Paraded before the Billionaires (3 page)

“Lie down, Gina,” Russell commands me.

Max helps me up onto the table. The stone is
cold against my buttocks. Max positions me so that my legs are
dangling off the edge. I am not left in that precarious state for
long. Russell seizes both my legs and roughly prizes them apart. My
decorations and bells jangle in protest. As my legs are strung wide
open, the lead weights and bells succumb to gravity and fall in
between my thighs, cinching and dragging my clit and pussy lips in
their wake.

“Careful, Father.”

“I know what I’m doing, son.”

Russell lets go of my legs. He does not
undress, but unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly instead. His
throbbing purple cock bursts forth in vigor – already hard and
straining at the glans. It points to me from its nest of blond
pubic hair and tight balls raised by his lowered waistband.

Russell wears briefs, not boxers, I
notice.

I concentrate on his devilishly handsome
face even though I’m having trouble balancing my legs to maintain
my spread-eagled state. He is so amazingly handsome – with his
piercing blue eyes that rake across my body like coals. Yes, I can
see who Max will grow older to be, the lucky bastard. He’s blessed
with such abundantly splendid genetics.

Max on the other hand does not appear happy.
As he’s on my right, he’s helping me to steady my right thigh, but
my left is on its own precarious perch.

“We’ll have to be going in soon,
Father.”

“Stop fussing.”

The head of Russell’s magnificently large
cock pauses at my moist vulva. I’m merely moist, not wet, as this
proposed sexual interlude has been rather sudden and my nerves are
still strung to maximal tautness. The sweet, flowering mouth of my
vulva is red and partially obscured by the strands that dangle from
my hairpin clit clamp. My clit is a compressed and numb piece of
flesh.

I close my eyes.

Take me.

“I think I’ll go for something else today,”
Russell says. “Guide my rod, Max.”

I flutter open my eyes in surprise.

Max’s mouth twitches. I’m right. He’s none
too pleased about this whole thing. I wonder why – he who has opted
to give me to his father in the first place. Does he have a change
of heart now that he himself has been made a slave?

He moves to his father’s left and seizes his
father’s enormously broad stick. A dutiful and obedient eldest
son.

The symbolism is not lost on me.

My mouth dries as Max positions the cock at
the entry point of my anus. He has to guide the head so that it is
centered in between the double strands attached to my bells and
weights. Russell is huge and his cock is not lubricated, so I brace
myself for pain.

Max notices my grimace. He spits on his palm
and wipes the wetness onto his father’s schlong. I shoot him a
graceful glance and he flashes me a quick smile as he guides the
cock to slowly ease into my anus. The initial thrust is painful,
and I let out a little cry as the hard flesh spears me and widens
the puckered circumference of my anus.

My sphincter is very tight – still tight
despite the fact that I’ve been taken many times in the ass – and
it is stretched like a rubber band as Russell bulldozes his way
through.

“Ohhhhh,” I groan as his shaft pummels its
way into my rectum. My walls are cleaved apart like water being
parted by a ship’s prow.

Once Russell is fully in, Max move away to
stand at my right side again. Once more, he helps support my bent
leg. He stands like a sentinel – beautiful face immobile – as his
father begins to pump into my ass.

Bam, bam, bam.

It’s extremely brutal sex.

Or should I say sodomy.

Russell has always taken me harshly, and
this is no exception. He drives his rod into my asshole as if he’s
a hammer trying to nail a column of air into my guts. And I think
he’s succeeding because the shock of his pounding is clobbering my
flesh into submission, and my bells are clanging and banging as
though to herald the pope’s arrival.

Russell begins to pant. From his force and
his rapid fire strokes, I know this will be a quick one. His balls
slap into my buttocks, scissoring the strands of my decorations. I
claw at the stone table with my nails as I moan with pain and
pleasure. Max’s eyes hold mine, and he gives me his hand. I clutch
at his warm palm like it’s a lifesaver.

