Dominated by a Billionaire

It's not like never thought I'd get rich with a Master's degree in studio painting. But I thought I could maybe move to L.A., get a cute little apartment in Silver Lake or wherever, and spend my days working in the art department on indie films. So after I graduated from Benson College, this tiny school in sleepy Iowa, drove off to the west coast in my Toyota Tercel. As I sped through the unending green flatness of Iowa, I dreamed of the loft apartment, the exciting work, and the fashionably skinny boyfriend that were all certain to be mine a few weeks after I arrived in the City of Angels.

That kind of idiotic optimism, dear reader, is how you end up working delivery for a pizza parlor at age 28.

In reality, I couldn't get a cool job on an indie movie set. I live in a cockroach-infested, closet-sized apartment in downtown, where it's terrifying to walk around after sunset. I deliver pizza for a living. My boss is an ex-drug dealer named Ansel who punches the fridge whenever a customer complains on the phone. And, as it turns out, it's not quite so cute to be underemployed and barely making rent when you're almost thirty, so in terms of the fashionably skinny boyfriend, nope, nada, nothing. I've managed to have a few brusque hookups with Mikey, a stammering Communications major at USC that I met on Tinder. Mikey tries his best, but he's so timid and obsequious that I can't come, even when he goes down on me. After he's finished and gone to sleep, I roll over and get myself off, then promise myself I'll never come back. Then, a few weeks later, I come back.

This unending chain of disappointments went on unbroken for so long that I forgot life could be good, that lucky coincidences could happen, that dreams might come true, and that I could, in fact, have an orgasm during sex and not just after it. I had forgotten all of these things until the day I met Oliver Clarke.

*

It was around 11 a.m., a Tuesday in early March. It was my day off, so I had taken the opportunity to have a little me time. I'd had a long, warm bath, had shaved my legs (not because anyone was going to see them, but because I own a pair of supersoft sweatpants, which feel amazing on smooth skin) and was lying in bed, scrolling through the internet on my phone, wondering when life was going to get better. I thought I should do something fun, but I couldn't summon the energy. I'll be honest—I was missing Iowa right about then. I'd had this professor, who—yeah—we'd had a thing, but older men, they're not timid. They see what they want, and they take it from you, not like poor fumbling Mikey. One time, Professor Sterling had taken me out to a quiet balcony on campus, while a class gallery showing was happening below. I could hear soft jazz, pretentious murmurs, and clinking champagne flutes. Sterling pulled my dress up from behind and leaned forward. I remember the scent of his aftershave, the soap on his skin, faint scent of the day's sweat. The stubble on his skin scratched my neck as he growled softly in my ear, "I'm going to fuck you, right now."

Sitting in bed, I let out a soft moan, reached down and began to touch myself, softly, thinking of the matter-of-fact way that Sterling had pulled my underwear down, that night, the way his breath quickened and trembled slightly in anticipation, the way I whispered back to him, begging him to—

DING. DING. DINGALY-DING.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

DING. DING. DINGALY-DING. In bed, I picked up my phone. It was Ansel calling.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I was so close. I answered the phone.

"Aubrey!" he said. "Aubrey, I need you right now. I've got a huge delivery, ASAP. 30 pies. We need to get these pizzas out to Clarke & Thompson skyscraper on Fifth, right away."

"Ansel, my one day off," I said.

"I'll give you fifty bucks," he said. "This is a big corporate lunch. My car broke down."

Dammit.

"Seventy-five," I said.

And that's how I found myself in an elevator, going up fifty floors in one of those massive skyscrapers near Grand Ave and 5th Street, carrying two huge stacks of pizza, wearing the pair of jeans I wore yesterday. I didn't even have time to put underwear on.

The elevator dinged open at the fifty-first floor, and I stepped out into a gorgeous office space. Mahogany, or something that looked like mahogany, on every wall. Shiny brass name-plates. People stalking around, wearing Brioni suits and glancing at Rolexes. "Clarke & Thompson, Consultants," in big golden letters on the wall. A blandly pretty twenty-two-year-old showed me where to drop the pizzas off (a gilded boardroom with an extremely impressive table on it), then signed the credit card receipt. She'd given me a five-dollar tip on a $250 order. In a black mood, I stalked toward the exit, when a man stepped into the doorway. A tall man, salt-and-pepper hair, broad chest, charcoal suit, gold watch. A hint of stubble, and a glint of mirth in his eyes.

"Excuse me, were you from the pizza restaurant?"

I could feel myself blushing, for some reason.

