Paraded before the Billionaires Read online

  PARADED BEFORE THE BILLIONAIRES

  (BOOK FIVE OF THE INITIATION 2 SERIES)

  By Aphrodite Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt

  Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

  Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords

  WORKS BY APHRODITE HUNT

  The ‘Initiation’ series

  Open Your Legs for Me

  Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

  Thighs Wide Apart

  Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

  The Final Initiation

  The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

  The ‘Initiation 2’ series

  Open Your Legs for my Family

  Bend Over for my Family

  Publicly Display Yourself for Me

  Sex Slave at Sea

  Paraded before the Billionaires

  ‘The Royal Captive’ series

  Prince Miro’s Capture

  Prince Miro’s Submission

  Prince Miro’s Enslavement

  Prince Miro’s Punishment

  Prince Miro’s Escape

  Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation

  The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3

  The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6

  The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series

  I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac

  Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me

  Gang Banged by the Chain Gang

  The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series

  Her First Clit Ring

  Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage

  The ‘Undercover’ series

  Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor

  Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO

  Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)

  When He’s Inside You

  My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper

  The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)

  Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens

  Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates

  PARADED BEFORE THE BILLIONAIRES

  1

  The Auction.

  That’s what they are preparing me – us – for.

  I have only ever been to one auction. Back when I was twelve, we were visiting my Aunt Ruth in Sacramento. She took us to this place out in the rocky country where there was no cloud in the sky and the sun beat down on our heads like God’s own wrath, and we have to buy those little one-dollar children’s umbrellas to shield our heads from getting baked into stupidity.

  We sat at the stalls and watched goats and sheep being led in from the pens, one by one. The auctioneer went on his rollercoaster spiel –

  “AndwhatdoyougiveforthisfineprizeBillygoat? Takealookatthosefinewithersladiesandgentlemen. DoIheartwohundred? Youtherewiththecowboyhat. We’vegottwohumdred. Who’dgivemetwofiftyforthisfinespecimenofgoathood?”

  and not understanding what’s going on the half of it.

  My take home message then was:

  IT’S NOT GREAT TO BE A GOAT AT AN AUCTION.

  Or any other mammal, for the matter.

  So you see, I have come to associate ‘auctions’ with ‘animals’, not fine art or splendid relics from dead people’s estates. And although I am a contracted sex slave of my accord – prey to the whims of my masters – I still don’t consider myself an ‘animal’.

  It’s just too debasing.

  I am a doormat. I admit that. But being auctioned is beneath doormat material. It’s kitchen sink scum material.

  No, lower, if there’s anything lower than kitchen sink scum.

  *

  But wait.

  This is no ordinary auction. This is an auction for philanthropy. Only the philanthropists here are lecherous men and women – all billionaires and CEOs, no doubt, and accompanied by their spouses and offspring – willing to part with their money for a good cause.

  In return for a willing sex slave who will do anything they command, of course.

  Human booty. Traded for a good cause.

  It’s not just Alice and me either.

  Russell has decided – in the spirit of charity – to auction off his own son, Max, and Alice’s fiancé, Greg. Selfless philanthropist, this. Maybe they should rechristen him Abraham.

  So there are four of us in the holding pen, awaiting our fates in dread. We are all naked. The pen is the size of a prison cell, surrounded at three sides by harsh brick walls and fronted by iron bars.

  We are in the dungeon of Russell Devlin’s mansion. (See? I knew there was a dungeon, and this is the first time I have ever been in it.) Alice is cowering in one corner of the cell, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering.

  Max is kneeling beside her, talking to her in a low voice. She is not responding, not even looking at him. I truly believe she hasn’t come to terms that she is now on the same level as me – her sworn enemy, the LOWLY-OF-LOWLIES-KITCHEN SCUM-SHE-DETESTS-MOST-IN-THE-WORLD. Max’s hand rests on her naked curved back, and his manner is big brother comforting (even though he’s younger than she is) and attentive.

  Greg and I sit cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the cell, watching them. Greg’s expression is conflicted. His eyes show concern for Alice, and yet he’s a little guarded because Alice’s little brother is at her side.

  I don’t think there is any love lost between Max and Greg.

  As for me, I don’t begrudge Max’s quality time with his sister. She was here before me, and she will probably be here long after I’ve gone – courtesy of the impending-breakup-that-will-break-my-heart-but-I-know-is-inevitable. Because let’s face it – Max and I are from two different worlds. Every day I spend with him and his family affirms that like nails in the lid of my slowly tightening coffin.

  Nevertheless, I would feel a lot more comfortable if only I wasn’t so certain that there was something more than healthy sibling camaraderie between Max and his sister.

