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The Wealthy Slave Girl (Argus)


The Wealthy Slave Girl by Argus

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Miranda and her stepbrother were born wealthy, and raised to be spoiled and self-indulgent. So when they wanted each other, they simply ignored convention and began to experiment. But her stepbrother's sexual desires are considerably more perverse than anything she had yet experienced. Miranda felt the dark thrill of passion being his submissive sex toy, even as he degraded and demeaned her. The nastier the sex, the more of a thrill she found in it. When they were caught by her step-father, she was mortified, but his stern punishment was to give her as much sexual slavery as she could possibly want, and more, in hopes of shattering the mystique and novelty of it. His new wife, however, had a completely different perspective. Never having liked Miranda, she took advantage to punish her, and to attempt to turn the snobbish young girl into a mindless sexual slave.

Product type: EBook    Published by: author - self-published    Published: 5 / 2011

We do not recommend this book for readers under 18 years of age

No. words: 32220

Style: BDSM/Bondage - Content: Moderate -    Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  MS Word  Text  RTF  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle

Current all-time sales ranking: #535


Excerpt..

There are a lot of words you could use to describe my life, or at least, to describe my life as it had been up until early last summer. Idyllic would certainly be among those words. Pampered and spoiled would be reasonably descriptive, as well. Lucky is the one I would use the most.
I was born poor, with no real father. When my mother died I was thus orphaned and eventually at the age of two I was fostered. I was too young to realise it but that was when the proverbial silver spoon was put in my mouth - or maybe gold. Because I was so young I always considered the people who reared me to by my “mother” and “father”, though they were not my blood relatives. I never considered the boys who were their children to be my brothers – they were always step-brothers. So, in the story that follows, you will see me refer to my “father” as father, and his brother Peter became “Uncle Peter” and so on – because that was what it was like to me from my earliest memories.

