of moisture to gather between my legs. If he wants to
fuck me in the car before we even leave the airstrip, I won’t
object.
Of course, it wouldn’t matter if I objected
anyway. That’s sort of the point.
I finally reach level terrain and continue to
walk toward him. I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t coming to meet
me halfway, but then, I didn’t bring any luggage—everything I need
will be provided here—so it’s not as though I need help carrying
anything. Still, it’s oddly nerve-wracking to have him studying me
so intently as I approach, not saying a word. He reminds me of a
lion watching and waiting to ambush its unsuspecting prey.
I’m hardly unsuspecting, though.
When I get within five feet of him, I find I have to say something to alleviate my growing tension.
“Thank you for coming to meet me, Mr. Huntley.”
He lowers his glasses with one finger and
looks over the rim at me. “Master.”
I stop in my tracks. Despite the warmth of
the Caribbean sun, I shiver. It’s a word I’ve longed to say to a
man. To say it to a virtual stranger is exhilarating. “Thank you,
Master,” I say, lifting my skirt as I dip into a wobbly
curtsey.
The gesture earns me a curve of those full
lips that’s almost a smile. Almost, but not quite.
Without another word, he opens the car door
and gestures for me to get in. For the first time, I realize he
didn’t drive here himself. A man in a chauffeur’s cap sits in the
driver’s seat. The inside of the Mercedes is air-conditioned and
inviting, and the chauffeur doesn’t even turn his head to
acknowledge me as I get in.
I scoot across the cool ivory leather, coming
to rest on my naked ass on the passenger side as Gavin folds
himself in beside me. When he closes the door, the driver takes
that as a signal and pulls away, with no words exchanged.
Despite my mathematically oriented
professions, I’m a fairly talkative person, and all this silence
strikes me as worrisome. I came here for sex—the hardest, dirtiest,
most extreme sex possible—but I assumed there’d be at least some conversation. Gavin was chatty enough in our IM
sessions, describing to me in lurid detail every depraved and
delicious way he planned to have me. That he’s so quiet now makes
me wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or worse.
A wave of panic crashes over me. I did my
research. I’m not stupid enough to put myself in the hands of a
stranger without some assurances that he’s not an axe-murdering
lunatic. But just for a minute, I consider the possibility that a
man who owns his own Caribbean island inhabited only by people who
work for him might be able to keep something like that a secret.
Then I remember the very large bond Maid for It requires men
to pay as an assurance that the women in these arrangements won’t
be harmed, and some of my concern dissipates. Even rich men don’t
like to waste money.
Especially rich men.
“How was your flight?”
I jump, surprised by the sudden foray into
conversation. “Um, fine.” Then, deciding that response might imply
I didn’t appreciate the opulence of his private jet sufficiently, I
add, “The leg from Miami to here was fantastic.”
He nods. “Did you have any trouble getting to
the hangar in Miami?” His voice is dark and creamy, like a
perfectly pulled double espresso.
“It was a little tricky,” I admit, squirming
in my seat as another rush of moisture dampens my pussy. “But once
I found the right person to ask, it was no problem.”
“Good.” A few seconds of silence tick by.
Just as I think that might be all he has to say for now, he says,
“I hope you’re ready to work, Libby, like you’ve never worked
before. I have a lot in mind for you to do for me.”
I assume work is a euphemism for fuck , which Gavin probably doesn’t want to say with his
driver listening. Although as far as I can tell, the guy is deaf,
dumb, and blind. Well, except for the fact that he seems to be
negotiating the narrow roads that
fuck me in the car before we even leave the airstrip, I won’t
object.
Of course, it wouldn’t matter if I objected
anyway. That’s sort of the point.
I finally reach level terrain and continue to
walk toward him. I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t coming to meet
me halfway, but then, I didn’t bring any luggage—everything I need
will be provided here—so it’s not as though I need help carrying
anything. Still, it’s oddly nerve-wracking to have him studying me
so intently as I approach, not saying a word. He reminds me of a
lion watching and waiting to ambush its unsuspecting prey.
I’m hardly unsuspecting, though.
When I get within five feet of him, I find I have to say something to alleviate my growing tension.
“Thank you for coming to meet me, Mr. Huntley.”
He lowers his glasses with one finger and
looks over the rim at me. “Master.”
I stop in my tracks. Despite the warmth of
the Caribbean sun, I shiver. It’s a word I’ve longed to say to a
man. To say it to a virtual stranger is exhilarating. “Thank you,
Master,” I say, lifting my skirt as I dip into a wobbly
curtsey.
The gesture earns me a curve of those full
lips that’s almost a smile. Almost, but not quite.
Without another word, he opens the car door
and gestures for me to get in. For the first time, I realize he
didn’t drive here himself. A man in a chauffeur’s cap sits in the
driver’s seat. The inside of the Mercedes is air-conditioned and
inviting, and the chauffeur doesn’t even turn his head to
acknowledge me as I get in.
I scoot across the cool ivory leather, coming
to rest on my naked ass on the passenger side as Gavin folds
himself in beside me. When he closes the door, the driver takes
that as a signal and pulls away, with no words exchanged.
Despite my mathematically oriented
professions, I’m a fairly talkative person, and all this silence
strikes me as worrisome. I came here for sex—the hardest, dirtiest,
most extreme sex possible—but I assumed there’d be at least some conversation. Gavin was chatty enough in our IM
sessions, describing to me in lurid detail every depraved and
delicious way he planned to have me. That he’s so quiet now makes
me wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or worse.
A wave of panic crashes over me. I did my
research. I’m not stupid enough to put myself in the hands of a
stranger without some assurances that he’s not an axe-murdering
lunatic. But just for a minute, I consider the possibility that a
man who owns his own Caribbean island inhabited only by people who
work for him might be able to keep something like that a secret.
Then I remember the very large bond Maid for It requires men
to pay as an assurance that the women in these arrangements won’t
be harmed, and some of my concern dissipates. Even rich men don’t
like to waste money.
Especially rich men.
“How was your flight?”
I jump, surprised by the sudden foray into
conversation. “Um, fine.” Then, deciding that response might imply
I didn’t appreciate the opulence of his private jet sufficiently, I
add, “The leg from Miami to here was fantastic.”
He nods. “Did you have any trouble getting to
the hangar in Miami?” His voice is dark and creamy, like a
perfectly pulled double espresso.
“It was a little tricky,” I admit, squirming
in my seat as another rush of moisture dampens my pussy. “But once
I found the right person to ask, it was no problem.”
“Good.” A few seconds of silence tick by.
Just as I think that might be all he has to say for now, he says,
“I hope you’re ready to work, Libby, like you’ve never worked
before. I have a lot in mind for you to do for me.”
I assume work is a euphemism for fuck , which Gavin probably doesn’t want to say with his
driver listening. Although as far as I can tell, the guy is deaf,
dumb, and blind. Well, except for the fact that he seems to be
negotiating the narrow roads that
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