Upward Ambition Ch. 07

I wince as Gina laughs, not because it's not true, but because I'm afraid it is.

"Still, the offer stands," she says.

"I don't see your other boy anywhere--Danny, is it?"

"Yes. He's in the back being prepped. He is the evening's entertainment." She peers at the clock on the wall; it's half past seven. "They'll be starting the show soon. Can the foundation count on you to be generous this evening?"

She gives him a flirtatious wink, and he flashes her the charming smile that never fails to make my heart skip a beat, even though he's never once aimed it at me.

"Aren't I always?"

"You're a peach." She bats her fake eyelashes and touches his arm with a familiar sort of intimacy that makes me wonder if they've fucked before. Why do I feel a pang of jealousy at that thought? What the hell is wrong with me? I know that he has regular relationships with women, and though they don't tend to last long, they are definitely normal dating relationships with flowers and dinners and wooing. The only thing special about me is that blackmail has negated the need for him to be charming. He's made it abundantly clear that I'm just a convenient fucktoy for him--one that can't say no. An easy way to exorcise his need for domination and control and whatever sick perversions he has festering inside him.

"Oh," Gina says suddenly, breaking me out of my reverie. "Have you seen Kevin yet? He's around here somewhere."

"Kevin Grant?" There's a sudden edge to Derek's voice, and I feel a faint tug as his grip on the leash subconsciously tightens. "I thought you said he wasn't coming?"

"He wasn't! But I think he decided to stop in for a few minutes on his way to another function. You know how he likes to show off whatever his pet of the week is."

Derek makes a non-committal sound. My heart begins pounding against my ribs. This was bad enough in a room full of strangers, but now I have to come face to face (or, more accurately, face to shoe) with the fucking CFO? Part of me hopes that Derek will call it a night and herd me toward the door. I dare a peek up at his face, but as usual I can't read his expression, other than the determined set of his jaw. I realize we aren't going anywhere.

Gina must sense Derek's discontent, because she drops her hand and abruptly excuses herself to chat up her other guests. I'm glad to see her go.

Derek leads me across the room. For now there's still no sign of Kevin, but Derek exchanges pleasantries with no fewer than ten people. I obediently kiss every pair of shoes and meekly accept a range of poking and prodding and lewd comments from the guests. One woman, who has a naked man and woman crawling at her heels, insists on fondling my package over the thong, until the leather is damp with my precum and I'm almost bursting out of the pouch.

A different woman is given the go-ahead to yank off my nipple clamps, which she does with the joy of a kid on Christmas morning. I manage not to scream, but only barely. At her insistence, the girl beside her, who is wearing pink baby-doll lingerie, crawls forward and applies her tongue to my aching nubs. Despite the pain, I very nearly come then and there. The fact that I have damper my arousal through willpower alone is a source of great amusement to Derek.

Another man, easily old enough to be my grandfather, makes me pull aside the thong strap and part my buttocks so he can admire my hole. He doesn't touch, except to slowly stroke my back with a clammy hand, as he describes, in a strangely soothing voice and in great detail, how he'd like to jackhammer me until my pucker is raw and loose as a vagina, until he can fist me as easily as a puppet and pound at my prostate while I beg for mercy.

I am forced to listen to every word of the graphic fantasy. When he's done, Derek fingers my dry hole for the man's amusement while I twitch and whimper, and then he makes me thank the dirty old pervert for the "compliment." The man totters off in search of some other poor helpless slave to torment. The worst thing is that he and Derek exchanged business cards, so I have a horrible feeling this won't be the last time I see his grinning leer. Actually, the worst thing might be when Derek makes me suck his finger clean. I'm desperately glad I took the time to scour myself down there in the shower.

"Can I at least have a drink?" I ask, hoping to wash the faintly sour taste out of my mouth.

Derek eyes me for a second and then shrugs.

"Help yourself." He starts to lower his half-full flute of champagne, and I raise up a little on my knees. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when, instead of pressing it to my lips, he dumps it onto the hardwood floor. I stare down at the slowly spreading puddle of amber liquid. "You'd better be quick about it. Gina won't be happy if her floors are damaged."

No big mystery who would bear the brunt of her anger in that case.

