Free Publicly Display Yourself for Me by Aphrodite Hunt

 
PUBLICLY DISPLAY YOURSELF FOR ME
     
    1
     
    I’m curled up in my bed, alone, wondering
how I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
    Oh yes. I remember.
    It’s the $250,000. My contract money to be a
sex slave to a billionaire philanthropist and his three horny sons,
locked in for a period of time in which I do not have a safe word
to opt out from.
    And yes. It’s also because I am afraid of
losing my boyfriend – the superrich and super-gorgeous Max Devlin –
if I say no to his family.
    I’m sick, sick, sick.
    Depraved, more like. But although my
thoughts oscillate between two extremes, I have no qualms that if I
had to relive the last two days, I still would have signed the
contract. It’s my nest egg, you see? I have to look after myself.
I’m not much different from a kept woman – she opens her legs for
somewhere to stay, privileges and money. The main difference is
that she opens her legs for one man.
    I’m opening my legs for everyone in the
family, and whomever they choose to fuck me. In there a term in
history for one such as I? Bonded slave? I certainly haven’t heard
of many cases such as mine. Or maybe they are all kept hush hush in
the family closets.
    The soft breeze wafts in through the
windows, tenting the curtains. It’s such a beautiful day out there,
and I’m sick to my stomach. I wonder if I can feign illness. It
wouldn’t be a total stretch. I am ill. The kind of illness
that knots my stomach and makes me feel as if I’ll never be worthy
to look my mother in the eye again.
    A knock sounds on my door. My stomach does
another flip. Honestly, I don’t want any sex today. My pussy is
sore from all that rough thumping I received yesterday, and if
anyone suggests more sodomy, I swear I’m going to cry uncle. My
butt is still having hot flashes from the flat paddle that was
applied gleefully to it yesterday.
    This is why I’m lying, not sitting, down. I don’t think I can sit on anything harder than a
plush cushion.
    It isn’t Max who comes in through my bedroom
door but one of the twins. Alex. Maybe Brad. Yes, I still can’t
tell them apart despite having fucked and sucked both of them
individually and as a ménage.
    “Good morning,” he says, smiling.
    “Good morning,” I reply in a timid voice,
hoping he would think I have laryngitis and go away.
    Of course, he’s blessedly gorgeous, with his
dark hair and well-shaped nose and lips that are totally kissable.
A spasm of desire passes through my loins despite myself. But I
still don’t want sex. Can a sex slave state what she wants without
getting another round of punishment?
    He walks up to the bed and hands me a paper
bag that says ‘Erotic secrets’. I open my mouth to begin my
rebellious protest (which I have rehearsed to good measure all
morning in bed) but he wags a finger.
    “It isn’t what you think, Gina. Put it
on.”
    I take the paper bag from him, feeling a
little dazed. When I see the bag’s contents, I ask, “Where are we
going?”
    “The beach.”
    “The one downstairs?”
    He winks. “Just put it on. You’ll see.”
     
    *
     
    I traipse down the curving grand staircase,
feeling self-conscious. My muscles ache as if I’ve just been
through a brutal Thai massage. I’m wearing a white terrycloth robe
and high heels. Yeah, I’m going to have a ball digging those heels
in the sand. I’m already having trouble digging my heels into the
soft, sink-into-me carpet that must have been worth hundreds of
thousands of sex contracts.
    Voices waft from the den. One of them sounds
terribly familiar. I frown, trying to remember where I’ve heard it
before. It’s not anyone who lives in this house, for certain.
    The trill of female laughter follows.
    Alice walks out of the den. “Well, one of
the guest bedrooms is taken, but there are plenty more to go
around. And oh, my Dad is – ”
    She freezes when she sees me.
    My feet grow roots at the bottom step. Alice
always does to me. Makes me feel as if I’m an errant