The Girl Who Can't Say No: Bound To The Billionaire (Part One) (A BDSM Erotic Romance Novelette) (4 page)

His words sail right past me at first. It's
only when I engage my mind, and tear my eyes away from studying his
handsome features that I comprehend what he's saying.

"Intricacies? What do you mean?"

"Nudity" he bellows, sternly echoing around
the room. "Taking one's clothes off. I noticed in your work history
that you haven't yet performed any naked scenes."

Oh boy
, we're having
this
conversation? I'd always wanted to stall this particular discussion
until I'd won my first Oscar. I'd have settled for an Emmy, even. I
step back involuntarily, betraying more insecurity than I'd like to
admit, and put my hand over my mouth in a display of prudish
shock.

"Oh, well, uhm, I suppose, I uhm -"

All of a sudden, I'm back inside the darkened
elevator, and back inside my bathroom at home, trying my hardest to
battle back the demons of anxiety and unease, confronting an
unfortunate reality I always knew this line of work would bring me
to.

"It's something I might consider" is the only
thing I can spit out, a diplomatic and non-committal answer, and
one that by the look on his face doesn't please him.

"Well, you can take orders can't you?" he
replies with pointed disappointment. Then, crossing his arms, and
cocking his chin to the root of his neck, looking down to my toes,
almost, he pierces the warm, white air with a forceful yell. "Sit
down!"

I jump out of my skin, shook from my
reluctant nervousness by his deafening cry. Without giving it a
moment's thought, I do as he says, dropping to my knees, and back
onto my ass, giving no mind to the dust I'll inevitably cover my
sister's dress in. I look back up to my host, and see nothing but
bright, white light engulfing his face like some malevolent
halo.

"Now stand up!"

Again, I do as I'm told, springing to my feet
with relish. The energetic exertion leaves me a little out of
breath, but at this level I can at least see the sense of
satisfaction so beamingly apparently on his face. I feel used and
demeaned, as though I've been brought here to satisfy the every
whim of some egotistical casting agent. But oddly enough, the
thought of bouncing back down the corridor and back to my car isn't
even an option to me right now. I’m ashamed to even admit it, but
being used and demeaned doesn’t seem so bad right now.

"You can follow orders. That makes you a
better choice than most of the air-headed bimbos out there."

I find myself nodding silently to him, before
my conscious mind wrestles control back and I stop myself.

"Now," he goes on to say, putting his hand to
his chin, and stroking the black bristles of his five-o-clock
shadow, slowly and thoughtfully. "Take off your dress."

Wait,
what
?
Take off my dress
?!
My heart feels as though it falls from its hiding place inside my
ribcage to the very foot of my stomach, beating madly upon hearing
such a shamefully licentious request. I open my mouth - ostensibly
to yell a piercing refusal in his face - but find myself unable to
speak. My hand trembles visibly before me, even as it rises to the
back of my neckline, and fiddles with the tied strap holding the
flimsy dress in place on my figure.

I see his eyes ignite with an excited,
exuberant flame, and a voice from within echoes around the
entranced annals of my mind;
what the hell are you doing
?! I
wish I could answer myself. My body acts of its own accord,
unfastening the cord, and allowing my dress to fall to my waist,
before I wriggle myself out of it slightly, letting it fall to the
dusty white floor around my ankles. He smiles to himself, scanning
his eyes over every inch of flesh I've exposed - my pale chest,
hidden only behind a flimsy cotton bra, my freckled stomach, and my
girly pink panties, clutching to my petite frame, perhaps as
frightened as I am. Then the smile disappears, and he turns his
expression back to my face.

"You do as you're told, I see."

I nod yet again, and this time I don't have
the presence of mind to stop myself. My stomach is alive with the
angered fluttering of butterflies, my skin crawls under the
intensive, magnifying stare of his trespassing eyes, and my vocal
chords have long given up the pretense of registering any sort of
displeasure with this whole 'audition'. And, to my simultaneous
surprise and horror, I'm not hating this. In fact, I feel good.
Like the weight of a thousand worries has been lifted from my
shoulders. I'm no longer in charge of my own short-sighted actions.
I've given all power to someone else...