In. Out. In. Out. Russell’s thick cock rubs
against my walls with such rigor that I think he’s almost trying to
start a fire. He makes guttural noises in his throat as he
accelerates his fucking. I whip my head back and forth and clench
my jaw with the increased pressure. My fingernails – lacquered red
and painted with a delicate white bell design – indent the flesh of
Max’s palm. He grips my hand harder to reassure me.

Russell comes with a cry.

His volcanic spume of semen shoots into me
and aims for somewhere high up in my bowels. Even the force of his
sperm is a rocket booster jet. I feel like I’m being cleansed in
one of those New Age alimentary canal hookups, and yet it’s a
satisfying sensation like no other.

I know I have pleased and pleasured my
master . . . and in that, I have done my duty as a sex slave.

I am content.

It doesn’t matter if I don’t come. My master
has achieved orgasm, and that is satisfaction enough for me.

Russell pulls out of me, his cock still
overflowing and dripping with a massive amount of semen. My groin,
buttocks and inner thighs are all covered with his white goo.

“I’ll have to clean her up again,” Max says
reproachfully.

“Let Heathcliff do it.” Russell drips the
last of his cum onto my pussy and tucks in his now spent cock back
into his briefs. There’s the elastic snap of his waistband as he
covers his snake up again. He zips up his pants and latches on his
belt bucket. “Good luck, Gina. I hope you’ll go to a good
home.”

Yes, that is what frightens me. That my new
– if temporary – owner might not take a shine to me. And I won’t
have Max or Greg to help me there.

My concern must have shown on my face,
because Russell’s expression changes. Now he’s almost paternal as
he pats my knee.

“Don’t worry, Gina. Think of how much better
you will be as a submissive when you come out of this. The same
rules apply. No permanent scarring. And be sure to please your new
master as you have pleased me.”

I muster my courage. “W-will I be able to
opt out of it if I – I can’t take the punishments, master?”

Russell maintains his tight smile.

“Not for slaves sold through an auction, my
dear. You will have to weather it for the duration. The only way is
to escape, but I’m sure you won’t disappoint me by doing that.”

5

The door of the holding cell opens with a
creak – an iron grate being wound by ancient machinery – and I’m
reminded again of gladiatorial rings and hunger-crazed animals with
blood lust in their eyes. The atmosphere is brittle with the smell
of iron, straw and sweat.

We are in a line – fronts facing one
another’s backs. Our arms are bound in a plethora of ways. My
elbows are bent behind my back, and my wrists cruelly tied and
strung from another rope which is attached to a lariat around my
neck. In this manner, my throat and slender neck bear the burden of
the weight of my arms.

The others are bound differently. Max has
his neck and wrists secured in a wooden stock that parts
longitudinally – the kind used for medieval prisoners, with a hole
for his neck and two smaller apertures for his hands. Greg’s arms
are bound behind him in an intricate rope mesh that involves
Japanese
shibari
patterns.

As for Alice, she is forced to balance a
clay jug on her head. Her arms are pulled upward and tethered to
the jug’s neck so that it is firmly secured to her scalp.

But that’s not all.

We are all connected to one another in the
most creative of ways.

There’s a dildo in my vagina. It is slender
and held inside by four chains which are locked to my corset – two
in front to either side of my decorated pussy, and two at the back,
running up my buttocks. This dildo is in turn connected by an iron
chain to Max in front of me – or in particular, the dildo inside
his ass. To the back of me, a similar iron chain runs from my dildo
to the one inside Greg’s asshole.

We are lined that way – man, woman, man,
woman – all strung up like paper dolls. Dildo in pussy for the
women, dildo in ass for the guys.

We are forced to march this way out of the
holding pen and into the sunlight.

It is as I suspected. We are in an
amphitheater, and the sky is a rich bowl of blue above us. Clouds
scud across, chased by winds. The very same winds whip around us –
Indian summer warm and robust, teasing my hair into a mahogany
blaze behind my back. As I walk, my bells jingle, signaling my
humiliating approach.

My erotic bits are worked into a smorgasbord
of electric and illicit sensations –all heightened by the movements
of my limbs and the swell of my breasts as I breathe. The dildo in
my vagina whittles inside as I walk – a stick in its snug
cubbyhole. Every step I take is a reminder that it is there.

