Billionaire Kink

Copyright © 2012 Virginia Wade

All Rights Reserved.

Published by I Love Stacy

Kindle Edition

Virginia Wade

http://virginia-wade-erotica.com

http://twitter.com/VirginiaErotica

Email:

[email protected]

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Chapter One

After I returned from running a
successful Family Free clinic in Honduras, I was determined to obtain the
funding I needed to do the same at home. Health care should be a right, not a
privilege, and, with this in mind, I began to lobby the richest corporations,
asking…begging that they fund my initiative. Two years later, and living off
the last dregs of my mother’s estate, I found myself on the edge of giving up.
I’d lobbied JSG
BioPort
Labs yesterday, standing in
their conference room with my PowerPoint presentation and staring at a table
full of disinterested male faces, knowing that this was my last chance. In the
end, I’d walked out, holding my head high, knowing I had failed. Or at least I
thought I had.

To my utter shock, I had received a
phone call from the company’s CEO, James Gordon, requesting a private meeting.
Mr. Gordon was a billionaire visionary, who had revolutionized the industry by
spearheading advances in drug formulations, medical devices, and research. I
was slightly intimidated to meet the man who had developed
Demetril
,
which was a new breast cancer drug, with an eighty percent success rate.

I got dressed, wearing pantyhose, a
gray pencil skirt, and a brown and black blouse. I usually downplayed my looks,
but instinct told me I would need them today, so I took my time applying makeup
and styling my shoulder length, chestnut hair. Sliding into black, sling back
heels, I appraised myself in the mirror, satisfied with the overall result. As
I left the apartment, nervous bundles of energy pricked me, adding an anxious
spring to my step. My briefcase contained a business prospective, which I had
agonized over. A nonprofit organization was a hard sell, because it went
against the grain of what a business model should look like, since there was no
clear projection of growth and revenue. It was entirely reliant on donations,
and those were hard to come by in this economic environment. If my meeting with
Mr. Gordon proved unsuccessful, I would have to get a job immediately. He was
my last chance.

I took a cab to a restaurant near the
Steppenwolf Theatre in downtown Chicago, checking my face in a compact and
applying more lipstick. Then I fussed with my hair, which looked perfectly
fine.

This isn’t a date!

Actually, I hadn’t been on a date in
months; the last experience was a disaster. I had moved out of Peter’s
apartment more than a year ago, our relationship having run its course. My luck
with the opposite sex was legendary; the horrors were too numerous to count,
although, if I had any skill at writing, I could pen a humorous memoire of my
misadventures. It would probably be a best seller. I paid the cabbie and took
the stairs, entering an elegantly decorated reception area, which was furnished
with comfortable looking sofas and muted lighting.

“I’m Gretchen Fox. Mr. Gordon is
expecting me.”

“Yes, of course. Right this way,”
said a woman dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt.

I followed her through the restaurant,
noting the yellow-beige walls, darkly framed mirrors, and rows of neatly
stacked glasses on shelves. I’d never dined here, because it was pricy and my
meager budget left little for frivolous spending. I saw myself in passing,
noting a tall woman with an anxious expression.

Wipe that scowl off your face! You’re never going to charm his socks off
and get the funding you need looking like that, Gretchen.

I took a deep breath and tried to
relax my mouth, moving my jaw from side to side. The maître
d'
led me to a table occupied by a
dark-haired man. Introductions weren’t necessary, since I had been reading
about Mr. Gordon all week in preparation of my proposal. He was a graduate of
Columbia University, obtaining his masters in business from Harvard. He’d
worked his way up the corporate ladder, rescuing one company after another,
until acquiring the wealth to buy his own.

He stood, gesturing to a chair. “I’m
sorry,” he said, his tone deep and velvety. “I don’t shake hands. I’m glad you
could make it, Ms. Fox.”

His smile caught me off guard, my
stomach flipping over. “Mr. Gordon. I’m surprised you wanted to see me.”
He doesn’t shake hands? Is he Howard Hughes
weird or something?
I placed the napkin in my lap.

“We’ll have the Chateau
Latour
,” he said to the waiter.

“Yes, Mr. Gordon.”

I left the briefcase near my foot. “I
have the prospectus, if you want to see it. The details were covered in the
presentation, but I don’t think you were at the meeting.”

“I wasn’t. Your document isn’t
necessary.”

That was odd. “Then why am I here?”

“I want to know about Honduras. You
opened a clinic with your sister.”

“Yes, in Santa Rita. It’s mostly
self-supporting, although the drugs aren’t cheap.”

“How are you paying for that?”

“My mother left us money. We get the
medications from Mexico and Canada. The trust fund is still solvent…for a
while.”

“I see.” Our wine arrived, and the
server poured the burgundy fluid into rounded glasses. I would have the Tuscan
kale salad with glazed duck, and Mr. Gordon ordered the seafood salad and
smoked mackerel. His look was assessing. “Why did you leave?”

