Hunted by Billionaires Box Set

by Ryan Ramsay

  I’m cumming! God, yes!

  He moaned and grunted hard, hard enough for her to hear.

  God, I’m cumming! I’m cumming!

  She knew then, as the heat took over. She knew that he, Silencio Jorge, loved her.

  “Aargh!” I scream.

  God, the orgasm is high. The orgasm is in ripples.

  Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  And their union was complete.

  I reel my eyes shut for a moment and suck the warm air in. My hair is stuck to my face. My panties are still twisted in my one hand.

  My other hand rubs me to calmness. I slow to a stop, letting the heat pounding at my temples, my chest and my breasts take me over.

  My nose flares to the aroma around me. My body lurches. The water is half full now, given the thrashing about of my legs. It will be some time before Sandra comes back. I place my thighs apart, this time, closing my eyes and letting the panties slide right off.

  I am alone. I am naked.

  Silencio Jorge is in the tub with me. His thick chest and moustache rub against my soft chest. He smiles and pinches at my nipples. I goad him about last night, at the Thanksgiving party, when he fucked me with my face mashed up against the kitchen window.

  He laughs gently, pulling at my hair, telling me how great it must have been for anyone watching. I exhale. He puts two of his fingers in me. I inhale hard.

  His face is so close to mine I can smell the mint and pine off of him. He’s just from logging trees, he says. He hasn’t touched a woman in months, he adds.

  “Then take me, Silencio,” I whisper.

  “Keep your eyes on me at all times,” he gruffly says.

  “Yes, my love,” I obey.

  He pours his mouth all over my neck, nibbling and biting wherever he sees fit. I squeal at the intrusion of his fingers, his tongue.

  My ass clamps hard against him. He gently pushes my thighs apart, taking my pink pussy lips for his own.

  His soft, wet hands pinch at my nipples. His tongue slips in and out, flicking the bean and munching on it like candy. I swallow. He moans with my cunt in his lips.

  I shake from the top down, reeling from my second ripple.

  I open my eyes to a quiet room. My hand is now slippery, my urges quieted. Faintly I can hear his movements out of the tub, telling me to join him in bed.

  I rise out of the tub, alone, naked and slip out. My knees are still weak, but I make the time. I stand at the mirror and smile, satisfied. The mist covers my smile back. I tilt my head and lean into the candles and blow them out.

  I grab a towel and dry myself, picking the book and its placeholder and returning them to their original hiding spot.

  It is still early.

  The night is young.

  But I have final exams to prepare for in the morning and my fantasies only let me escape from the realities of college life for so long.

  I head to my bed and lean low in the darkness, ready for one more tide to sweep me off my world before I succumb to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Shem

  “The fields are mighty quiet today.”

  “Yeah, boss. Must be the weather’s spooking the coyotes away,” answers Boyle confidently.

  “Well, at least we’ve got the sun on our backs. And for that, I always will be grateful.”

  The bull grunts in pain when red hot metal meets fur and skin. It singes for a second before I pull away. The animal bucks and kicks about.

  “Let him go, Boyle. He’s earned a day with his mates.”

  The stout young man lets go of his hold on the thickly veined bull. It pulls its weight on him before bucking and running out through the wooden poles.

  I stuff the pike in the dirt, letting the heat simmer and cool off. My arms are tired. It has been a long day.

  “So,” I ask, “you feel like joining the boys for supper?”

  He tilts his hat and gently wipes the back of his neck with a soiled kerchief.

  “I think I might. Tulip promised she’d make us some sweet cornbread. I haven’t ever had me some cornbread.”

  He considers me a moment.

  “Why d’you ask, boss? You in need of some company?”

  I laugh.

  “Not at all. I just wanted to know who’s got the rotation for the night.”

  He smirks and looks east.

  “Oh. That’s Billy for ya. He’s got the entire half-week with Quad A.”

