Off The Record: To Blackmail A Billionaire (Part One) (A BDSM And Breeding Erotic Romance Novelette) Read online

  Off The Record: To Blackmail A Billionaire

  Ashley Spector

  Copyright 2013 by Ashley Spector

  Published By Forbidden Fruit Press

  (All characters depicted within this story are consenting adults)

  ***

  A taste of things to come:

  “How do you feel, Alyssia? I think it’s time I stopped calling you Miss Bright, by the way. Do you feel shamed? Powerless?” His voice was oddly caressing, and I had to almost look to make sure he wasn’t touching me. He had chosen exactly the words I would be using to describe the encounter—if I ever had the nerve to tell anyone about it.

  “Ah—I—I—” I had no words. The only thing I could think of was being so exposed in front of Colt, even my ass only barely covered by my panties, which were little more than lace. Some part of my mind was screaming for him to touch me—to feel my breasts, touch my pussy. Another part of me was horrified at what he had done, angry that he was shaming me and exposing me. Colt smiled at me and raised the scissors again. I felt the brush of his finger against my hip, and the cold metal. I wanted to say “no,” I wanted to demand that he stop, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I closed my eyes and heard the sweep of the scissor’s blades, the click of them closing.

  ***

  Chapter One

  It was the opportunity of a lifetime. I was so excited that I almost kissed the monitor of my work computer when I read the e-mail from my boss. “Alyssia: It took some doing, but I’ve got you up to do an interview with Jonathan Colt. Consider it a reward for slogging through all those press releases.” It’s absolutely impossible to get an interview with Colt; the guy is richer than God, he has a staff of handlers that would make the President jealous. The word on the street is that he’s got a controlling interest in multiple companies, though of course no one’s ever really been able to assert with any real certainty where he gets his billions. As a rule, he doesn’t talk to the press unless he has something specific to say. Whenever he makes an appearance, he’s surrounded by so many huge bodyguards there’s no way to get a microphone close to him. And of course, unless he has some announcement to make, the only thing you’ll ever get if you call to try to schedule an interview is a prepared statement—if you qualify. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that The New York Minute wasn’t on the list of publications that were entitled to receive a statement on whatever issue was going at the time.

  So when I got the e-mail from my editor, I immediately started to prepare. It was particularly important that I be as ready as possible; I’m the second-youngest full-time writer on the staff at 24—chances like this don’t come around. He could have easily given the scoop to someone else and no one would have blamed him at all, least of all me. Ever since I started working for the Minute, I’ve taken on whatever assignments they’ll give me. Most of it has been pretty boring. I’ve covered corporate mergers, society events—though rarely the fun ones—the minor scandals that afflict the state’s politicians. I haven’t been able to get a foot in the door in the Entertainment section, and the major politics of the day are out of my reach equally. An assignment to interview, one-on-one, one of if not the most wealthy man in the world would put me ahead in a big way. Don’t screw it up, I said to myself over and over again as I did my research. The interview was scheduled for the next day at 4 in the afternoon. I figured it would give me just enough time to get my ducks in a row, find out the right questions to ask, see what dirt I could get on the building.

  My friends are constantly joking that I would keep going to work even if they didn’t pay me. Certainly, I do more work than my salary pays me for by half, but I went into this profession with my eyes open. I knew it would take a lot of proving, and a lot of work, to get even halfway to where I wanted by my mid-twenties. While my friends have been getting married, planning for the future as they call it, I’ve been talking to staffers, scoping out ballrooms, chatting up caterers. My idea of planning for the future is to get my career going, set it so firmly in motion that in ten years, fifteen on the outside, I get top columnist billing and can afford something better than the tiny apartment and my broken-down car. Maybe even some decent clothes. The thought of having kids at my age is terrifying.

  I looked at all the interviews Colt did in the past year, and reviewed the topics I was supposed to be asking about so many times I ended up dreaming about them. I made sure my digital recorder had full batteries, and spent hours looking through my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. If you’re going to be interviewing a billionaire, it pays to look as utterly respectable as possible. Not for this gig my usual jeans and sweater. After an hour of searching, I decided that nothing I owned was sufficient. I decided to bite the bullet and make a trip to a relatively high-end shop. I justified it to myself: I had to be able to get in, had to be presentable in front of Colt. I had standards to maintain. The long-term dividends of this assignment would pay for having to scrimp on food for a few weeks.

  I picked out a decent-looking dress suit, not designer but a solid name brand, with a pair of uncomfortable heels—they would be okay to walk in for a block or two, and I fully intended that the interview would be sitting down, so the pressure would be off of my feet. I have to admit, when I got home from the store late the night before the interview and tried the whole outfit on, I was really pleased. The suit was a dark charcoal color, and it fit me just perfectly. The lining was nice, and it had a feminine cut to it, instead of the kind of boxy cuts that women’s dress suits generally have. The black heels really made the outfit. I carefully put everything away and managed to crawl into bed, my stomach churning with anxiety. If I could just get it over with, I thought. It was like when you’re a child, waiting for Christmas or Easter—knowing that if you go to sleep, morning will arrive more quickly, but so worked up over the mystery of what you’ll get that you can’t shut down. I tossed and turned for a while, and finally got to sleep. I dreamed of the questions I was going to ask, of showing up utterly prepared and really grilling Colt.

