My 3 Rockstar Bosses

“Feed them to me off your tits,” he commanded.

I couldn’t move for a moment. What? Had I heard right? What in the world?

Those blue eyes never left mine.

“You heard me,” came that silky voice. “Now do it. Feed. The almonds. To me. Off your tits.”

A gasp escaped my mouth.

“What?” was my breathless cry. “What? How?”

Why was I even asking how, like it was a possibility to be entertained? There shouldn’t have been a how.

But the billionaire merely smiled lazily again, that big form relaxed yet poised to strike.

“Undo your dress,” he commanded in a raspy voice. “Let those tits out. Press them together so they’re like a shelf, and then scatter the nuts on top. I’ll snack on them as I see fit.”

What? My cheeks were scarlet now, burning with fire.

Because he wanted me to use my boobies like a platter. A white serving dish that he’d caress with his fingers each time he brought a nut to his mouth.

It was true.

Dirty and filthy, but absolutely true.

And the billionaire looked right back at me, blue eyes daring.

I couldn’t.

I was being paid well, but not that well.

But shamefully, my hands began to obey. They reached behind my back and fumbled for the zip of my dress, pulling it down in slow motion. And gradually, the navy material fell from my curves until my girls were revealed in their full glory, white sacks of cream with pale pink nipples, already large and distended.

Because the worst part of all this was that I aroused, and now the proof was there for him to see. And to my embarrassment, there was no bra. During the fitting, the seamstress had insisted that I go without.

“What?” I’d protested. “Who doesn’t wear a bra?”

But Thelma had merely clucked and made some excuse. Her English wasn’t so good, so I was sure I’d misunderstood at first.

“The men, they don’t want,” she’d said. “They don’t want.”

I’d gaped, certain I was hearing wrong. But Thelma shook her head again.

“No bra,” she said with finality. “Not necessary.”

And I’d given in because I was young, inexperienced, and it was my first day. I figured I’d slip some lingerie on afterwards, when I had some time to myself.

But now that no-bra command was my downfall. Because as my girls came into view, it was obvious I as desperately turned on, the pink tips like bullets pointing straight at Mr. Dawson.

And he looked right back, that gaze hungry like a ravenous lion.

“Very nice,” he rumbled, eyes eating me up, trailing all over that creamy flesh. “Very nice.”

But he didn’t touch me. Not yet at least.

“Kneel,” was his command. “Right here,” he said, gesturing to the aisle next to his seat.

I gasped again. I was supposed to kneel at his side like an obedient dog? But it got worse because dog was too generous a description. Instead, I was supposed to kneel at his side like a silent piece of furniture, an ornament even, the almonds proffered on my creamy breasts, available for his pleasure.