Stocks and Shared
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by Barry Lowe
Category: Erotica/Taboo Erotica
Description: Forget the Global Financial Crisis--unrequited lust in a financial trading house leads to BDSM gang rape revenge not once, but twice. Can true love survive? Financial whiz Mitch Badham has given his soul to Wall Street and his hot ass to every sleazy cock in town--except one, Clayton Furst's. Clayton's obsession with the hot, arrogant broker turns to revenge, and he plans a very special punishment during a company weekend at a Medieval Fair, payback that includes confinement to the wooden stocks, strapping with a belt, and gang rape. But when Mitch is finally freed, his retaliation is even more terrible.
eBook Publisher: loveyoudivine, 2010 2010
eBookwise Release Date: June 2010
16 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [31 KB]
Reading time: 15-21 min.
I had him where I wanted him, the arrogant little shit; his head and wrists stuck tight in faux medieval wooden stocks, his body bent forward uncomfortably so that his ass was vulnerable to any passing stray cock. And, boy, did that asshole enjoy stray cock, even though he was the bright, golden future boy of Kensington, Cletus and DeCoteau, investment bankers to the financial gentry.
Recently, he had earned the company the dollar equivalent of the Gross National Income of a middling European Nation, after having been with the firm a scant 15 months. He was a whiz at the market: the stocks he bought turned to pure gold, and those he sold turned to dross. His future was as bright as his Futures portfolio. So, I guess, he had a lot to be arrogant about.
He was demonically handsome. Envy had it that he stored a painted portrait in the attic. His thick, burnished russet hair reflected his fiery personality, and his piercing green eyes could see through weakness, scams and bullshit like Superman through brick. To make it even more unfair on the rest of us mere mortals, who had to sweat for a living, Mitch Badham was athletic, good at social sports, tennis, golf and squash, aided immeasurably by powerful tanned legs with a dusting of light hair like icing sugar on a cake, and had a package that his tight carefully tailored Armani slacks hugged like cling wrap does to beef in the freezer.
Wealth, adoration, and success stalked him. And so did I.
What attracted me and got me instantly hard was his incredible sculpted ass. Perfectly round cheeks, full but not flabby, encased tightly enough that you couldn't help but notice them, especially if you were behind him as, inevitably, I was. I could not compete with the fucker, either in looks, physique, or economic ability. I hated the bastard. I believed I had more reason than most.
I had wanted that molded ass from the moment Mitch, or Mitchell, as it proclaimed in gold lettering on his desk nameplate, walked through the company's front doors. And because of my obsession, no, let's call it my preoccupation with that ass, I knew something about it that the folks in the company didn't: that ass was available to just about any man with a cock. Except me. How did I know? I'd followed it at night to the sleazy dives it visited; I watched countless cum-encrusted cocks ram their way inside, imagining it was my cock servicing that very willing, very pliable asshole.
Now it was helpless in front of me. I ran a finger down the crack, gently pushing at the puckered hole. Mitch struggled, but that merely impaled him further.
He screamed, "Fuck off!"