Chosen By The Billionaire
Some days, I would just look at myself in the mirror, and I would sigh. I'd always had this feeling like I, and myself as a whole, were just all around too vanilla to be of any interest to anyone or anything, and that I would never be one of those lucky people who figure out what it is that makes them happy in life. It just seemed beyond what I was capable of, like my indecision and my inability to be what other people wanted me to be would be my ultimate pitfall in life, and like there was no redemption for me because of that.
To put it simply, I'd always been something of a curvier girl, and this had led to a lot of internal debating with myself as to my worthiness. We live in a time, obviously, where people at least attempt to be more accepting of people despite, and even because of their differences, and in some ways that should have been encouraging to me. But it still didn't do a whole hell of a lot for my confidence for some reason, and honestly, that sort of “universal acceptance” stuff could feel patronizing to me in my insecurity. Like, it was more of a consolation than a comfort. A nice enough sentiment, sure, and probably the way that all people should try to live. But when you really step back and cut out the crap, you can't honestly believe that people won't judge you by your appearance. That's just a fantasy, pure and simple, and if you live your life under the impression that things are really like that, you're basically trying to undermine millennia upon millennia of fundamental human nature.
Being talked down to, and told to accept traits that I didn't like, was the last thing that I felt that I needed, and I knew that all the rationalizing in the world wouldn't do me a lick of good. The question was, then, whether my curves were really the problem, or if the problem with my life was a lack of self-confidence, whether independent of my physical issues or otherwise.
On self-inspection, it really did seem like my sensitivities with regard to my appearance were something of an exaggeration- I was actually a rather attractive girl, once I could look around the own obstacles I had set up for myself. I had a roundish, beautiful face, with piercing blue eyes, and eyelashes that fluttered back at me from the opposite side of the mirror. Long chestnut hair flowed down from the top of my head to around my shoulders, framing my button nose and small, delicate lips like a photograph, the combined effect looking not altogether unpleasant, not by any means. Moving down, my breasts were large, round, and firm, a perk, I supposed, of being curvaceous, my dark cleavage deeply cut and tantalizing- the effect, I was sure, the same on a man as it currently was on myself. My curves, I decided firmly, and made myself believe without question, were in all the right places, and as my eyes danced down along them, they seemed to follow a certain tantalizing rhythm, zigging and zagging at just the right moments, and nearly making my head spin as I at last landed down at my waist, and I had to take a moment's rest before continuing.
Finally, I turned around to face the wall, with my butt toward the mirror, and craned my neck around to inspect my booty's reflection as well. It took a bit of standing on tiptoes with the mirror at its current angle for me to be able to see derriere in it, but at last I managed to see exactly what I wanted to, and the fact was confirmed for me, on no uncertain terms- I had a nice ass...
Guys, or at least pop culture would have one to believe, were all about big and juicy cabooses these days, and by all accounts I seemed to possess such assets in abundance. Physically, at least, there seemed to be no good reason why I couldn't seem to land a boyfriend, judging by my meeting of nearly all criteria by which the opposite sex are said to peruse for a mate.
This, then, seemed to indicate that the problem lay on a much deeper level than the surface alone, which I'd half come to suspect and fear in my analysis... It wasn't guys being shallow or guys unable to develop an interest in me- it was, quite simply, I concluded, that my own standards were too high. That I'd read too many damn romance novels to settle for any sort of real life relationships, expecting something miraculous in my life that I was sure to never truly experience, and that no woman ever did, really, or at least not in this lifetime.
The talented and insanely productive (not to mention wealthy) Arthur Benton could be said to be highly responsible for my disillusionment with the dating scene, and had, over the years, largely shaped my delusional impression of what the ideal man should be like. With no relationship experience of my own to my credit, I'd become very bookish over time, devouring the sorts of romance novels one might be wont to scoff at on the bookshelves, the dime paperbacks with smutty-looking covers of shirtless men ravishing the bodies of beautiful women in their tattered dresses, with titles so cheesy that they're impossible not to roll your eyes at them when you see them. And I knew full well, even as I was reading them, that what they were describing as far as true relationships was complete and utter nonsense. And I suspect that all women do as well, when they read those sorts of things. But that didn't stop me from taking those fantastic impressions Benton made to heart, internalizing the romantic, over-the-top gestures carried out by his characters as a sort of ideal for what I should be expecting in a partner myself.
