The Owned By Studs Bundle Read online

  “Bend over like a good slavewhore.”

  Juliana moaned, pushing her pussy far up in the air. Her designer dress was all bunched up, her boots sliding up Shana's legs. With her heels still on, Juliana's ass came up almost to Shana's chest.

  Just like before, the dildo slid inside her cunt perfectly.

  Not like before, Shana rammed it inside of her with no mercy. Each thrust was accompanied by a hot, hard spanking of Juliana's taut, amazing ass.

  “Take it, slut!” Shana moaned. “Take your fucking like a good supermodelslave!”

  “Oh yes!” Juliana shouted. “Yes, please! I'm a good supermodelslave!”

  Straddling one of Juliana's statuesque legs, Shana began rubbing her hot clit against her impromptu supermodel fucktoy. The blonde slapped Juliana's ass harder and harder, and with each slap, her fucking of Juliana's hot, needy pussy with the golden dildo increased even more.

  The dildo was soon slick with Juliana's hot juices, the luxurious toy entirely covered with the luxurious slut's essence.

  Just as quickly, Juliana's leg was soaked through with Shana's warm pussy juices, the boot there absolutely ruined. Juliana didn't care. It felt so good to serve.

  It didn't seem that Shana had it in her to process the hotness of the situation for very long. This supermodel she had loved for so long, opening herself up to her so freely—anyone would be prone to cumming fast and hard. Juliana knew that she was unattainable to Shana—that was why it had been so hot to take her home.

  Shana shoved the dildo inside of Juliana with increasing frequency, her moans getting higher in pitch.

  “O-oh, oh Ju-Jul-slaave!” Shana struggled. “I'm gonna cum, slave!”

  Juliana felt Shana's hips thrashing against her own. Shana seemed to lose herself in the sweeping thrills of her body, slapping down on Juliana's ass harder and harder.

  The strong, unrestrained slaps on the perfect bare flesh triggered Juliana's own climax, her shame superseded by the hot sweet thrill of her daring, of getting what she needed, of being called what she was.

  Slut.

  Whore.

  Superslave.

  Fertile cunt.

  Supermodel fucktoy.

  Oh yes.

  She bucked against Shana, against the dildo, biting the softness of the bed beneath her.

  For several minutes, Shana just settled on top of Juliana on the thick mattress, the gold dildo falling down somewhere into the pristine silk sheets of the bed. It seemed like they would go to sleep that way, and Juliana was trying to come to terms with that—she would have really rather have been alone—and then Shana slid her arm around Juliana.

  “That was really hot,” she whispered into Juliana's ear. “I'm so glad you told me how you felt. God, I've never done anything like that before. I never even thought about it. I think I could do it more. But, next time, I'd really like—”

  Juliana got up then, covering herself with her sheet.

  “O-out.”

  Her voice somewhat querulous, rough.

  “What?”

  “I said, out.”

  Her voice stronger, now. She pointed toward the door.

  Shana looked horrified. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. Yes.”

  Juliana shook her head, her long silky locks sliding against her bare chest.

  “It doesn't matter. Get out. I don't want you here anymore.”

  “I . . .” Shana was lost. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? After the shoot?”

  “There is no shoot tomorrow. Not for you. You're fired. Go home, Shana.”

  Tears welled up in the petite blonde's eyes. Her bottom lip trembling.

  “F-fired? B-but Juliana, we j-just . . . I mean . . . how can you be s-so cruel?”

  Juliana just stood there, pointing at the door.

  Shana didn't matter. Her feelings didn't matter. She wasn't what Juliana had wanted. It had been foolish to think that this sniveling little mess of a girl could fill the void Juliana felt in her soul.

  Huffing, trying to keep her composure, Shana stood up and grabbed her shoes that had been tossed off her body in the moment. Disappointment and panic flooded her cute face, as well as open lust for Juliana's barely covered body.

