The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Lydia Richardson’s career as a reporter is going nowhere fast. As a last ditch effort to find success, she decides to take a risk and attempt to get an interview with reclusive billionaire philanthropist Alec Buckingham. But she soon finds there’s more to Mr. Buckingham that anyone ever knew. If Lydia wants her interview, she’ll need to submit to the billionaire and his secret desire. More
Lydia Richardson’s career as a reporter is going nowhere fast. As a last ditch effort to find success, she decides to take a risk and attempt to get an interview with reclusive billionaire philanthropist Alec Buckingham. But she soon finds there’s more to Mr. Buckingham that anyone ever knew. If Lydia wants her interview, she’ll need to indulge the billionaire and his passions — and ultimately agree to completely submit to his secret desire.
WARNING: This 8,800-word story is a work of erotic romance with scenes of vividly-described sex between a regular girl and a powerful alpha male billionaire, bondage, submission, BDSM and a powerfully erotic conclusion.
“What is this…” I started asking, my instincts kicking in. But the man silenced me with a withering stare.
“You may not talk in here,” he said. And for some reason I felt like I had to obey. It’s not that I was scared — though my heart was pounding — but more that I just felt obeying was the only thing I could possibly do. He had an inherent power to him. It was undeniable.
The room had a small kitchen with a bar. He walked over casually as I stood in place, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into. He poured himself a scotch from an old-looking bottle, inhaled deeply, then drank.
“No words, no names,” he said. “If you want to stop, say the word ‘Balvenie.’ And it stops.”
Balvenie. I repeated the word in my head a few times. I didn’t know what it meant, but I was glad to have it. I thought about saying it right then and there, but something held me back. The thought that somehow I could turn this odd situation into an interview, maybe. Fear of losing my job, possibly.
But there was also just plain curiosity.
He didn’t offer me a drink. Instead he turned his eyes to me from behind the bar and said one simple word: “Strip.”
Balvenie. Balvenie. Balvenie. The word was screaming inside me. Just say it, I thought. Just leave.
But something held me there. Some kind of irresistible force. It compelled me to stay. It compelled me to reach behind me and reach for the zipper of my dress.
I couldn’t believe this. This wasn’t me. I didn’t just take my clothes off for people on command. Especially not strangers. It’s not like I had a body like an exotic dancer. I had curves!
But he didn’t seem to care. His eyes were fixated at me, watching as I pulled the straps of my dress down to my sides, exposing my bra, and then started slowly pushing it down my stocking-covered legs. Without thinking, I realized I was trying to be sexy — sensuous.
It was like someone else was in control of my body and I was just watching. It almost felt like a dream, but I knew this was real.
I stood in front of the man — I still didn’t even know if he was Alec Buckingham — in just my underwear and stockings. My bra didn’t even match my panties and I realized there was a tear in the stockings behind my knee. I really hadn’t planned for anyone to see me like this tonight.
He waited, sipping his scotch. I realized he wanted everything off.
I bent over to remove my stockings. “Leave them,” he said in a measured voice.
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