Irrationally enough, I'd simply become enamored with so many of his shirtless examples of masculine perfection, manly men who, in all likelihood, did note even exist in the fashion in which they were presented in the written word, and who, if they did exist at all outside the realm of fantasy, would surely not be interested in such a woman as myself. Hell, did I really think that any of the shirtless macho men adorning the cover of his novels would even bat an eye if I walked past them completely stark naked, much less harbor any sort of romantic attraction to me in the least?
And that, I believe, was how Arthur Benton had become a billionaire... By presenting such an amazing and fantastical portrait of the ideal man that emotionally vulnerable women such as myself would become enamored with his depictions, and in fact develop addictions to such tantalizing fantasies, thereby buying into more and more and more of his works, unable to get enough, to satisfy our cravings and make up for the senses of emptiness we must all surely possess within our dull, humdrum lives.
But, like most addicts, I didn't care whether I was simply feeding my addiction, and making living a real life more difficult for myself by consuming Benton's works. I gobbled them up like candy, never able to get enough, unable to satiate my desires, and in fact, beginning to harbor a rather ridiculous crush on the author himself- I mean hell, could you blame me? I began to think, after a while, that so many of Benton's characters shared so many of the same chivalrous, heroic attributes, that he himself must have come to adopt such traits, or at the very least that he believed they were values that all men should display, and he therefore had come to exude characteristics of his own creations. I'd seen pictures of the man from long, lazy hours of online searching (not to mention fantasizing,) and he was in fact a handsome enough man. I mean, if he hadn't struck it big as a romance author, I can just about guarantee you he had just the kind of face that could easily have established him as an actor. Dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to flash right off the screen into reality, almost burning into the pupils of the gazer, not to mention, at least for my part, making them break into an outright cold sweat... He had luscious, jet black hair, a chiseled face, and, from what I could tell, a rather sculpted physique. Honestly, he was precisely the kind of macho man who could have posed for one of his own book covers, and I began to wish that he would do just that one of these days, for the sake of seeing him shirtless if nothing else...
So, yeah, overall, Arthur Benton was probably about the nearest picture I could fathom to any sort of ideal boyfriend- a devilishly handsome, good-hearted billionaire, precisely the kind of man who was as much the polar opposite the sort of man who could possibly harbor any interest in a girl like me whatsoever. Any thoughts to the contrary, I felt certain, were nothing more than me deluding the hell out of myself. But you can bet your ass that did little to stop me from fantasizing...
And yet, things seemed to take a somewhat unexpected turn, outside the simple realm of such fantasies... You see, I was shocked, one evening, while browsing the internet, to discover that my fantastical crush was on his way to a city near me- stopping, as he was, at a point on his book tour.
I was astounded... The opportunity, of course, was far too wonderful to pass up, but almost the instant I began to consider it I could feel the butterflies in my stomach spiraling out of control, making me seriously queasy with anxiety...
I was a mess... I knew that, as great as my excitement was at the prospect of meeting him, it would more than likely end up in disappointment in some way or another. Still, though, I marked the date on my calendar, and began to hope for the best while expecting the worst.
It's hard to explain what exactly I'd hoped would happen... I mean, all I had were my fantasies about the event- him arriving shirtless, and me the only one in line to see him somehow despite his massive popularity. When I let my mind wander, it usually ended up in realms of ecstasy where he swept me off my feet and wrapped me immediately in his arms, imagery which I felt certain could never be anything more but delightful hallucinations.
I was rather stunned, then, when reality turned out to be almost as stunning as fiction itself...