  I went over my questions again in the morning. I sat around in my pajamas, drinking coffee and psyching myself up. I looked over the layout drawing I’d made of Colt’s building, based on intel I’d gotten from one of the employees working there, a guy who worked in the on-site laundry service. I planned my approach carefully. Showing up looking like “the right sort” would make it easier, I thought to myself, looking over at the suit and pumps. I took a shower at 11 and ate a quick lunch while deciding on how I should do my hair and makeup. How do TV journalists do it? I wondered as I brushed my teeth. I decided on very simple makeup, just enough to look professional, and put my long, dark hair in a tight bun. When I’m at work I usually just wear it in a ponytail, maybe a braid if I’m feeling particularly feminine. I got into the suit and packed up my gear into my briefcase: note pad, digital recorder, credentials, extra pens, everything I thought I would need for the occasion. Some of the older pros I work with still use shorthand; I never got to be terribly good at it, and anyway, for the most part my memory is excellent. I left my apartment early, knowing that I would get there before the appointment. I was too keyed up to wait around to arrive at precisely the right moment, and anyway, if I got there early, I might get a chance to talk to someone, see if there was anything interesting going on, any rumors I could work into the piece.

  For once, traffic was light in the city, and I showed my credentials to the guy posted at the garage to the enormous bui
lding. Apparently I was on his list, because once he checked me against my ID, he waved me in. Fifteen minutes to find a parking spot. I slipped off the flats I’d worn to drive in, and put on the uncomfortable heels, giving myself a quick once-over and checking to make sure I hadn’t smeared my makeup. I grabbed my gear and headed into the building.

  I walked up to the woman at the front desk, my credentials ready. “I’m here to see Mr. Colt,” I said, placing my magazine ID on the counter. The pert-looking blonde looked at me for a moment before picking up my credentials and tapping a few keys on her computer.

  “Ah, yes,” she said, suddenly much more polite. “Ms. Bright. I see you have an appointment with Mr. Colt this afternoon. However…” her nose wrinkled. “It looks like he’s not expecting you for another hour. Would you like to come back?” I shook my head.

  “That will be all right. I’ll head up and wait for him,” I replied. She looked as if she wanted to stop me, but I could tell she didn’t have a reason. “Unless Mr. Colt is busy right now?” I asked, trying to put as much of an assertive tone in my voice as possible.

  “No, there’s nothing on his calendar for this hour…” she started, her voice hesitating.

  “In that case, perhaps I can catch him.” I gestured to my credentials. “If I can have that back please.” She handed me back my ID and I made tracks for the elevator. A guard stood at the ornate, old fashioned-looking elevators, dressed in prime livery. I handed him my ID. “I’m here to see Mr. Colt,” I repeated. He spoke into a headset and apparently got an all-clear from the receptionist; he waved a key fob in front of a sensor and the door opened with a chime.

  “30th floor, ma’am,” he said politely, turning back to face out into the lobby. I punched the button and the doors closed with a whisper. The whole building was gorgeous; marble floors, gilded wainscoting, an echo-chamber of opulence. Even the desk that the receptionist had been at was impressive: polished mahogany, with her dainty computer looking sleek and efficient on its surface. How much did one have to make to be able to afford even a tiny space in the building, I wondered to myself as the elevator made its way up. Colt owned the building; some of the lower floors were business premises for high-end designers and craftsmen, while the upper floors held huge apartments with every possible amenity. The penthouse suites—of which Colt owned the premium one—were legendary. The skyscraper would make the man who had designed the Chrysler building envious.

  I got to Colt’s floor and made my way down a short hallway. The carpet was so thick that my heel almost caught on it, so plush it muffled any noises. Standing in this hallway, you could completely forget that you were in the middle of a packed city. I got to the door and was about to ring the bell when I noticed something: the door was just slightly open. It was the luckiest day I could ever remember having in my life. Play the lottery, I reminded myself, slowly easing the door open. The place was empty—no noises at all. The maid must not have closed the door properly. I stepped into the apartment; for a moment, I wondered if my eyes were even big enough to take everything in. There was a staircase leading up, dark wood with polished brass railing. The floors had to be some kind of tropical hardwood, and they gleamed, reflecting my face back up at me in from their dark depths. The living area was enormous, with a giant flat screen along one wall, a huge fireplace thoroughly cleaned in cheery red brick, a kitchen that—surely—had to be for show, with top-of-the-line appliances. I made my way around the place slowly, making mental notes about this and that—a sculpture placed in a sunny corner, priceless art on the walls, well-maintained plants scattered about. The walls were a velvety cream color, with a rich, textured brown border. I found the doorway into Colt’s home office and went in.

