Her Breeding Bull Billionaire

By: Francis Ashe

Clark Richards brushed a tendril of hair back behind my ear. Jeff, beside me, squirmed.

“What do you...?” I asked, as I rose from the chair. That was the first time I noticed how tall, how dominant-looking this man was. About six inches taller than me, and quite well-built from the tightness of his suit, he towered over the two of us.

“Take initiative,” he said, “do something.”

Hopped up on a mixture of lust and fear along with a dash of that feeling I get in my gut when someone dares me to do something, I reached for the man’s belt, unlatched it, and undid the two buttons of his slacks. As I knelt, I looked up and chewed my lip, pensively. “What should I call you?”


That got my juices flowing. “Yes sir.” I drew his zipper down and ran my hand up one leg, then the other. When I got almost to his groin, I felt a long, hard lump running down his left thigh. Oh my God, it’s huge! I gave him a brisk rub with my palm before sticking my hand into his open fly to fish out his cock. Through the slick fabric of his underpants, his warmth tickled my fingertips. I looked up at him again, locking eyes for a moment and as I stroked his generous length, asked him “is there anything in particular you would like?”

Mr. Richards crunched his eyes to slits. “For you to stop talking. Impress me. Now.”

If anyone else on planet Earth had said that to me, there’s a solid chance they would have gotten a slap across the mouth. But for some reason, when he commanded me and made demands, I liked the way he spoke. He was so totally unlike my husband; so strong and self-confident.

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, meekly.

A thin smile parted Mr. Richards face for a moment. “Good. Go on.”

I shot a glance over to Jeff, and when I did, noticed that somehow the office’s frosted glass had darkened, like the tint on eyeglasses. Nervously, Jeff shifted his weight in the chair and adjusted the tent-pole in his trousers.

Just by feeling his rod, I could tell that Mr. Richards was much, much bigger than Jeff. His di**ck felt like iron against my palm as I rubbed his entire length with the hand I had stuck down his pants. Even if it weren’t for all this money, this guy would have the reason for this overdeveloped sense of confidence right here.

He relaxed his neck and loosened the first button of his collar, slipping his tie knot a couple of inches from his throat. “You have six minutes.” Mr. Richards stated flatly. “If I don’t cum, the deal’s off.”

My hand trembled a little at his insistence, but as soon as I pulled the waistband of his pants and underwear down far enough so that I saw the beginning of his thick, ready cock, I just had to have more. I fished down deep and dragged him fully out into the open air – he was magnificent. Tan like the rest of Mr. Richards’s skin, his prick was long, rock hard and so thick that one hand did not reach all the way around. His balls hung clean shaven and heavy between muscled thighs that I ran my hands over to feel the lines of his quadriceps and the smooth warmth of his skin.

Mr. Richards’ round, proud tip pulsed lightly every time I tickled my fingers around his cock, and when I dared look up again, saw that his eyes were closed, his head relaxed. I gripped him, as much as I could in one hand, and cupped the other around his balls. Hot and smooth, the first thought I had as soon as they touched my palm was to drag my tongue up between them, suck one of them into my mouth.

“Five minutes,” Mr. Richards announced.

Breath hitched in my chest as I leaned forward and reached out with my tongue. A vague hint of the spicy, leathery cologne Clark Richards wore greeted my nostrils as I gave him a slow lick from deep between his legs to where his co**ck began. I moved both hands to his shaft, and began to slowly pump. He spread his legs a bit more, shifting his weight to his heels.

A little groan slipped out of Mr. Richards’ mouth as I pulled one of balls between my lips. I felt a hand come to rest on my shoulder with a light, but urgent, squeeze. My tugs sped up to match the revolutions my tongue was making around Mr. Richards’ sack, back and forth between the two globes, back and forth sucking one and licking the other.

“Three minutes,” he said. This time, I noticed that his voice was a little higher pitched. He had to catch his breath between the words. Right track, Ash, I thought, and took a deep breath.

Tracing a line up his shaft with just the tip of my tongue and turning increasingly tight circles with my hands, I noticed that when I hit the little place right underneath the head of his dick, Mr. Richards squirmed a little. Lollipop licks, slow and fat, slicked the underside of his co**ck and I tugged harder, dragging my hands up the wet streak my tongue left behind.