At this point, clad as I am and having been handled by half the people here, I have no idea how I still retain any sense of shame, but regardless, my cheeks burn as I bend down and slurp at the puddle. Once it's diminished, I lick up the last sticky remnants. I'm keenly aware of more than just Derek's eyes on me as I continue to debase myself. At least the taste of my own ass is out of my mouth.

Once I'm finished, I sit up and am peeved to find that Derek's attention is elsewhere. My peevishness tightens into anxiety as I follow the line of his gaze. Kevin Grant has spotted us and is headed in our direction. Fuck.

"And do you expect me to kiss his feet too?" I ask, in a haughty tone that I think would have earned me a smack if he hadn't been so intent on the CFO's approach.

"No," he snaps, with a vehemence that catches me off guard. "Don't even look at him." He punctuates the order with a harsh yank of the leash. He doesn't have to tell me twice. I'm more than happy to lower my head and spare myself from meeting Kevin's hungry gaze.

"Well, well, well, I certainly didn't expect to see you here." I hear a thump as Kevin gives Derek a chummy slap on the back and can envision Derek's wince. I used to think the CFO was just an overly nice guy, oblivious to the fact that Derek is not the type to enjoy bro slaps, but now that I know their history, I suspect that Kevin relishes ignoring Derek's thinly veiled dislike, knowing that there's nothing Derek can do about it, so long as Kevin wields whatever blackmail fodder he has over the company. Is Derek any closer to figuring out what exactly that is? I'd love nothing more than to be rid of Kevin and his smug, leering face forever.

"I could say the same to you," Derek says, his tone perfectly even and emotionless in a way that I suspect is calculated to annoy Kevin.

"Just making the rounds," Kevin replies, his joviality undampened. "I see you've decided to offer your assistant some overtime."

My shoulders tense slightly. I don't know why I had clung to the hope that he might be kind enough to pretend not to notice me. Basking in my nude humiliation is probably the whole reason he came over here. He'd been undressing me with his eyes in the office for a while, and now he didn't have to use his imagination.

"Is this your newest ingenue?" Derek asks, smoothly sidestepping the topic of me. He ordered me not to look at Kevin, but he hadn't said anything about the poor soul kneeling at Kevin's heel. I peer up through my lashes to observe. His mouth is stretched wide around a phallus gag, distorting his features, but he looks young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. His penis is squeezed into a metal cock cage with a tiny dangling lock attached, and I think there's also a ring around his bulging balls. His arms are strapped behind his back in a position that looks excruciating, with his palms meeting between his shoulder blades, his fingers pointing upward. I think it's called the reverse prayer position--yes, ever since my little "arrangement" with Derek started, I have done some late-night drunken googling of BDSM practices--not that what he does to me would ever fall into that category, given the lack of consent and safe words and everything else that makes a healthy sexual relationship.

"Guilty," Kevin says, though he sounds anything but. He ruffles the boy's dark hair, a little too roughly to be deemed affectionate. Kevin's "pet," as Gina referred to him, is staring hard at the floor, with a glaze over his eyes and a blankness in his expression that's almost creepy, like he's far away in his mind. I can't say I blame him.

"Well, we won't keep you." Derek's voice has a finality to it that's impossible to miss.

Kevin barks out a short laugh.

"I see how it is--want to keep your own little ingenue all to yourself. Maybe this isn't the best venue, in that case."

"Just trying to be charitable," Derek says coolly.

"Right, right." Kevin tightens his grip on his pet's hair, and the boy gives a little whimper of pain, muffled through the phallus gag. I wonder if he's getting paid. I certainly hope so. "We have another party to head to anyway."

Derek pulls the leash, and I'm grateful to follow him away. I do make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder, and my eyes snag on Kevin's. His normally cheerful features are an unsettling mixture of hatred and lust. When the full force of it hits me, my stomach drops and I quickly turn back, but I know he caught me looking.

I risk a glimpse of Derek's expression, which is equally dark but with pure, unadulterated hatred. Despite what he's done to me--what he is currently doing to me--I find myself wishing there was something I could do to ease that tension. I'm about to take a chance and try to say something when we are approached once more. The young man is clearly not one of the esteemed guests, as he's buck-naked, except for a white sign hung around his neck. He crawls up to Derek and sits at his feet, pushing back his shoulders to give us full view of the big block letters on the sign.