***

My father is filthy rich. I’m not talking about a guy with a few million bucks here either. My father is worth several billion dollars, easily. Money has never been something that was ever in short supply in my life. Whatever I wanted I got. I had only to express an interest in something to have it laid out at my feet.
So what was it like growing up me? Well, the best schools, driven around in big limousines, living in one of the largest homes in Beverly Hills with a huge landscaped garden and a fantastic view of the valley below. Servants at my beck and call. Even before I was a teenager I wore expensive designer clothes, and simply tossed them on the floor when done. Someone - some servant type - would then pick them up, scoop them off somewhere, wash them, and return them to the dresser or closet from whence they’d come.
After school there was the huge swimming pool and the tennis court, as well as the games rooms to play in. Or I could take the limo down to the ocean to our private beach, supervised by servants. On weekends I could be whisked to the mountains for skiing, or out to the lake for water skiing. I took surfing lessons, skiing and water skiing, archery, ballet, modeling, makeup, and had private tutoring for school.
I played - constantly, at everything. As a teenager, I flew all over the world. We have a castle in England, a chalet in the Alps, a beautiful home on the French Riviera, a fantastic penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and a place on a private beach in Hawaii. I saw the pyramids in Egypt and the lions in Uganda. I went to the carnival in Rio and gambled in Las Vegas and Monaco with fake ID. I traveled the great wall of China, and roared over the sand dunes of Morocco in a dune buggy.
It was, as I said, an idyllic life, a golden life, and it didn’t become any less golden as I grew older, or when I discovered sex.
For if I had been lucky in my fostering - and I had - in that I was taken into a wealthy family which believed in spoiling its children and giving them every imaginable luxury, I had also been lucky in my birth as far as my body was concerned. I was and remain extremely healthy, athletic, and so far as society and its expectations go - beautiful. I don’t take any huge degree of pride in that beauty. I’m not a narcissist, really. I accept that I’m beautiful just as I accept that I’m healthy and wealthy. None of that really has much to do with any actions taken by me.
I was a beautiful child. I grew into a beautiful nymphet of a teenager, jail-bait who teased the living daylights out of every male who crossed my path - of any age. My height - I’m six feet tall - has always allowed me to disguise my age, though, to let me get into bars and clubs and casinos well before I became a legal adult. So nothing really changed for me in life after I actually did turn eighteen. Which, while it might be legal for sex, still is three years shy of the legal drinking age in California and New York.
But eighteen was a magical year in another way. I graduated from high school, and that left me free to play and party and ski and skydive and paraglide and swim and dance and snowboard and gamble seven days a week. In the fall, I flew to the Riviera for six weeks of partying and sunbathing, then flew to Australia to continue the good times. I went to Hawaii for January, Rio for February, to enjoy the Carnival, then flew to Austria for the skiing and snowboarding. In the spring, I returned to New York for a few weeks, then headed out to Beverly Hills.
I had lovers of course, in every city.
I have a 36C-22-36 body, firm, lithe, tanned - but not too tanned - graceful, and with soft, golden, unblemished skin. My blonde hair spills down across my shoulders. And I look incredible in a bikini, especially a thong. My breasts are as gorgeous and perfect and firm as any plastic surgeon could have wanted - and yet they’re the real thing. So I also look great topless, as the men in Rio and the Riviera can attest.
Anyway, to get more to the point of how my luscious life changed I will bring you to the day after I returned to Beverly Hills. I was out back. Our house is on the edge of a mountain, and the pool is on one side, down about ten feet, on a terraced level below the house. The tennis court is down a level from that. Below that is a hundred and fifty foot fall. The backyard is quite private, and can only be seen from our own house, really, and even then only from the back windows which overlook it.
My father had long held the belief that servants were a necessary evil. No one wanted to do the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and such. No one wanted to fetch their own drinks or snacks, or make their own beds. That was why you needed to have servants. But at the same time, you wanted some privacy from the servants, who tend to be unsophisticated and gossipy. The servants followed a very careful timetable of chores The back rooms and suites all were off limits except during certain times, mostly the late afternoon and early evening, when they would be cleaned. If a servant was found in those corridors during any other time, unless they had been specifically asked, they would be fired.
Likewise there were phones or intercoms to summon the servants if one wanted a drink when one was in the library, say, or the games room, or the theater, or the den or one of the sitting rooms, but if they were not summoned, they were not to appear except after everyone went to bed, when they could clean the place - like elves or fairies coming in the night, not getting in our way or disturbing us with their vulgar questions or chatter.
Yes, daddy was and is a terrible snob, and mother was no better.. She divorced him years ago, but runs her houses in pretty much the same fashion. And she has many houses, just as daddy does, giving me all sorts of options as to where to spend my playtime.
One of the benefits of that was that I could lay out in the sun, basking in its soft warmth, my skin glistening from the suntan lotion, wearing nothing but a G-string to preserve what little modesty I possessed. Often enough I didn’t even bother with the G-string, in fact. But that depended on who was home, who was even in the same city at the time.
I had done nude sunbathing at the Riviera, you see, and in Brazil, but it was different around my family, for some reason. I just felt a little - squeamish - around my step-brothers and father, say, even though I didn’t around other men. Actually, to be honest, I can’t say I felt nothing around other men. I felt - excited. I guess it’s the prudish American in me. Walking around topless or even naked on the beach seems just so - naughty - so nasty - so sexually provocative and suggestive to my American sensibilities.
Knowing the men are looking at me, scanning me, their eyes moving over my bared breasts, my bare bottom, or even, sometimes, my expertly denuded sex, always seems to make my insides squirm and my pussy throb with anticipation. It doesn’t even matter if they’re ugly or old, or if I have no intention of ever, ever doing anything with them. Just the way they look at me, and the fact I’m naked makes my mind and pussy squirm and buzz.
And that’s despite the fact that, to be honest, I’ve had a lot of sex. I mean, I am not a complete slut or anything, but I have few inhibitions, and have been raised to believe that if I want to do something, then I should simply do it. So I have had a lot of sex with a lot of people in a lot of different places! Not all of it was great, but all of it was pretty good!
In any event, as I lay there, content, soaking up the sun, enjoying my lazy ways, I was not altogether surprised when my step-brother Kyle came out and sat down next to where I lay sprawled out on the chaise lounge. I had known he was home, after all. And I blushed ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he said, sitting heavily, and giving me a casual wave.
“Hey,” I replied in kind.
It would not do, it was not proper to show one was embarrassed, made uncomfortable or intimidated in any way – by anything or anyone. I had learned that at quite a young age. And in truth, I was not oh so bothered by Kyle seeing me like this.
“How was New York?”
“Lovely. And Japan?”
“Interesting. They’re really into bondage out there.”
I snorted. “Then you should have been quite happy.”
Kyle was as blessed as I was. He had a tall, fit, athletic body, with broad shoulders and well-defined pectoral muscles. He had slim hips a great ass, and a very large, thick cock. We had seen each other naked on a number of occasions, of course, mainly on the beaches, but I had learned, first-hand, about his cock a few months earlier in England, when I had been kind of stoned on ecstasy and pot, and he had put me down on all fours and rode me like a bitch in heat. He had fucked me so hard my pussy had ached for days.