  He switches feet and makes for his belt’s upturned and frayed edges.

  “Which reminds me boss, what happened to Minty?” he asks timidly.

  The pike is cooler now. I walk a few paces ahead and stuff it into its cold and watered sheath. It hisses. Steam rises from the thin hole, into the dry air of the Midwest.

  My lower back aches. It’s good. Means the treatment is working. I think. God, a beer right now would kill it. Better yet, a cold one by the fire at midnight sounds about right.

  “Minty?” I iterate. “Minty’s doing alright. She hasn’t had any problems since she calved.”

  He sighs in relief.

  “I got me some special bond with that cow, boss. You know I do.”

  “I know, Boyle. I know.”

  Minty was just but a calf when Boyle started working here at my ranch. She is a sweet animal, that’s for sure.

  “Let’s go. We’re done for the day.”

  I stop by the horses and pat Herod on the back. He sniffs my neck out and grunts warm, then cool breath on my skin.

  “How many did we do today?”

  “One hundred and seventy-nine, boss. Including the one that shot out of my arms like a buckaroo.”

  He sees my discomfort.

  “It’s slow, boss, I know. But it makes for a good saving. You get to know your cattle. They get to know you. We’ll crunch the numbers by the end of the week.”

  “Good to know.”

  I hoist myself up the saddle and get comfortable. My arms are dirty, hairy and in need of a cool shower and then a swim. Boyle gets on his too and slaps the notepad into his belt’s left holster.

  I watch him look into the horizon, as if whispering to the oncoming clouds and listening to the fair wind. I give him a moment.

  “The rain’s three days away, boss,” he mystically announces.

  I nod and click my tongue. Herod moves away, trotting at first. We kick up into full runs after a head start from Boyle’s horse. Funny man, that is. His intuition, however, is second to none.

  Boyle Haskins has been my foreman for a little over five years now. As my right hand man, he is in charge of the ground whenever I’m busy running the Bushwalk Ranch and its over twenty different subsidiaries across the globe.

  It took me a year to find out how in tune he is with nature. The man can whip up his nose and sniff out a storm that’s a week away. Call it witchcraft or plain old mysticism. I need a man like that close to me at all times.

  We slow down as the barn comes into view. I get off Herod and Boyle takes both horses in. I stop him halfway.

  “Keep some of that cornbread warm for me,” I tell him. “I’ll be joining you, Miss Tulip and the boys a little later, alright?”

  “Alright boss!”

  As I walk away, I smile. It’s rare to see a man as gleeful as a kid.

  **

  I take my time studying the bruises. My hamstrings are blackened, the ridges running down my side from my pecks are lined with bluish and red scars. My biceps, hard as they are, are still susceptible to brutish teeth and hellish claws.

  The work keeps me young, but doing the hard labor will get me killed some day.

  I could stop, but where’s the fun in that?

  My body is sore as I step into the shower. I feel the need to have a woman’s touch tonight. Then again, tomorrow is a big day. I don’t want to mess it up. Jacking off won’t do either. I need to rest.

  I pump the faucets and let the water wash the dirt off of me. God, it feels good.

  Then I towel
off and grab two crates of cold beers from the fridge. I walk out of my bedroom and head to the barn, to get ready to feed some of the animals, but not before I notice the blinking lights on my office desk.

  A message.

  It can wait till morning.

  **

  Slightly tipsy and feeling less pain in my sides, I return to my house a little after midnight. I had paused from my work to eat a delicious meal. God, I love my life. I have the best people working with and for me.

  I have the best chef under my employ. And I own multi-billion dollar conglomerates all across the world. Nothing can stop or even slow me down or annoy me now. Nothing.

  Except for that fucking blue light blinking on and off in the office.

  Why did I have the walls installed with glass again?

  I sluggishly make my way past the furniture. Through the glass door, I see the notification blink rapidly, as if about to get set off. I sigh and sit. The computer logs on automatically.