"Yeah, that's me," I said, glancing at the carpet.

"Let me see that receipt."

I handed over the receipt with the tiny tip. The man frowned. He raised his voice. "Gretchen!"

The blandly pretty girl trotted in, face brick-red. "Yes, Mr. Clarke?" she said.

Wait a second, I thought. Clarke as in Clarke & Thompson?

Clarke looked at me levelly. "You work hard, don't you?"

"Yes," I mumbled, suddenly realizing how shy I felt.

"What's the longest shift you've worked at this pizza shop?"

"Sixteen hours," I said, recalling last Halloween.

Clarke turned to the girl. "Now, Gretchen, have you ever worked a sixteen-hour shift?"

Gretchen got even redder, if that were possible. "No, sir," she said, sounding as if she were about to cry.

"And how d'you reckon you'd feel if you worked a sixteen-hour shift, only to get a lousy five-dollar tip on an order of this size?"

"I'm sorry, sir," said Gretchen, and ducked away. Clarke smiled at me. "I'm Oliver," he said. "Come into my office and I'll cut you a check."

*

The first thing I noticed in Oliver's office was the window—there were three solid, windowless walls, then a vast window, where I could see the whole of downtown Los Angeles, the vastness of the city, and far off in the distance, the glittering Pacific. I suppressed a gasp.

"It's a great view," said Oliver. "Take a look if you want."

I walked to the window, careful not to touch or smudge it. The view was breathtaking. Oliver swept past me to sit down at his broad mahogany desk, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. I can find no way to describe the scent except for expensive. Like everything else in the office, Oliver looked—sounded—even smelled expensive.

"It's incredible," I said.

Oliver sighed, and I turned around. He was rooting through drawers. "I seem to have left my checkbook at home," he said. "Let me ring in Gretchen." He tapped a button on his phone and said, "Gretchen!"

"Yes?" said a shaky voice on the other side of the line.

"Bring me in a fresh checkbook, won't you, darling?"

"Yes, Mr. Clarke!" I could hear clattering through the line as the frantic Gretchen searched through her own desk.

"Gretchen!" said Oliver.

"Yes, Mr. Clarke?"

"Hang up your phone."

"Yes, Mr. Clarke!"

Oliver walked up to my side and gazed out the window. I didn't dare look at him.

"So sorry about Gretchen. You don't have to be back at the restaurant right away, do you?"

"Oh, no," I said, examining the streets and buildings below. "No, this is my last delivery."

"Good, good," said Oliver. I glanced over. He was smiling out the window. I realized that my palms were sweating. I frantically tried to think of something to say.

"Edward Hopper writ large," I stammered.

"It's absolutely bustling," Oliver said, immediately. "None of the sense of quiet and loneliness that you get in Hopper's paintings."

I looked at him. He was looking back and smiling.

"You know Hopper," I said.

"I try my best to be a connoisseur of the beautiful," he said, touching the small of my back. I felt goosebumps rising on my arm.

What the fuck is happening? I thought. My pulse was quickening. Then: God, I hope what I think is happening is happening.

"I, uh," I said, and the door opened. Gretchen. Of course. Yes. For the checkbook.

"Ah, thank you, Gretchen," said Oliver. His voice sounded different—crisp, neutral, businesslike. Or was I imagining things? "You can close your door on the way out."

Gretchen flushed again. "Yes, sir," she said, and ducked out.

Oliver sat down at his desk, pulled a fountain pen out of its holder, and signed the check with a flourish. I was still at the window; he walked up and handed me the check. I glanced at the amount section and saw at least three zeroes before stuffing it in my back pocket.

Holy shit.

"I once worked at a pasty shop in London when I was younger," he said. "Terrible hours. Terrible boss. So I have a bit of a soft spot for people like you."

"Th-thank you," I said. My head was spinning.

"Well, if that's all, then I suppose you should be on your way," said Oliver, walking toward the door.

"Right," I said, my voice shaking. "Right, sure." But I couldn't make myself move. Oliver walked, in easy, measured steps, over to the door, then turned around, his hand resting on the handle. He looked at me, frozen in place, and smirked.

"Unless there's something else you need," he said, laughter in his voice.

I forced myself to walk toward the door. Stupid thought anyways. I would go home and masturbate to the fantasy.

Then, about halfway to the door, I thought, dammit, if you don't try at least something, you deserve to be as frustrated as you are. So, as I walked up to the doorway, I turned toward Mr. Clarke, looked up into his eyes, and said, "Thank you. Sir. Mr. Clarke." And, as I turned toward the door, I brushed up against his groin in a way that could have been accidental.