Does that shock you? It shouldn’t. We’re very spoiled and have never been denied anything we wanted. He wanted me, for obvious reasons, and when the opportunity presented itself, he took me. I don’t blame him for it. I’d have done the same if the idea had come to me. And, in fact, he’d been a great fuck. I had been a little bit - surprised afterwards, and bemused. The idea of fucking my step-brother was a novel one. But then I sought out novelty where I could find it, so appreciated the irony.
Anyway, he had a great body, and was very handsome, so why not?
Okay, I admit that I feel a little squirmy about it. I guess that’s a holdover from the prudish American culture that surrounds me. After it happened, I just wrote it off as one of those things, you know. He was drunk. I was zoned out. No harm done. But… it wasn’t something I had planned on repeating. But it had, a month or so later, in Rio, during Carnival.
That incident had kind of changed my opinion about Kyle, and left me feeling a little – fluttery – around him. I had always thought of him as just another spoiled playboy - like most of the men I hung around with. I had certainly never considered him to be particularly forceful or dominant or strong-willed. But he really shocked me in Rio.
Admittedly, I’d been drinking. I had just come back from carnival. I was wearing very little, a very short skirt, and a glittery, revealing halter-top. I had come home late - of course, and had expected to find the house in shadows as I made my way to the stairs. I had not expected to run into Kyle for the first time since that earlier incident. I mean, we hadn’t even talked about it, really, except to sort of laugh it off the next day.
And yet, there he was, suddenly just looming out of the shadows at me, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, his skin pale in the moonlight. I was brought up short with a gasp, and then he was staring into my eyes from inches away.
“What – .”
That was all that escaped me, standing there, eyes blinking uncertainly in the near dark, confused a bit. Then his lips were on mine and his arms around me and I was being borne back against the wall as his mouth and lips practically fed on mine, in an expert but demanding kiss that seemed to never end. Meanwhile his hands raced over my body, and my clothes seemed to fall away on their own. Then he took me, up against the wall, driving that long, hard prick deep into my oozing pussy and driving me insane as his fingers dug into my ass and my legs wrapped around him .
I was - bleary, confused, muddled, drunk. It all happened so fast, and the feelings which he forced on me were so powerful that I felt as though I had just waken up to find my bed racing up and down a wild roller coaster, with no idea how I’d gotten on the ride or how to make it stop!
And no small fear either, that the thrills and chills might contain some actual danger.
After I had come - come so powerfully I had almost passed out, Kyle had thrown me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes - or maybe, like a cave man bringing home his woman! He carried me to his room, threw me on his bed, and tied my ankles and wrists to the four corners. Then he had proceeded to taunt and tease me and drive me into a thrashing, screaming sexual frenzy, over and over and over again. He had brought me to the edge of orgasm again and again, then held me there, teasing me, making me beg for it, making me say - terrible things about myself, to confess to the sluttiest of fantasies, in order to get him to push me over the edge.
God it had been wild! And he had been so – so forceful, so macho, so tough and expert in his touch and behavior. Like me, Kyle had always been able to have about as much sex as he’d wanted, and he had really learned from his experiences.
I had been left drained, exhausted, sore, bruised, and with the close experience of such intense orgasms inside me that I had masturbated to those memories many times since. I mean, I had been tied up before, on occasion, but never with such intense determination. And I would have laughed at the cliché of hot wax on the nipples had I not actually experienced it, tied there, gasping, moaning, overheated inside and out, with him straddling me, leering at me, dripping hot candle wax down onto my throbbing, tingling, burning nipples as I arched and twisted against the bonds.
Oh they were firm and tight around my wrists and ankles, those straps, so that no matter how I pulled and strained, no matter how my muscles spasmed and my body writhed, they held me quite tightly in place for my perverted step-brother to continue taunting and teasing and driving me insane.
Now he sat down across from me, then leaned forward, his hand reaching out lazily to grasp my thick hair, pulling me firmly, but not roughly towards him as he leaned in and kissed me softly but deeply. It was not a step-brotherly kiss, by any means, his lips firm against mine, his tongue sliding through them, dipping and darting, caressing my own before drawing back.
He grinned as he released me. No, that had been a lovers’ greeting, and it made my chest fluttery as I lay back and he sipped from a bottle of beer.
“They’re so open about it, though. It’s part of the common culture. Men read pornographic graphic novels on the subway, even ones which strongly feature bondage and schoolgirls. It’s really quite amazing compared to how things are here.”
“You spend a lot of time on subways here, do you?” I asked with a smirk.
“I’ve been on subways,” he said haughtily.
I laughed and he shrugged, and then eyed my tanning lotion.
“I trust that doesn’t have any strange, female smelling perfumes in it,” he said.
“No it’s a very natural, vegetation based oil with no artificial ingredients. You could even drink it,” I said.
“When I worry about my stomach getting sunburned I’ll give it a try,” he said, picking up the bottle.
He gazed at me, then grinned in a lopsided fashion. “You know, in Japan, women tend to know their place.”
“Uh huh,” I said suspiciously.
“They know how to serve and service their men.”
“Good for them. You should buy one and bring her back here.”
“You could learn from them.”
“I don’t have a man.”
“You have too many men, slut.”
“You’re a bigger slut than me!” I sniffed.
“That’s different. I’m a man. “
“Oh please.”
He turned the squeeze bottle around and squirted oil onto my bare chest.
“Hey, I already have enough!” I protested.
“Yes, but you need more so you can apply it to my fine, masculine body.”
“What?” I said in confusion.
He was pouring oil over my chest and belly and downwards toward my abdomen and tiny suit in a thick layer.
“You’re using too much.”
He grinned but didn’t stop, then put the bottle down, sat back, and skimmed his swimsuit down and off. I felt my breath catch as his cock sprang out, semi-erect, and then he lay back on his chaise lounge and turned his head towards me. “Get on me and rub your body against me to apply the lotion.”
I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but to be honest, the idea was turning me on. I hesitated anyway, feeling a sense of sisterly rebellion and indignation that he was so arrogantly trying to tell me what to do. But then the heat between my legs pushed that away and I sat up, my eyes starting to heat, and moved to straddle him.
“Lose the suit first,” he said.
I felt a little jolt of heat, and forbidden excitement. I glanced up towards the house, then slipped my thumbs into my little G-string and pulled it down. I was, of course, completely bare and smooth beneath, all my body hair having been lasered away years earlier. I straddled him and the chaise, the oil slowly running down my body, and felt my pussy throb powerfully as I sat across his thighs.
I ran my hands slowly over my body, feeling the thick, oil smearing across my breasts and belly, then I leaned in and down, laying my chest down and pillowing my breasts against his chest. I rubbed my body slowly along his, smearing the oil onto him, while he just lay there, hands under his neck. The back of the lounge was elevated a little so he could watch me as I rubbed my breasts against his hard, firm, yet deliciously soft chest, exulting in the tactile sensations of warm, slippery oiled skin against skin.
I slid upward, my feet still on the ground, my groin sliding up along his thighs until it was over his cock. I rubbed my groin, my abdomen, back and forth across his cock as it lay on his belly, and felt it hardening between our bodies.
My breathing had quickened, my chest tight, sexual electricity rippling through my body as I rubbed myself over him.
“Get up so I can turn over,” he ordered.
God! I was ready to fuck him right now! But he was going to tease me, I could tell, going to demonstrate, as he had last time, how controlled he was, and how out of control he could make me. I wanted to respond in kind, to act haughty and above it all, to pretend like this wasn’t affecting me, but I knew I couldn’t bring it off.
I rose, still straddling him, my legs obscenely wide, and he rolled casually over so I could sit down on his thighs, lay along him, and rub my breasts against his back. God, the feeling against my skin was so sensuous, so erotic! I moaned softly as I rubbed my breasts and chest and belly slowly against him, kind of tilting my body a little to the side so I could rub my pussy along the back of his thigh.


