Serving the Billionaire
Page 16
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He spoke for me. “You can take it,” he said. “You’ll pour my whiskey and come for me while I watch you from across the room.”
“Yes,” I said, and I knew it was true. It felt too good, and I’d lost all of my shame. Or not all of it, but most of it. A large part of it, at least. Enough that I knew I would be happy to stand by the fireplace all night and cling to the mantle and quiver while he touched me without touching me at all.
He bent and kissed my forehead, oddly formal, like he was giving me a benediction. And then he stood and said, “We’ll begin soon.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at his face instead of at the outline of his cock in his trousers. I would be good.
He left the room. Alone, I stood up and gathered my discarded tights and pulled them back on, followed by my skirt and heels. I tucked my blouse into my skirt and smoothed out the wrinkles that had developed. I went over to a mirror hanging on the well to make sure I looked okay. My face stared back at me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed. Not good. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse. When I opened my eyes again, I was expressionless, face smooth as a doll’s. Good.
I was in my spot by the fireplace when the first of Mr. Sutton’s guests arrived.
They all glanced at me as they came in, but then seemed to immediately dismiss me as uninteresting. That was fine; I wasn’t supposed to be interesting. None of these were the men who’d seen me topless a few nights before, and in my demure skirt and blouse, I probably looked like the kind of generic waitress they were well accustomed to ignoring. And then the dancers came in and started wiggling around in their practiced way, and then I was definitely not interesting.
Mr. Sutton finally returned, escorting an older, silver-haired gentleman. They were deep in conversation, and stood to one side instead of joining the others on the sofas. At first, Mr. Sutton seemed to be totally engrossed in whatever he was saying to the other man, but then I noticed that he started giving me quick glances over the man’s shoulder, his eyes meeting mine and then darting away again, and then returning, like he couldn’t keep his attention on his conversation.
I watched as he slid his right hand into his pocket, and curled my hand around the mantle, bracing myself for what I knew would come next.
Sure enough, I felt the vibrator start humming between my thighs. It didn’t escalate into the stronger buzzing I’d felt before, and I relaxed a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
One of the clients gestured to me, and I went over to him and leaned down. “A martini, please,” he said. “Very dry.”
“Right away,” I murmured. I walked out of the room and onto the main floor of the club, feeling the vibrator thrum between my thighs. It wasn’t getting any stronger, but it also wasn’t stopping. One of the other waitresses asked me about my plans for the weekend, and I had to forcibly focus my attention on her words before I was able to answer.
Maybe this would be pretty bad.
I went back to room 4 and delivered the martini to the man who’d ordered it. My pussy was swollen and tender from the steady humming, and I was wobbly as a new colt as I returned to my place by the fire. I wanted it to stop, or else for it to get stronger so that I could just get it over with. Although I had a feeling that Mr. Sutton wouldn’t stop even after I came.
I tried to focus on my breathing instead of on the liquid heat building between my legs. It wasn’t easy. Mr. Sutton was still deep in conversation with the same man, and this time he didn’t look over at me at all. Maybe he’d forgotten about what he was doing to me.
But then the vibrations stopped as suddenly as they’d started. I exhaled slowly, relieved. I wasn’t sure how much longer I would have been able to last.
As I stood there, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate, Mr. Sutton patted the man’s shoulder a few times and turned away from him. I watched as he went over to the sofas and took a seat beside one of the other guests. He poured himself a generous serving of whiskey and took a sip. Then he looked at me, and the heat in his eyes was like a punch to my gut. He wanted me, and he didn’t care who knew it.
I wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.
Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic. But just a little.
Mr. Sutton gestured to me, and I went over to him. His right hand was in his pocket. That wasn’t a good sign. I leaned down to hear what he wanted. “Another bottle of Scotch,” he said, and as he said bottle, I felt the vibrator start up again.
I swallowed hard. “Right away,” I said, my voice cracking. How could he expect me to go out to the bar when the vibrator was buzzing away? I was going to trip and fall flat on my face, and Germaine would see and fire me. Or I would stumble into one of the customers and make him spill his drink. Or I was going to come in the middle of the room and embarrass myself completely.
I went back out to the bar. This time, I had to lean against the edge for support while I waited for the bartender to get the bottle off the top shelf. My hands shook slightly. My swollen clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The vibrator stuttered and then buzzed slightly faster, and my mouth fell open on a silent moan.
The bartender slid the bottle across the counter to me. “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“Yes,” I said. “Just... warm in here.”
He gave me an odd look, but turned away. I took the bottle and fled.
I really didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night.
Mr. Sutton was watching as I came through the door, and he motioned me over. I clutched the bottle, terrified that I would drop it. As I approached, he set his glass on the table and said, “A refill, please.”
I crouched and fumbled open the bottle. My hands felt like they were wrapped in cotton; my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My underpants were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I were making a mess of my tights as well. The fabric of my bra scraped against my tender nipples. And Mr. Sutton just sat there and watched me try to fight the unbearable pleasure he was inflicting on me.
Carefully, so carefully, I lifted the bottle and poured out a measure of whiskey.
Somehow I managed not to spill any.
Just as I set the bottle back on the table, the vibration increased yet again, and I dropped the cap. It fell to the table and bounced onto the floor. All of the guests turned to look at me.
