Bought By The Billionaire

Chapter 26: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Twenty-Six

The deal with the Thornton’s goes well. My Master is pleased. Signed, sealed and delivered, a copy of the contract papers lands on my desk. “I want you to be familiar with them, Elizabeth.” says my Master. “You were instrumental in making the deal work. I want you involved with its progress. Take the time to know the details, the legal ins and outs.”

Fair enough. I settle to read my way through a book’s worth of small print, and quickly decide that ‘legalese’ is heavy reading. However, the gist of the agreement is simple enough. The Haswell Corporation and the Thorntons are setting up a holding company to act as a legal envelope for a huge redevelopment in a run-down part of the City. The project is huge, involving the building or renovation of a vast acreage to provide luxury apartments, affordable housing and all the facilities and amenities needed for a properly functioning community; shops, offices, a park, rail and subway……. The budget runs into eye-watering amounts of money.

Glancing through the list of shareholders I see, as expected, Richard Haswell 51%, Alexander Thornton, 25%, Jaye Thornton, 10%, followed by a long list of minor shareholders whose names I do not recognise but believe to be perhaps engineers, designers or architects working for share rather than fee. I notice that Francis has 1%. Coming to the end of the list, I sit bolt upright. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

‘Elizabeth Kimberley 2%’

*****

I didn’t say before, Elizabeth, but nice bed. Good choice.” says my Master approvingly, as he pushes me down over the foot of the bed, bending me forward, face down, arms outstretched. He shackles me with the handcuffs to the bedposts, then pushes my feet apart with his. Another pair of cuffs snaps around my left ankle, and then my right, spreading my legs further.

The bed is of wrought iron, metal bars at foot and head, handily available as anchors for ropes, scarves or chains. I chose it carefully for my apartment, for its beauty, and for utility in the games my Master

and I enjoy.

He reaches around and below me, working away at the laces of my bodice, gradually teasing the garment apart, allowing my breasts to hang free, enfolded in the curtain of my long red hair. Pinching gently at a nipple, he rolls it between finger and thumb and I wince, but at the same time, a thrill running down through me, connecting with my pussy, nerves jumping at both ends. I begin to flush and bite my lip.

“Nice and gently tonight I think, Elizabeth. You took enough punishment last time.”

I have to agree. Exhilarating as it was at the time, I still have the red marks of the riding crop decorating my rear end. My Master traces their outline with his fingers, then trails down and in, caressing my folds, already moist with anticipation.

He strokes my thighs, outside, then working in, making me squirm with pleasure. He makes no attempt to prevent my movement, but since I am spreadeagled anyway, it makes little difference.

My colour is rising with arousal, face and pussy blushing, belly and breasts flushing red, glistening.

“You look beautiful, Elizabeth. Ripe and ready for me.” My Master, kneeling, kisses me, barely touching me, on the pussy. His tongue passes over me, so lightly, almost not there. The effect is electrifying. “And you taste wonderful too.”

His fingers skim over and past my clit, making me stretch and arch for more, but his hands and mouth have moved on.

Strong hands massage my shoulders, my back, and down past my waist, curving over the length of my spine, the dimples in the small of my back. Hands linger over the line of waist into hip, stomach to thighs. Fingers wind through my red curls, briefly gliding over my erect clit then on.

A single finger slips between my pussy lips, gliding like silk through and away.

Everything is transient. I am aching for a prolonged caress; for my Master to work me, to fuck me. Instead, artist that he is, he paints a portrait of growing arousal over my whole body. Every touch is fleeting; barely there before it is instantly gone.

“Please, Master……”

“Not yet.”

“Please….”

“No.” And his exquisite foreplay continues.

His warm breath playing over my pussy, leaves me straining to move closer to him, to draw him into me. I want him to taste me, to drink from me, to raise me to climax.

Instead, his teasing of my every nerve-ending continues. He strokes the back of my knees, the tender skin inside my arms and my thighs. Leaning over me, he nibbles gently at my ears and neck. Hands stroke the curve of my pendulous breasts, supporting their heaviness in cupped palms. Fingers tease at my nipples, now crinkling hard, tinted rose against my pale skin. As he leans over me, I can feel his erection through his jeans, pressed against my back and I long to have him inside me, filling me….

“Master, please. I need to cum.”

“No.”

“Please, Master. Please.”

A finger slips into my pussy, and I clamp convulsively around it, only to find it withdrawn. Then two fingers enter, my pussy throbbing reflexively around them. Again, they are withdrawn. A hand slides

below me, and between, teasing at my clit, and I gasp and buck.

“You do need to cum, don’t you.”

Oh God! “Master, please…”

There is a moment’s pause and looking backwards through my curtain of hair, I see him shucking off his jeans, peeling off his shirt, shaft erect against his flat abdomen. He is so beautiful. Lean, yet broad- shouldered, biceps, strap-like under his skin and a fine line of dark hair tracing down from his belly to his groin. His deep blue eyes are intense with passion and lust.

Standing behind and over me, a hand either side of my hips, he positions himself between my manacled ankles, testing me. The tip of his erection kisses against my dripping pussy, pressing so lightly, making my inner muscles jump and spasm against him, then slowly he sheathes himself, gently, so gently, inside me. Not thrusting, not moving, simply inside me, filling me. Full length he enters, his balls resting against my lips. I hear him draw breath, as he fights for his own control.

Aroused through I am, my pussy swollen, dripping and hot, still he stretches me as he enters. I groan and shiver, thinking that now he will pump me, but he does not. I want him to fuck me, hard. I want him to fuck my brains out. Instead, his arms curve around to embrace me, one hand opening my pussy lips from the front, the other taking my clit between thumb and finger.

“Watch,” he says and from my face down position, I watch as, with the smallest of movements, he manipulates my bud, sliding back the hood to release the sensitive heart. I see his fingers, wet and slippery with my pussy juices, work at me. The movements are so small, but they are electrifying. Sweet fire radiates from my clit, waves of unbearable pleasure rippling through me.

Still, he does not thrust. Instead, he revolves his hips, grinding against me, pressing against my g-spot, back and forth, knowing exactly where I can best feel him inside me.

Unable to remain still, I heave and strain and writhe, but am pinned by wrists, ankles and now also, speared on my Master’s cock. Whilst not thrusting, he can surely feel my convulsions as he flicks and rolls and slides my clit with his fingers. As I try to struggle against this exquisite pleasure-torture, he leans his weight against me, restraining me further, and presses inside my liquid inner, pinning my movements.

Panting for breath, my pulse pounding, “Are you going to cum for me now, Elizabeth?” he whispers.

“Yes, Master”.

Abso-fuckin-lutely Master.

My words emerge broken, piece by piece as my orgasm arises gradually, blooming outwards from my heated core. Pulsating pleasure ripples through my belly and my Master presses hard with one flat hand, my belly muscles against his penis, still hard inside me. As I moan, my spasms seem to trigger his as, his face next to mine, he gasps and trembles. Now he pumps, thrusting two, three, four times, before pressing hard against my inner walls, spurting into me.

His hand still pressing flat against my stomach, his spasms and my own, ripple through our enmeshed bodies, our groans and cries mingling in combined release, my juices and his flowing freely down my thighs.

For a few seconds, he collapses onto me, his face resting next to mine, and I am taking his full body weight, my wrists and ankles straining against their restraints. Then he remembers himself and, kissing me on the cheek, lifts away from me.

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you Master.”