  The room was dominated by an enormous desk, absolutely ancient-looking, with claw feet and carving everywhere. There were a few papers arranged on it, and odd storage areas that would have probably made more sense to someone in the 1800s. One corner of the room boasted a small, but elegant-looking bar and comfortable seating was arranged to one side of the desk. Everything in the office spoke of casual business meetings, talks with other power-brokers in the world of the wealthy. The couch was comfortable-looking but also stylish, with pristine leather and metallic rivets, the rug in the center of the room was ornate, with arabesque swirls and extremely fine designs worked into the material.

  Just when I finished scoping the room, I heard voices approaching. “Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, looking around. Even if it was just the help, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen yet. The voices kept coming nearer. I heard soft, feminine giggling and a deeper chuckle, muffled words and the clacking of shoes on the hardwood floor. Finally, my eyes landed on a wardrobe with double doors, vented by slats of wood. I pulled it open; it was loaded up with jackets and shoes. I would just be able to fit inside if I pushed everything out of the way. I pulled the door closed behind me and stared out, my heart pounding in my throat. The voices became clearer, more distinct.

  “Come on, Isabel,” I heard the man saying, amusement rippling through his voice. “We have business to discuss.” A tall, giggly redhead—Isabel, I assumed—stepped into the room, followed by the man who had spoken before. My heart stopped pounding and sank to my knees. It was Jonathan Colt. He strode in behind the redhead, a faint smile on his face. He was certainly the exact kind of man to attract the attention of every heiress in the free world: standing at just 6 feet tall, he had well-groomed blond hair and bright green eyes, set in a perfectly molded face. As if his face and his money weren’t enough, he had the slim, muscular build of an athlete and walked around in his tailored suit as if there was nothing he couldn’t have for the asking. His shirt was snowy white, perfectly starched against the dull black of his jacket and trousers. He wore a handmade silk tie in deep amethyst, setting off his eyes, and his well-shined shoes clicked against the floor until he stepped onto the rug.

  “What did you want to discuss, Mr. Colt?” the redhead asked. I was glad I wouldn’t have to interview her; her syrupy coquette routine would get on my nerves in about ten minutes. Colt didn’t seem bothered by it, which mystified me.

  “I’m afraid you haven’t been doing too well, Isabel,” he said in a mock-serious tone. I felt dizzy, realizing what exactly was going on. I had watched too many small-time politicians chat up campaign staff to mistake it. Suddenly, I had gone from putting myself into the worst position a journalist could ever be caught in to having the prime seat at the scoop of a lifetime. I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  “I haven’t? I’m so sorry Mr. Colt,” the redhead replied, cocking her hip in a provocative stance. Colt closed the distance between them.

  “You’re going to have to make it up to me,” he told her, his hands immediately going to her stylish blouse and pulling it free of her skirt. Isabel gasped—but didn’t move away, I noticed.

  “Mr. Colt—” she started, and he shut her up with a kiss, his hands wandering all over her.

  “Do you want to keep your internship?” Colt asked, and I watched his hands snake up under her blouse to cup her breasts.

  “I really do,” the redhead cooed, leaning up onto her toes. “Oh, Mr. Colt,” she purred. I was torn between being disgusted at how fake she was and being intrigued by the way he was just copping a feel on the girl without even worrying she would say no.

  He almost ripped off her blouse and immediately went for her breasts, massaging them in his hands while he leaned in and kissed the tops of them. He pushed her down onto the floor carefully and unzipped his trousers, pulling out his cock and guiding it towards her mouth. Isabel didn’t seem at all surprised at the turn of events and began sucking him off, looking up at him and playing with herself. I couldn’t look away. I tried to tell myself that it was because I wanted to have as many of the sordid details as possible for an article, but I could also feel myself getting turned on by the sight of it.

  I watched Colt start to really get into it after a few minutes; he pushed her away right wh
en I thought he was about to come, and took a deep breath, dropping his pants and tossing aside his jacket as if it were a cheap thrift store item and not the expensive piece of couture I knew it had to be. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt and then he was pushing the girl onto her back on the floor, shoving her skirt up and tugging at her tiny, frilly panties. “Are you good and wet, Isabel?” I watched him reach up and finger her for a quick moment. The redhead moaned and cooed on the floor underneath him. “Not quite wet enough, I don’t think,” he said. He settled himself on the ground and pulled her up, draping her over his lap on her stomach.

  I watched, partly horrified and partly incredibly turned on. Colt brought his hand down on the redhead’s bare ass hard, the smack reverberating in the still room. “You’ve been a bad employee, Isabel,” Colt told the girl, rubbing his hand over her ass slowly. “Did your father ever spank you when you were little?” He brought his hand down again. From where I was standing, I could see her milky flesh turn red when he took his hand away. He aimed carefully, giving her another smack directly on top of the previous one, and Isabel yelped—almost half a moan, really—and arched her ass up in the air for more abuse.

  Again and again he brought his hand down on her, and I tensed with every blow. I could feel myself getting wet and wondered what the hell was wrong with me, watching some stupid intern get a spanking from her boss and getting hot about it. After a while, he slipped his hand between her legs and fingered her again, making the girl writhe on his lap and moan in that affected voice of hers. Colt lifted her off of his lap and pushed her down onto the floor again, pulling her legs around her. “Shouldn’t we use protection?” Isabel asked in a breathless, girlish voice.