Learning to Trust Part 2: Full Submission Read online

  Learning to Trust

  (Interviewing the Billionaire)

  Part 2: Full Submission

  Copyright 2012 B.B. Roman

  Published by Bizotica

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains many sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your eBooks where they cannot and will not be accessed by minors.

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  ***

  My head throbbed when I woke the next morning, my temples feeling like they were two sizes too small for my head and wound as tightly around my brain as possible. I groaned and rolled over in bed, checking the clock on my cell phone—it was 11:45am.

  “Shit,” I said out loud. I never slept that late—but I hadn't set an alarm either. Why did I have such a headache? I guess the excess sleep had literally gone to my head. I needed to check in with my boss, but I wasn't quite ready to do that yet. I needed to eat and have some coffee before I could function around other humans, even through the phone. I took some ibuprofen and planted my head back on the pillow. I wanted a couple more minutes in this bed.

  I had come home the previous night, entirely flustered, heart still burning with desire. Roland had toyed with me in a way that I had no experience with, made love to me in a way that was as foreign as Latin to my untrained ears. I simply couldn't understand it, instead just feeling, allowing it to flush my skin and my mind with its truth (whatever that truth was). The whole ride home I had fought with myself, my urges telling me to turn around, my common sense telling me to just go home.

  God, I wanted so much more—but he had given me specific instructions and I had no right to violate them, as much as I wanted to. It seemed that want was a big part of his game, a big part of his overall strategy, but what did I know? Why did I try to understand what was going on in his brain? He was a mastermind, I was not. Could I really ever grasp what went on in his head? Was it really worth it to try?

  I finally crawled out of bed and got some coffee from the lobby. I sat in my room, sipping it with desperate need, allowing the caffeine to trickle into my brain. Ah, the drug acted as a painkiller as well. Relief! I was only a few sips in and already feeling better. My pain was evaporating as my awareness returned to normal. I wasn't feeling that great about waiting for Roland's next move—but I could at least function again. I figured that I should probably just call my boss and get it out of the way. He picked up on the first ring when I tried.

  “Marisa, how's it going out there?” He seemed especially cheery, probably because it was Saturday. He didn't even say hi, just went straight into conversation.

  “Hey Pat, it's going well. Sorry this is the first time I've made contact.”

  “Don't worry about it. We've been swamped here. The Mayor was busted in a money laundering scandal and everyone is going nuts about it. Even if you had called me and told me that StarChem was staffed by Martians, it would only be on page five. God, that would be weird.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Ha, yeah. But Roland's got ties with Al Qaeda, so—“

  “Eh, that'd be page two maybe.” He laughed again, his hearty laugh still so booming through the tiny speaker. He was a big guy; you could even tell through the phone. “So what's up? Do you have anything yet?”

  “Not really,” I said, unsure of what I should tell him if anything. “I feel like I'm making progress, but he knows what I'm up to. He's taking his sweet time.”

  “I trust that you're doing the right thing, Marisa.”

  I blushed after he said that, thinking about what Roland had done to me the previous afternoon. I was very thankful that we weren't video chatting. Yeah, some interview, all right. “You know me,” I said. “I always do what it takes to get a good story.”

  “You're damn right. Damn right. I don't know what I'd do without you.” There was some commotion in the background. “All right, Marisa. I gotta get going. The kids want me to take them out today. Museum or Coney Island?”

  “Take 'em somewhere educational,” I said. “Museum.”

  “Alright, Coney Island then.” His laugh was even louder this time.

  “Thanks for taking me seriously,” I said, laughing in return.

  “Marisa, I'll talk to you later. These kids are driving me nuts. See ya.”

  The call ended just like that—I was alone again in that hotel room. I put the phone back down on the bed.

  I really liked Pat because he was absolutely a no bullshit kind of guy. He didn't want excuses or lies, even if the truth hurt worse. I had actually messed up a lot at the beginning of my career with him and he always took me back in, giving me a harsh scolding that I learned to take. It had made me a lot stronger than I was when I started.

  I went and worked out after that, taking a quick swim at the conclusion of my workout. The cool water felt just marvelous after so much sweating. I watched the other couples around the pool, suddenly feeling so old and alone, even though I was only 28. People swimming together, playing together, being affectionate together. Some with kids, some without. As stupid as it sounded, I had never just frolicked with a lover in a pool, oblivious to the world—like we were the only people there. God, I wasn't even 30 and already I felt like I was having a mid-life crisis. If I kept holding on to so much stress, dying at 60 didn't seem like such an impossibility.

  Jesus, Marisa. You can't even go swimming without upsetting yourself. Why did I have to spoil every good moment by over-thinking?