  To affirm my suspicions, Alice finally turns to her little brother and buries her face into his neck. His right arm creeps around her and her arms go around his waist. They hold each other like this for what seems to be an eternity. The scene would be really tender had they both not been naked and clutching one another like they are the only two people left in a world that is about to terminate.

  My own thoughts are a dark raincloud.

  Greg espies my face and creeps closer to me. I can’t help staring at the dome-shaped barbells on either end of his penile head. I vividly remember that luscious rod – embellished thus – spearing me. The full recollection of Alice’s cruelty comes tumbling back into my repressed psyche.

  Alice.

  With my boyfriend, Max.

  Her brother.

  I shiver.

  “Don’t worry,” Greg whispers, reading my mind, as always. “Whatever they had, they had it a long time ago before you and I ever came onto the scene. We can’t undo it, and neither can they. What’s important now is that they don’t revisit whatever . . . it is. Was.”

  I nod guardedly. I can only hope.

  “Have you ever been in an auction?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Do you at least know what to expect? I mean . . . you’ve been kinda doing this slave thing for a lot longer than I have.”

  He flinches. “I’ve heard rumors of what really went on in those auctions. And from people who came back, thou
gh I never really got to talk to anyone firsthand.”

  Ice creeps down my spine. I blame it on the lowered temperature of the cell. The walls and stone floor are cold after all, even though it’s Indian summer out there.

  “What happened?”

  “One guy was auctioned off to the Middle East. He never came back.”

  “Why?”

  Visions of a handsome male sex slave being tortured and thrown into an eternal prison pretty much like Abu Ghraib swarm in my fevered brain.

  “I don’t know if he wanted to stay on his own accord or if they offered him something beyond whatever he can get here . . . but he never came back. At least, that’s what we would like to believe. His family never raised a fuss because . . . we believe . . . they were compensated handsomely in a separate secret arrangement.”

  I clap a hand to my mouth.

  “He’s not dead or mutilated, is he?”

  Suddenly, my fear rises to panic pitch levels. My throat feels choked and an invisible collar gags me.

  Greg’s eyes glaze over and there is a slight furrowing of his brow to suggest he doesn’t know either. But he quickly recovers.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so, but you don’t know for sure.”

  “We have it in our contracts. They’re not supposed to hurt us.”

  Yeah, I want to say, but accidents happen all the time. What if they don’t mean to hurt us, but something inadvertently goes wrong anyway? What happens next? When billionaires are involved, it would have to be a cover-up with large sums of money being exchanged.

  I’m scared now. I sort of knew what I was getting into with Russell and his family, but this is a whole different ballgame altogether. I’m not prepared for it.

  Oh help me, I think I’m hyperventilating!

  Max turns to me, concerned.

  “Gina, are you OK?”

  No, I’m not. I can’t breathe. I’m claustrophobic and I need to get out of this cell. I’m clawing the walls, raking my fingernails against the hard brick. I want to scream but my vocal cords are frozen.

  “Oh God, she’s having a panic attack,” Greg yells. “We shouldn’t have discussed the auction.”

  Both men are at my side as I restlessly struggle against their grasps, against myself, against everything I have put myself into. This is it. I want out. I just have to say but the word and I can forfeit everything I have earned so far. I can tear the contract up. I don’t have to go through with this.

  “Gina?”

  I can hear Max calling me from very far away, but my vision is obscured by a pink film. I can feel their hands grabbing my arms and my shoulders, but it’s as though it’s happening to another person. I’m swimming through primordial goo in some fabricated womb and it’s viscous and claustrophobic and oxygen-depriving and terrifying.

  “Breathe, Gina, breathe.”

  Max wraps me tightly in his arms as though to permeate me with his very warmth. Somehow, it works. I find my breathing evening out and my heart rate fall. I allow myself to be cloaked in his loving embrace.

  My fugue slowly clears.

  Am I being foolish?

  Or am I the only realist in this room?

  Max shoots a glare at Greg. “Why the hell did you have to scare her like that?”

  Greg’s face is ashen. “I didn’t know she was going to go off the deep end.”

  “My father will never let anything truly bad happen to us. You know that.”

  “Oh really? Whatever happened to – ?”

  “Shut up, Greg.” Max’s chest vibrates against mine as his voice booms forth.

  Greg shuts up, but the look in his eyes as he regards me is knowing and wary.

  “Gina, it’s going to be OK.” Max’s tone soothes, like gentle waves on a beachfront. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. You know that.”

  Maybe it’s not up to you, I want to say.

  We are interrupted by footsteps on the stone floor. Heathcliff, the butler who has been so kind to me, comes into view with a large brass key.

  “Good evening,” he greets us. No ‘sir’ or ‘miss’ now, I note, even though he sounds as polite and cheerful as always. “I have come to take you to the Atrium.”