Excerpt..

There are a lot of words you could use to describe my life, or at least, to describe my life as it had been up until early last
summer. Idyllic would certainly be among those words. Pampered and spoiled would be reasonably descriptive, as well. Lucky is the one I
would use the most.

I was born poor, with no real father. When my mother died I was thus orphaned and eventually at the age of two I was fostered. I was
too young to realise it but that was when the proverbial silver spoon was put in my mouth - or maybe gold. Because I was so young I always
considered the people who reared me to by my “mother” and “father”, though they were not my blood relatives. I never considered the boys who
were their children to be my brothers – they were always step-brothers. So, in the story that follows, you will see me refer to my “father”
as father, and his brother Peter became “Uncle Peter” and so on – because that was what it was like to me from my earliest memories.



***



My father is filthy rich. I’m not talking about a guy with a few million bucks here either. My father is worth several billion
dollars, easily. Money has never been something that was ever in short supply in my life. Whatever I wanted I got. I had only to express an
interest in something to have it laid out at my feet.

So what was it like growing up me? Well, the best schools, driven around in big limousines, living in one of the largest homes in
Beverly Hills with a huge landscaped garden and a fantastic view of the valley below. Servants at my beck and call. Even before I was a
teenager I wore expensive designer clothes, and simply tossed them on the floor when done. Someone - some servant type - would then pick
them up, scoop them off somewhere, wash them, and return them to the dresser or closet from whence they’d come.

After school there was the huge swimming pool and the tennis court, as well as the games rooms to play in. Or I could take the limo
down to the ocean to our private beach, supervised by servants. On weekends I could be whisked to the mountains for skiing, or out to the
lake for water skiing. I took surfing lessons, skiing and water skiing, archery, ballet, modeling, makeup, and had private tutoring for
school.

I played - constantly, at everything. As a teenager, I flew all over the world. We have a castle in England, a chalet in the Alps, a
beautiful home on the French Riviera, a fantastic penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and a place on a private beach in Hawaii. I saw the
pyramids in Egypt and the lions in Uganda. I went to the carnival in Rio and gambled in Las Vegas and Monaco with fake ID. I traveled the
great wall of China, and roared over the sand dunes of Morocco in a dune buggy.

