Her Billionaire’s Demands by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Ben didn’t smile, now: his mouth had set into a hard line. To my abject dismay, that look of simultaneous frustration and determination on his bearded face seemed even sexier than the consequences smile. My heart thudded wildly in my chest as he rose from the chair.

He didn’t say anything, at first. He just strode forward and grabbed me, much as he had grabbed me before. Again I struggled, and again he merely pinioned my arm behind me and took me where he wanted me to go, marching me this time to the darkened living room, where the city lights of Chicago twinkled in the picture window before giving way to the calm darkness of the lake.

For a moment I supposed he would try to get me to stand there, as he had commanded I should do. I thought I could run for the door when he did that.

He brought me to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the window, but when he had me there he turned me around toward him, and he used his left arm to hold me tightly around my waist while he put his right hand down between us and started to unbutton my jeans.

When I felt that, I started to flail as hard as I could, yelling, “No… please… security…” I tried to pound my fists against his back and even his head, but Ben’s response came in the form of an angry growl.

“They’re not coming, Nikki. They’re just going to pull up a chair to watch a naughty girl getting what she deserves. And the more you hit me, the worse it gets for your backside.”

He had the button open and the zipper down. I felt his hand go around, and his thumb push down inside my waistband, and inside my panties, too. It went between my still hot bottom-cheeks, and I cried out at his touch there as he started to pull down my jeans and my underwear at once.

“This isn’t going to be your real spanking, either,” he said, his voice more matter-of-fact as he felt me go still with the shock of him stripping me. “Your real spanking will happen when you take off your own clothes for me.”

“What—” I started to ask, confused. How could I take off my own clothes if Ben was doing it himself? Then I felt him shift and move me, with my knees bound together by my lowered jeans.

“Kneel down,” he commanded, and enforced the command with his strong arms. He seemed to know exactly how to do that, too, with just enough pressure so that I felt lowered onto the rug rather than crashing down onto it. It took my breath away, though, quite literally, so that I couldn’t continue asking the question.

I felt him stoop down, and before I could react he had taken the hem of my top and pulled it up over my head. Because I had been thinking a moment before about how I could take off my clothes if he had already done it, my mind, to my distress, kept going along that line: now I wanted to protest not at him stripping me, but at him taking away my opportunity to strip myself.

My crazy body decided to respond to that, rather than his manhandling, and I felt a wayward sob of need rise up, for what it seemed I couldn’t help from calling good girl things in my thoughts. That confusion added to the simple disarray Ben forced on my limbs by pulling my shirt and my arms up above my head.

“What are you—” I managed to get out this time, my voice sounding muffled through the thin cotton of the fashion tee. Ben’s answer consisted of pulling the shirt further up, so that it came clear of my head, and then jerking it backward and down, so that in a flash of realization the humiliating answer came to me, right before he pressed on my back with his left hand, while he used his right to keep the top in place, binding my wrists.

The coffee table furnished by Selecta had a padded top, and suddenly I wondered, with a flare of heat in my cheeks, whether coffee, or magazines, or whatever civilized people put on coffee tables represented its actual primary purpose. I gave a whimpering moan as I found how perfectly suited the faux-leather upholstered padding was for pressing a young woman’s face down so as to keep her in place, bent over, with her bare bottom presented for punishment.

Fluidly, he shifted control of my wrists in the tee shirt to his left hand, and put his right on my bottom. At least it felt fluid. I couldn’t see, since I couldn’t even turn my face more than an inch. I could only picture Ben looming over me, raising my wrists to enforce my humiliating pose as at the same time he held my bare backside in his big hand.

For the very first time, I had a man’s hand on my bare ass, and, because my knees had parted slightly when he forced me down, his two middle fingers were right on my virgin pussy. I cried out at the feeling, heat coursing through my body as I realized how easily those fingers slid along my private lips, thanks to all the wetness Ben had produced there.

“Please,” I begged. I clenched my jaw—defiantly remembering he had told me not to—as I understood what I really meant. I hoped—my treacherous body, hoped, anyway—only that he would do whatever he wanted, as long as it didn’t involve punishing me any more.