I'M A NASTY SLUT. PLEASE PUNISH MY PATHETIC PRICK.

I thought I was finally immune to the evening's surprises, but this one causes me to double-take. The man is around my age, his blonde hair mussed and damp with sweat, his skin flushed a blotchy red. There's a red ball gag in his mouth--clearly the sign is the only communication he's allowed. He clasps his hands behind his back and spreads his knees wider, presenting his fully erect and leaking cock. There's a kind of glaze in his eyes, but it's different than Kevin's pet. This is more charged with a frenetic energy, like he's half out of his mind with whatever excitement or satisfaction he's getting out of this bizarre situation.

Derek surveys him in silence for a few seconds, and then leans down to unclip the leash from my collar. He doubles it up and gives it an experimental smack against his palm. I can't help but notice that the slave flinches at the sound.

With an expert flick of his wrist, Derek whips the leash against the man's purplish-red cock. The slave jumps a little with the impact, his expression tightening a little, but doesn't make a sound. Obviously he's accustomed enough to pain that it will take more than a single hit to ruffle him. Perhaps Derek takes this as a challenge because he swings again, harder this time. I wince at the crack, my own penis throbbing in sympathy. The slave shifts a little on his knees but accepts the punishment without complaint. I spy the flicker of fire in Derek's eyes, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Though I'm grateful that I'm not at the receiving end of the relentless snapping of the makeshift whip, that heat in his gaze, the terrible, intoxicating power of his full attention, is something I crave. And I hate myself for it.

After another six strokes, the slave really starts to squirm, his face alight with ecstatic agony. With the tenth hit, he finally emits a sound like a low, strangled groan. I see a slight twitch in the flat line of Derek's mouth and think he might stop, but he's not yet satisfied. As the blows keep coming in a relentless rhythm, the slave's arms start jerking, like he's struggling to keep his hands behind his back, desperate to protect his abused cock but knowing the punishment will be even worse if he does. His eyes are squeezed shut, with tears escaping at the corners. He releases little cries of anguish in time with the blows, his chest heaving.

At last, just when I think the slave will break and beg or cover himself, Derek stops. He leans down, presses a finger underneath the quivering chin, and raises the cherry-red face.

"Look at me," he says, his tone as cool as if he were asking the time. It reminds me of the night he first raped me in his house and how he answered the phone and talked business with Kevin while slowly reaming me out. For all the fire in his eyes, he is truly cold-blooded.

The slave obeys and opens his eyes, which are brimming with tears. Derek studies him for a long while, his expression tinged with something like fascination. That strange, sick jealousy twinges in my chest again.

I guess Derek finds whatever he's looking for, because he abruptly drops the slave's chin, giving him a light slap on the cheek that serves as a dismissal. The man scampers away on all fours, like he's worried Derek will change his mind. I watch him go, but he doesn't make it far before he's in the path of another guest and must once again kneel up and take his lumps.

Derek does not fail to notice me watching.

"Wishing it was you?" he asks.

"No," I say, ripping my gaze away, and then, because I'm afraid I don't sound convincing enough, I add, "You couldn't pay me to subject myself to that."

"Is that so?" There's an undeniable hint of amusement in his tone. He clips the leash back to my collar, but instead of releasing it, he hooks his finger into it and tugs. I'm forced to rise up on my knees to avoid being choked, which brings my face closer to his. "I wouldn't have to pay you though, would I?"

His voice is perilously soft, and I can smell the sweet champagne on his breath. A whimper is caught in the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down. I feel trapped in the steely gray of his eyes.

"If I wanted, I could make you crawl to every person in this penthouse and beg them to whip your cock and balls and whatever other part of you they fancy. If I wanted, I could make you kneel willingly for that paddling machine until your ass is more blister than flesh. If I wanted, I could bend you over a table right now and let anyone and everyone fuck both your holes until you're leaking cum from every orifice." The steady cadence of his voice is both mesmerizing and bone-chilling. A tremor runs through my body. I want to pull away from him, but even though he is holding the collar with only one finger, I might as well be encased in stone.