However, the start of the event was just about as disappointing as I'd feared it would be. I showed up at the address at which the signing was scheduled to take place with a copy of one of my favorite of his novels in hand, only to find that the line to interview this devilishly rich and handsome celebrity spanned an entire city block, and that everyone but me had apparently had the foresight to line up almost a day in advance. I sighed heavily, and for a moment studied my fellow Benton fans. It was hard to pin down a certain profile amongst his varied readers, except, of course, that they were almost exclusively female. Many of them were older than myself, many of them younger, of all different body types and appearances, but, I couldn't help but think, whether justified or not, prettier and more appealing than myself. And yes, I knew even then that I was being ridiculous... Did I really think I had some miraculous chance of snaring this deadly gorgeous catch for myself in the first place? Honestly, no, but in my heart the fantasy persisted, and was dashed and bruised by the sight of so many more sexually appealing and worthwhile women than myself.
I sighed heavily, knowing that I was being ridiculous, and that my attitude regarding the matter was going to end up ruining this otherwise pleasant experience for me entirely. I tried to put the other girls in line out of my mind, and proceeded to whip out my phone for distraction- putting on music, and playing some pointless, goal-oriented mobile game. I stared intently at my screen, not daring to tear my eyes away and let myself drown once more in comparison to the girls around me, as inch by inch by inch the line crept forward, almost imperceptibly, drawing me nearer and nearer to the doorway by the hour.
Finally, I made it up to within sight of Mr. Benton, and I could feel my body beginning to tremble with anticipation. His lips were moving, although I had no idea what the hell he might be saying over the gaggle of women laughing and swooning and carrying on in his presence. He had a sort of look about him, almost a sort of jaded expression, as thought, in being given all the attention in the world by these women, a fact which a lot of men might have killed for, he was somehow exhausted by the whole ordeal of it, tired of people who only saw him as some larger than life figure, and thereby ignored the fact of his humanity, and that he bore no more connection to them than he did any other manner of complete stranger... Or was I just imagining this? Was there any shred of the truth to the thought whatsoever, or was I just hoping it to be the case so that I could prove myself the exception? Damn me...
I was shivering by the time I was three away from him in the line, and my stomach was churning so violently I felt for certain I would end up turning around and fleeing by the time I got to the front. But alas, I somehow managed to power my legs into moving forward, and before I knew it I was standing face to face with my idol, my hopeless, ridiculous (childish?) romantic crush. I could feel my jaw quivering as I gazed in awe at him, and my body tensed, so that I felt as though I could barely move. I knew that time was limited, however, that in a moment his security guards would be encouraging me to move it along so that the line could maintain its momentum. Working up every ounce of my mettle I cleared my throat, and broke away from my astonishment long enough to hand him my copy of his book. He smiled at me, as though kindly amused by how frazzled I was, and asked, “Who should I make it out to?”
“I- I- Olivia...”
“Olivia,” he repeated, grinning congenially, stooping down over the book and scrawling out his name and a concise message on the title page. “What a lovely name,” he added, and then looked up into my face as he returned the copy to my hand. I swear to God I felt my heart stop in that moment, and all the breath seemed to drain out of me in one fell swoop. He, somehow, seemed nearly as astonished as I was by the moment, and it felt like an eternity before he said, with an almost dreamy quality to his voice, “You have such... Lovely eyes...”
Accordingly, I found the lashes fluttering rapidly in response, nearly making me dizzy, before replying, dumbfounded, “Th-th-thank you...” and scrambling from the line as quickly as possible.
I could feel my cheeks glowing red hot as I scurried away from the line, clutching the book to my breasts, noting the relentless pounding of my heart up against it, and feeling as though I might seriously melt into a puddle on the spot. My hands, I noticed, were shaking, and I felt as though I were wading through a dream as I drifted toward the store's entrance, my mind spinning, already beginning to replay the scene that had just taken place, again and again and again and again, analyzing every last minute detail to excess.
And suddenly I was gasping, in response to the application of a hand upon my shoulder, making my blood run cold, and causing the minute hairs adorning my body to all stand up on end. I tore rapidly around, and shivered at the sight of one of the event security guards leering at me, looking mighty damn intimidating, with a blank, unreadable expression painted across his face, but which, in my fright, I concluded without evidence to be a look of malice, chastisement. My mind did a little bit of mixing and matching of reality as I tried to figure out what the hell he could think I'd done wrong, and I found myself equating the event security with the security of the store itself, which in turn led my thoughts promptly to the paperback clutched firmly in my grip.