But something in the way he had pushed me down and bent me over, the way he had partially stripped me—not to mention the very clear intentions he had expressed in his words—told me I wouldn’t get my wish. I felt a sob burst from my chest as I realized that my sponsor had concluded that I needed a very firm hand indeed.

Instead of working my naked pussy with his hand the way he had fondled me through my jeans and panties, he pulled my bottom up, making me arch my back and cry out in discomfort at the way he held my wrists in place behind me.

“You’ll learn to get this up,” he growled, “when it’s time for a spanking. I’m glad you’re shaved, though, honey. Your pussy is going to look nice in the panties I brought. You’ll keep that up, twice a week.”

I had no verbal response; I bit my lip as I felt my forehead crease so deeply it hurt, as I felt my need flow into his hand. How could my body respond this way to this man’s casual, arrogant objectification? I clenched my fists, trying to remember the spray can, trying to remember my independence.

As if he could read my mind, Ben said, “Remember how you got here, Nikki. That’s what your real punishment will be for, when you finally start to obey me. You decided that your need for self-expression was more important than a town’s right to have its public property clean and beautiful.”

He took his hand away, and I felt him shift his weight, sensed him stooping and turning his body. Though he had me in a very different position from the one atop his lap, I recognized something in the start of his movement. I cried out, fear mingled with the indignation caused by his words.

I tried to move my bottom, too, to avoid his hand, but he anticipated the movement, and the spank, the very first I had ever gotten on the bare, landed with a sound like a shot, echoing off the walls of the living room.

“Hold still,” Ben told me grimly, as he kept spanking me, the pain building and remaining, driving away the need in my pussy but bringing a greater need. I wailed and struggled, my backside weaving, but the big hand finding my bottom-cheeks or my thighs, over and over.

“Please, sir,” I begged. “Please, stop.”

My cheeks clenched and unclenched, the fiery agony making me frantic as Ben just kept spanking me hard and fast, until finally the words burst from me.

“I’ll take them off! I’ll take them off!”

Ben pulled the tee shirt all the way off my wrists, so that my hands came free. I clutched my bottom-cheeks and squeezed them, trying to soothe away the pain.

“You may rub,” Ben said. “I know this is your first time, so that’s alright for now. Next time, I may not give permission.”

My cheeks blazed with humiliation. I pulled my hands away from my ass, suddenly terribly conscious of what I must look like, holding my butt that way, then equally aware of what he could see when I took my hands away. At the same time, just like over his knee, I felt the mortifying need start to grow between my thighs, my nipples tingling in my bra, a feeling that got all the worse when I remembered what I had told my sponsor I would do—just so he could spank me again.

I moved my hands to the coffee table and pushed up, so that I could get awkwardly to my feet, turned away from Ben and toward the kitchen. Instinctively I put my hands down in front of my pussy, cheeks blazing at the idea that my first sexual experience with a man should happen this way.

“You might as well get it over with, Nikki, honey,” he said from behind me, his voice cool and a little mocking. I heard him move around me, and then saw him come into my field of vision as he walked to the couch and sat down on it. My eyes went wide at the sight of the self-assurance in his eyes, as he surveyed me, the girl he had bought and paid for and already disciplined twice, in the dim light of the living room.

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.

Still looking at me, he spoke again. “Apartment, turn on living room lights.”

My lips parted as the lights—a table lamp, a floor lamp, and recessed lighting in the ceiling—came on. I couldn’t suppress a little gasp of embarrassment.

“Put your hands on your head for me, Nikki. It’s time I saw your pussy properly from the front.”

I closed my mouth, and my breath came in little puffs through my nose as my heart rate soared. A few moments before I had told him I would take off my clothes in front of him, so what did I expect? But the way he had taken a seat on the couch, the way he was looking at me, and above all the way he had used his control over my apartment to illuminate my shameful state of near nudity… it all made the conflict inside me so much stronger and so much worse.

“I gave you an instruction, honey,” Ben said, his voice becoming harder. “Do as I told you.”

