Bought By The Billionaire

My Master leads me through the long hallway, to the back of the house, past the kitchens, and to the rear staircase.
Once of a day, this staircase would have been for the use of servants only, so that their lords and masters did not have to pass
them on the main, and much more glamorous, front staircase. Dark and dingy, it leads up to storerooms, utility areas and the
rear servants’ access to the upper hallway. Also, I now realise, it must lead down too.
An oak door blocks the way, the timber ancient, and looking capable of holding off the Hordes of Genghis Khan.
My Master winks at me with an air of mystery, then produces a large skeleton key. “This is our private area.” The lock sticks and
then grinds open. “I must get some oil on this.” he mutters.
The door swings back, and cool damp air wafts out. Cellars?
Of course, cellars. A house like this would have had butteries, cold storage rooms, the butler’s pantry, laundry areas. And they
would all be in the basement areas, where the gentry would never go.
We descend a flight of uneven stone steps, dimly lit by a single bulb, to a long, arched hallway. Stone flagged and chilly, also
badly lit, it leads perhaps fifty yards before ending in what looks like a small chapel. Looking up, the barrel-vaulted ceilings are
quite beautiful. Several large wooden doors lead off the corridor to right and left. A glimmer of what my Master intends begins to
dawn on me.
His mouth twitching at the corners, he waves me forward. “Want to explore?”
Do I! Yes indeedy!
The first door to my left creaks open, and specks of rust fall off corroded hinges. It seems to be an old laundry. Stone troughs,
with hand pumps, sit side by side with an enormous washing machine straight out of the 1950s. A smell of oil suggests there is a
boiler room somewhere beyond. I pull the door closed and move on to the next room.
This is the boiler room. A maze of pipes, valves and complicated machinery weaves through cobwebs draped with the dust of
years. A couple of drying racks for washing, hang from the arched roof, their ropes filthy, and pulleys rusted with age.
My Master, behind me, comments “All of this downstairs area needs refurbishing. We’ll get in the builders and decorators when
you have decided what you would like to do with them.”

Do with them? I hadn’t got that far. I am still goggling over the immensity of what my Master has given me. But it occurs to me
that these dilapidated rooms, for all their dust and cobwebs, would make wonderfully atmospheric dining rooms for dinner
parties. I move on to the next room.
I detect a change in my Master. Expectation? What is he up to?
As I push open the door, instead of the chill damp, which has greeted me from the previous chambers, warm air washes over
me. The room is warm and glowingly lit, with dozens of fat candles, their light reflecting from polished brass sconces and
holders. A fire burns in a huge hearth at the far end of the room, its flames casting shadows, that dance and play over stone
walls cleaned and polished to a gleaming finish. Thick rugs scattered over the stone flag floor absorb the chill thrown up from the
ground.
I glance back at my Master. His eyes are gleaming. Then I step into the room, taking in more of the detail.
The chamber has been, I think, a dairy, or perhaps a meat store. Long stone slabs of shelves, some with boxes and containers,
line one wall. Huge metal rings embedded in the vaulting suggest that whole carcasses might have one hung there, ready to
butcher. Then I see the huge embedded meat hooks alongside them, confirming my thoughts. Now, knowing my Master’s.......
inclinations.... I know there is another use for them.
Centred in the chamber, there is a huge bed, a four-poster. Only just fitting under the highest point of the arched stone ceilings, it
must have been brought into the room in pieces. It looks old. Solid timber, perhaps oak, posts, dark with age, spiral up from the
floor to cross-bars which support heavy velvet curtains, currently pulled open from the bed itself. Silk cords, attached to the posts
at one end, drape across the bedspread.
Before I am able to fully explore this wonderful room, my Master is behind me, holding me close by the waist, controlling me.
“Now Madam. About my wedding present...” From behind his fingers slide into the front of my blouse, and pull, hard. Buttons fly
in all directions and the delicate silk fabric rips apart as he pulls the remains of the garment down from my shoulders and off. My
skirt is harder for him, but my Master is a strong man. Seizing the waistband, he tears it apart and the shredded garment drops
as my Master methodically strips me.
I wonder how much of my wardrobe will remain by the end of our honeymoon. When I have protested his treatment of my clothes
in the past, my Master has simply commented that it is one of the privileges of wealth. What do I think he works so hard for? And
then he has increased my allowance to buy replacements.

Stripped to my leather corset and stockings, he marches me to the middle of the room, centred between two of the ceiling rings.
“Arms up.” he instructs, not smiling now, but intense, concentrated.
I raise my arms. “Stay like that.” he orders, before going to one of the stone shelves and taking something from a box.
He brings shackles, heavy, solidly made, chains with metal cuffs. Holding my eyes as he does so, my Master clips one end to a
ceiling ring. The other is snapped onto my left wrist. The cuff is padded with a soft suede and it won’t dig in, but never would I
escape these. The snug way they fit my wrists suggests that they are custom made for me. My Master clicks the cuff closed, and
then shackles my other wrist.
Stretched skywards, I am not uncomfortable, and can stand easily enough. But my Master pushes my ankles apart, spreading
me and knocking me off-balance. I stagger. Were it not for the support from my restraints, I would fall. He revisits the box,
returning with a spreader bar. Dropping to his knees, he fits it to my ankles, and then winches it a little further open, spreading
my legs more widely apart.
Still kneeling, his face level with my moistening crotch, he pulls the satin of my panties to one side. He scents my red curls, my
warming sex, then splays my lips with delicate fingers, probing with his tongue for my clit. Teasing it from hiding, he licks it softly,
manipulating it. My heated thighs and groin a-trembling, I start to pant and groan. Then again, he rips, and the panties drop to
the floor.
My Master ceases his gentle torment. Standing again, he whispers close to me “Not too much yet. You have to be good first.”
Now supported from my wrists, my stomach muscles taut with tension, my arms straining as they semi-support my weight, I
stand displayed.
My Master circles me, wearing an almost predatory expression. His fingers curl through my long red hair, caress my shoulders
and waist, stroke my breasts before he stands back, surveying me, devilment in his eyes.
“Feeling horny Elizabeth?” he asks, before dipping his fingers between my thighs, running them through folds warm and wet with
arousal, probing my swelling pussy. “Ah yes. I thought so.” He sucks his fingers clean. “As wet as it comes, and horny as Hell.”
He returns to the box on the shelf, returning this time with one his favourite toys; a flogger that I once gave him as a birthday gift.
Red and black leather, soft and supple, it snaps across his fingers as he tests it, experimentally, on his own hand.
He trails the pliant lashes over the tops of my breasts, their lower halves encased in the leather cups of the corset.

“Mmm...” he muses. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all.” And slowly, locking eyes with me as he does so, he unlaces the top
few strands of the bodice, releasing my breasts.
My breasts are large, and normally a little pendulous, but straining upwards as I am, they are raised high on my ribcage, nipples
puckering hard with arousal. My Master trails the tails of the flogger over the stiffening nubs, sending tingles down through my
stomach to my fluid pussy. He smiles in satisfaction as I moan and tremble, teasing at my nipples, flicking them gently with the
leather tresses. I quiver, helpless in my constraints.