My heels dig into the hard earth as I
navigate the track, trying hard not to trip. If I fall, I will land
on Max, and if I knock him down, I will trigger a domino chain
reaction that would probably embarrass all of us and garner me a
severe punishment.

Our audience is seated upon the benches on
one of the flanks. The amphitheater is football stadium huge. A
dirt track runs around its inner perimeter and I can see the
grooves of wheels (not motor-vehicular wheels either, but something
more ancient) ground into the dust.

Our audience is not large, and therefore
they are concentrated to a segment of the bleachers. The seats are
stone, but bedecked with cushions and divans so as to ensure the
comfort of their billionaire patrons.

Ah yes. I’m coming to the billionaires.

They are a mixed bunch. In outward
appearances, they are everything I expect them to be and yet not
what I expect. There are possibly twenty of them. Twenty of them
for sixteen slaves! There are more men than women, and I recognize
some.

There’s a black A-list movie star whose last
movie – the third in a series – didn’t generate the expected
returns for its production costs, a rumored $250 million if those
numbers are to be believed.

There’s a tow-headed gentleman whom I
believe I might have seen on the cover of TIME. If there are CEOs
there, I don’t think I’ll recognize them if they are low-key, do
not involve themselves in scandals and do not make enough waves to
be splashed on the cover of
People
.

There’s an African leader who is decked out
in his tribal glory – headdress, colored sashes over multicolored
cloaks and all.

A famous female supermodel who is now in her
forties is leaning over to her friend (partner?), a famous female
fashion designer known for her luxurious celebrity wedding
dresses.

A swarthy man in an immaculate suit and tie
sits next to an older version of himself – a man in sheikh
clothing.

A famous Czech tennis player is flanked by
his best friend, a Spanish soccer player who made news for
recording the highest transfer fee ever and who is better known for
his sexual antics off the field.

And there’s a man I have seen in newspaper
headlines.

He wears a bristly mustache, and he carries
his handsome head above his bulky shoulders. I remember reading
that he was a wrestler once and that he once twisted a bull’s neck
with his bare arms. Yes, he is a dictator of a small European
nation.

And I remember reading that he has executed
over a thousand dissenters.

I shiver at the array of luminaries and
billionaires before me. I am nothing. Nobody.

And I am about to be sold like a heifer to
one of these people.

Russell is amongst them, of course. He beams
at us in that paternal fashion of his, as if we are his own
creations. (In essence, I believe we are.)

“Oh God, that’s my mother,” Max murmurs.

I gaze at where he is indicating. Not that
any of us can point to anyone, tethered as we are. I assume the
beautiful dark-haired woman beside Max is his mother, seeing as she
shares the same features as the twins. She’s speaking to Russell,
and she keeps glancing over to Max and Alice. I wonder what goes on
in the head of a woman such as she – one who would knowingly allow
her offspring to be paraded naked and auctioned off to the highest
bidder.

Unless . . . she’s planning to buy back her
offspring, of course.

All in the name of charity.

My heart begins to beat a little faster. Is
this Russell’s plan? To buy all four of us back? Is he allowed to
do that?

The guards (minders?) that flank us are
dressed in Roman centurion outfits as befitting the amphitheater
theme. Their red cloaks swirl around them in the breeze and they
carry whips instead of spears.

“Turn and face your masters,” says the lead
one with a voice like gravel.

We do a half-turn to face the spectators. As
we are still affixed to one another with the daisy chain of
embedded dildos in our raw orifices, the twisted iron chains strain
against the flesh of our upper thighs – one strand in front and the
other at the back.

It is a most uncomfortable sensation.

We stand there as our audience inspects us.
A titter goes through them, and there are snickers and murmurs
through the tiered ranks. I can feel the hard gazes of the men on
my tits, especially since they jut out so prominently from the top
of my corset, and pussy – streaming with its decorative
pennants.

“Turn around again to show them your back,”
the guard rasps.