, for the offer you gave me. I’ve been thinking about it and I just might take it. Not now. Soon. I’m still thinking it over. Grandma’s okay but she misses you of course. Take care. Talk soon.’

  “Told you she would text,” says Damien cheekily after showing th
em my phone. “Now come. There is something we want to show you.”

  We take our time, walking through the familiar maze, giddy and excitable. Everything is just falling into place. Everything.

  We stop just shy of a hedge that looks freshly cut. Underneath its sunset shade is a small shiny metallic object. They stand and let me pick it up. The golden bracelet, the one that—

  “The one that I won for you the first time we met,” finishes Damien. I turn around. They are all on bended knee.

  “Christy,” starts Logan.

  It can’t be.

  “Will you do us the honor?” asks Ron.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Of making us the happiest men alive?” asks Damien.

  “What…what are you guys saying?”

  “Will you marry us?” they chorus.

  I say yes. There are tears. There are shouts of joy. Clothes are ripped apart and skins collide. So do tongues.

  My finger is heavier. 24 carat diamond type heavier. My body is split into three, and yet meshed into one with their bodies.

  I part my legs and widen my arms to accommodate my new fiancés, each taking his time to kiss me deep and warm till my crotch dampens. This is where it all began, where they fucked me till I passed out a month ago.

  This is where they solidify our bond for life, for eternity. Together. Sliding cock and slobbering juices all over me as their little pet. Their little minx. Thick cock in slippery pussy. Their tight cum-slut.

  I have cock in both hands. Theirs. And I hear grunts of pleasure. Also theirs. Gobs of cum on my wrists. Theirs. Sticky wet thrusting in my pulsing cunt. Theirs. Thumb and finger pinching my dripping clit. Theirs.

  Warm balls on my tongue. Theirs. Asshole in my mouth. Theirs. Cum on my face. Theirs. Warmth in my heart. Theirs. Echoes in my throat. Theirs. Fading bliss from my pussy to my nipples. Theirs.

  Me. My whole body, heart and soul.

  Theirs.

  Forever.

  THE END

  Hunting their Virgin

  A Virgin and Billionaires Reverse Harem Romance

  Copyright © 2019 by Ryan Ramsay; All Rights Reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Amy

  The letter, crisp and freshly inked, rests mildly between my warm fingertips. Her signature stares back at me, written in strong, dark ink, as if she was careful not to be too timid when signing it.

  Her words, the last time I saw her, still burn brightly in my ears, searing all kinds of thoughts and hopes right through the window. The clock that’s sitting on the mantle about five feet away from me chimes four o’clock.

  The sun is out. It’s overcast and that’s mildly annoying. Through the dining room window, the warm itchy rays hit the whitely-laden cloths on the second-hand thrift-store con-job makeshift cocobolo table and bounce off softly to the rest of the room, which is basically Grandma’s knitting room.

  The chair I sit in creaks noisily under the weight of my heavy sigh. I check myself and fold the letter, putting it back where I found it: the trash. Scanning the room, I scoff.

  It was like a dream, how it all unfolded. It’s almost as if the waning summer sky was a dreary winter’s moon and I was dead asleep under a blanket of planted ice drops. Amy, my only direct blood relative, second to Grandma Betty, walked out on me like rich patrons of a movie they dislike, leaving their bags of overpriced popcorn behind them.

  I stood there as she got into a limo that was, as if scripted, magically waiting on her to lash her final words at me before picking her up and whisking our sisterhood away. Grandma came and found me on the porch wallowing and wiping away at my red eyes.

  I think she knew, even before finding the neatly written letter on her bed. The thing is, I doubt she finished reading it.

  I heard crumpling then cursing then grumbling then treading of her light and aged body down the stairs, then some crashing and moving and creaking and heaving, which ended with her slamming the kitchen door wide with her open palm and standing before me. To say she was huffing and puffing would not do justice to whatever it was that she was actually doing.

  Grandma, whispering under her breath, said, “Just like that. Just like them.”

  I asked, “Just like who, Grandma?” and then, after not getting an answer, I repeated, “Grandma?” to no avail.

