Bought By The Billionaire

After long moments, the layers of silk, gauze and lace encasing me are pulled back and I emerge from my dim white tent,
blinking a little in the sudden explosion of light. My Master eases me upright, turns me to face him, lifts me and carries me
through to the bedroom, where he deposits me gently on the bed.
As he unknots his tie, stripping off his shirt, he smiles down at me. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t about to ravish you again just yet.”
“Of course not, Master. We’ll give it five minutes or so shall we?”
He chuckles as he lies down next to me, his head cradled in the crook of my neck. “Of course, yes. Foolish of me. Five minutes.”
His arms lock loosely around me. “I Love You, Elizabeth Haswell.”
“And I Love You too, Master.”
*****
“So where are we going?” I am excited. My Master, my new husband, has kept me in the dark as to where we will spend our
honeymoon.
“You’ll see.” He sounds, and looks, smug, refusing to say another word on the subject. But, besides smug, he looks wonderful,
wearing the plain white linen shirt and black jeans that suit him so well. The white of the shirt sets off his tan and the tightly fitting
jeans enhance his.... figure.
I am demurely dressed in a white blouse, navy blue, knee length, skirt, and court shoes.
I try a different angle. “How long will we be away for?”
My billionaire Master has responsibilities and a heavy work schedule. I wonder if our ‘honeymoon’ is destined to be a long
weekend only.
The car turns off the main highway. So, we are not going to the airport. Fantasies of sun-kissed beaches and blue seas fade
away.
Instead, we follow narrow roads, away from the city entirely, up towards the mountains. After an hour or so, we turn in to a vast
gateway, framed with intricate wrought iron rails and stone lions. A long drive curves ahead of us, set within close-clipped lawns.
Beech, oak and chestnuts dot the landscape and, way down the hill; is that a lake?

“Oh, it’s lovely Richard? Is this the hotel where we’re staying?”
His smug-ometer is going off the scale. “It’s not a hotel. There’s just us.”
“Just us?”
“Well, I brought in a few people to cook and clean for us. Ross insisted on being one of them.” He tips his head towards our
driver, whose grin I can see, even though the back of his head. “But apart from that, yes, just us.” He raises an eyebrow. “You did
want us to be private for our honeymoon, didn’t you?”
I start to speak, but the house comes into view.
It is a small mansion, Georgian I think, and graciously designed. Tall windows frame a door set into a deep porch. Half a dozen
steps lead up to the entrance. A carriage circle fronts the facade.
It must have cost a fortune to hire this place.
“Oh Richard. It’s beautiful. I love it. And yes, of course I wanted us to be ‘private’.”
The car pulls up onto the gravelled drive. Ross starts to unload our luggage. My Master steps out, walks around the car and
opens my door, proffering his arm. “Would you like to accompany me inside Mrs Haswell?”
‘Mrs Haswell’. It brings tears to my eyes, the words still too new for the shine to have worn away.
We step into an elegant hall. Beautifully patterned rugs overlay a gorgeous parquet floor. A chandelier above us is paired to a
companion that beckons up a long, curved stairway. To my left, I see a sunlit drawing room. To my right is a dining room, laid out
for dinner with candelabras and fresh flowers on a long mahogany table.
It is a house from dreams.
Speechless, I simply stand there, staring.
“Don’t you like it?” My Master has a worried tinge to his voice.
“How could I not like it Mas.... Richard?” I am conscious of Ross in the background. Whilst we are in public, my husband is
‘Richard’. In private, he is ‘Master’. “It’s just beautiful.”