  For a moment, Juliana hoped Shana would refuse her. That she would demand to stay. That she would say:

  Shut up, whore. I'll do as I please. You're going to beg me to stay, and then maybe I'll let you feel my hands around your neck again.

  But instead Shana just left, shaking her head and muttering in confusion.

  Juliana considered what to do in the darkness for nearly an hour after Shana was gone.

  The need in her had not been sated. If anything, it was just exacerbated.

  There were two more days of the shoot, but Juliana didn't care. They could finish without her. Or just use what she had given them already.

  Probably Shana would try to sue, or go to the press. It was entirely possible the paparazzi had already gotten a hold of the story of their rendezvous in the bar.

  Ornament.

  Slavecunt.

  She wasn't going to call Nathan, not at all.

  No. She was going to meet him at his house.

  * * * * *

  Six weeks ago

  Juliana's time speaking at the summit had gone wonderfully.

  She had said all she wanted to, detailing her thoughts on the image of beauty that she had so unfairly benefited from, and how odd it was to celebrate her for winning some genetic jackpot. The crowd had responded to her jokes, no one seemed put off by her accent, and some even stood up as they applauded.

  For once in her life, Juliana felt celebrated for the thoughts on her mind instead of her body.

  So why did she feel so . . . empty?

  If the clothes she was wearing weren't so light, it would have been muggy in the auditorium. Her sweater was light, though, her hair tied back elegantly, and her skirt was long enough to be matronly but fitting enough to not appear as though she was trying to downplay what the beauty that she so obviously had in spades. That would have been dishonest.

  Right after she spoke, a gaggle of well-wishers met her behind the curtain. There was her manager, her publicist, her assistant Shana, and many faces she didn't recognize at all. Most all of them shook her hand as they spoke.

  “Wonderful speech—”

  “—just inspiring stuff—”

  “You ought to consider taking it abroad—”

  “—college kids would really—”

  Juliana nodded and smiled at everyone's comments, trying to be nice enough to get away. Someone handed her a bottle of water. That bought her a few moments respite, as luckily no one expected her to speak while she drank.

  Over in the corner, she saw the door to her dressing room. A break. She just needed to cool down, be by herself for a moment. The speech just had her nerves up, that was all.

  “Thank you, everyone,” she said, her hot accent soaking over her words, “but I really would like some alone time for now to cool off.”

  They all nodded in understanding, if a bit disappointed.

  She rushed into her room, leaning against the shut door behind her. For a few moments, she just breathed, letting her head fall down loosely.

  Relax, she told herself. It's all done now.

  But all she could think about was how if she had just spent fifteen minutes exposing the modeling industry, saying these words she believed, then why did she feel like such a fraud?

  The room she was in was painted dark blue, with one mirror layered against the wall. In front of the mirror was the desk where she had done her make-up—at this point, she was an old hand at doing her face. It never required much work, except for the really high-concept fashion shoots.

  She looked in the mirror, and saw a man sitting down on the long leather couch against the opposite wall. She gasped, turning.

  He smiled—a tall man, dark-haired and devilishly handsome, his firm, muscular frame covere
d in a brown twill suit—and started to clap slowly. He looked to be maybe in his early thirties.

  “You should get out of here,” said Juliana, “before I call security.”

  “Oh really?” he smirked.

  “They'll kick you right out of here. I've seen them do it.”

  For some reason, Juliana couldn't say why, she felt instantly attracted to the man. Maybe it was his casual nature—how easy it was for him to be in front of her. Maybe it was the predatory stare he was giving her body, or the smirk on his face that seemed so common and permanent.

  He stood up, nodding. “I'm sure you have. Though, I am going to go ahead and guess that when you did that, it wasn't here.”

  “No,” she admitted. “Not here exactly. But the idea is the same.”

  “It is,” he nodded again. “Except that I own this building. And the security guards. And that door that you have locked there. And,” he spread his hands out, “well, the whole thing, really. It's all mine. I think I even own that little speech you just gave.”

