CHAPTER TEN
Beth
The dryer beeped, pulling me away from my notebook. I pushed it aside, along with my laptop, to get the last load of laundry.
It’s not that there isn’t someone to do laundry. Mason’s got it all taken care of, he has a housekeeper who comes once a week to do chores. But somehow, I like doing laundry. I like touching his clothes, feeling the alpha male’s aura even when he’s not technically here. Call it wishy washy, call it dreamy, but it’s just how I am.
So with a low groan, I stretched languorously and levered myself up from the couch. Ummm, that felt good. The afternoon sun filtered in through the big glass windows of Mason’s living room, basking my body in a warm glow. Plus, the stretch pulled at all the aches and pains in the most unexpected places. Between my legs, along my back, and right along the crook of my neck.
Because Mason had been so rough with me last night.
Striding in around eleven, the billionaire was an alpha in heat. Intense desire burned so bright in his blue eyes that it probably would have scared me if I didn’t know better. His movements were frantic, ripping my nightie off, feeling roughly between my legs to check that I was wet.
And of course I was. I wanted him the minute he appeared, my body going loose and warm, liquid gushing between my thighs.
“You’re mine,” was all he managed before bending me over the couch. “All mine.”
How could I deny it? Because it was true. I belong to this man, my body and mind are his to use and enjoy.
And Mason worked me over for sure. Because there wasn’t any warm-up save for a quick brush at my clit, a passing stroke along my puffy lips. In one slow thrust, that giant cock was crammed into my pussy, making me cry out.
“Oh god!” I screamed, head tilting back, eyes falling closed with ecstasy. “Oh god, oh god!”
And Mason was desperate as well. His ball sack bounced against the back of my thighs as the big man crouched over my small form, breathing against my neck.
“Shit,” he rasped. “Shit, I need you so bad, Beth. Fuck fuck fuck.”
We burst almost immediately. I don’t know what was going on, but the hunger was so deep and urgent that within a few seconds, my pussy was pulsing madly, milking that fuckrod within.
“Unnnh!” I cried, spasming beneath him, body going wild. “Unnh, unnh!”
And Mason just shoved further until that dick practically knocked out my teeth.
“FUCK!” he roared, man milk spurting hotly into my pussy cavern. “Fuck, what you do to me Beth!”
But that’s the question. Because what we do to each other is incredible. The billionaire and I can’t get enough of one another, and tasting each other non-stop only makes the fire burn brighter. So whatever he wants, I give. And wherever he’d been to make him horny as hell was fine by me. Because I loved it all, savoring the deep drill, bumping my hips back and forth, begging for more.
So yeah, here I am now in the laundry room, shivering deliciously from the memory of last night. Like a sap, I pulled out a couple of his t-shirts from the dryer, holding the soft fabric to my nose. They smelled so clean and fresh, yet there was the strong tang of man. That unmistakable woodsy scent made shivers run down my spine, body going soft all over again.
Was I a lunatic? Absolutely.
A dreamer lost in the clouds? Right on.
But the thing is I felt like a real girlfriend now. Although we’ve never had “the talk,” I was here practically every night, letting myself in with a key, punching in the building’s confidential access codes. And it was sweet, really. Dinner was ready on the table when he came home. And when Mason wasn’t here, I made myself comfortable doing homework, experimenting in the kitchen, or sometimes just daydreaming about the alpha male. It’s the good life for sure, living in the lap of luxury.
What did I do to deserve this?
I’ve never been so happy before, ready to float off into Heaven.
Should I pinch myself to make sure it’s real?
But the thing is, I think he really cares about me too. Although Mason never says anything about “love” or “relationships,” the way he touches me makes me think it’s real. His hands and his looks make my heart beat fast, almost pounding right out of my chest sometimes. And it’s been going on for a while now. This isn’t just some flash in the pan, it’s gotta be the genuine thing.
Yes, he loves me. I’m pretty sure of it at least.
After all, why would Mason let me hang out all day and all night if he wasn’t in love?
He could get anyone, but I’m the lucky girl.
And the thought made me flush happily. Because somehow I’ve struck a vein of gold, and the ecstasy is overwhelming, making me light up from within. I love him, and he loves me. I know it.
Really, I’m the luckiest girl in New York. Maybe even the world.
Smiling like a crazy person, I grabbed Mason’s folded shirts and underwear and hugged them, nearly undoing all my careful work from five minutes ago. And then dancing, I waltzed into the bedroom and into the ginormous walk-in closet.
Yes, a walk-in closet here in NYC, where apartments go for three thousand per square foot. It’s carpeted with three full-length mirrors, tons of storage space and even a small divan, in case you want to take a seat.
And the most amazing thing is that it’s filled. When I started dating the billionaire, I didn’t have much, and the things I did have were shabby and raggedy-looking, hanging limply on the rail. But the CEO took one look at that stuff and ordered me to the shops. To the finest boutiques to buy an entire wardrobe.
