Model Sexcretary (Fertile Pleasures Book 3) Read online

  Model Sexcretary

  Fertile Pleasures, Volume 3

  Nadia Nightside

  Published by Midnight Publishing, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MODEL SEXCRETARY

  First edition. July 18, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Nadia Nightside.

  Written by Nadia Nightside.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Model Sexcretary (Fertile Pleasures, #3)

  Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older. | Model Sexcretary

  Recent Releases

  What's next?

  Further Reading: Taking Total Control: A Mesmerizing Bundle

  About the Author

  * * * * *

  Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

  * * * * *

  Model Sexcretary

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  Recent Releases

  Sexcretary

  Delilah is so desperate to save her talent agency that she entertains the insane plan of a young software developer to control all her clients. The problem is, he can control ANYONE with his software...including her. And what he wants is to turn gorgeous women like her into his personal slaves.

  New Sexcretary

  Francisca is a gorgeous young aspiring model who comes to work for the NewLife Agency. But she quickly finds out that her new boss wants more than her labor...he wants her body, her mind, and her soul to worship him in every erotic way.

  Taking Total Control: A Mesmerizing Bundle

  NINE brilliantly hot stories of mind control erotica—essentially three novel-length tales of one lucky guy and the delightful chaos that ensues when he discovers his incredible power to control and transform women however he likes!

  Ruling His Own Strip Club

  Jacob's lust for power increases when he takes over a strip club and falls in love with a gorgeous stripper. He can have any woman he wants and can transform them to his liking, but his obsession with this new girl threatens to unravel his new erotic lifestyle.

  Ruling His Immortal Enemy

  The final battle approaches! Jacob's desire to rule all the hot women he encounters hits a wall when he meets the immortal sorceress, Celeste. She wants to use her infinite powers of seduction to wrest control of the Magic Tablet...but was she just born to be another breeding fuckslave like all other women?

  When you finish this hot tale, please leave a review! I always read them, and I welcome all feedback from every kind of reader. Your voice matters to me and to other readers—please, share it.

  She waited on her hands and knees, back straight, ample breasts pushed up and together in her tiny push-up lace bra. She had been like this for hours, and she would continue to be so until her Master told her to do otherwise. He had been gone all day, and she needed so badly to suck his cock, to be fucked by him, to be reminded of how perfectly he owned her.

  And maybe, if she was very good, if she begged and pleaded just right, he would get her pregnant tonight so she could be his pregnant fuckslave like so many others.

  Scintillating purple lingerie covered her sensational body. Dark violet fishnet stockings on her legs. Her heels were so tall as to be impractical for anything but being forced down onto a bed and fucked full of her Master’s breeding seed. That was what she was made to do.

  There was nothing, no one, as hot as her, and she loved it—because she was this way purely for her Master’s pleasure.

  Once, she had been famous. Sensationally so. She could not walk from one place to another without being mobbed by rabid fans, desperate to touch her, to love her, to tell her of their adoration. In interviews on televisions all over the world in a dozen different languages, she would be told of her beauty and begged for tips so the regular people could aspire more evenly to be like her.

  Now, she was sequestered away in her Master’s quarters. No one looked at her. No crowds, no mobs, no interviewers. She had her own room for when Master did not wish to fuck her—when he chose instead to fuck and breed other slaves. But most of the time, he chose her. She was her Master’s favorite, after all.

  The world thought she had died. They thought her disappeared at best. They assumed someone had kidnapped her, that she was lost forever.

  But she wasn’t lost, and she wasn’t kidnapped. Oh no.

  She had been found...and in being found, she found her purpose—to be the hottest slave on earth for the most perfect Master ever.

  * * * * *

  “Delayed,” Catriana said, her tone disbelieving. “Delayed? What are you talking about, delayed? It’s a private jet!”

  She stood in the airport, staring imperiously at a small, plain clerk. The supermodel's heels were shiny black, glittering in the fluorescent lights of the airport. They made her a full foot taller than the man in front of her, who sweated furiously, as if placed under a tree of heat lamps.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk. “And I’m very sorry. There’s really...nothing we can do. There’s been a mechanical problem, you see, and—”

  “Delayed!” Catriana huffed. Her lips were thick, pouty. “I’ve never had this problem before. And let me tell you, I don’t plan to have it again. Am I making myself clear? You’re not receiving any more of my business. I’ll tell you that right now.”

  “Ma’am, honestly, if there was anything we could do, we would do it. But th-there just isn’t, you see? It’s a mechanical problem. The engineers can only work so fast, you see, and—”

  She waved a hand. Jewelry glittered on her fingers and wrist. “I don’t see you picking up a new jet for me to fly in.”

