Ana was trussed up in his playroom. The playroom had cost
$100,000 but it was a good investment because luring gold digging cooze in
there helped him win bets from Branson. Not all the time, of course. Branson
had playrooms of his own, one of which was on his private jet. The last bet saw
Branson nailing a chick cuffed to the posts of a spinning bed. The Brans had
instructed the pilot to roll and pitch the plane as much as was safely
possible. Branson said she’d puke her large dinner of oysters, clams, and
chocolate between 5-10 minutes. Christian had witnessed her suck raw oysters
down like there was no tomorrow and wagered her stomach was made of iron. He’d
given her 15-20 minutes. If she puked between 10-15 minutes, it was even money.
Over 25 minutes and Mark Zuckerberg would win. Zucks and Grey kissed $5 million
each goodbye when she hurled her dinner all over her leather outfit and Branson’s
very unhappy cock. The time? 6 minutes 31 seconds. The Brans had been on a
winning streak and it had to stop. Grey was down $40 million.
Ana was too dewy eyed with the prospect of being railed by a
billionaire whose penis was apparently magic to notice the video camera in the
corner of the room. There was no magic, Ana was an easily manipulated naïve talking
vagina with dreams of a life of luxury and Grey was a psychopath with a hedge
fund. It was almost too easy. Brans had made another side bet for a
considerable $2.5 million if Chris could convince her to boff his Irish Setter,
Colossus. Grey was getting her armed and ready, getting her pussy (which felt
like a sack of wet sand) all revved up so when she was past the point of
caring, blindly in pursuit of pleasure, he
could introduce Colossus and by then she wouldn’t mind a bit. He could promise
her another helicopter ride or a trip to Paris or something if more convincing
was needed. No, wait. He seemed to remember she wanted to go to Budapest. Or
was it Bucharest? It was hard to remember because Ana Steele was so fucking
tedious and boring; it physically hurt his brain to listen to the airheaded cooze.
She’d been prattling on for what seemed like millennia about Thomas Hardy or
Thomas Paine or Warren G Harding at dinner and not even four martinis could
blot out the migraine her grating, entitled college girl voice induced. God,
listening to this bitch go on about subjects no one gave a shit about was so
fucking taxing that he considered getting up and leaving the restaurant to go
to a brothel. It would almost be worth losing the $2.5 million or, hell, even
the $10 million big bet. Somehow, he managed to get through the dinner because
he’d made another bet. Through Facebook he’d found out her favorite food was
chicken marsala. Using Grey Marketing Metrics Inc. and a favor from Zucks, he’d
managed to target a review of the restaurant to her Facebook wall. She jumped
at it because it proclaimed the chicken marsala, prepared by a world class chef,
was probably the best in the world. She’d been foaming at the mouth and almost
getting her panties wet to try it. So, for fun and $100,000 from Brans, he’d forbidden
her from eating it. When she reluctantly agreed to go to the restaurant anyway,
Grey received a text from Richard. The words “Fuck you faggot,” preceded a wire
transfer confirmation for the hundred K. Damn that felt good. Christian
immediately bought a sculpture of a Roman man with an erect penis. He bet
Sergey Brin $10,000 that he could make his housekeeper suck off the statue for
$500. It would arrive in a week.
Back in the playroom, Ana was wet and slick as an oil spill
on a beach, the aforementioned sand included. Christian pulled out of her and
leaned down to kiss her depressingly small tits.
“I’ve
got a surprise for you,” he murmured.
“I can’t
wait,” Ana murmured.
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