Initially, I couldn’t.
“No,” I protested feebly. “It’s too much. I don’t need an evening gown, much less two.”
But the billionaire looked up sharply from the report he was reading.
“You need it,” came that deep growl, blue eyes running up and down my frame hotly. “You need it, even if it’s so I can rip it off that sweet bod later.”
And I had to laugh at that one, even as my pussy gushed hotly. Because Mason bought me a closet full of designer clothes, enough to last a lifetime. What man would do that if he wasn’t in love? What man would spend thousands of dollars on women’s lingerie, women’s evening wear, day clothes, swimsuits, you name it, if he wasn’t thinking long-term?
Sashaying to the dresser, I pulled open the top drawer, placing his underwear inside. Lightly giggling, a smile ran over my face. Those boxers were loose for a reason, and it was my man’s dong. Imagining him in tighty-whities was crazy, he probably couldn’t even get that massive firehose to fit.
Then came the t-shirts. Mmm, my hand trailed over a soft grey one, visualizing the fabric pulled tight over Mason’s chest. Because the alpha had a way about him, and he could wear anything, including humble grey t-shirts, and still make them look damn good.
But right. I was here to do laundry, not moon about endlessly. So my hand pulled at the second drawer, trying to get it open, yanking at the hinge.
Hmm. It was stuck. Weird, because the drawer was fine the last time I was here. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I got down on my knees, both hands on the wood this time, and began to pull. Ooof, it was heavy, the dresser was literally rocking a bit on its feet, indentations forming in the rug.
But then the entire drawer came loose with a sudden jolt, causing me to fly back and land on my rump. Ouch! At least there was a lot of padding to soften the fall.
But as I picked myself up, something caught my eye.
A small notebook, totally innocuous.
It was a cheap drugstore wirebound, the cover dark blue and slightly creased.
Why would Mason have something like this? Everything he used was of top quality, made of leather and embossed with his initials. Was it someone else’s? And how did it get here?
With curious fingers, I picked it up, running my fingers over the cover. Nothing special, just a plain memo pad, something fifth graders would use for doodles and homework.
So without a second thought, I opened it. Maybe the owner had written their name and address on the front page, and we could mail it back to them. Or maybe there was a phone number or email address, and I could reach out to return the errant notebook.
But as my eyes scanned the first page, my mouth fell open.
Because this was no fifth grader’s notebook.
Nothing so normal.
It was a book about women. A sex book. My eyes scanned the words quickly, growing wide as I read.
January 6. Nicole. Blonde. Curtains match the drapes. C cups. Wish she wasn’t so skinny.
Likes spanking, deep anal, goes crazy for facials and humiliation kink. Wants regular BDSM-style dom. Nice for a week or two, but too clingy. Recommend. B+
Then another entry:
January 9. Daisy. Shaved everywhere. Double D’s. Nice, thick body, big, dark brown nips. Loves to ride dick and give head. Swallower, no spitting. Great for a one or two night stand. Not into relationships. Highly recommend. A-
January 10. Ella. Dark and delicious. Very small tits. A cup? Maybe a small B. Every part of her tastes sweet. Doesn’t do anal but loves to get her pussy and asshole eaten. Can come ten or more times in one night. Big ego. Don’t touch unless you have balls of steel and a tongue that can go all night. Tentatively recommend. More to come. B.
And it went on and on like that. Entry after entry, filling the notebook full. What the hell? How many women were in here? Who was writing all this?
But my heart filled my throat, a lump growing large. Because this was Mason’s handwriting for sure. The precise, elegant scrawl, the way he described women. It was all him. How many times had he counted my orgasms, urging me on? How many times had he palmed my tits, saying, “What size are these? Double Ds”? Multiple times, that’s what.
Tears started rushing to my eyes then. Because clearly, my man had an MO. The things he’d said to me were things he’d said to tons of other women.
Come for me baby.
Ride Daddy’s dick.
Swallow honey, don’t spit. My semen’s good for you.
The words rang in my head over and over again. Oh god, oh god. How many women had heard these very sentences? Hundreds? Thousands even? My head spun and I leaned back dizzily, finding support against the wall of the closet.
But the voice in my head piped up then.
Get real, it scolded. So what if Mason’s been with other women? Of course he has a past. He’s forty-five years old, you think you’re the first chick he’s dated?
I swallowed heavily. That was true. He hadn’t been a virgin our first time together, nor did I expect him to be. The man’s an alpha male after all, likely sexually active for decades.
But still. Why would he write it down? What the hell was this “grading system” about? His own pleasure? Or was he sharing the details with other people? Was I in it? Nauseated, my stomach churned once more.
But I had to know. Flipping to the back, the words seared my eyes.