It was, as I said, an idyllic life, a golden life, and it didn’t become any less golden as I grew older, or when I discovered sex. />
For if I had been lucky in my fostering - and I had - in that I was taken into a wealthy family which believed in spoiling its
children and giving them every imaginable luxury, I had also been lucky in my birth as far as my body was concerned. I was and remain
extremely healthy, athletic, and so far as society and its expectations go - beautiful. I don’t take any huge degree of pride in that
beauty. I’m not a narcissist, really. I accept that I’m beautiful just as I accept that I’m healthy and wealthy. None of that really has
much to do with any actions taken by me.

I was a beautiful child. I grew into a beautiful nymphet of a teenager, jail-bait who teased the living daylights out of every male
who crossed my path - of any age. My height - I’m six feet tall - has always allowed me to disguise my age, though, to let me get into bars
and clubs and casinos well before I became a legal adult. So nothing really changed for me in life after I actually did turn eighteen.
Which, while it might be legal for sex, still is three years shy of the legal drinking age in California and New York.

But eighteen was a magical year in another way. I graduated from high school, and that left me free to play and party and ski and
skydive and paraglide and swim and dance and snowboard and gamble seven days a week. In the fall, I flew to the Riviera for six weeks of
partying and sunbathing, then flew to Australia to continue the good times. I went to Hawaii for January, Rio for February, to enjoy the
Carnival, then flew to Austria for the skiing and snowboarding. In the spring, I returned to New York for a few weeks, then headed out to
Beverly Hills.

I had lovers of course, in every city.

I have a 36C-22-36 body, firm, lithe, tanned - but not too tanned - graceful, and with soft, golden, unblemished skin. My blonde hair
spills down across my shoulders. And I look incredible in a bikini, especially a thong. My breasts are as gorgeous and perfect and firm as
any plastic surgeon could have wanted - and yet they’re the real thing. So I also look great topless, as the men in Rio and the Riviera can
attest.

Anyway, to get more to the point of how my luscious life changed I will bring you to the day after I returned to Beverly Hills. I was
out back. Our house is on the edge of a mountain, and the pool is on one side, down about ten feet, on a terraced level below the house. The
tennis court is down a level from that. Below that is a hundred and fifty foot fall. The backyard is quite private, and can only be seen
from our own house, really, and even then only from the back windows which overlook it.

My father had long held the belief that servants were a necessary evil. No one wanted to do the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and
such. No one wanted to fetch their own drinks or snacks, or make their own beds. That was why you needed to have servants. But at the same
time, you wanted some privacy from the servants, who tend to be unsophisticated and gossipy. The servants followed a very careful timetable
of chores The back rooms and suites all were off limits except during certain times, mostly the late afternoon and early evening, when they
would be cleaned. If a servant was found in those corridors during any other time, unless they had been specifically asked, they would be
fired.

Likewise there were phones or intercoms to summon the servants if one wanted a drink when one was in the library, say, or the games
room, or the theater, or the den or one of the sitting rooms, but if they were not summoned, they were not to appear except after everyone
went to bed, when they could clean the place - like elves or fairies coming in the night, not getting in our way or disturbing us with their
vulgar questions or chatter.

Yes, daddy was and is a terrible snob, and mother was no better.. She divorced him years ago, but runs her houses in pretty much the
same fashion. And she has many houses, just as daddy does, giving me all sorts of options as to where to spend my playtime.

One of the benefits of that was that I could lay out in the sun, basking in its soft warmth, my skin glistening from the suntan
lotion, wearing nothing but a G-string to preserve what little modesty I possessed. Often enough I didn’t even bother with the G-string, in
fact. But that depended on who was home, who was even in the same city at the time.

I had done nude sunbathing at the Riviera, you see, and in Brazil, but it was different around my family, for some reason. I just felt
a little - squeamish - around my step-brothers and father, say, even though I didn’t around other men. Actually, to be honest, I can’t say I
felt nothing around other men. I felt - excited. I guess it’s the prudish American in me. Walking around topless or even naked on the beach
seems just so - naughty - so nasty - so sexually provocative and suggestive to my American sensibilities.

Knowing the men are looking at me, scanning me, their eyes moving over my bared breasts, my bare bottom, or even, sometimes, my
expertly denuded sex, always seems to make my insides squirm and my pussy throb with anticipation. It doesn’t even matter if they’re ugly or
old, or if I have no intention of ever, ever doing anything with them. Just the way they look at me, and the fact I’m naked makes my mind
and pussy squirm and buzz.

And that’s despite the fact that, to be honest, I’ve had a lot of sex. I mean, I am not a complete slut or anything, but I have few
inhibitions, and have been raised to believe that if I want to do something, then I should simply do it. So I have had a lot of sex with a
lot of people in a lot of different places! Not all of it was great, but all of it was pretty good!

In any event, as I lay there, content, soaking up the sun, enjoying my lazy ways, I was not altogether surprised when my step-brother
Kyle came out and sat down next to where I lay sprawled out on the chaise lounge. I had known he was home, after all. And I blushed ever so
slightly.

