Billionaire Kink Read online

  Billionaire Kink

  By Virginia Wade

  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.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  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 fun
ding?”

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  I spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning, my mind playing out strange and disturbing images of what I thought Mr. Gordon would require of me. In all the scenarios, I pictured myself mistreated and humiliated. I had never had sex with a woman before, nor did I fantasize about them. The thought of sleeping with more than one man at a time and possibly being gagged and bound was horrifying.

  I’m not cut out for this.

  By the time I sat down to my first cup of coffee, I had made up my mind. There was no way in hell I was going to do this. I would have to obtain the funding from another company. My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew I was even considering such perversions.

  My cell buzzed. “Hello?”

  “Gretchen?”

  “Emily?”

  “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to call you all night.”

  I knew by the tone in her voice that something was wrong. “What happened?”

  “We’ve had rain for a week. There was a flood, Gretch. We had to evacuate.”

  “Are you all right? Are the patients okay?”

  “Yes, but the clinic’s gone. The supplies are gone. I grabbed some medicine, but…shit…everything’s down river.”

  “Oh, my God.” We didn’t have insurance for this. “Emily.”

  “I think I’m done,” she cried. “It’s over.”

  James Gordon would pay for a new clinic, if I agreed to be his sex toy. I had no choice now. “I’ll wire you what’s left in the trust, Em. I found a benefactor. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “You have?”

  “I worked out a deal with JSG Bioport Labs yesterday.”

  “Gretchen! That’s fantastic. Oh, thank the Lord.”

  “You’ll be all right. You’ll be able to rebuild. I’ll send you everything you need.”

  “You’re so awesome, Gretch. I owe you big time.”

  You have no idea what I’ll have to do to fix this. “Let me make a few calls.”

  “You’re the best. I love you, sis.”

  “Love you too.”

  I was on the phone all morning arranging the shipment of supplies and medication. I signed Mr. Gordon’s “business” proposal and faxed it to his office. Within an hour, I received the transfer of a significant amount of money. The efforts to rebuild the clinic in Honduras took up most of my time that week. I also found the perfect location for the Family Free clinic in Chicago. I hoped to open it by the end of the month. I relied on the help of volunteer doctors and nurses, who would generously donate their time and expertise. I would have to hire two full-time nurses to oversee the center and manage the patients. By the second week, the Honduran clinic was up and running again, and the space I rented in the Lakeview West area was being renovated. I’d almost forgotten about my “business agreement” with Mr. Gordon, until I received a text message with the time and address of our first rendezvous. He was sending a car, and I had to rush to get ready, while nervous twinges of anticipation coursed through me.

  I paused several times that day questioning the sanity of this scheme and the sexual proclivities of the ultra-wealthy. From what I understood, I would not have any physical contact with Mr. Gordon at all. He would observe the events as a spectator, while filming the deeds for posterity. I had been assured that only Mr. Gordon would view the tape, as he was the legal custodian of the property. This relieved me…somewhat.

  My phone buzzed, distracting me from my troubling thoughts. The car was waiting. I grabbed my handbag and left the apartment. A sleek, black limousine was parked out front. A liveried chauffeur held open the door for me, and, as we pulled from the curb, I realized it was too late to turn back. The soaring skyscrapers of the city grew smaller by the mile, while the greenness of the Lake Bluff area came into view. We passed a quaint village with storefront shops and cafes. I had spent time at Sunrise beach when I was a student at Chicago State, and I had once been engaged to a man whose family owned a pretty Queen Ann Victorian three blocks from the shore.

  The chauffeur hadn’t spoken one word to me. He directed the car into a secluded driveway, surrounded by a canopy of trees, which all but hid a modest residence. The red brick, two-story structure waited at the end of the drive, appearing as ordinary and innocuous as any home. Did you think they’d have a sign out front that said, wild,
kinky sex inside? I exited the vehicle, avoiding eye contact with the driver. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I headed for the entranceway, but I had been expected, and the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman with graying hair and an agreeable smile.

  “Welcome, Ms. Fox.”

  “Hi.”

  Although I had read the contract fifty times over, I still feared something horrible would happen to me. I was, after all, placing myself in a stranger’s hands to do with as he pleased. I worried that Mr. Gordon was a sadist or worse and that I would possibly be subjected to sexual torture, although the contract specifically stated this would not occur. I had the right to object to any sex act, and it would stop immediately.

  “This way, please.” The vaulted interior revealed wooden floors, cream-colored walls, and sparse furniture. I followed the woman up a curving staircase. She opened a door, exposing a large bedroom. “Here you are. The bathroom is to your right. Mr. Gordon will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.” The door closed behind her, leaving me alone. The bed, with its brass headboard and beige quilt, would be the scene of unknown depravity. This is where I would…perform for the mysterious billionaire. I stepped out of my shoes and undid my jeans, lowering the material down my legs. I placed the clothing over a nearby chair. Remembering the surveillance camera, I stiffened, feeling violated.

  Am I being watched right now?

  I removed my bra and panties quickly and threw the robe on. I stared at the ceiling, searching for a camera. Paranoia took over, and I began to stalk around the room, investigating every nook and cranny, looking for little black holes.

  “Have you lost something?”

  I spun around to find Mr. Gordon, dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit and tie. “Um, no.”

  “I think I know what you’re searching for.” His look was vaguely detached, yet amused. “It’s here.” He walked to a shelf across the room and pointed at a small opening in the wood.