  It’s an email. Sent anonymously.

  I delete it. My servers need a set of new hands, it seems. Such kinds of errors do not happen under Bushwalk—

  It appears again.

  What?

  I move to delete it once more.

  Fuck.

  What kind of virus is this?

  I search for the right antivirus and clean it.

  But it seems it’s not a virus.

  Okay.

  I’m sobering up now.

  I isolate the file in a virtual environment, just in case.

  Then I click it.

  It is marked: “Shem Bushwalk: Your Eyes Only.”

  Okay.

  I click the video file attached to it.

  The abrupt force of pushing myself away forces me to fall slightly, held up by my knees and arms. My heartbeat is up. I am definitely sobered up now.

  That’s me.

  That’s me jacking off.

  That’s a video of me jacking off.

  Chapter 4

  Arnold

  Sweetened condensed milk and thick, hot oil from the bottom of the ocean have two things in common. One is the fact that I am a huge fan both of them. Second, is that I eat that gold for breakfast.

  Unfortunately, these are far from the thoughts preoccupying my mind right now.

  “Grid 6 is down sir!” yells the commandant, his left arm’s brace holding tight on the manual lever on the control panel. I can smell the panic off of him.

  “Hold it steady Spellman,” I calmly holler by the warming metal door. “Punch in the override code and hold her steady!”

  “Will do!”

  I make my way through the dampeners and climb the ladder two rungs at a time. The mainstay is clear at least. I look up. Seven or so more men are shouting from the bottom of their smoke-filled lungs, a section of them already lying down on the yellow and red metal to save themselves.

  The alarms are blaring so hard it hurts my bones. I climb higher, faster. The fire, now red and seriously huge, engulfs the top flanks of the rig at least a few feet from my arms. It hurts. I must stop this. I must.

  The panel room is clear on the inside, but the door is engulfed in searing flame and heat. I let the ladder go and position myself. Below me the metal burns. Around me the air stiffens and coagulates in thick smoke. I use my knees and rush forward. The door slams into me instead of the opposite. I fall to my knees.

  Try it again, goddamn it! I scream to myself.

  Once more, and it budges.

  Twice more and I am in.

  It is cooler here. No time for that. I push the buttons and insert the keys into place. Twice I punch in the codes with no success. Third time’s the charm. The alarm dies off. The oil stops spurting from the sea. The rig is shut down, its defense measures already in place.

  I slump down on my ass and rest on the metal paneling. My body begins to catch up with the adrenaline, and in a short time I feel the ache in my joints and skin. It hurts. They are alive. They are alive.

  **

  I sit here at the bottom rung, watching. The sky is clear and the sea, though still on fire, now quelled and taken care of by Scotty and his team. The boats, orange on the hull with a tinge of beige at the top, are filled with coolant and chemicals to consume the oil and make it biodegradable; in case we don’t get to catch it all before it dissipates. The hair on my skin is prickly and slightly singed. I laugh to myself.

  “You’re alright, sir?” asks Iain, catching on.

  “Yeah I am. It’s been an afternoon, that’s all.”

  The cool metal can soothes my palm. I roll it around, enjoying the bright colors and sound of fizzy pop in there. Under my hard nails the ring pops open and carbonated air rushes out. A sprite of it lands on the small of my hand between my index finger and thumb.

  I lift my heavy arm and place the ring on my lips, letting the cold hard Cola drip down. God. Yes.

  His eyes linger.

  “You know you can pick one, right?”

  “I know,” he replies, “it’s just…”

  “Go on,” I urge him.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He recedes but is careful not to make it seen.

  “You know what I mean, sir.”

  “I’m trying to. Tell me. Do you believe I don’t belong here?”

  “No,” he says confidently. “I really don’t.”

  A healthy silence passes between us. One of the boys waves to us. I wave back. Iain nods and munches on his overgrown gray moustache.

  “You think I endanger myself too much,” I say after a time.