“Hey,” he said, sitting heavily, and giving me a casual wave.

“Hey,” I replied in kind.

It would not do, it was not proper to show one was embarrassed, made uncomfortable or intimidated in any way – by anything or anyone.
I had learned that at quite a young age. And in truth, I was not oh so bothered by Kyle seeing me like this.

“How was New York?”

“Lovely. And Japan?”

“Interesting. They’re really into bondage out there.”

I snorted. “Then you should have been quite happy.”

Kyle was as blessed as I was. He had a tall, fit, athletic body, with broad shoulders and well-defined pectoral muscles. He had slim
hips a great ass, and a very large, thick cock. We had seen each other naked on a number of occasions, of course, mainly on the beaches, but
I had learned, first-hand, about his cock a few months earlier in England, when I had been kind of stoned on ecstasy and pot, and he had put
me down on all fours and rode me like a bitch in heat. He had fucked me so hard my pussy had ached for days.

Does that shock you? It shouldn’t. We’re very spoiled and have never been denied anything we wanted. He wanted me, for obvious
reasons, and when the opportunity presented itself, he took me. I don’t blame him for it. I’d have done the same if the idea had come to me.
And, in fact, he’d been a great fuck. I had been a little bit - surprised afterwards, and bemused. The idea of fucking my step-brother was a
novel one. But then I sought out novelty where I could find it, so appreciated the irony.

Anyway, he had a great body, and was very handsome, so why not?

Okay, I admit that I feel a little squirmy about it. I guess that’s a holdover from the prudish American culture that surrounds me.
After it happened, I just wrote it off as one of those things, you know. He was drunk. I was zoned out. No harm done. But… it wasn’t
something I had planned on repeating. But it had, a month or so later, in Rio, during Carnival.

That incident had kind of changed my opinion about Kyle, and left me feeling a little – fluttery – around him. I had always thought of
him as just another spoiled playboy - like most of the men I hung around with. I had certainly never considered him to be particularly
forceful or dominant or strong-willed. But he really shocked me in Rio.

Admittedly, I’d been drinking. I had just come back from carnival. I was wearing very little, a very short skirt, and a glittery,
revealing halter-top. I had come home late - of course, and had expected to find the house in shadows as I made my way to the stairs. I had
not expected to run into Kyle for the first time since that earlier incident. I mean, we hadn’t even talked about it, really, except to sort
of laugh it off the next day.

And yet, there he was, suddenly just looming out of the shadows at me, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, his skin pale in the
moonlight. I was brought up short with a gasp, and then he was staring into my eyes from inches away.

“What – .”

That was all that escaped me, standing there, eyes blinking uncertainly in the near dark, confused a bit. Then his lips were on mine
and his arms around me and I was being borne back against the wall as his mouth and lips practically fed on mine, in an expert but demanding
kiss that seemed to never end. Meanwhile his hands raced over my body, and my clothes seemed to fall away on their own. Then he took me, up
against the wall, driving that long, hard prick deep into my oozing pussy and driving me insane as his fingers dug into my ass and my legs
wrapped around him .

I was - bleary, confused, muddled, drunk. It all happened so fast, and the feelings which he forced on me were so powerful that I felt
as though I had just waken up to find my bed racing up and down a wild roller coaster, with no idea how I’d gotten on the ride or how to
make it stop!

And no small fear either, that the thrills and chills might contain some actual danger.

After I had come - come so powerfully I had almost passed out, Kyle had thrown me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes - or maybe,
like a cave man bringing home his woman! He carried me to his room, threw me on his bed, and tied my ankles and wrists to the four corners.
Then he had proceeded to taunt and tease me and drive me into a thrashing, screaming sexual frenzy, over and over and over again. He had
brought me to the edge of orgasm again and again, then held me there, teasing me, making me beg for it, making me say - terrible things
about myself, to confess to the sluttiest of fantasies, in order to get him to push me over the edge.

God it had been wild! And he had been so – so forceful, so macho, so tough and expert in his touch and behavior. Like me, Kyle had
always been able to have about as much sex as he’d wanted, and he had really learned from his experiences.

I had been left drained, exhausted, sore, bruised, and with the close experience of such intense orgasms inside me that I had
masturbated to those memories many times since. I mean, I had been tied up before, on occasion, but never with such intense determination.
And I would have laughed at the cliché of hot wax on the nipples had I not actually experienced it, tied there, gasping, moaning, overheated
inside and out, with him straddling me, leering at me, dripping hot candle wax down onto my throbbing, tingling, burning nipples as I arched
and twisted against the bonds.

Oh they were firm and tight around my wrists and ankles, those straps, so that no matter how I pulled and strained, no matter how my
muscles spasmed and my body writhed, they held me quite tightly in place for my perverted step-brother to continue taunting and teasing and
driving me insane.