  “What for?” Alice demands. Her shoulders are tense and her firm breasts are high on her chest. How easily she slips into command mode, even though she’s depressed. I suspect her father put her into this to teach her humility – which she richly deserves, of course.

  I will never be able to feel too much sympathy for someone who was born with a diamond-encrusted spoon in her mouth . . . and who uses that spoon to shove it into the throats of other lowlier beings.

  “To prepare all of you for the auction festivities tomorrow,” Heathcliff says pleasantly as he inserts the key in the lock.

  Festivities?

  For an auction?

  2

  OK.

  There is an agenda. A table of events.

  Seriously.

  It’s like the build-up to the auction.

  There’s:

  A PARADE

  A RACE

  TALENTIME

  DISPLAY

  AUCTION

  What the hell do they mean?

  Max shakes his head as he bathes me in the Roman Atrium – a Roman bathhouse-type structure located somewhere in the mansion. Another room I haven’t been in, of course, but I’m getting used to that.

  “I have never been to an auction,” he remarks, sponging my breasts.

  We are both immersed in the rectangular pool, bubbling with hot water. In another corner, Greg is bathing Alice, whose blonde hair is wet and plastered all over her lovely back. They are engaged in low conversation, and concern is etched on Greg’s handsome face.

  “How come?” I say.

  “The ones run by my father’s friends in the exclusive club are meant for people with a certain financial equity. Meaning billionaires.”

  “And you’re not one?”

  I don’t mean this to come out as teasing – because frankly, my mood is far from being a coquette right now – but somehow it does.

  “Not yet.” He grimaces. “My father doesn’t plan to make it easy.”

  “So he’s going to make you sweat it out for your inheritance?”

  “Yes. I have to get a job, do other stuff to prove myself . . . like this.”

  I shake my head. It all seems so . . . weird. But then, the Devlins are anything but normal.

  “And the money from the auction goes to . . . ?”

  “Charitable causes.” His hands move down to my belly where he lovingly dips the tip of the sponge into my umbilicus. I shiver in the slowly building anticipation. “Darfur. Somalia. Laos landmine victims.”

  “That’s noble.”

  What a method to be noble.

  “Billionaires are complicated beings. Eccentric. They like their fun, and they also like to be charitable. In every person, there exist multiple facets – cruelty, kindness, ruthlessness, gentleness – not usually in equal measure. The same Fortune 500 CEO who has fired his secretary that very morning because she got pregnant with his kid may make a ten million dollar donation to UNICEF at noon.”

  Max shrugs as if he’s seen it all before.

  “So who’s the audience for this auction?”

  “It varies, I guess. Sometimes the same people appear every year, so I’ve been told. Other times, there are newbies. Maybe the newly minted rich. We’ll have sheikhs, movie stars, rock stars, tycoons, princes – ”

  “Princes.” My mind is swirling with the possibilities.

  Max lowers the sponge so that it is below the surface of the water. He trails it down the smooth slope of my lower abdomen. He pauses just above my pubic line.

  I’m shaved, of course. I’ve bikini waxed every other day since I’ve met Max because I know he likes my pussy hairless. Having a hairless pussy makes me feel a lot sexier too, not to mention a lot hornier.

  “Yo
u know that we are not allowed to have sex from now on unless instructed,” he warns.

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s the rules. Once I’ve become a sex slave, my body is not my own. It is my master’s to do as he pleases.”

  “So you are in the same boat as me.”

  “All four of us.” His beautiful face is solemn. “So I can’t fuck you, as much as I want to right now. This is as far as I can go.”

  To demonstrate, he slides the sponge down to my labia, where he slyly prizes up and digs beneath the petals of my flesh. I gasp as the sponge brushes my throbbing clit, already primed by his previous sponging ministrations upon my breasts and belly.

  His fingers lift my labia, and with his third finger, he presses the sponge hard upon my clit – eliciting a spasm of pleasure.

  I give a little moan. From across the pool, Alice turns to regard me with a glare.

  “Ssssh.” Max grins. “Don’t let Heathcliff know you’re having too much fun.”

  It isn’t Heathcliff as much as Alice, I want to say. Perhaps she’s jealous.

  Of you. With me.

  His fingers surreptitiously massage the tender flesh on the under-leaves of my outer pussy lips. It’s ohhhhh so enticing. Then he snares and compresses my clit, so that my little nub is straining with need and heat – even beyond the delicious warmth of the water – and I’m trying not to make a noise, even though my fists and toes are curling wantonly and for the love of God.

  He maintains his firm hold on my clit and labia while his other hand slips below my pussy. He inserts two fingers into my pussy hole. Ooooooh. In the bubbling water, my entire body – including the tunnel of my vagina – is languorously suffused with warmth, and his intrusion becomes a lovely addition to my general state of heightened arousal.