  I got back to my room and hit the shower to wash away the chlorine smell. Standing still, the warm water rushed down my body, enveloping me with relaxing steam. I reached out of the shower to grab my hairbrush; the water hit my clit with almost laser-precision, strong and powerful. I immediately shivered. I felt like a recovering drug addict that just had a taste of some very forbidden fruit, a taste that would have ruined any and all progress toward breaking the habit.

  My fingers, possessed by a need like the one I'd felt the previous day, shot to that awoken flesh between my legs, swirling gently at first, growing in intensity as I felt my body fill with burning white heat. I touched myself frantically and desperately, fueled by re-emerging, transparent images of Roland in my mind.

  I thought of his hands on my wrists again, his power, his drive to please and control me. The images were weaker this time—I felt like I could literally see through them—but the emotions were stronger than ever. That feeling of helplessness flooded through me like water through a broken dam, filling me just as his thickness had. I wanted to trust him, to submit to him, to let him do with me whatever he thought was best.

  My ache throbbed as I touched myself; there was nothing I could do to stop that growing internal want as it snowballed. My fingers eased into my moist folds, pressing against my g-spot with each in-and-out movement, my muscles clenching against them with absolute approval. I kept my thumb planted against my swollen clit, increasing the pressure as I got hotter and hotter
inside, my core threatening to burst from just too much. I worked fast and with precision as my mind cycled through everything I had felt, one emotion after another like they were printed on flash cards.

  I moaned loudly, sending my departed cries echoing against the shower walls, reminding my ears that I couldn't stop no matter what. I felt myself go over the edge, my cream spilling out, my legs weakening even as my muscles tightened everywhere. I fell back against the shower wall and cried out for more, clutching the metal bar for support. I pushed myself higher and higher into my climax, the water gushing at me as tension fled my body, evaporating like steam from a teakettle. I felt my pussy flutter against my fingers, and after that, it was over. The explosion had been overwhelmingly big, but quick.

  My heart took its sweet time to slow down, working with my heaving chest to return me to normality. I suddenly felt too hot and turned up the cold water, chilling myself as I went too far. I shivered, somewhat enjoying the icy surprise. I realized I had responded like an animal, like my brain was suddenly removed and replaced by only instinct and desire. My body had been poisoned by lust with only the most subtle touch of water in the right place.

  I got out of the shower shortly after, filling up my water bottle with tap water. It was the same bottle that Roland had given me the previous day, the gesture replaying in my mind. The water had an overwhelming chemical flavor, something I had gotten used to during my many business-related hotel stays. He had left me longing, wanting, only satisfying my literal thirst and nothing beyond that. Sure, he made me feel incredible—but he cut it off after that, leaving our sentence unfinished. Hell, maybe it was a whole paragraph that he left unfinished. I knew what I wanted it to say, but really had no idea what his pen had in mind. I only knew that it was going to get harder.

  ***

  I did the best I could to pass the time during the rest of the weekend, watching movies on my laptop and just trying to zone out as much as possible. My mind went back and forth, hating Roland and then wanting him even more as I struggled to figure out what I was really feeling. It didn't take me long to realize that I had stopped thinking about the story at all, instead obsessing over this man and what he could do to me. The more I tried to convince myself that I needed to focus on my own career, the more I realized that I simply couldn't. My struggle was probably the reason why I had kicked my emotions to the curb for so long, allowing my job to replace that volatility with something a slightly more stable.

  I went out to eat by myself Saturday night, once again staring at every happy couple like they were the luckiest people on earth. Even though they probably had their own struggles that I would have deemed petty and annoying, they knew what they had—and I had no idea in my situation. Did I have anything at all aside from one very fiery encounter? Assuming seemed like a very dangerous choice. I guess that meant I had nothing, if I was going to be realistic.

  This internal back and forth just served to remind me that the whole eating out alone thing hadn't been a very good idea, once again. I went home defeated, drinking a bottle of wine in my room until I passed out.

  Sunday I decided to go shopping, realizing that my microscopic collection of casual outfits probably wasn't adequate for the rest of my time with Roland. I picked out some cute dresses and skirts, some low-cut shirts and jeans, just seeking comfort like he had demanded. It was kind of fun, something that actually loosened that noose of confusion around my neck. I felt like I could finally breathe again.

  I spent hours looking through the racks of clothes, trying on anything that I wanted to. I had no time limits, no restraints, nothing to hold me back. I got something to eat, but I took it to-go, not wanting to sit alone in a restaurant of happy people again.

  I would see Roland the next day and it would mean something. I was certain I'd have some sort of incredible personal awakening—and oh yeah, I'd get a great story at the end of it. It was amazing to me that I kept forgetting about my job, literally the only thing that I'd cared about for almost 10 years. One very passionate encounter with a man and suddenly I forgot who I was and what I cared about.

  What business did I have getting intimately involved with a source? Everything I knew about journalism told me an unwavering no when it came to the methods I was employing. But I was confused—was this for me or a story? How could I truly remain unbiased in these circumstances? What good could really surface from this arrangement? All of the controversy aside, Roland’s request for my trust seemed to calm my nerves when confusion felt like it could kill me.

