CHAPTER 3: BOUGHT BY THE BILLIONAIRE - CHAPTER THREE

He kisses me full on the mouth, making sure I am standing up, and then pushes two fingers up inside me, hard. I feel them almost scrape against me inside, against my G-spot. I cry out, but he has already withdrawn and is down on his knees, his face to my thighs. From my rather awkward position, I look down to see him looking back up at me, at my face. As he looks, his hands are working, parting my curls to reach my pussy lips. He leans forward, and for one delicious moment, I feel his tongue swirl around my clit.

This time, there is nothing half-hearted or restrained about my reaction. I scream, just in time to feel him pull my thighs fully apart, and his tongue lick up from the back of my cunt, through and over my pussy lips.

And he stops.

I hang, my weight on my wrists, making incoherent gasps and wishing there was something I could say.

He pulls away and stands, smiling at me, as I am standing there in my shackles and my own sweat and juices. "This won't do you know," he says. And he turns and walks out again. Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

I can't believe it. I finally put together a sentence. "You can't do this to me! You can't leave me like this!"

His voice drifts through from the lounge. "Well, you didn’t think I'm going to tongue-fuck you in that condition."

What? What?

The sound level of the music goes up. And up again. And I wait.

He comes back in, again carrying something, which he puts on a shelf. I strain to see what it is — a toiletries bag? And he immediately leaves again.

A moment later, he is back, and he puts something else in his pocket.

"I turned the music up again," he says. "I think that when I get you properly Mastered, you're going to be quite the little screamer. We'll keep it private, shall we?"

That grin again. He stands for a moment, seeming to be savouring the situation. Then, stepping forward again, he says, "Just to keep you on the boil," as he holds me around the waist again, while pushing one, two, and then four fingers up inside me. Again, I writhe and pulse, on the brink of orgasm, as he finger-fucks me once, twice, thrice, and then stops.

Padding over in his bare feet to the shelf, he pops something in his pocket and then opens the toiletries bag—it is a toiletries bag—and takes out a razor and a can of shaving cream. "I like the taste of pussy," he says, "But not a mouthful of seaweed." He kneels in front of me again and aims the can over my crotch.

I recoil, trying to back into the shower stall. "No!" I say. "No, you can't do that."

"Really? No?" He pauses. "If you say no to this, then it's no to everything." He parts my pussy lips and takes a lingering lick over my clit, flicking me with the tip of his tongue. My resolution crumbles.

"Well …"

"Perhaps I can help with your decision." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the something, and I hear a low buzz, and then a high buzz.

"Just something to keep you occupied," he says and pushes the egg up inside me. He does it slowly, sliding it along my engorged lips and up past my aching pussy muscles so that I feel every inch of movement.

Then, with the egg buzzing inside me, he sprays the foam and sets to shaving away my curls. He takes his time, and he is careful and thorough. A few minutes later, my crotch is as naked as the rest of me. "I don't like the taste of soap," he says, "and you are getting a bit sweaty." He reaches for the showerhead, turning it on full, but cool. He aims the fine needles of water over my breasts, concentrating on my nipples. I squirm and squeal. The water is just cool enough to make me react without chilling me.

"S'cuse me," he says, reaching up inside me with a couple of fingers, and popping out the egg, which is still buzzing. He negligently tosses it onto a towel, and then, turning the showerhead upside down, he sprays squarely up into me, over my pussy and my clit with the water. Water, lather, and pussy juice run down my legs as I struggle and squeal against the intensity of it all.

The sheer scale of the stimulation is beyond bearing. I scream, trying to escape the intense pleasure, pain, and overstimulation of the needle jets. I am about to cum uncontrollably.

And he stops—again.

By now, I am almost delirious with the desire to cum, and I sag in my bonds, head bowed.

"You said that you still have some work to do?" he asks. “More rooms to clean?”

"What?" I raise my head to look at him. Is he really suggesting …?

"You do have work to do. We don't want you getting into trouble with your boss, do we? I’ve met Mr Chambers and he’s not really a very nice man."

He reaches above me and starts undoing the tie. "I think you should go and do your work, and then I can finish you off later." The tie comes loose, and he starts dressing me, slipping my arms through my bra straps, and hooking me up at the back.

I stare unbelievingly. "You can't be serious? After all that, you want to just break off and I'm supposed to —"

He interrupts me. "Get dressed and come back later. That way you won't lose your job, and I'll know that you really do want me to fuck you …" He smiles as he buttons up my blouse. "Now, here's your skirt. Pop that on … and no, you don't need those." He takes my panties away from me, tossing them into a corner. "Lift your feet, one at a time."

I step into my skirt unresistingly as he pulls it up and zips me up. "And before you go …" He retrieves the egg and slips it, buzzing quietly, up inside me. "I'll expect to find that still there when you come back. You just practice gripping it so it doesn't slip out—that would just be embarrassing, wouldn't it?" He roughly towels my hair dry and gives me a brush.

He pushes me out and towards the door. As he propels me into the corridor, brush in hand and buzzer within, he whispers, "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth."

"I'll see you later, Elizabeth," he says.

I stand in the corridor, speechless, but gasping.

A complete stranger has brought me to the verge of the most explosive orgasm ever and then stopped, shoving me out into this corridor to carry on cleaning hotel rooms. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I stare at the closed door and want to shout the question at its blank surface, but if I was heard shouting in the hotel, I might lose my job. I could cry over the sheer let down of what has just happened.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a hair tie, pinning my long red locks, still damp from the shower, back onto my head. I start to step towards my trolley, full of cloths and brushes and furniture polish, but as I move, I am brought to a sudden stop by the vibration of the egg, still whirring away inside me. I yelp and then clap a hand over my mouth in case anyone hears me.

The door opens again. He stands there, wearing an arrogant smile. “Still here, Elizabeth? I said to come back later. What time do you come off-shift?”

“Er, seven o’clock.”

He nods. “Fine. I’ll see you at five past seven. Don’t be late. I’ll be waiting for you.” And he closes the door again.

I can’t believe the gall of the man. Does he think I am going to come running, just because he asks and appears to expect it?

Then I admit the truth to myself. Yes, of course, I am going to come back. The man, whoever he is, is devastatingly handsome and has just played a game that brought me to the edge of a crashing climax.

Correction: is still playing a game.

I check my watch—five-thirty, an hour and a half still to go. Might as well get on with my work.

Walking awkwardly because of the egg buzzing away inside me, I push the trolley along to the lift. There are no other rooms on this floor. The penthouse suite stands alone. I wonder who he is, to be able to afford to stay here.