Now he sat down across from me, then leaned forward, his hand reaching out lazily to grasp my thick hair, pulling me firmly, but not
roughly towards him as he leaned in and kissed me softly but deeply. It was not a step-brotherly kiss, by any means, his lips firm against
mine, his tongue sliding through them, dipping and darting, caressing my own before drawing back.

He grinned as he released me. No, that had been a lovers’ greeting, and it made my chest fluttery as I lay back and he sipped from a
bottle of beer.

“They’re so open about it, though. It’s part of the common culture. Men read pornographic graphic novels on the subway, even ones
which strongly feature bondage and schoolgirls. It’s really quite amazing compared to how things are here.”

“You spend a lot of time on subways here, do you?” I asked with a smirk.

“I’ve been on subways,” he said haughtily.

I laughed and he shrugged, and then eyed my tanning lotion.

“I trust that doesn’t have any strange, female smelling perfumes in it,” he said.

“No it’s a very natural, vegetation based oil with no artificial ingredients. You could even drink it,” I said.

“When I worry about my stomach getting sunburned I’ll give it a try,” he said, picking up the bottle.

He gazed at me, then grinned in a lopsided fashion. “You know, in Japan, women tend to know their place.”

“Uh huh,” I said suspiciously.

“They know how to serve and service their men.”

“Good for them. You should buy one and bring her back here.”

“You could learn from them.”

“I don’t have a man.”

“You have too many men, slut.”

“You’re a bigger slut than me!” I sniffed.

“That’s different. I’m a man. “

“Oh please.”

He turned the squeeze bottle around and squirted oil onto my bare chest.

“Hey, I already have enough!” I protested.

“Yes, but you need more so you can apply it to my fine, masculine body.”

“What?” I said in confusion.

He was pouring oil over my chest and belly and downwards toward my abdomen and tiny suit in a thick layer.

“You’re using too much.”

He grinned but didn’t stop, then put the bottle down, sat back, and skimmed his swimsuit down and off. I felt my breath catch as his
cock sprang out, semi-erect, and then he lay back on his chaise lounge and turned his head towards me. “Get on me and rub your body against
me to apply the lotion.”

I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but to be honest, the idea was turning me on. I hesitated anyway, feeling a sense of
sisterly rebellion and indignation that he was so arrogantly trying to tell me what to do. But then the heat between my legs pushed that
away and I sat up, my eyes starting to heat, and moved to straddle him.

“Lose the suit first,” he said.

I felt a little jolt of heat, and forbidden excitement. I glanced up towards the house, then slipped my thumbs into my little G-string
and pulled it down. I was, of course, completely bare and smooth beneath, all my body hair having been lasered away years earlier. I
straddled him and the chaise, the oil slowly running down my body, and felt my pussy throb powerfully as I sat across his thighs.

I ran my hands slowly over my body, feeling the thick, oil smearing across my breasts and belly, then I leaned in and down, laying my
chest down and pillowing my breasts against his chest. I rubbed my body slowly along his, smearing the oil onto him, while he just lay
there, hands under his neck. The back of the lounge was elevated a little so he could watch me as I rubbed my breasts against his hard,
firm, yet deliciously soft chest, exulting in the tactile sensations of warm, slippery oiled skin against skin.

I slid upward, my feet still on the ground, my groin sliding up along his thighs until it was over his cock. I rubbed my groin, my
abdomen, back and forth across his cock as it lay on his belly, and felt it hardening between our bodies.

My breathing had quickened, my chest tight, sexual electricity rippling through my body as I rubbed myself over him.

“Get up so I can turn over,” he ordered.

God! I was ready to fuck him right now! But he was going to tease me, I could tell, going to demonstrate, as he had last time, how
controlled he was, and how out of control he could make me. I wanted to respond in kind, to act haughty and above it all, to pretend like
this wasn’t affecting me, but I knew I couldn’t bring it off.

I rose, still straddling him, my legs obscenely wide, and he rolled casually over so I could sit down on his thighs, lay along him,
and rub my breasts against his back. God, the feeling against my skin was so sensuous, so erotic! I moaned softly as I rubbed my breasts and
chest and belly slowly against him, kind of tilting my body a little to the side so I could rub my pussy along the back of his thigh.


Excerpt..

There are a lot of words you could use to describe my life, or at least, to describe my life as it had been up until early last

summer. Idyllic would certainly be among those words. Pampered and spoiled would be reasonably descriptive, as well. Lucky is the one I

would use the most.


I was born poor, with no real father. When my mother died I was thus orphaned and eventually at the age of two I was fostered. I was

too young to realise it but that was when the proverbial silver spoon was put in my mouth - or maybe gold. Because I was so young I always

considered the people who reared me to by my “mother” and “father”, though they were not my blood relatives. I never considered the boys who

were their children to be my brothers – they were always step-brothers. So, in the story that follows, you will see me refer to my “father”

as father, and his brother Peter became “Uncle Peter” and so on – because that was what it was like to me from my earliest memories.