“I helped set up the clinic. Emily’s
the Florence Nightingale of the family. I’m like Donald Trump. Someone has to
manage the business. We immunized thirteen hundred people in six months. What
I’m most proud of is persuading a surgeon friend of mine to help for a few days.
Ten kids don’t have their cleft palates anymore.” I took a sip of wine, enjoying
the richness of the flavor. He held his glass to his nose, sniffing delicately.
I had downed my drink, as if I were sitting at a bar. The wine probably cost a
fortune. He stared at the table thoughtfully. I took the opportunity to
appraise him, noting the handsomeness of his face, his surprising youth, and
the understated timepiece around his wrist. I didn’t see a wedding band. He was
an intensely private man, and besides his educational and business history, I
knew nothing else about him. “Mr. Gordon, I’m really impressed with
Demetril
. I wish…I wish they had it available for my
mother. She died of breast cancer six years ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It could’ve saved her.” I stared at
a couple sitting at the next table, not really seeing them. “You’re performing
miracles in people’s lives. I love that. It’s what I try to do. It’s what I
want to continue to do. There’s no reason why these kids can’t get antibiotics
or asthma medication. It’s senseless seeing someone die from an infection that
can be treated.” I glanced at him. “How did you know about my mother?”

“A Google search.”

“Oh.” Our food arrived, and we ate in
companionable silence, until I placed my fork on the edge of the plate. “Mr.
Gordon, let’s cut to the chase. You’re more than capable of funding the Free
Clinic. You have the resources. I want to open them here as well and maybe
expand to other cities. They’re needed badly.”
Here comes the burning question
. “Are you going to give me the
funding?”

“Perhaps.” An inscrutable light shone
in his eye.

“I understand. You have to think
about it.”

“Not really. I have a proposition for
you. You may not like the terms, Ms. Fox. They’re slightly…unconventional.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not in the habit of throwing
money away. By funding your Free Clinic and the others, I’d be throwing money
away. Let’s face it. I’ve done the research, I know your history, and now that
I’ve met you, I’m realizing perhaps we could come to some sort of an
agreement.”

This brought me to the edge of my
seat. “Really?”

“It’ll require a particular effort on
your part.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of hard work, Mr.
Gordon. I could tell you some jungle horror stories. The snakes, the bugs, the
lack of electricity, all the officials we had to bribe.” I grinned. “It was
ridiculous.”

“I’m sure it’s fascinating,” he
intoned dryly. “However, the effort I’m referring to would be more personal
than professional.”

Now I was confused. “What?”

“If you want the funding, Ms. Fox, I’d
require you to perform certain services for me…regularly.”

I stared at him blankly.
Does
he
want me to sleep with him? You’ve got to be kidding. This guy probably has
twenty supermodels on speed dial.

“I’ll leave you the contract, and you
can peruse it at your leisure.” He placed a navy folder on the table. “Now if
you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a conference call.” He stood, scraping the chair
on the tile floor. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Fox.”

“T-thank you, Mr. Gordon.”
He’s leaving already?

I opened the folder to find an
official looking business contract with names, dates, and a list of services I
was obliged to perform in order to receive payment. The payment itself looked
more than generous, but I struggled to comprehend the list. As I digested what
I was reading, my tummy began to tingle. I was to perform various acts of
perversion for Mr. Gordon, which would be recorded. These included bondage,
threesomes, and sex with other women. Nowhere did it mention he would
participate, only that I was to be available twice a month at a yet to be
disclosed location. There was a waver at the bottom that stated all
participants would be disease free and hygienically sound.
Ugh.

My phone buzzed. It was a text
message from Mr. Gordon. “The offer expires in twenty-four hours.”

I reached for my glass with shaking
fingers, swallowing the contents. The waiter appeared. “More wine, Ms. Fox?”

“Yes, please.”
You might as well leave the bottle, buddy
.

What the hell was I going to do? He
wanted me to whore myself out and record the proceedings! What kind of a
pervert does that? Couldn’t I find another corporation to lobby? And wouldn’t a
billionaire have women lined up around the block to be his little…playthings?
What did he want with me? “Oh, Jesus,” I mumbled. “What about me says porn
star?” I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. What had I gotten myself
into?

You’re out of options, Gretchen. You’re running out of money
.

I scanned the document looking for
the conditions of termination. The only requirement was a forty-eight-hour
notice.

I don’t have to repay the funds? But I’d have to perform various sex
acts…with other people. Oh, my God…

I had a sip of wine, staring at the
table.

Who would know if I whored myself out?

I would know…and…

…
the
videotape.

I would have to get it in writing
that no one but Mr. Gordon ever saw that tape. That would be the only way I
would ever agree to this outrageous deal.