Through his thin slacks, I could feel that he was semi-hard.

"Miss—" he said.

"Aubrey," I said.

"Miss Aubrey. Would you hold on one moment?"

I turned to face him and smiled. He was smiling darkly. He reached past me, brushing against my shoulder, and turned the lock on the door. I heard it click into place discreetly. I mean, jeez—even the locks in this place sounded expensive.

"Is there something else you need?" I said.

Fuck, I was starting to get wet. I remembered that I wasn't wearing any panties. Oliver leaned in close. My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt a ripple of excitement. I could barely breathe.

"Sir?" I whispered.

When he spoke it was with a new firmness—a deep, quiet, commanding voice. All confidence.

"Now, if you want to, you're free to go, of course," he said. "But you don't want that, do you?"

"No," I breathed.

"That's right. Now, why don't you tell me what you do want?"

I swallowed. I could feel the color rising in my cheeks.

"I—"

"I want to hear you say it," he said. "I want to hear you ask for it."

Oh my God. This is insane. I can't believe I'm about to say what I'm about to—

"I want to be naked for you," I said, my voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

"I want to be naked for you sir," he said, a sudden stern undertone in his voice.

"Sir," I said. There was a tight hotness in the back of my throat. He had that smile again—that arrogant smile—God, I loved it.

Just then, the phone crackled to life. It was Gretchen. "Sir? Your meeting with Senator Dirkby is in five minutes. The Senator is waiting in the lobby."

Oliver stalked over to the phone and held down the intercom button. "Tell the Senator that I'm dealing with a personal emergency, and I may be a little bit late." As he spoke, he motioned at me and mouthed, "Go on."

"Yes, Mr. Clarke. I'll send him to the lounge and offer him a drink." Oliver smiled at me as I pulled my shirt over my head. He spoke into the phone: "Well, for God's sake, Gretchen, the Senator's an alcoholic, so don't offer him a brandy. Tea or coffee only." I undid my bra, exposing my breasts, their pert smallness, their hard pink nipples. My hands were shaking. I had never been this turned on before. Not ever. As Oliver turned the intercom off and stepped out from behind his desk, I could see his bulge hardening and thickening through his slacks. He walked toward me directly, purposefully, and pulled me into a deep kiss, grabbing my right breast roughly and slowly twisting the nipple, until I broke free from the kiss to gasp. Everything was just so—the rough feeling of his stubble against the smoothness of my face—the rich, clean scent of his cologne, bergamot, and teakwood—the warmth and strength of his body, how solid and lean it was under the suit—oh my God.

I unbuttoned my pants and took them off as gracefully as I could. Now I was standing in front of this beautiful man, naked, exposed, and so wet.

"What do you want now?"

"I—I want—I—" I stammered, almost too aroused to say anything. "I want you to bend me over your desk and fuck me. Sir."

"God, you are beautiful," he said, caressing my body with his smooth hands. I could feel the coolness of his gold watchband graze my skin as his hands slid down my waist to grab my ass. He pulled me close, so I could feel his hardness through his wool slacks.

"Fuck," I said. "Please. I want to feel you inside."

"Sir," he said, smacking my ass lightly. I'd never been spanked before. It stung a little bit, but oh my God did it turn me on. I drew in a breath sharply.

"If I don't call you sir," I said, "will you spank me?"

He swatted me again, a little harder this time. "I'll spank your perfect ass red."

"Yeah?" My knees were weak.

"Are you going to be a little brat?" he said.

"If it makes you spank me—" I said, but just then he grabbed me by the waist and steered me toward his desk. A little roughly, he bent me over the desk. My naked ass was exposed. He spanked me again, harder this time. A brisk clap rang out.

Smack.

"Are you going to be a good little slut for me?" he said.

"Yes, yes, oh God."

Smack.

"Yes, yes, you what?"

"I promise to be a good little slut for you."

Smack. I could feel my ass stinging, pink, and warm from the spanking.

"You promise to be a good little slut for me..."

"Sir."

Smack. I moaned, quite loudly.

"Quiet. Say it again."

"I promise to be a good little slut for you, sir."

"That's right," he said. His voice was low and comforting, somehow domineering and reassuring at the same time. As Oliver undid his belt, I looked ahead of me. The big picture window was still there, Los Angeles spread out before me, and I felt so visible, so naughty. This was insane. I'd never done anything like this before. I felt lightheaded, as if I were in a trance. But I wasn't in a trance—just consumed with an aching desire for him, his strong hands, his aftershave smell and gold cufflinks and thick cock. He slid a hand down to my pussy, feeling my wetness, gently rubbing around my clitoris, teasing me. It was almost too intense. I couldn't stand the tension. I started begging, fast and quiet, almost unintelligibly.