"How about your bra? Are you willing to part
with that?"

I knew that was coming, but no amount of
mental preparation could stop me flinching prudishly upon hearing
the words. I close my eyes, take another great, deep breath, and
find the fastened hooks with my fingers, forcing it open and
letting the straps fall from my freckled shoulders with no
resistance whatsoever. Then, I watch it fall to the floor, to join
my discarded dress. I already feel his eyes on me, looking at my
exposed breasts with lecherous relish, and feel my nipples harden
to a rigid firmness beneath his very gaze. The warm air feels good
on my naked skin, as I feel my cheeks grow hotter, and realize I
must be blushing.

"You’re nervous. Nervous and beautiful" he
tells me from a mere two feet away, keeping his arms crossed, and
one eyebrow raised quizzically. Something happens; I stumble
slightly, feeling my knees jar from beneath me.
Jesus, what is
wrong with you Chlo
!? I hear the niggling, judgmental voice
inside bawling.
You're going all weak-kneed at a simple
compliment
? But now isn't the time for shame.

"Now," he announces, his voice deep and
booming, carrying an ethereal authority I just can't put my finger
on. "The underwear. How about it?"

Again, I could see that request coming from a
thousand miles away. You can hide nothing in a room as brightly lit
and pure as this. But I know what's expected of me, and I'm in no
mood to disappoint. My hands fall effortlessly to my hips, and with
two trembling fingers tucked under the fabric of each side, my
panties are slid dutifully to my ankles, exposing my shy, albeit
neatly trimmed mound of hair to his awaiting eyes. He's grinning
that grin again; the dry smile from one side of his lips. I don't
see it - instead looking down to his feet, focusing on the
delicately polished black splendor of his shoes. But I feel it.

"Well, Miss Everett," he says, in a tone much
higher, and lighter than his previously barked orders, "you've done
good. I think you're just perfect."

A surge of thrilling, animated excitement
rushes up from the depths of my stomach. I look up to him, finding
those round, gorgeous blue eyes, and peer into them giddily.

"Perfect?!" I can barely stop myself
grinning. I must look pathetic. "Perfect for what?"

"Perfect" he says one final time, putting one
immaculately polished shoe in front of the other, and stepping
towards me slowly, making up the ground between us until his
bristled, handsome face is mere inches from my own. I feel like I'm
back on stage at my school nativity. No, I'm back in the elevator!
I'm waiting for one of a thousand auditions yet again. I can't stop
myself shaking. I feel his breath on my neck, warm and sweet,
exciting goose pimples along my naked arms, and for the briefest of
seconds, I fidget around on the spot, feeling a certain dampness
between my legs.

I close my eyes, expecting his fingers dug
deeply into my arms yet again, and the coarse fabric of his jacket
against my skin as he embraces me tenderly. But it doesn't happen.
Nothing happens. I stand alone.

When I can't keep my eyes closed any longer,
impatiently awaiting his touch upon my devoted, donated body, I
choke a little with disappointment. He's back at his chair, picking
up an armful of papers, and sorting them neatly into a folder.
Then, when he's finished, he glances back at me gingerly, before
striding past me - standing naked and pathetic in the center of the
room - and makes for the door, putting his hand upon the
handle.

"Well Miss Everett, I'll be in touch."

And with those courteous and infuriating
words, he leaves.

Two, maybe three minutes later, and I'm still
standing here, naked and confused, bitter and bemused. What the
fuck just happened? Was I stood up? Did I stand him up? Was there
some thinly veiled part of that audition I didn't grasp?
Was
that even a fucking audition at all
? It occurs to me way too
late that I didn't even ask about the role. I just waltzed in here,
died under a haze of brilliant white light, and gave my empty body
to the enigmatic Daniel Grant. Hell, I don't even know if that's
his real fucking name!

My eyes swim upon a bed of watery tears, as I
find myself battling once again to contain myself. Slowly, I pick
up my underwear, my bra, and my dress, making myself respectable
once more, albeit with a huge chunk of something removed from my
soul. Bounding down the corridor and down the stairs - missing the
elevator entirely - I'm still tossing it over in my mind, trying to
figure out exactly what happens now. Do I wait? Do I go out and
look for this guy myself, and ask him just what the fuck happened?
You know, it's not that I'm disgusted, or even ashamed of what just
happened. On the contrary; I'm
frustrated
.