That deep voice promised punishment now, but to my surprise and distress it also promised reward. The part of me that had responded to the beginning of my rewards, over his knee, had begun to gain strength inside me, I suddenly understood with a new flare of heat to my cheeks, because I felt my hands start to move.

No! shouted the still-defiant part of my mind. He’s sitting down. You can still run to the door.

But another voice had taken up residence, and as it answered the first I could feel my nose twitch with tears of shame that seemed somehow tied to the ache between my legs. This voice asked questions, rather than making demands, and each question made my clit tingle so that I wanted to take my hands away, for fear of humiliating myself further—doing what I had done in bed, that my sponsor had somehow found out about.

Run away like this? With my jeans around my knees? and How can I run away from the sponsor who’s so clearly loaded and so clearly generous?

And, worst of all, How could I run away from such a firm-handed sponsor? From a sponsor who means to keep me in line, and knows how to do it?

I closed my eyes as a sob burst from my chest at this thought, the kind of idea I had pushed away so often in Gregory’s Creek. Keeping it away was the real reason I had gone to the town hall with my spray cans, I could see so clearly now. I had hidden that knowledge from myself as deeply as I could, and for so very long.

I felt my brow working as my hands started to rise: everything in me could agree at least that I had to keep Ben from seeing the shameful way my body reacted to his commands. I tried to fix my eyes into a scornful glare as I opened them to see him looking back at me with an unreadable expression, his lips curved up in a very slight smile.

My breasts, lifted up in my everyday beige bra, presented themselves to my sponsor’s gaze. I tried to think about them as somehow separate from me—if this asshole wanted to objectify me, well, I would objectify myself, too. I watched his eyes travel down from those little mounds, prettily displayed, to the place between my legs where I knew he could see the bare cleft of my pussy.

A flash of heat came into my face, but I fought it off. I squeezed my glutes, and I pushed my tummy forward, wanting him to see how stupid I thought this mortifying inspection was.

“Is that what you want to see?” I asked, as I felt how bad a mistake I had made with the butt squeeze: the burning of my spanked bottom made my voice thick, and to my dismay I felt an answering tingle in my clit—and, again, the deeper need, inside me, that threatened to take apart every shred of resistance to my new sponsor’s every whim.

His eyes rose to mine. “Unclench your jaw, Nikki,” he said, the tiny smile quirking a little at the left side of his mouth. “Then take off your bra and put it on the coffee table. Put your hands back on your head after you do that.”

My jaw obeyed, because it simply dropped at the breathtaking arrogance in his tone. I had no choice about the rest of his commands, either, because I didn’t want him to see, on my cheeks or in my eyes, how his words had affected me. I lowered my hands and put them behind my back, and I pretended to concentrate on getting the back of my bra unhooked, looking up into the corner of the apartment in imitation of someone focused on a moderately difficult task.

Ben saw through it, though. “Look at me,” he said simply.

I tried desperately to hold on to my detachment. I glanced at him for a moment, pasting a sneer onto my face, as I unhooked the bra, and then I looked down as I started to shrug it off.

“Why?” I asked, in my most scornful voice, still trying to cover over the shame of the moment. “Does that turn you on?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I like to see a girl start to understand who her body belongs to.”

Now I couldn’t help looking at him, and I knew he could see the pink in my cheeks. I knew he could see the stiffness of my nipples. I understood also, to my horror, that my eyes had precisely the expression that turned him on: it hadn’t actually occurred to me just how thoroughly this enforced stripping for him demonstrated his control over me.

I froze, but Ben said, his voice sounding patient, “Drop the bra and put your hands back on your head.”

What could I do? Unconsciously, I put my right hand back to touch my punished bottom, as if to remind myself of what would happen if I disobeyed. I bit my lip at the feeling, and I raised my hands quickly to my head, my eyes still downcast, fixed on the knees of Ben’s black suit pants. I could see my jeans and my panties, too, still around my knees, binding my legs and serving as another reminder of my sponsor’s discipline.