My eyes drank in the co**ck before me, and when I noticed the vaguest hint of cum dribble out and over my knuckles, I had to taste him. Shooting a glance over at Jeff, I saw that he was rubbing himself through his trousers. I’d never seen him this excited over a blowjob, but then I was really doing a hell of a job here.

“Two... ahhh...” Mr. Richards’ time announcement was cut short by my lips closing over the ridge of his cock. I squeezed hard, pulling my hands from his balls to my mouth with wrenching quarter-turns that he seemed to enjoy.

Clamping my lips around him, I slid my mouth down his shaft until I felt his tip butt up against the opening of my throat. Hands pumped harder, tugging, yanking, I wanted to taste his cum. I needed to taste him. All thoughts of our little deal, or anything else, were gone from my mind. The only thing that existed for me, right then, was the feral urge to suck every drop of cum out of Clark Richards while my husband watched and impotently rubbed his di**ck through his pants.

My pus**sy tingled. That never happens when I’m giving someone head. I knew this was serious.

The harder I jerked him off, the harder Mr. Richards breathed. Finally, squatted in front of him, dragging my lips and teeth gently up and down his prick, I heard a little “aha!” behind me. Jeff cumming, I thought, this must be quite a show. And then, the moment I stopped sucking to catch my breath, the billionaire exploded over my tongue.

He opened his mouth, but this time, only to let out a rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep in his belly. The hand on my shoulder went to the back of my head and grabbed my hair; shoving my face forward and plunging the gushing co**ck in further.

All I could do – all I wanted to do – was mumble an “mmm!” and coax every last drop out of Mr. Richards. As soon as I gulped down his first spurt, he filled my mouth again, and again. I tried to suck it all out, to not waste a single drop, but there was just so much that a little trickle of his hot, thick juice dripped down my chin.

I left his co**ck in my mouth until he stopped pulsing and his breathing began to calm.

Behind me and to the left, I heard Jeff’s chair make a sound as he shifted. Looking up, Mr. Richards had an eyes-half-open look of relief on his face, and the barest hint of a smile.

“Good,” he said, as I pulled the trousers up his body and buckled them for him. “Very good. Forty-two seconds to spare. I will see you tomorrow evening. I can’t be more specific than that, but it will be late. Be ready for me.” He stopped speaking for long enough to nod at Jeff. “He’ll get me ready to f**k you. Understand?”

Jeff acknowledged him with a soft “yes, sir.”

“Right. That’ll be all for now.” His voice took on a slightly menacing tone, and for the first time, I noticed his strange accent. He rounded his ‘a’ sounds.

“Oh, one more thing,” he intoned just as my hand touched the doorknob. “Have ropes.”


The next day was absolutely frantic. Cleaning and fretting took up most of my time. Jeff just sort of wandered around in a haze, still a little dumbfounded at everything. Usually before these encounters, he gets chipper but this time he seemed a little over-mellowed.

“You doing okay?” I asked, rubbing the back of Jeff’s leg as he rooted around for something in the attic.

He poked his head out of the hatch. “Hey honey, what’s up?”

“Seem kinda out of it. You doing okay? We can call this guy and tell him not to show if you’re nervous about it. Big step and all.”

“Oh, no, no – not at all. I’m really excited. Just have a lot to do. Mr. Richards, you know, he asked for rope, so I’ve been looking. I think I have one up here somewhere.” He stuck his head back up in the attic. A moment later, a strange thwip sound came from somewhere above my head. “Grab my leg!” Jeff called, muffled by insulation. “I gotta really pull this thing!”

Jeff braced himself against me and tugged.

“Got it! Whew!”

Very carefully, he descended the ladder and proudly showed me his dust-covered trophy: about a six-foot length of nylon rope with a dummy tied to the end. “Halloween, what, three years ago? Remember, we tied this little guy to the chimney.” Jeff wobbled the zombie’s head at me, making its googly-eyes go stupidly from side to side.

“Huh-hey, Athlee!” He jibbered.

In spite of myself, I snorted, sucked in a honking laugh and slapped Jeff on the back. After all the tension, stress and cleaning, it was good to know we could still laugh. We sat there and played with the zombie, who we named “Jed” for a few minutes until I happened to look outside to see the sun setting behind the tree-line.

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