"Please. Sir. Ohgodplease. I need your cock. I need you inside of me. Please, sir." He seemed to take pleasure in drawing the experience out.

"You're so wet. You're so excited."

"Sir, I am your little slut sir, please, fuck me God I need your cock, sir." I almost couldn't believe the words that were coming out of my mouth.

"I love seeing your pretty little ass all pink for me. Your wet little pussy begging for my cock."

And then I felt him. He was rubbing the head of his cock against the edge of my pussy, slowly, feeling my wetness, hearing my gasps and pleas.

"Sir, please I need you insi—oh!" Slowly, slowly, he was pushing himself inside of me. I gasped. Oh fuck. He was so thick. Oh, God. He leaned over, and as he slowly slid his thick hot cock into my aching pussy, he wrapped a hand around my mouth, so I wouldn't cry out so loudly that someone outside would hear. In a smooth motion, he filled me up, pushing in until I felt his lean abdomen, his cotton shirt pressing against my upraised ass, the whole of his cock hard inside me.

He pulled back slowly, so achingly slowly, then pushed back in, and began to fuck me, hard and slow. He took his hand away from my mouth, and I found myself whispering to him nonsense like "Ohgodyespleasefuckyes."

"I knew as soon as I saw you that I was going to have you all for myself," he said, and slowly started to pick up speed. "Your body is just so fucking gorgeous." And as he started to fuck me more quickly, he slid a hand up my back and firmly grabbed my neck. Yet another thing that I didn't know I was into until today. He pulled me into him, and started to fuck me a little faster, a little harder. I could feel the pressure building between my hips—a white-hot magical pressure. I had never come just from having something inside of me before.

But I'd never fucked a man like Oliver. I'd never been fucked like this, bent over a desk that probably cost more than I made in a year. I'd never been made to beg like a little slut before. So all sorts of new things were happening today.

Suddenly, as the pressure was building, Oliver's phone rang. Without missing a beat, still thrusting, he picked it up.

"Oliver Clarke," he said evenly.

"Ohgodfuck. Ohgodfuck," I whispered.

"Well, tell the Senator that I'm simply unavoidably detained for the moment."

I had to come. I slowly reached down toward toward my pussy with one hand. I was going to play with my clit—but then I felt Oliver's hand leave my neck and grab my hand forcefully, pinning it behind my back.

"Pleasefuck. Ohpleasefuckme."

"I don't care if he is on the Ways and Means Committee. I'm in the middle of an important matter. I'll see the Senator when I see him."

A buzzing from the other end of the line as he kept fucking me.

"Thank you, Gretchen."

Oliver hung up the phone and pulled out of me.

"Naughty little slut," he said. "Trying to come without permission."

"I need it," I managed to say. "I need to come."

"Sir," he said, smacking my ass yet again. "And you will come when I let you come." He flipped me over on his desk, knocking over his fountain pen. Impatiently he swept the fountain pen off the desk; it clattered on the floor as he spread my legs open.

"I want to see your face as you come," he said.

I met his gaze. His eyes were a cool gray.

"Sir, I'm sorry," I said. "Please make me feel good. Please make me feel good sir I want to come."

He smiled imperiously, grabbed my thighs, and thrust himself into me again. I felt my tits bouncing with incredible thrust. He was so thick. He started to pick up the pace, until he was fucking me at a fast, even pace, smooth and deep inside me until I could feel the pressure building again. I made eye contact. He was starting to grunt with the effort.

"Please don't stop, sir," I said. "You're going to make me come."

"I want to see you come," he said, reaching up again to squeeze my nipple again. I could feel the pleasure rising in me, white-hot as a filament—

—oh my God—

(I could feel my pussy, soaking, clenching on his cock as he kept fucking me)

—my legs were involuntarily squeezing around him, pulling him deep inside me as my abdomen began to spasm—

(I was trying so hard not to scream, oh God, oh God, I'm coming)

—then everything was pleasure, just pleasure, just perfect bliss—

(he pulled out of me as the last spasms of the orgasm racked my body)

—my legs, shaking and limp, rested on his desk as I gasped silently for air.

There was a pause as he slowly stroked his thick member.

"That was beautiful," he said.

"I can't—I can't—that was incredible," I said. "I've never come like that in my life before."