“Look at me,” Ben said again. A tremor of wayward arousal shot through me at the sound of his voice, and I found again the one the thing my whole self agreed on: making sure he didn’t know about how deeply his sheer dominance affected me.

I raised my eyes, hoping they looked as blazing as I wanted them to.

“I guess you paid for me,” I said. “So here you go.”

Ben’s eyes seemed to flash a little in return, but his smile didn’t waver.

“If you need to think about it that way, Nikki, it’s fine with me. I did pay for you. And I like what I got.”

I drew in a little gasping breath and swallowed hard. Try as I might to keep my face in a bitchy expression, I knew he could see how the terribly backhanded compliment had affected me.

“Turn around,” Ben ordered. “I want to see your bottom. And be quiet.”

I felt my face crumple with humiliation. I turned, just so that he couldn’t see my eyes anymore. With my hands still on my head I showed him what he wanted to see. I refused to be quiet, though.

“Do you like that?” I demanded, again trying to hold on to my resolve.

He simply ignored my words, and gave another command.

“Everything else off,” he said. “Put your clothes on the chair. I want the panties on top.”

I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to find the scornful, transactional, objectifying state of mind that seemed to keep dancing out of reach with every order Ben gave me.

“Whatever,” I said, because he had told me to be quiet, and I started to obey.

I knew why he had made me turn around, then, and it sent a shudder of need through my whole body. As I bent over to pull my jeans the rest of the way down, and to tug off my socks, I became conscious of what he could see, sitting behind me and watching me go through the ungainly motions: my pussy, so much more clearly exposed than it had been when I had faced him, and even the wrinkly little bud of my bottom-hole between my spanked cheeks.

I freed my left foot from its sock, pushing away the knowledge that it represented the final piece of clothing—that I had at last obeyed the first command he had given me. I heard him rise from the couch, and I looked around nervously, still bent over, to see him moving toward the pile of clothes I had made on the chair. As he had specified, I had put my pink cotton panties atop my jeans, not even really wondering why he had issued that particular instruction.

No. My mind drew back in dismay as my eyes opened wide.

But Ben stooped a little, and reached his hand toward the pink tangle of fabric.

I couldn’t help it: I said, “Please.” I reached toward the panties myself, trying to stop him, but Ben moved too quickly, and he picked them up. I watched in horror as he found their gusset and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then raised them to his face, his eyes fixed on mine all the while.

His chest rose with a deep breath, and his lips curved into that consequences smile. I looked for my defiant expression, and managed to put a little of it on my face, but it didn’t change the expression in Ben’s eyes at all.

“You’re a much naughtier girl than you want anyone to know, Nikki,” he said simply.

My retort burst from my chest. “Fuck you.”

His eyes narrowed, but his smile only got bigger. “I told you to be quiet,” he said, and then he reached for me, his left hand going to the back of my neck while his right, with my panties now wadded up in his fingers, moved toward my face.

“No,” I said, because I couldn’t help it, though I knew it would only help him do the terrible thing he meant to do. He pushed the panties inside my lips, though I tried to twist my head away. His long fingers pushed the cotton in, and I remembered how they had felt when he had me over his knee only a few minutes before.

I tasted myself on the fabric, my hips jerked, and I knew he could sense that movement: something in the way he pressed the panties over my tongue responded to what he knew about my body. He had known what I needed between my legs and in my mouth when my jeans had still been on. I gave a little moan through my underwear as I understood how much more clearly he knew what I needed, now that I had no clothes on.

I kept shaking my head, moving it back and forth against the steady grip of his left hand, not painful but tight and just on the verge of being uncomfortable. I couldn’t speak but I could do that, to signify to Ben that putting a girl’s panties in her mouth to keep her silent wasn’t okay.

Except that the more thoroughly I felt him controlling my head, his fingers still inside my mouth to work the fabric in more fully and gag me more effectively, the more the tremor in my hips seemed to make me squirm.

“Yes, honey,” Ben said, his smile very wide, as if in enjoyment of the sight of a girl with her panties in her mouth. “Girls who can’t be quiet need help, sometimes.”