March 9. Maisie. Hot chick but dumb as a bag of rocks. Do not recommend. The brain cells you’ll lose aren’t worth it. D.
My breath came hard. It wasn’t me. It was just some girl named Maisie, who’d gotten a D no less. Relief coursed through my veins. I wasn’t here, I was someone special. Someone who deserved more than a few lines scrawled in some random notebook.
But suddenly, realization hit me. Because we were on the last page, and this entry read March. It was September now. Was there more? Was there another notebook?
And flying into action, I scrabbled through the drawer, tossing things left and right. Who cared if I had to fold these clothes all over again? Who cares if I was making a mess? All that mattered was getting to the bottom of this sordid mystery.
Unfortunately, there was another book down there. Another three books to be precise. And like a woman in a trance, I picked up the newest-looking one, also a cheap wire-bound, blue with stiff, fresh sheets.
Opening the pad, I flipped to the last used page. And there it was. My nightmare stared me in the face, throat going dry as a scream welled up inside.
July 10. Elizabeth (Beth). Luscious, curvy, ripe. Hot as hell. Wanted her the second I saw her. Virgin. Her hymen tasted almost too good to be true. Fucked it out of her. Loves to take my dick almost as much as I love giving it to her. A+
My eyes began to sting, a real scream ringing out then, shaking the walls of the closet.
Mason did this? He did this? To me?
I started to hyperventilate, the breath whistling in and out between my vocal cords. Saliva filled my mouth, and yet it was dry as a bone. Because my heart was broken, shattered into smithereens, left here on the floor of the closet. The book slipped from my nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a light thump.
But then it got even worse.
Because pictures had been tucked away among the pages, and they tumbled out now.
Naked pictures.
The ones he took of me way back when.
My thighs spread wide and slutty, smeared with juices.
My pussy open for the camera, pink insides gleaming.
In fact, Mason’s fingers held me open in one shot, a big digit teasing my hole.
They were clearly me. My face in the far corner of some shots, eyes drowsy with lust, boobies huge and heaving. And worst of all were the captions written at the bottom, clear as day in big bold letters.
Hymen visible #1.
Hymen visible #2.
Hymen visible #3.
Oh god, oh god. Categorizing them, numbering all the shots so that they were organized and clear. And sure enough, there it was. Deep in my insides, there was the tangible proof of my innocence, the tiny bit of tissue winking and gleaming.
My hands trembled, flipping through the photos, barely able to fumble through. A photo of his dick deep in my insides, the shaft spreading my pussy lips as I threw my head back lustfully. A close-up of my clit, hard and stiff, begging to be rubbed. And then the final one. Mason’s huge dick, spent and shiny, still drizzling cum from the tip, with a telltale smear of blood on the side.
It was a nightmare come true. My worst fears brought to life in blinding, 3-D focus. Oh my god, oh my god. I’d forgotten about these pics completely, caught up in the bliss of my new life. After all, it’d happened so long ago, never to take place again.
So what was this? What the hell was this sordid collection? Some kind of personal Playboy stash? And with trembling fingers, I shook each one of the notebooks, revealing a flurry of pictures, all of them labeled with the names, positions, and kinks of various women.
Oh god, god.
What?
Why?
And most importantly, who’d seen these?
I sobbed and grabbed my chest. Because the pictures had to be for sharing. Why would they be labeled meticulously, other peoples’ fingerprints practically visible? No way was Mason keeping a log just for kicks, to read and re-read on his own. Other men had seen these photos and devoured the entries, hooting and hollering with amusement. I’d been used. We’d all been used.
A nasty sob tore through my chest then, loud and ugly. Because the truth was crushing. These weren’t the actions of a man in love. These were the actions of a man who used women, who didn’t give a shit about the females who creamed on his dick. All he cared about was another notch in his bedpost, another feather in his cap. And I just happened to be the latest feather. Maybe even the biggest, brightest feather, seeing that Mason had taken so many hymen shots, labeling them all carefully.
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
Please God, save me!
But nobody was listening.
Crying with heaving spasms, I grabbed the notebooks and shoved them into my backpack, hands trembling. My body ran hot and cold at once, face flushed, palms clammy and wet. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel, and ravaging pain tore through my soul, making me double over.
Because my dreams were crushed.
They’d been nothing but the imagination of an innocent girl.
Mason didn’t want me.
He didn’t care.
He just wanted another log in his fuck book to show his friends.
And as a virgin, I’d been the biggest prize of all.
With another broken-hearted cry, my legs tore from the apartment, ugly tears streaming down my face. Choked sobs rang in the elegantly-appointed hallway.
Because I was nothing.
Nada. Zip. Zilch.
I was a mite to be used, and Mason had betrayed me in the worst way possible.
Oh god, how had this happened?
The only route forwards was escape … and I was never coming back.