“Oh! No, I, I swear I payed for this... This is my personal copy...” At this, the security guard's expression imitated that of Mr. Benton, peeling away into one of light, friendly amusement at my bewilderment, and in response to my continued befuddlement he held out a hand with a slip of paper in it.
“Mr. Benton has expressed interest in having dinner with you at some point, if such a proposal interests you in any way. He would very much like you to call him if that is the case. Here is his number...”
Needless to say, if I was flabbergasted before, I was absolutely floored at this point... I stared at the number in the man's outstretched hand, and took it rather dumbly, my eyes just about crossing as I tried to make out the series of numbers scrawled across the paper, yet somehow I felt certain that this was absolutely, without a doubt, the author's real, genuine phone number. This was, in short, no joke...
I stood there for a moment, not saying a single word to the security guard as I stared, astonished at the number, and once again he smiled at me, before turning around, and making his way back in the direction of Mr. Benton though the throng of over-eager women surrounding him.
I couldn't believe it... I didn't believe it...
I drifted from the store like a phantom, moving at what can only be described as a snail's pace, my mind reeling as I struggled to make heads or tails of whatever the hell had just happened.
It was several days before I worked up the nerve to call my unexpected suitor. It took a herculean effort, fazed as I was as I tried to imagine what the hell such a rich, powerful, attractive billionaire might have seen in me that might lead him to asking me to dinner. It was precisely the sort of thing I'd fantasized about, time and time again, and which I'd firmly believed could never in fact be a possibility were hell to freeze over. And yet here it was, happening, as real as anything, the situation simply hinging on my willingness to overcome my sheepish emotions and dial the man's phone number.
At last, I managed to work up some semblance of just such a nerve, stonily putting the number into my phone, and taking about another fifteen minutes before I got around to hitting the talk button to put the call through. I honestly, at this point, don't even remember what the hell the conversation must have consisted of, other than my certainty of the fact that there must have been more stammering on my part than you could possibly shake a stick at. But, miraculously, I managed to set a time and location with him, and the next thing I knew, aside, of course, from hours upon hours of obsessing over what I should wear for the evening, I was sitting across from my billionaire suitor, peering, disbelieving into his dark, mysterious eyes.
I drank a lot of wine that night...
We were at a plush, expensive restaurant, dimly lit, thank God, although I'm certain he could see my cheeks glowing red across the table at him all the same, light or no light. He, of course, largely took the lead in terms of conversation, plying me with casual enough questions which I answered automatically, giving fairly basic responses as I shivered beneath his gaze, and occasionally droning on on long tangents that I'm sure did more to lull him toward sleep than they did answer his questions. Yet, nonetheless, his interest never seemed to wane from the conversation as I rambled my way along, his eyes following my lips carefully as I spoke, a fact which, I can't deny, aroused me somewhat, although I knew that getting my hopes up in such a manner was about the stupidest thing I could have done at that point in time.
I was absolutely floored by how thoroughly his interest in me seemed to be rooted, able, as I'm certain he was, to have any woman in the world of his choosing, and yet somehow electing for such a plain, unassuming woman as myself to enjoy a meal with him at least- and, my mind perhaps jumping to the conclusion rather abruptly, pursuing her romantically...
At last, at what seemed an appropriate enough silence in the conversation, I cleared my throat, dabbing away at my lips with my cloth napkin, and looked at him for a long moment. I asked, carefully, if it was okay with him for me to do so, might I inquire as to what it was about myself that served as a point of attraction for him? I asked it in a way that didn't too badly denigrate me, nothing like “Why the hell would you choose me?”, but in as casual a manner as possible.
