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So yeah, I’m living own personal La-La Land, a dream world where anything can happen, where memories are made. And although technically, I’m the help, it doesn’t mean that we cook and clean, or do any domestic tasks whatsoever. Just by using my eyes and ears, I can tell that’s not what’s expected. The other girls who work as servers are just like me, prancing around only in a thong and high heels as they served drinks, as they brought out food, as they did any number of tasks in the nude, out in the open. Clearly, cooking and cleaning aren’t priorities whatsoever, there must be robots or something that keep this place spic and span.
So yeah, we’re more of a special type of personal servant. And as far as I can tell, a lot of girls like it. They smile at the Club members, they simper, they preen, they hold their breasts out to be kissed, offering the men a taste. And it all happens in public too, no one ever seemed shy, no place off-limits. Sure, some guys bring the girls back to their rooms for a thorough going-over, but some guys like it in the open with their friends. After all, I saw those Club members at the bar. It was only a group of two or three males, but I saw how they were sharing that one girl, letting her suck their cocks in rotation as they chatted by the fireplace, drinking bourbon like it was no big deal for a female to be giving blow jobs as you hung out with your buddies.
So yeah, the Billionaires Club is a pretty sensational place, and my particular billionaire is absolutely one of them. I mean, Kane’s different because he’s literally bigger than the others, a huge six four or six five, tall, domineering and arrogant. And he’s different because I’ve never met someone so charismatic, those blue eyes penetrating, an aura of command surrounding him.
But at the same time, he’s a Club member and likes to use the facilities to the max. So yeah, Kane had pulled that potted plant over so that we had some semblance of privacy, but the dark man had no qualms about asking me to sashay around the bar, tits out, the outline of my pussy lips visible beneath the thin silk of my thong. He had no qualms about snapping off my panties and licking my pussy, tasting my hymen right there in the middle of the bar. And as embarrassing as it is, I liked it. No, I loved it, I loved feeling a man’s mouth on my private places, I loved holding myself open, giving myself over to what only the billionaire could provide, every sense overloaded, jolts of electricity coursing through my cunt, running to my fingers and toes until I melted with desire.
But now, as he strode into his personal suite, the door hissing shut behind that broad back, the imbalance in our relationship hit me like a blow to the head. The dark man dropped me on a huge king-size bed, and I sat up, bouncing and jouncing, every part of me nude and available.
“Um, I’m sorry to ask,” I began hesitantly.
The big man shot me a look in the middle of getting undressed and my mouth went dry. Holy shit, I could glimpse a sliver of bronzed chest beneath that shirt, so broad, so taut and masculine that all thoughts flew out of my mind.
“Yeah?” he asked, ripping his shirt off, and in two seconds, his pants were gone as well, that huge, male form on display, like a warrior come to life. My insides melted, going liquid with warmth, and oh god, but another gust of pussy juice dripped from my interior, forming a wet spot on the bedspread, giving me away.
But I had to get it together, I had to figure out what was going on. I hadn’t been auctioned, and I needed to make money. I had to figure out how to provide for Nana and Mattie, given the changed circumstances. Just the thought of my little brother hungry made me sober up, forced me to gather my courage.
So I cleared my throat, and tried to look dignified, which was ludicrous given that we were both nude, our bodies dying for one another, my boobs trembling, the nipples hard, with his cock jutting out at me, tip dripping.
“Um,” I began again, clearing my throat, trying to rip my eyes from that amazing male form. “I was wondering what I should call you?” I began lamely. Oh my god, oh my god, this was classic Becky Wright. Instead of working the conversation in a subtle, elegant manner, the question came bursting out like a fifth-grader, abrupt and to the point. I colored, biting my lip. “Just wondering,” I muttered, trailing my finger over the silk duvet.