  She grumbled and walked off the porch lightly. Funny how she looked like a grumpy old fairy wishing away the old birds that sapped at the flower they take their daily milk from.

  I stood around afterwards, for what seemed like hours, or days even, and then I finally walked inside. It looked exactly like it does now. The cocobolo rip-off dining table stands on three legs, digging its edges into white and browning knitting projects that lay scattered on the floor.

  The walls have knives and spoons and plates embedded in them, lifting through the woolly padding. The clock chimes once, for the umpteenth time, four o’clock. It’s broken. Cracked.

  The metal poker from the fireplace has been impaled deep inside the only soft couch in this house, making any move one tries to make on it noisy and uncouth. The floors are strewn with garbage from the kitchen. Water runs from the taps seamlessly over the kitchen sink, up and down the scratched floors, and under the back door over a slanted kitchen floor.

  Music slowly plays off of Grandma’s old — now tortured and half-split — World War Two era radio. Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll meet again’ hums through over and over like a parody from a hall of mirrors horror show.

  The house, my home, is turned over. Grandma is surprisingly strong.

  ‘Just like that. Just like them.’

  Quietly I trudge up the stairs to my room in contemplation. Mom and Dad: that’s who Grandma was ranting about before she turned the house upside down. There’s no one else she would ever give that much energy to, not in anger or in love.

  I step on the plushy carpet that lines the upstairs corridor up to the wall skirting, and walk to my door. I shimmy the lock a bit and twist the knob open.

  A change occurs, from stale air that smells of light yellow dust to cool, quiet freshness of lavender glades, chocolate caramels and freshly turned old books. Gently, I shut the door behind me.

  My knees collapse. My body falls to the floor. And I open the wall that torrents in tears. Sobbing and heaving, I let it all out.

  I’ve been a good sister. I know I have. Maybe not by some standards, maybe not in the way Christy always thought and wanted me to be.

  But I’ve been there for her. I always have been, even when no one was watching. I was there when they left that night. I was there when she wailed our parents’ names out into a cold July night when Grandma took us in.

  I was there to feed her when Grandma’s hands shook to the core and she couldn’t cook. I was there when Christy needed me.

  That’s why she must never know. She must never know what happened that night, or else she might never forgive herself.

  I wipe my cheeks with my sleeves and my open palms and then I stand up so that I can go to bed. This won’t blow over, I now realize. Christy is never coming back. Grandma is torn apart.

  I place one knee after the other on the mat and rest my elbows on the comforter. I sniff. Looking up at the wooden cross hanging above my bed, I obediently shut my eyes and breathe. The silence drips from all around me, broken only by the recording downstairs singing melancholically.

  “Lord,” I start.

  Then I stop.

  Is this worth it?

  Is this what I want?

  Praying won’t bring my parents back; I know this. It won’t bring my sister back. Heck, it won’t bring that odd cocobolo table back to its original form, either. And that’s the problem.

  Ten years, one month and two days ago on July 3rd, “9:17 pm” shone bright on the red and blue DIY Tom and Jerry clock on my bedside table. My dad had helped me build it when I was younger.

  My knees were near bruising. My hands were sticky and hot. My eyes nearly prickled with sweat. The con
centration it had taken to make mom’s birthday vase in the corner of my artsy play floor was intense. I wanted it to be a surprise, and in so doing, the only way to go was to sneak out of bed after my 8 o’clock bedtime, switch on the low lighting LED, and get to work.

  It was all going smoothly until 9:17 pm, when I heard a thudding noise from the attic.

  Strange, I thought. No one goes up there.

  And my mind was far from ghosts or ghouls or poltergeists; I was twelve, not stupid. I switched off the lamp and wiped off my hands with a Kleenex.

  Gently I stood and tip-toed my way to the window. Mom and dad were in lengthy coats; dad in his knee-length brown leather and mom in her ankle-long suede. They were smiling.

  Dad was pushing up the ladder to the attic and patting an item in his pockets, smirking and joking with mom at the same time. They walked down the stairs, out of sight, and to the lobby where they laughed with someone else. It had to have been the babysitter, but I can’t remember her name for the life of me.