  The entire time he talked, he kept walking closer to her, so that when he stopped speaking, he was directly in front of her. Juliana was not wearing heels—they would have objectified her even more—but even if she had been wearing her very highest pair, he still would have been taller than her.

  Without hesitation, without even the slightest bit of nervousness, he put his hand on her chin and guided her eyes to his.

  “Hell,” he said. “I probably even own you.”

  For some reason that she could not explain, her cunt quivered. Her breath caught, her mouth working without forming sounds, her mind short-circuiting suddenly from the realization of his wealth, of his attitude. She inhaled his heavy, masculine scent, and all her thoughts of objection took a long backseat lounge. She wanted him. She could feel her very existence beginning to wrap around his approval.

  Even so, she pushed his hand away, and walked across the room.

  “You're the owner of this place,” she said. “Southern, is that your name?”

  “You can call me Nathan,” he said. “For now.”

  “For now?”

  His smile widened. He looked her up and down.

  “I have what you might call . . . designs . . . on you.”

  Purposefully, he walked toward her again.

  She should yell out. That's what she should do. Yell out, and stop looking at this handsome, handsome rich man as he advanced on her with bad intentions.

  Instead, she just watched him, heart in her throat. Feeling his influence crowd her mind.

  “You see, you spent all that time talking about women not being objects and prettiness just being some societal conception, and I understood it all. It even makes some sense. But it doesn't change two things.”

  He picked up a glass and the carafe of water on the coffee table in front of the couch, pouring a drink, which he handed to her. She took it, hands shaking a bit. It was so hard to interrupt him. He was so sure, so deliberate in each word.

  “Number one, you don't really care a whit about any of that stuff.”

  He made himself a glass and took a long sip. His eyes—blue and narrow—never left her body.

  “Number two, societal conceptions be damned, I still want to fuck you like the hot little trophy slut you are.”

  She should slap him. That's what she should do. Juliana should slap him and run out of this door and just take off from this city forever. Instead, she just watched as Nathan finished his drink and set the glass down on the table.

  “I've studied you. I see something I want, and I find out about it. And make no mistake, you are something I want. So I know you have a master's degree, girl. You don't need to work in this manner if it disgusted you. No, you like it.”

  “It's . . .no. You don't understand. T-there's money . . .”

  “Money?” he laughed. “Yeah, I don't understand money. You cleared what, forty million last year? I made that washing my car last Saturday.”

  He shook his head for a moment.

  “You know, doing all that stuff for money, a lesser man would call you a whore. Is that what you are, girl? A whore?”

  Juliana was breathing fast, now.

  “D-don't call me that. I'm not—”

  “Oh, I know that. I know you're no whore. I know exactly what you are, doll. I know you'd be doing this if they didn't pay you. I see you, Juliana girl.” He leaned in close to her, whispering in her ear. “You've always needed to be objectified. But it couldn't be by just anyone, no. You needed a strong, hard man to do it for you. A man that takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants. And because you couldn't find that, because you thought it didn't exist, you took the adoration of millions instead. You thought it would be enough.”

  With a sharp yank, he tugged her hair back. She cried out weakly, staring up in his gorgeous eyes. Her glass trembled out of her hand and shattered on the floor.

  “And it wasn't. You need a strong, sure hand to make you the object you need to be. To become the perfect little slavecunt that you have always needed to transform into.”

  His rough hand slid into her dress, touching the moistness of her cunt. He brought his damp fingers back up to her face, running her own juices over her lips.

  “You see? I know exactly what you are, slut.”

  He was...he was doing something to her. What he said wasn't true. It wasn't. But all the same, she was believing it. Inhaling lung-full after lung-full of his heady scent, taking in his pheremones. God, they were like magic. She had wanted him all this time. Someone like him. Someone strong.

  She had been lying when she said she thought she was good as a man. She wasn't.