  “And the company,” he boldly replies. “It’s not in your docket to oversee such matters Arnold. There’s always someone else.”

  I chuckle.

  “You haven’t called me that in months.”

  He pats his dark coat and scratches at his thinning beard.

  “Best not to around the crew. We still have to maintain that employer-employee status, don’t we?”

  “Despite being my only friend in a 3000 mile radius?” I say. “Sure. Appearances are everything. Grab a cold one with me. I don’t want to be seen as the bad guy of the story.”

  He leans low and grabs onto his knees, right before slumping down and taking his feet off duty for a moment.

  “That’s just the thing, Arnold. They fear you. Most respect you, but all of them fear you.”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s the eyebrows.”

  “Worse: how you peel your oranges.”

  We share a laugh.

  “Isn’t that why my name is at the side of this rig and thirty-seven more? Isn’t fear the drive for them to work, other than the wallet-satisfaction they all get?”

  He sighs. Here we go.

  “Man, I’ve been around since you were a teenager. I saw you work hard, take stock of your father’s illness and make something of yourself with his just one rig. You make an honest man’s living. And I think it’s why the men look up to you in respect and fear. Respect for the man you are. Fear for the man you never reveal to be.”

  I take the extra can of Cola and hand it to him. He takes it and contemplates on it. I rise up, careful not to hurt the already singed skin.

  “I like what we have here Iain. We should have more of these talks some time. Now drink your soda before it gets warm.”

  He puts it down and crosses his arms, smiling at the prevailing sunset.

  “Nah. This shit slides right through you.” He pauses. “We still have that crate of condensed milk, right?”

  **

  The night swells in, and the staff is asleep in their cabins. The rig is noiseless. Up here one can hear the whispers of the gods.

  I am wrapped up from my shoulders down in my thick blanket. The mug of coffee tastes like swill in my mouth, and I pour it into the ocean. Looking far ahead and up, I watch as the clear sky dances in twinkling stars, like eyes watching my every move with no judgment.

  Iain is right. It takes more th
an balls to be here. It takes a certain level of madness to employ myself as a workman despite owning it all. But it keeps me alive, this work. It makes me want to see tomorrow.

  Living in any country, in any suite, in any villa I want is not as rewarding as one would think. Knowing that my wealth could substantiate the GDP of a second-world country doesn’t make it any easier. Hard labor does. And God, is it mighty rewarding.

  Sure, they fear me, but it’s not because of what Iain thinks. They fear me because I work hard with my people. I do not shy away from challenge. I mean what I say.

  They do not fear me. No. They admire me. And I admire all of them, except for Iain, who always shoves it to my face that I am the billionaire on the rig.

  It is why I find it awesome that the youngest, and newest, crew member, Sinek, waves at me from the command center through the bulletproof glass.

  “Talk to me,” I gleefully say, after a minute’s walk to the room.

  He has the kind of hair that gets fuzzy in an electrical storm, the kind I think my sister went crazy for in her high school drama years. His eyes are mostly blue with specks of green.

  I have high hopes for the young man. He wants to learn and earn. I respect that.

  He waves the headpiece to me, slightly shaking due to cold and fatigue. It’s his first night watch. I take them.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. They just said to get you and you alone.”

  He swallows hard, clearly unaware whether it is the right thing to follow orders from an unknown entity or not. He will learn.

  “It’s alright, son. I can take it from here. Go grab some more coffee.”

  He rises, nods thankfully and moves towards the door, visibly shaking.

  “And see if they have more quail for you.”

  “Yes sir,” he says with a quick trot down the grates.

  “God knows you need some,” I mutter under my breath.

  I grab the piece and sling it over my head.

  “This is Arlington Cruiser 1-1-7-G. Who am I speaking with?”

  The voice is seductively haunting. It asks me only to listen. It tells me a story, one I never thought I would hear ever since I was all alone with my father on his deathbed.