He leads me upstairs. “I chose a bedroom for us, overlooking the lake.” he says. “But we can always change it, if you prefer
another one.”
The bedroom is sumptuous and the views are to die for. A huge bed takes centre stage in the room. Sunshine slants over red
satin covers, scattered with white rose petals. An ice bucket sits on a small side-table, chilling a bottle.
“Ah champagne!” says my Master. “Let’s start with a toast shall we.” He pops the cork, and pours two glasses.
We toast. “To us.”
“To us.”
I sip mine, sniffing at the bubbles up my nose. “I feel as if I’m in a fairy-tale Master.”
He puts his glass carefully to one side and stands before me, hands resting on my waist, face tilted down to mine. “I wanted us
to have a beautiful honeymoon. And I want us to have a beautiful life. You deserve a fairy-tale.”
Then he grins wickedly. “But there’s more.”
“Really?” I am excited now, like kid working my way through a candy jar. Each sweetie seems better than the last. “What? What
is it?”
“You’ll see. Now, do you want to unpack? Have a bath? Take a walk?” He is being polite, but there is a speculative look in his eye
which sets my pussy purring.
“Um.... this is our honeymoon. I thought we might find some other things to do? And besides, I want to show you your wedding
present.”
“My wedding present?” That eyebrow lifts again and his mouth twitches as his blue, blue eyes scan me over. “What are you
wearing under there?”
I must be completely predictable. He’s not been fooled for a minute. “Why don’t you find out......”
He looks me up and down, a glint of humour crinkling his eyes, then, standing back, arms akimbo, he nods down at my blouse.
“Take it off.”
It is an instruction, and I always obey my Master’s instructions.

Slowly, I start to unbutton the blouse, allowing the slinky fabric to slip to one side, revealing what I am wearing beneath. As the
blouse opens, displaying black leather and lace, chrome fittings and buckles, my Master’s head tilts to one side, eyes widening
and I see the fit of his jeans grow tighter.
“All the way off.” His voice is thick.
There is a knock at the door, and Ross’ voice. “Mr Haswell. Mrs Haswell. I’ve got your suitcases. Should I bring them in?”
“Later, Ross.” barks my Master. “Go and get some lunch.”
There is a thump outside - as of suitcases being dropped onto a thick carpet, and the sounds of footsteps retreating down a
staircase. A moment later, the sound of a door opening then closing, and the hum of a car engine. Gravel crunches under
wheels, then fades.
“No more interruptions.” My Master turn the key in the door lock and then turns to me. “You’ve brought plenty of clothes? Your
cases seemed heavy enough.”
I’m puzzled. “Yes of course.”
“Good.” He seizes my blouse inside both shoulders and rips it off me. Seams rip under his un-gentle treatment and my pulse
races.
Then he seizes my skirt by the waistband, tearing it in two. It shreds at the fastenings, dropping to the floor. My pussy convulses,
gushing. I stand, clad in black leather corset, stockings and tiny black lacy panties.
“They can go too.” My Master slips fingers inside the panties, sliding over my wet clit, testing me, then pulls, and the tattered
remains of my panties drop to the floor. “You’ll not be needing those for some time.”
“Now then, Mrs Haswell. Let’s see about your marital duties. Stand up straight. Turn around. I want to admire my new wife.”
Obediently, I turn. He passes me my champagne flute. “Enjoy your wine.”
Sipping carefully at my drink, I pose for my Master. His eyes linger on my breasts, cupped high and curved in their leather
confinement. He strokes them, slowly, caressingly, and then, peeling down the leather support, eases each one out of its cup, so
that it sits, pert and displayed, above the corset.

In the cool air, my nipples stiffen and crinkle. For a moment, my Master bends to suckle at one, then, dipping his fingers in my
champagne, paints chilled wine over each nipple. The pink buds respond, hardening to nubs, which my Master pinches, enough
to make me yelp.
“No noise.” he says. “You have to be quiet.” Then he pinches again, harder.
This time, I stifle the yelp, but my melting pussy trickles down inside my thighs.
“If you can’t be quiet.” he says. “I may have to punish you. So be good.” And he bends again, to nuzzle at my breasts, biting
gently.
I want to bring this to a head. I want to be fucked. My quivering pussy demands it. I decide to speed things up a bit.
Turning the glass in my hand up-side-down, I pour icy champagne down the length of my Master’s back...