Once again there was that smile, almost patronizing, to be honest, but it was hard for me to feel too offended by it, as he stared off into the middle distance, considering how to answer such a query, and, I could tell, weighing his words carefully. “Well... That's a difficult question to answer,” he said, which was kind of an ambiguous, potentially disheartening response. He seemed to realize this, though, and quickly corrected himself, “Well, obviously, there's your beauty... I'm absolutely mesmerized when I look into your eyes...” I blushed, and he continued, “But beauty is only skin deep... I could go on for hours about all the little things that attract me to you in that sense-” (I wouldn't have minded a damn bit if he had-) “But to dwell too long on those sorts of things would be minimizing my true feelings for you, the deeper sort of attraction I felt toward you almost the instant I first had the privilege of laying eyes on you.” This, no surprise, did a pretty good job of lighting me up inside, and I began to feel a little bit more confidence in myself. He continued, then, “I... Suppose... You might say... I find that you possess a certain sort of... Innate lure... A hold over me... Even I can't fully put my finger on what the exact words are to describe it, other than simply a feeling... A feeling that, perhaps, might just seem a trifle bit brash to most to act upon so suddenly, or to give the amount of stock that I did. But, for lack of a better way of putting it- the instant I saw you,it was like seeing all of the best qualities I ever write into my female characters, all epitomized in the form of one single, beautiful human being... Your gentility, your grace, your ease of manner... And, I suppose, that's the best answer I can really think to give you. I'm sure, by all means, that it's an incomplete response, but... But...”
And suddenly his words were cut short. I astonished myself, outright blowing my own expectations out of the water, by leaning in across the table, without warning, and planting my lips greedily onto his. It was completely brash, completely foolish of me, I know, and I knew then just as fully. But it wasn't so much a choice on my part as it was an outright magnetic pull, a drawing of my body toward him in automatic response, after hearing the words that I had for so long burned to hear someone say to me, the admonishment that I'd craved for so much of my life, heaped upon me without warning by my ideal man, his charm to indelible for me to be able to resist it any longer.
And why the hell should I?
I savored the taste of his lips, the first kiss I could ever recall experiencing with any genuine sense of love behind it- all others before them mere delusions, me convincing myself that they meant something, but knowing this full well not to be the case. It may have been early, now, but I was no less sure of the fact of my love for him because of it, and he, upon accustoming himself to the taste of my lips on his own, and riding through the initial shock of the act, responded accordingly. Our faces positively melted into one another. He reached up, putting his warm palm on my cheek, and cradling my head in his hand, gently caressing my skin with his fingers as he did so. I could feel myself swooning over him, perhaps urged on into doing so by the abundance of alcohol in my system, but my stomach doing somersaults over itself whatever the case happened to be.
The kiss, our very first kiss, but far, far from our last, seemed to go on for ages, smoldering on and on and on interminably, making me lightheaded, making my body tingle with sensation, and making me crave more, more, more as the moments slipped by.
Finally, after some immeasurable amount of time, the two of us pulled apart, and I peered into my lover's eyes, eyelashes fluttering girlishly, my breasts heaving wildly as I struggled to maintain my breath. This time, when he smiled, there was so much warmth to it that I nearly melted onto my chair like a pat of butter, and I thought for certain that his gaze would destroy me if I peered into it for long.
And soon- I was on my way back to his place...
Arthur made the request carefully, knowing that, perhaps, to some women, the prospect may be a bit too soon to indulge, but defending himself by saying that what he'd been feeling for me had been stronger than anything he'd ever felt for a woman, and though he hoped that he wasn't moving to fast in asking, he would very much love to have that sort of connection with me.
Naturally, I went along with the proposal without hesitation, as enthusiastic about as him as I was...
I was in awe the moment we stepped into his apartment- the place was, somewhat predictably, huge, his primary residence when staying in the city, and so lavishly furnished that I felt as though I'd stepped into a dream. Like so many other things about me up to this point, I think my astonishment at the place amused him, maybe even turned him on just a little bit, but I didn't care how naïve it made me look. It felt like something out of a fairy tale, and I couldn't believe how abruptly my life had turned on its head, and how little this current scene resembled anything in my existence up to this point.
“It- it's beautiful,” I stammered, slack-jawed and stupefied. And suddenly I felt the world turning around me, as he grabbed me by the hand and twirled me into him, glaring lustfully in my eyes, and saying, in a low voice, “So are you...”
It was cheesy, I know. But what the hell do you expect from a romance author?