  In front of him, all she could feel was fertile. Happy. Needy. Feminine. Aching to feel his seed inside her.

  He led her away from the broken glass on the floor toward the thick leather chair sitting adjacent to the couch. Tugging sharply again, he put her on her knees, and then slid his pants down. His cock was large, half-hard already. Thick. Commanding. The head of it pulsed thickly as it grew larger and larger.

  “Suck me off while you think about it,” he said.

  She felt like she had no choice. Were the things he was saying true? She didn't know.

  But she did have to suck his cock.

  She wanted to.

  She had to.

  He told her to.

  He commanded her.

  Mmph.

  Thoughts in her head faded away. Her lips slid over his rod eagerly, enveloping his fast-hardening meat. In the modeling world, Juliana was known for world-class perfection in all of her features, and her lips were no exception to this.

  For a few moments, she just imagined the sight—the world's highest paid supermodel adoring the cock of the world's highest paid businessman. The pure luxury of their surroundings amplified a thousandfold simply by it being the two of them in action.

  She almost never sucked cock. The last had been several years ago, when she was nineteen and wanted to win the heart of a boy. She won it, of course, and then stopped caring. She had taken time with that blowjob, adoring every inch of the cock.

  That wasn't the case here. Though she was adoring every second, Nathan's cock was abusing her mouth. Punishing her, almost, for taking so long before getting down and doing service to it. He pushed her head up and down, even as she worked on it herself.

  His cock was so large and thick in her throat, fully hard almost right away, that she couldn't stop herself from making hot, sultry slurping noises as she ran her head up and down his massive pole. Each moan and purr of exultation was coated in her hot, steamy Brazilian accent.

  “That's a good trophy.” His voice breathy, full of heat. “You fucking ornament. Suck my cock like a proper slave.”

  His hands drifted into her wealth of hair, layering and re-layering it on top of her head as she sucked him.

  “You're going to be a wonderful decoration. Something to be admired by the gazes of others as you sit pretty on my a
rm.”

  His words only fired up her pussy the more. She slurped harder on his cock, needing to feel his spray against her throat.

  “That's all that you are,” he grunted. “Just my slavewhore fuckcunt little sexdoll. You'll be such a hot ornament for me to show off. My supermodel fucktoy.”

  Juliana sucked vigorously, desperate for his cum now, needing it. Only his hot, perfect spray would validate her, would give reason to every action leading to this point.

  He seemed to sense her urgency, his hands sliding through the enormous silken tangle of her locks and curls. With a low moan, he came deep in her throat, his rod throbbing inside of the warm glove of her mouth.

  “Fucktoy,” he grunted out, in time with each spurt of his hot load. “Fucktoy, fucktoy, fucktoy.”

  She swallowed it all down, each drop. Loving it. Happy for it.

  After several spurts, it was just too much, all the cum he had to deliver. She slipped off and he kept cumming, spraying her gorgeous face with his hot white seed.

  Marking her.

  For several minutes afterward, she just sat in his lap as he called her those wonderful titles again and again, firmly stroking her hair. She cleaned his cock dutifully, lapping up the delicious droplets of cum left behind, and then went to work on her face, making sure to slide each delicious drop down her throat.

  “Fucktoy. Ornament. Sexdoll. Supermodel slave.”

  So many of those words made so much sense to her. She wanted to believe in them. So much of her did believe in them. But . . . she couldn't just buy into it. She couldn't just change everything about who she was like that.

  After a time, she slid off his cock, reluctantly positioning herself away from him.

  “How about it, slave?” He asked her, tugging on her hair a bit. “You can leave all this behind. This false life you're living. Come home with me, like you deserve, and live on your knees in luxury like you belong.”

  She back up against the leather couch, not daring to look into his eyes.

  Somehow, his influence had lost its hold on her. Her mind found some pocket of hard-earned resistance, holding out.

  “N-no,” she shook her head. “I'm not . . . I'm nobody's slave, Nathan.”