  “All our remaining aircraft are otherwise occupied, ma’am. If you’d like, I could get you a first class ticket on another jet going in the same direction. You’d likely get there in—”

  “You have another jet, do you? You have another jet going to the island of Ferova? Is that it? Because that’s where I’m headed. To a private island. To work. Not that you would know anything about that.”

  “Ma’am. You’re being unreasonable. If you can just—”

  “This is what you’re going to do for me. You’re going to put me on my jet in an hour, or you—you personally—will have hell to pay.”

  She slapped her hand down on the desk and strutted away—careful, though, not to give the man too much to enjoy as she walked off.

  Being well used to having men look at her—want her, appreciate her, need her, ache for her—Catriana knew how to use her beauty to her advantage. She knew there was a time to be soft and gentle, to be cooing and seductive. And there was, too, a time to be harsh and demanding, to be critical and imperious. Some men could not handle the great shame of having a gorgeous woman upset with them.

  And Catriana was, indeed, a gorgeous woman. There wasn’t anyone else like her. She stopped and caught her reflection in the chrome surface of a nearby wall, adjustin
g the heavy layers of midnight black hair she sported. It trailed thick, halfway down her back, resting in soft, alluring piles on the thick, luxurious sable fur coat she wore.

  Green eyes, soft and enchanting, stared back at her from the chrome. Her soft little smile even cheered her heart a little, and she was angry as hell at being delayed.

  No one delayed her. Catriana Dominga was the most famous model in the world. Her image was plastered all over media—magazine covers, commercials, fashion shows, television guest appearances, late night talk shows—the works. She was very used to getting her own way.

  She was twenty-two years-old and she had been modeling since she had been fifteen, winning beauty contests nonstop in her exotic home country until being offered an incredibly lucrative contract. Since that time, men had been falling all over themselves trying to appease her and earn her favor. They offered money, positions, businesses—a few had even offered her a chance to be royalty.

  But of course, she already knew she was royalty. She had been born into the position of being absolutely better than others—genetically superior in every way that mattered and her feelings of superiority validated by the millions of dollars thrown her way. No one could tell her otherwise. No one could tell her that she was anything lesser than the subhuman dredges of humanity that she now had to be surrounded by.

  Her bodyguard, Marcus, kept them all at bay. It was a good thing he was there—large, hairy, and scary, he looked like a slightly-shaved abominable snowman.

  Marcus was paid well for what he did, and it did not hurt that he had an inescapably strong crush on Catriana. Though he was paid well, he was paid half as much as a man of his pedigree had earned—special forces, three tours in Afghanistan, ten years of experience in guarding the rich and powerful—simply because Catriana knew he would have paid her for the privilege of being close to her.

  She could rely on people to fall in love with her, no matter her attitude or her actions. She was that kind of beautiful, and she reveled in it.

  It was fun to be cruel to others, after all, when there wasn't a single repercussion for her actions.

  A man approached her from not too far off. Catriana rolled her green eyes, pulling her long fur jacket close against her body. It had the advantage of being both impeccably made, extraordinarily expensive, and wonderful at hiding her form from the masses.

  If she walked around without the jacket, why, men would be doubled over jacking off just watching her pass, women heavily re-considering their sexuality when they weren’t too busy considering going on a year-long crash diet from jealousy.

  There was a certain appeal to making that happen, of course, but she wasn’t a twenty-one year-old anymore, looking for cheap thrills. She took true delight now in real power—funneling her considerable fortune toward politics and corporations, shaping laws to assist all her little business ventures on their way.

  A deep, dark, twisted part of her liked the fact that children in tiny, god-forsaken countries went to work at human-chomping factories making her products every day. It made her feel like God.

  The man continued his approach, not put off by the scowls from Marcus and the puffing up he did to expand the size of his chest and arms. The man was dressed well, in a sharp pinstripe navy suit, though he himself was rather average-looking with short dark hair.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” said the man, “your conversation with the unfortunate clerk over there. A delay, is it?”

  Catriana had stopped, but did not deign to grace the man with a response. She turned her eyes to Marcus, indicating for him to get rid of the man—with some impunity.

  Marcus grabbed him the scruff of his suit jacket and began to carry him off.

  “A jet!” the man cried, arms flailing. “I have a jet for you. We can leave in less than ten minutes!”

  “Wait,” said Catriana, suddenly interested.

  Marcus let the man down, who was already red-faced. He looked up at Marcus with some mixture of appreciation, apprehension, and hatred. It was the sort of look that meant that Marcus’s manhandling would not be forgotten. If Catriana actually thought anyone could harm Marcus, though, he wouldn’t be in her employ.

  “Miss Dominga, is it?” The man patted himself down.

  She struggled not to roll her eyes again. As if he didn't know. “Of course.”

  “I thought I recognized you.”

  “Yes. You’ve existed in the past five years.” Her tone was arrogant; her voice, soft and velvet, coated in the sugary accent of her native land. “No doubt you’ve heard of me. What’s this about a jet?”