At any rate, it quite frankly did the trick for me in that moment, and I could feel my body tingle in response to such overt advances. This time when he kissed me, he tugged my body thoroughly into himself, hugging me so tightly that he might be wishing to consume me somehow, as up above he inhaled my open mouth, kissing me, seeming starved for the taste of my body on his lips. The heat of his anatomy glowed, radiating into me, simultaneously warming and chilling me to my very core, making me cringe with delight and anticipation as he pulled me deeper, deeper, deeper toward himself. I sighed, admittedly swooning at his efforts, and had to pull my lips away from him for a moment, winded, and terribly bashful.
He let me catch my breath, but then immediately commenced right where he'd left off, unwilling to stop for the life of him at this point. His skull drifted into mine, our lips collided, and he sucked on my mouth as though to pull out my soul from my body through my oral cavity. I whimpered, and my eyelashes fluttered gently shut, allowing me to focus solely on the unrefined pleasure of intimacy, the sensations crackling through my gums as his tongue seeped into my open mouth. It twirled through the warm, wet cavern of my gullet, seeping so far back into my throat that I nearly choked on it, and I could feel my body ringing in response to the sheer beauty of his actions. My own tongue, almost of its own volition, began to react, wrestling with his, twisting up into it, our two units nearly tying themselves together as we kissed and suckled together, and saliva pouring from mouth to mouth and back again as we carried on fervently.
We stumbled through the apartment in one another's arms, drunkenly, as much on one another's love as on the alcohol we'd consumed at dinner- and perhaps, far more so on the former than the latter. I loved the closeness of his body to my own as we swung haphazardly through the halls, nearly colliding with any number of passing objects as we spiraled into oblivion; grazing the corners of desks, coffee tables, knocking over a lamp, and both of us erupting in a reply of unrestrained giggles promptly afterward- he could afford a new one, of course... Hell, with his money, he could afford to buy the whole damn company that manufactured the thing.
At any rate, we somehow made it into his bedroom unscathed at last, and things began to come to a head- by which I mean, I began to feel his erection pushing up against me through the fabric of his pants, and the heat and stiffness of the enormous thing turned me on like you wouldn't believe...
He pulled me tighter, tighter, tighter, kissing me more and more ferociously, pulling on my lower lip with his teeth, rubbing his slightly stubble-prickled chin against the side of my cheek... And then, I found myself moaning, as his hands drifted upward, and the fingers collapsed, like the pincers of a crab, around the large, cushioned spheres of my breasts. My entire body tensed, and then slackened, as he caressed the succulent tits, pushing them across the course of my chest with the palms of his hand, and squeezing them together, thereby creating a large, fleshy swath of cleavage that was visible from beneath my blouse, which he then leaned down, and kissed with just as much fervor. His tongue rolled into the empty gap between them, and then slid back up out into the open, until he slowly veered up, and placed his mouth instead on the side of my neck. I giggled girlishly at this, as his lips melted and smeared and distorted, and I was forced to shrug my shoulder in order to shirk away the almost unbearable tickle. He continued to massage my breasts down below, his grip growing tighter and tighter and tighter on me by the minute, so that I actually began to shake beneath his clutches.
In response to this, I thought it only fair that I provide him with a little bit of torment of his own. With one hand, I reached behind him, and grabbed a generous handful of his tight, beautiful ass, pulling him toward me, and digging his erect cock deeper and deeper into the fabric of my dress. Then, with my free hand, I reached down between our nearly pasted-together bodies, and let my fingers seek out the warmth of his masculinity through the fabric. He gasped, and then moaned aloud as my grip wrapped around his fat, molten hot cock, squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter, giving him something to think about as he continued to play with my tits up above.
After some time of this, it became impossible for him not to pull away, and I found, with some amusement, that I now had total control over my billionaire lover through the tightly-clenched joystick. I used this knowledge to steer him over to the bed, the pain of my grip on him acting as the perfect steering wheel. I lowered him onto the bed with his legs dangling over the edge, and then released him, surprised for a glimmer of a moment at how readily I had taken to my new role as a sex kitten, as generally shy and reserved as I tended to be around men in most circumstances.
If nothing else, it was as good a proof as any of our sublime chemistry with one another...