“Yes,” I said, and I knew it was true. It felt too good, and I’d lost all of my shame. Or not all of it, but most of it. A large part of it, at least. Enough that I knew I would be happy to stand by the fireplace all night and cling to the mantle and quiver while he touched me without touching me at all.
He bent and kissed my forehead, oddly formal, like he was giving me a benediction. And then he stood and said, “We’ll begin soon.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at his face instead of at the outline of his cock in his trousers. I would be good.
He left the room. Alone, I stood up and gathered my discarded tights and pulled them back on, followed by my skirt and heels. I tucked my blouse into my skirt and smoothed out the wrinkles that had developed. I went over to a mirror hanging on the well to make sure I looked okay. My face stared back at me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed. Not good. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse. When I opened my eyes again, I was expressionless, face smooth as a doll’s. Good.
I was in my spot by the fireplace when the first of Mr. Sutton’s guests arrived.
They all glanced at me as they came in, but then seemed to immediately dismiss me as uninteresting. That was fine; I wasn’t supposed to be interesting. None of these were the men who’d seen me topless a few nights before, and in my demure skirt and blouse, I probably looked like the kind of generic waitress they were well accustomed to ignoring. And then the dancers came in and started wiggling around in their practiced way, and then I was definitely not interesting.
Mr. Sutton finally returned, escorting an older, silver-haired gentleman. They were deep in conversation, and stood to one side instead of joining the others on the sofas. At first, Mr. Sutton seemed to be totally engrossed in whatever he was saying to the other man, but then I noticed that he started giving me quick glances over the man’s shoulder, his eyes meeting mine and then darting away again, and then returning, like he couldn’t keep his attention on his conversation.
I watched as he slid his right hand into his pocket, and curled my hand around the mantle, bracing myself for what I knew would come next.
Sure enough, I felt the vibrator start humming between my thighs. It didn’t escalate into the stronger buzzing I’d felt before, and I relaxed a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
One of the clients gestured to me, and I went over to him and leaned down. “A martini, please,” he said. “Very dry.”
“Right away,” I murmured. I walked out of the room and onto the main floor of the club, feeling the vibrator thrum between my thighs. It wasn’t getting any stronger, but it also wasn’t stopping. One of the other waitresses asked me about my plans for the weekend, and I had to forcibly focus my attention on her words before I was able to answer.
Maybe this would be pretty bad.
I went back to room 4 and delivered the martini to the man who’d ordered it. My pussy was swollen and tender from the steady humming, and I was wobbly as a new colt as I returned to my place by the fire. I wanted it to stop, or else for it to get stronger so that I could just get it over with. Although I had a feeling that Mr. Sutton wouldn’t stop even after I came.
I tried to focus on my breathing instead of on the liquid heat building between my legs. It wasn’t easy. Mr. Sutton was still deep in conversation with the same man, and this time he didn’t look over at me at all. Maybe he’d forgotten about what he was doing to me.
But then the vibrations stopped as suddenly as they’d started. I exhaled slowly, relieved. I wasn’t sure how much longer I would have been able to last.
As I stood there, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate, Mr. Sutton patted the man’s shoulder a few times and turned away from him. I watched as he went over to the sofas and took a seat beside one of the other guests. He poured himself a generous serving of whiskey and took a sip. Then he looked at me, and the heat in his eyes was like a punch to my gut. He wanted me, and he didn’t care who knew it.
I wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.
Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic. But just a little.
Mr. Sutton gestured to me, and I went over to him. His right hand was in his pocket. That wasn’t a good sign. I leaned down to hear what he wanted. “Another bottle of Scotch,” he said, and as he said bottle, I felt the vibrator start up again.
I swallowed hard. “Right away,” I said, my voice cracking. How could he expect me to go out to the bar when the vibrator was buzzing away? I was going to trip and fall flat on my face, and Germaine would see and fire me. Or I would stumble into one of the customers and make him spill his drink. Or I was going to come in the middle of the room and embarrass myself completely.
I went back out to the bar. This time, I had to lean against the edge for support while I waited for the bartender to get the bottle off the top shelf. My hands shook slightly. My swollen clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The vibrator stuttered and then buzzed slightly faster, and my mouth fell open on a silent moan.
The bartender slid the bottle across the counter to me. “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“Yes,” I said. “Just... warm in here.”
He gave me an odd look, but turned away. I took the bottle and fled.
I really didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night.
Mr. Sutton was watching as I came through the door, and he motioned me over. I clutched the bottle, terrified that I would drop it. As I approached, he set his glass on the table and said, “A refill, please.”
I crouched and fumbled open the bottle. My hands felt like they were wrapped in cotton; my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My underpants were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I were making a mess of my tights as well. The fabric of my bra scraped against my tender nipples. And Mr. Sutton just sat there and watched me try to fight the unbearable pleasure he was inflicting on me.
Carefully, so carefully, I lifted the bottle and poured out a measure of whiskey.
Somehow I managed not to spill any.
Just as I set the bottle back on the table, the vibration increased yet again, and I dropped the cap. It fell to the table and bounced onto the floor. All of the guests turned to look at me.
