Paraded before the Billionaires Read Free

Parade.
    We are in a holding cell, pretty much like
the ones which are used to hold gladiators and other slaves before
they are let out into the arena to fight to the death against each
other/lions.
    We are no longer in Russell’s mansion.
Earlier, they blindfolded us and took us in a closed van to
goodness-knows-where. When we are let out again, we are in the
bright sunshine and a garden bursting with blossoms and
fragrance.
    Until we are led into a massive structure
that appears – in all outward appearance – to be an
amphitheater.
    Then again, I could be wrong. It might be an
arena. A gladiatorial ring in which we are about to be devoured by
lions and tigers and bears.
    Heathcliff and other similar butler/butler
intern types are adorning us with our parade outfits. Perhaps
‘outfit’ is too generous a word, since nothing we possess is
covered much.
    My waist is encircled with a black and red
PVC corset with multiple strands, baring my midriff in between. The
lowest the corset comes to is to the level of my hipbones. My
entire pubic region and my buttocks are exposed below it. As for
the corset’s top, it ascends to culminate in two scarlet cups which
are whalebone rigid. The cups serve to push my breasts up and in –
so that my nipples are pointed forward and my cleavage is very,
very pronounced.
    Oh yeah – my nipples. They are painted red.
Not just any red either, but a bright, shocking crimson that would
make a harlot blush.
    Nothing is covering my breasts. They are
completely naked. My legs however are wrapped in more of those
straps – this time they crisscross all over my lower limbs right
down to my ankles. My feet terminate in three-inch high heels –
black of course.
    The entire ensemble is as kinky and sexy as
hell.
    Not content to leave my nipples and genitals
free, Heathcliff has clipped silver bells on them. Their long,
spiral strands dangle from both my nipples and terminate in those
slender inverted domes. They tinkle every time I move . . . even
when the motion requires as little as drawing breath.
    Heathcliff has clipped the same silver bells
on both my outer labia. As for my clit, he clamps something that
looks like a hairpin over its hood. Silver chains trail from the
arms of the hairpin. But instead of bells, these end in small lead
weights – the kind used in stores selling grain from over two
hundred years ago. These exert a constant tug upon my clit
circumference – an exquisite sensation that renders my entire
nether region numb and in precious hunger to be taken at the same
time.
    “Can you walk?” he asks me. His eyes twinkle
as he gently pulls at my lead weights.
    I take a deep breath. “I think so.”
    “Good, you will need to. This isn’t the end
of it.”
    Beside Max, Greg and Alice, there are about
a dozen other slaves in the holding pen – men and women alike. They
are all young, beautiful and able-bodied.
    We are all not decorated similarly. Alice
wears a bodysuit made out of fine golden chains, all arranged to
show her physical assets to the max. Instead of bells, tinkling
golden wind chimes trail from her nipples, pussy lips and clit. She
sees me eyeing her and shoots a glare in my direction.
    I smile inwardly.
    As for Max, he wears a black-and-red leather
harness and strap ensemble, pretty much in my vein. There’s a
reason for this that will be made clear later. The straps
crisscross his hip and groin region, showing off his splendid
abdominal muscles and pubis. His chest is bare but for the bells on
his nipples.
    As for his erect cock – teased into rigidity
by Heathcliff because it’s not allowed to droop at any stage during
the parade – it is wrapped tightly with five faux leather bands,
all studded with silver rivets. A tight black strap circles the
root of his cock as well as his scrotum, as does another one like
it just above the swell of his nuts.
    The entire effect makes his genitals look
plump and swollen. And if I may say so, delicious enough to eat.
How