  Fear and curiosity began to blend in my mind as Sunday passed me by. What sort of difficulty was Roland talking about? It’s not like I feared for my life, but I also just didn’t know. Men were confusing—especially the rich ones. No more, I thought to myself. Whether I actually liked Roland or not, he was having his way with me—right now.

  I knew that he chose his words wisely, intending for them to keep me awake at night. He wanted them to burn in my brain like embers in a campfire—you know, the ones that just won’t seem to go out, even after the rest of the fire had vanished. I needed to let it go until the next day. I had been through so much on my own thus far, so what was this after all?

  I would make it out just fine, right?

  ***

  Monday rolled around quickly after my wine drinking began Sunday night. I really disliked the fact that I was drinking to numb the pain of my life, using it as a way to hide from the questions that I didn’t have answers to. It felt like a crutch, one that I did my best to deny the next morning when I was hung over. I was grumpy as hell when I rolled out of bed, desperately clutching for my water bottle. As usual, I hadn’t consumed enough of that precious resource before passing out.

  Oh, dehydration!

  It took me a long time to get out of bed, my thoughts drowned out by my screaming brain.

  I stared at myself in the full bathroom mirror, ashamed of the dark circles around my eyes and my overly sullen look. I felt as dead as I looked, like a walking corpse or something else that had just stumbled out of a graveyard and wound up in my bed. I stood in the shower for a good five minutes before I realized I hadn’t even turned the water on.

  When I finally realized my error, my hand shot out reflexively and quickly rotated both knobs, releasing water onto my body—it was too hot when it hit me and I screamed, the scalding liquid stinging against my skin. I nearly stumbled out of the shower, stabilizing myself with that same metal rack I had used for stability the other day (during much happier times, might I add!) while my other hand fumbled with the knobs until the temperature was more appropriate. Great way to wake yourself up, Marisa.

  I made myself up nice and headed down to the lobby to guzzle as much free coffee as my stomach could possibly handle prior to eating. I looked like shit and felt like shit, and until I got my coffee, it was just going to have to be that way.

  Once my caffeine buzz had set in—I drank quickly since the coffee wasn't that hot anymore—I figured it was okay to eat. I kept the meal small, realizing that my stomach was feeling slightly upset, a combination of harsh realization and an overabundance of caffeine.

  Mentally, I was still exactly where I was the previous day, a woman without a clue what to do, a woman that felt in trouble due to her own crummy choices. I left the hotel lobby and went back to my room shortly after that. I wasn’t going to sit there in public and mourn my poor decisions from the previous night and my uncertainty about today.

  Realizing that I couldn’t wait anymore, I put on one of my most comfortable outfits—a pair of jeans and a tank-top—and got in my car to make a slow drive out to Roland’s house. I just couldn’t stand it. No more waiting.

  Even though I'd made the trip multiple times now, today was the first day that I actually noticed the beautiful scenery as I drove. Normally I was in a hurry, hoping not to be late. Y'know, trying to make sure the really rich guy didn't have to wait an extra second. They all told me that time is money, a statement I'd learned to loathe. How
ever, I was early—I actually had the time today to look at the rolling hills and rocky surface of the mountains that loomed over the horizon, huge formations that were nearly invisible from within the city. Roland didn't live that far out of town, but it was still far enough that it was a considerable aesthetic change. He wanted some seclusion for sure—but not so much that you could only reach him via helicopter. And with his money, he probably could have done that anyway.

  When I got to his driveway, I found the gate already opened. When I saw the house, my heart started to pound, threatening to burst right out of my chest. Ugh, my mouth was dry too. After parking, I quickly downed all of my water and took a deep breath as I swallowed. I was here for business and pleasure. I needed to relax. Roland knew that he was leaving me to think, to debate, to agonize. He was going to push me to my limits—and I realized that pretty quickly. I wanted his dirt and he wanted mine.

  I was 20 minutes early and figured I should probably wait until the right time. I stared out the window at the house; it was such a beautiful mansion, one that I couldn't have even conceptualized if I had the money to build it. Suddenly a figure tapped on the window. I yelped and faced the intruder—it was Roland.

  "Roland!" I cried, my heart beating even faster than it had when I saw his house.

  "Ah, Marisa! So nice to see you here. I figured that you might arrive early." He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt again, almost identical to the first day.

  "Yeah, I just didn't have anything to do."

  "I hope you weren't bored," he said. "I can't stand it when people say that. Such a lovely world. So much to do and see. If people read books whenever they said they were bored, we'd all be a lot better off."

  His voice actually tickled me as he talked, his words acting like a feather inside of me. "Yeah, you're right about that," I said, giggling. "I swear I wasn't bored! I just was anxious to get started."