  “I have one ready to go right now. Now, it’s possible we’re not headed in the same direction, but for you, well, I’d be happy to make a diversion. Money is really no object for me when it comes to pleasing someone like you, Miss Dominga.”

  Now those were words she liked to hear. Her demeanor changed entirely, instantly. No longer quite as imperious or haughty—though still enough to let this man know that he had her gratitude, but never her attraction.

  There wasn’t a man alive who could turn her on anyway. Marcus was a bonafide stud—large, massively muscled, with a take-no-shit attitude who would dominate every other man he came across every day. Half of the impetus for hiring him had been the hope that maybe, maybe, he’d finally be the one to turn on some kind of sexual desire in Catriana.

  But...nothing. And she had tried. But nothing, never.

  Thoughts of being aroused were distant and far in-between. She earned most of her sexual pleasure from humiliating subordinates, but even that wasn’t physical. That was just theoretical, hot little snippets to add to the fire over periods of months until finally, maybe, she had some middling orgasm in the middle of the night thinking of something she couldn’t quite remember from a dream.

  It struck her as ironic, really—for all the orgasms she had inspired the world over with her obvious sexuality, she had so few of her own. And those that existed were often disappointing, like the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks.

  So, naturally, this man had no chance of turning her on. Still, she graced him with a smile, intimate and seductive. Her fur coat slid down past her shoulders, revealing the effortlessly perfect bare skin waiting there.

  Her collarbones just by themselves were the stuff of more than a thousand fetish websites. She let such things flourish. The idea of having worshipers appealed to her greatly.

  “And what’s your name, Mister Has-A-Jet?”

  She held out her hand for him to kiss.

  “Albert,” he said, shaking her hand instead. Crude. “Albert Stout. Pleased to meet you.”

  * * * * *

  True to his word, in less than ten minutes, they were on Albert’s jet and preparing for take-off.

  Catriana had many complimentary words to share about the jet, but a great deal more less-than-complimentary words.

  The jet was luxurious, that was true. Her seat in particular was very soothing. The inside of it was atypical to her own—hers was arranged much like a standard jet with only slight customization. She had rows of seats, in case she wanted to entertain, but there was a great deal of leg room between each row—enough for each seat to recline fully—and every seat vibrated and had thick cushioned arm rests. There was a fully stocked bar close to the cockpit, and the bathrooms were large and in the back there was—her favorite luxury—a full shower that could be used at any time.

  But this jet was...this was something else.

  For starters, the whole notion of “rows” had been done away with. Lining the walls was what amounted to one continuous, enormously plushy leather couch. Any section of the couch could be modified with arm rests (pulled out from the wall) or could be pulled away from the side of the jet to allow the user to recline.

  The level of customization was complete—each section could also have its own screen drop down. Tiny speakers were built into the headrest. Small refrigeration units sat in the bottom of the seat, supplying the user with a varie
ty of top-end beverages, cheeses, and breads.

  The carpet was plush and thick. Walking through it was like moving through a warm swamp, one that wanted to swallow you whole.

  So, this was all very nice. There were amenities galore—and that wasn’t including the hot tub in the back of the plane.

  But then...then, there were the women.

  His entire jet was staffed by spectacularly gorgeous women. They all had smiled and cheered when Albert arrived, taking his bags and coat. Two of them, a blonde and a brunette, wearing a distinct uniform with skintight leather boots making love to their legs all the way up to their thighs, attached themselves to his arms and slid down next to him on his seat of choice across the large cabin from Catriana.

  When these two had greeted him, they kissed him deeply, longingly, like he was their lover—and his hands had been all over their tight, toned bodies. They doted on him, flirting with him, showing him flashes of hot skin from beneath their skimpy outfits.

  And my, those outfits were skimpy. The tight fabric tugged their sculpted asses. The front featured a thick, comically large zipper, resting just at the point of their fullest cleavage. Small dark leather gloves adorned their hands and soft berets rested on the thick manes of their hair.

  Catriana was well-used to having the longest, most luxurious amount of hair in whatever company she kept, but those girls were certainly vying for her seat on that particular throne. They wouldn't win, naturally. Black was simply a sexier color than chestnut-brown or golden-blond, even if it was a close race.

  Catriana loved her body. It was her meal ticket—it was her power ticket, as a matter of fact, and so she knew how to use her many advantages to their fullest advantage, making herself a juggernaut of sexual tension in any situation.

  She was well-used to having people—men and women both—so helplessly turned on that they babbled, their brains turning to little more than mush. Mush that was, naturally, solely focused on pleasing their one true goddess, a role that Catriana took on with pride. And this pride meant that she had absolutely no shame at all in wearing tiny hot outfits designed for titillation.