"You'll do whatever I tell you, won't you," he continues. It's not a question, but I find myself giving a tight nod anyway. As if to illustrate his point, he reaches into his pocket, retrieves something, and opens his palm. My old friends, the nipple clamps. Numbly, without waiting for the command, I take them and fasten them to my sore nubs, biting down on my cry of pain. "And why is that, Jack?"

Because you're blackmailing me. Because you threatened me with a multi-million-dollar lawsuit. Because you gave me no other choice.

All true, but I know none of these are the right answer.

"Because you own me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Because I'm yours."

I could swear there's a ghost of a smile on his lips. My heart leaps.

"Lucky for you," he says, slowly, deliberately, "I don't like to share my toys."

Before I can figure out if I'm supposed to reply to that, a clock somewhere chimes the hour.

"Time for the show." Derek straightens and leads me in the direction that most of the guests are headed. We go through an open set of double doors into what looks like a grand dining room that has been repurposed into an event venue. There is a stage set up at the far end of the room, empty except for a rectangular wooden frame that is easily ten feet tall and six feet wide. There are chains with black leather cuffs attached at the four corners. Affixed to the wall behind the frame are three giant mirrors, the two on the outside angled slightly inward.

There's a table on the floor in front of the stage, covered with an assortment of items of various shapes and materials. There are definitely a couple different paddles and floggers, along with some glints of metal that I suspect are clamps, but most of the items I can't make out from my position on my knees.

The rest of the room is set up with chairs. A couple rows of plain wooden chairs line the side of the room farthest from the stage. Closer to the stage, leather armchairs are arranged several feet apart, as if to grant those guests a sense of personal space.

Derek walks straight past the wooden chairs. (I guess those are for the less wealthy, and therefore less important, patrons.) He takes an armchair not far from the stage, leaving me to kneel at his feet. He's barely taken his seat when a waiter appears to take his drink order.

"Whiskey, rocks," Derek says, "and open up one of the Macallans. I don't want any house swill."

I close my eyes briefly, so I'm not tempted to roll them.

"Very good, sir," the waiter says, a paragon of professionalism. "And will you be requiring any...specialty items? Mrs. Grant has made her entire collection available to her preferred guests."

Derek considers this, his gaze raking over me in a way that leaves no doubt what sort of "specialty items" the waiter is referring to. My (very hairless) skin prickles with goosebumps.

"I don't know," he drawls, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. He's still addressing the waiter, though his gaze is on me. There's a touch of dark humor in his tone that I've learned to dread. "What do you think? Does Jack here need his tight little boy pussy stuffed with something?"

Aghast, I glance at the waiter. Instead of finding some working-class solidarity, I see his lip has curled with a tiny smile, almost hidden by his stupid, tacky mustache. Cruelty flashes in his eyes. This is some real Stanford prison experiment shit here.

"I think I have just the thing, sir," he says in a simpering voice. Derek nods, and he scurries off.

"What charity is this fundraiser even for?" I ask, refusing to give him the satisfaction of showing my dismay.

"Gina does a lot of work with sex trafficking victims," he replies. His fingers are tapping an absent rhythm on the arm of the chair.

There's a unique kind of irony in this, but I'm too tired to fully appreciate it. I wonder if everyone assumes I'm here of my own free will, getting off on my own abject humiliation. (Some small, bewildered part of me wonders if maybe I am.)

The chairs in the room are rapidly being filled with guests. Their naked pets or slaves or whatever are in various positions around them, some kneeling like me, some with their mouths busy, some straddling the laps of their masters. I see one woman bent over a man's lap while he spanks her plump buttocks.

Another few waiters are milling around, handing out what look like white notecards. Derek accepts a couple without comment, along with a pen, and sets them on the arm of the chair. I can't help but peek. At first glance, it appears to be some kind of menu, with items listed alongside prices. Are they going to be serving dinner as well?

Then my mind registers what I'm reading. Far from culinary delicacies, the items are things like "Flogger," "Pinwheel," "Electrodes," and "Tickler." They're all priced by time or number. The cheapest is a bare-handed spanking, priced at a whopping fifty dollars per hit. A second column has prices in the four figures--and higher. "Anal penetration," "Fellatio," "Double penetration," and on and on.