I smiled at the thought, and then got down on the floor on my knees, my face, naturally, eye-level with his crotch. In as tantalizing a manner as possible I reached up, and undid the brass buckle of his belt, slowly, seductively peeling the serpentine leather from the loop of his pants, and casting it casually to the floor. Then, I unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, and gingerly pulled his pants down to around his knees, and brought my hands back up to do the same with his boxer shorts. I braced myself for the sight of his exposed genitals as the fabric came falling down along his legs, and sure enough his stiff cock came popping out almost instantly.
I licked my lips lustfully at the thing, and then reached up, and allowed my fingers to collapse around the hot, molten shaft. He shuddered, and I started just tiniest bit at the heat of the thing, so scalding that it nearly burned my palm as I began to caress him, but the sensation not at all an unpleasant one- not by any stretch of the imagination...
I proceeded to jack him off with the expertise of an old pro. He sighed heavily, and I released him once more. He tilted his head back, and closed his eyes, clearly satisfied with my efforts, and even more so, I do believe, as I brought my face into him, still touching him.
At long last my lips pressed down against his base, and I held myself there, thrilled at the fact of his tip jabbing against the back of my throat, and somehow happy as hell that I was nearly choking on the beautiful bastard in his immensity. My lips, just barely, formed into a smile around the diameter of his penis, before returning to duty, and beginning to suck on him properly.
Again and again and again I did this, working myself into a steady, rhythmic bob, and preparing myself for him to cum in my mouth as I sucked and sucked and sucked.
But, as it turned out, he was far too much of a gentleman for this sort of thing- at least on the first date...
I could feel him throbbing between my cheeks, surely within a hair's breadth of ejaculation, when suddenly I felt the touch of his hand to my chin, indicating for me to extricate himself from my mouth. Confused, perhaps even moderately disappointed, I nonetheless did as instructed, opening my mouth, and giving him one last slurp as I pulled my lips away, and dabbed away the excess of saliva from the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand.
He pulled me up toward him, and suctioned his lips onto my own once again, surely tasting his own cock on my tongue as the two of us kissed, and the thought of it getting me wetter than hell between the thighs...
Speaking of which, I was about to discover the area in question as his intended destination, and so my disappointment at my delivery of oral sex before ejaculation quickly gave way to anticipation.
He peeled me out of my tight-fitting, constrictive black dress, lovingly letting his palms graze against the warmth and tightness of my curvature as he did so. The fabric flowed like liquid across the terrain of my body, slithering upward over my head, and then fluttering away altogether, leaving me standing beside him in nothing but my bra and panties- a fact which might have made me feel insecure around some other man, but which made me feel sexy as hell around my glorious new lover.
He leaned in, continuing to kiss me, and as he did so, his hands drifted up to my shoulders, slowly peeling away the straps of my bra, and sliding them gently down along my arms. I pulled my hands from the straps obediently, and allowed the sizable cups of the thing to be slid from my breasts, giving him a bare, fully exposed view of the upper half of my body. He seized hold of my tits almost instantly, his enthusiasm for the glorious things seeming renewed upon their revelation, and the warmth of his palms descending upon them like a gift from heaven. He pushed them around and around across my chest, filling them with sensations too glorious for words, and meanwhile allowing his kisses to drip down in their direction, from my lips, to the side of my neck, and at last to the breasts themselves, which he savored like the utmost of delicacies.
His tongue rolled and lapped around each of my considerable nipples, and his teeth sank lightly into the flesh, causing them to grow firm, erect, and to crackle with such perfect feeling that it made me cry out with happiness. And as he kissed, and drank from my bosom so fervently, his hands continued to slide their way down, down, down along my body, hooking into the lacy waistline of my panties, and peeling them down in the direction of my toes.
Suddenly, I gasped, my eyes growing wide, and then the lids fluttering shut, as I felt his hand enter into me, the fingers hooking into the wet folds of my vagina, and pushing around the flesh of the delicate organ with expert precision. His mouth proved not far at all from following, as at last he decided he'd had his fill of my breasts for the moment, and brought his lips down to make contact with those of my pussy.