I charge out of the building, ignoring the
judgmental eyes of the receptionist as I leave, and pace directly
to my car. I need clarity here. I need to be washed clean of the
sickly aspersions and dirtied, worrisome waters that alluring
bastard left me in. I need a spot of soul-searching.

Chapter Four

As soon as I brush past the door, the smell
of stale beer makes my head spin. My hardened nipples chafe against
the inner wires of my bra as I replay the morning's events in my
mind, and alcohol won't anesthetize the pain. No, what I want is
validation
.

"Hey, guys," I announce, strolling up to a
table of college-age--looking guys, before pulling a chair out from
underneath and perching my elbows upon it. They each turn to me one
by one, wordlessly studying my face and figure. Emboldened and
empowered by a strange sense of vigor, I'm not to be perturbed: "Is
today your lucky day?"

They stare at me blankly. For a moment, I
worry that I've come across a table of European exchange students,
fresh off the plane with not a word of English between them, before
one of them - small beady eyes and thin lips - puts his hand to his
chin, and finally answers me.

"Uhm," he says, looking over to his friends
for a moment, and then turning back to me with suspicious eyes. "I
erm, don't know?"

I cross my arms, sighing deeply, before
looking back to them.

"Today is the day you get to fuck me."

That's how I'd imagine it would go down. But
back to reality I go...

***

I haven't even left the car. The engine's
off, and my hand is on the door handle, but I know fully well that
I'm not getting out. Would I have the confidence and self-important
self esteem to randomly proposition someone? Hell no. Would I even
be able to command that sort of control over someone?
Hell
no
.

For the first time in my life, I was
that
close
. For the first time I wasn't obscured by my own dumb
anxieties and worries. For the first time someone had the
opportunity to take everything away from me; my power, my control,
my nerves, my worries, my
virginity
.

Maybe I should have gone to college after
all. Maybe then, being a twenty-two year old virgin wouldn't seem
like such a blight over my head. I could have just gotten it over
with; lost it to some squirrelly frat-boy, and lifted the great
curse that guards the temple. I wish I could be different. I wish,
just for one moment, that I could leave this body and jump into one
of the characters I know so well. I wish I could give everything
up, and be - I don't know -
powerless
?

I start the car back up, and begin the
gridlocked journey home. It’s almost lunch-time, but I'm in no mood
to eat. I just want to get back, throw myself into bed, and put
myself in a slumber so deep I can forget about all of this. The
audition that got so close
.
The man who dared to undress
me
...

Chapter Five

The only thing I hear is the high-pitched and
incessant whine of Carissa's voice, occupying some frequency that
only dogs and my own self can hear. Laughing, gasping, shouting,
screaming. I fucking hate it when she has friends over. Sure; I'm a
hypocrite. I do my own share of laughing and joking and shouting
and screaming. But at least I have the decency to be reading them
from a script.

I clutch the pillow to my face, trying my
hardest to blot out every one of my senses in this world, and
failing entirely. She truly has a voice that can cut glass.
My
voice
, but still. I throw the pillow to the floor, and open my
eyes to the brightness of the afternoon one more time; shafts of
dust-speckled light piercing through the blinds, and the familiar
orange glow of the California Sun outside, neither of which is
doing anything to enhance my mood. Suddenly, I hear Carissa's
droning voice coming to an abrupt stop.
I'm in peace
again
.

Knock, knock-knock.

"Chlo, why didn't you fucking tell me?!"

I feel my cheeks begin to fill with blood,
radiating a flustered and angered heat. I so wish I lived
alone.

"Chlo, wake up, wake up!"

I can't control myself any longer; I bolt
upright, and throw another errant pillow at the door, watching it
bounce off with all the playful energy of a toy. Somehow, she
interprets that as an invitation to enter.
Sigh
. The door
springs open, exposing my otherwise dimly-lit room to a
memory-provoking ocean of bright light, and she hops inside; an
annoying spring in her step.