I squealed, once again rather girlishly, and felt my body sparkle with feeling as he began to consume me. I had no idea how many women my billionaire lover had been with before me, nor had I any desire to think about the subject, but I could tell from the get-go that he was something of an expert cunnilinguist, and that every slight movement he made with his tongue was one of the utmost precision. He licked, and lapped, and swirled his tongue through the burning folds of my femininity, tossing and turning and slicing his way through my body in a fashion so fluid as to be almost playful, as enjoyable for himself, the giver, as it was for me, the receiver.
That, however, I knew to be an outright impossibility...
Because at that moment, such terrific sensations of pleasure were shooting through my body that I could hardly contain myself, coursing through my veins like a drug, pumping through my limbs, making me shake and scream and cry with delight, as an intense, unfathomable wave of orgasm came washing over me, leaving me dripping with sweat from head to toe.
And it was far from over- not by a long shot...
I slowly drifted down from the intense haze of climax, my vision gradually settling back into place, just in time to see him undressing, peeling the remainder of his clothes away like a snake shedding his skin. I had only a brief moment to admire his incredible naked body- the sculpted pecs, the sweaty, heaving washboard stomach, his bulging biceps- before he began to saunter over toward me, and such an intense look of lust in his eyes that I thought I might die by the time he got inside me.
I felt the springs of the bed, creaking with the addition of his weight, and I felt the heat of his body as he proceeded, ever so carefully, to mount me.
I squealed as I felt his hands on my ankles, but loved the feeling all the same of having my legs pushed back up toward my head, my ankles around my ears, and my pussy splayed wide for his consideration.
He climbed up onto me, keeping the legs pinned in place in such a manner that it was pleasantly difficult to breathe, and so that my breasts rolled up toward my chin with the force of gravity weighing down upon them. He looked me one last time in the eyes before I closed them, bracing myself, and biting my lower lips in anticipation.
I gasped as he entered me, my eyes springing immediately wide open once more. He pushed inside me, driving the immensity of himself up, up, up into me, inch by inch by inch of his incredible cock sliding into my body like a train pulling into a station. Finally, at long, long, long last, I felt him touch down inside me, at such a point that I felt that I might not be able to contain another ounce of his flesh should that be a necessity, and that I thought I would explode with pleasure.
He began to grind into me slowly, pulling his way back out of me ever so slightly, and then pushing himself back in tender at first, gentle, as though to make absolutely certain that it was as wonderful for me as it was for him- which of course it was.
And after a few minutes of this, once he was certain that he had the clearance for it, I think- and I say this in such a manner so as not to mince words- he fucked me like an animal...
He crammed his body into me at full blast, grinding himself into my deepest fathoms with fierce velocity, my tits jostling about like wild across my chest, the screams of ecstasy pouring like water from my open mouth.
And, WHAM!
With one final blast of force he hurled himself into me, holding himself in place, and our bodies bursting into an explosion of sensations. His ejaculate poured into me, pulse after pulse of his molten essence spilling into my innermost recesses, filling me up so thoroughly that it spilled back out of me onto the bedspread just as quickly as it could enter.
I came as well, an orgasm at least ten times more intense than the first sweeping across my body, wrapping its arms around me, and squeezing as tightly as possible, my limbs twitching, my body convulsing, and the entire room seeming to disappear around me as I shook with sheer, unadulterated pleasure.
A few weeks later, I discovered that I was pregnant...
I cried at first, thinking that the night I had at last discovered what should have been happiness had resulted in a situation I was not at all prepared for, and certain that Arthur would want nothing to do with me once he found out. I was sure that he would either pay for me to have... A procedure- Something I wasn't at all prepared for... Or else he would simply pay me to just shut up about it and get the hell out of his life, utterly unwilling to further include me in his day to day existence in any such capacity.
I was floored, then, when I told him the news, and found myself wrapped up in his arms, with words of the utmost joy streaming forth from his lips.
As it turned out, he was as terrific a man as I'd suspected from the beginning, and his love for me was every bit as true as he'd professed it to be.
The two of us made love in celebration (me, as much in relief as anything,) and I lay dozing in his arms in the sunlit afterglow, feeling relaxed and serene, as well as more certain about myself and my future than I could ever in my life recall having been...
THE END