***





My father is filthy rich. I’m not talking about a guy with a few million bucks here either. My father is worth several billion

dollars, easily. Money has never been something that was ever in short supply in my life. Whatever I wanted I got. I had only to express an

interest in something to have it laid out at my feet.


So what was it like growing up me? Well, the best schools, driven around in big limousines, living in one of the largest homes in

Beverly Hills with a huge landscaped garden and a fantastic view of the valley below. Servants at my beck and call. Even before I was a

teenager I wore expensive designer clothes, and simply tossed them on the floor when done. Someone - some servant type - would then pick

them up, scoop them off somewhere, wash them, and return them to the dresser or closet from whence they’d come.


After school there was the huge swimming pool and the tennis court, as well as the games rooms to play in. Or I could take the limo

down to the ocean to our private beach, supervised by servants. On weekends I could be whisked to the mountains for skiing, or out to the

lake for water skiing. I took surfing lessons, skiing and water skiing, archery, ballet, modeling, makeup, and had private tutoring for

school.


I played - constantly, at everything. As a teenager, I flew all over the world. We have a castle in England, a chalet in the Alps, a

beautiful home on the French Riviera, a fantastic penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and a place on a private beach in Hawaii. I saw the

pyramids in Egypt and the lions in Uganda. I went to the carnival in Rio and gambled in Las Vegas and Monaco with fake ID. I traveled the

great wall of China, and roared over the sand dunes of Morocco in a dune buggy.


It was, as I said, an idyllic life, a golden life, and it didn’t become any less golden as I grew older, or when I discovered sex.
/>

For if I had been lucky in my fostering - and I had - in that I was taken into a wealthy family which believed in spoiling its

children and giving them every imaginable luxury, I had also been lucky in my birth as far as my body was concerned. I was and remain

extremely healthy, athletic, and so far as society and its expectations go - beautiful. I don’t take any huge degree of pride in that

beauty. I’m not a narcissist, really. I accept that I’m beautiful just as I accept that I’m healthy and wealthy. None of that really has

much to do with any actions taken by me.


I was a beautiful child. I grew into a beautiful nymphet of a teenager, jail-bait who teased the living daylights out of every male

who crossed my path - of any age. My height - I’m six feet tall - has always allowed me to disguise my age, though, to let me get into bars

and clubs and casinos well before I became a legal adult. So nothing really changed for me in life after I actually did turn eighteen.

Which, while it might be legal for sex, still is three years shy of the legal drinking age in California and New York.


But eighteen was a magical year in another way. I graduated from high school, and that left me free to play and party and ski and

skydive and paraglide and swim and dance and snowboard and gamble seven days a week. In the fall, I flew to the Riviera for six weeks of

partying and sunbathing, then flew to Australia to continue the good times. I went to Hawaii for January, Rio for February, to enjoy the

Carnival, then flew to Austria for the skiing and snowboarding. In the spring, I returned to New York for a few weeks, then headed out to

Beverly Hills.


I had lovers of course, in every city.


I have a 36C-22-36 body, firm, lithe, tanned - but not too tanned - graceful, and with soft, golden, unblemished skin. My blonde hair

spills down across my shoulders. And I look incredible in a bikini, especially a thong. My breasts are as gorgeous and perfect and firm as

any plastic surgeon could have wanted - and yet they’re the real thing. So I also look great topless, as the men in Rio and the Riviera can

attest.


Anyway, to get more to the point of how my luscious life changed I will bring you to the day after I returned to Beverly Hills. I was

out back. Our house is on the edge of a mountain, and the pool is on one side, down about ten feet, on a terraced level below the house. The

tennis court is down a level from that. Below that is a hundred and fifty foot fall. The backyard is quite private, and can only be seen

from our own house, really, and even then only from the back windows which overlook it.


My father had long held the belief that servants were a necessary evil. No one wanted to do the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and

such. No one wanted to fetch their own drinks or snacks, or make their own beds. That was why you needed to have servants. But at the same

time, you wanted some privacy from the servants, who tend to be unsophisticated and gossipy. The servants followed a very careful timetable

of chores The back rooms and suites all were off limits except during certain times, mostly the late afternoon and early evening, when they

would be cleaned. If a servant was found in those corridors during any other time, unless they had been specifically asked, they would be

fired.


Likewise there were phones or intercoms to summon the servants if one wanted a drink when one was in the library, say, or the games

room, or the theater, or the den or one of the sitting rooms, but if they were not summoned, they were not to appear except after everyone

went to bed, when they could clean the place - like elves or fairies coming in the night, not getting in our way or disturbing us with their

vulgar questions or chatter.


Yes, daddy was and is a terrible snob, and mother was no better.. She divorced him years ago, but runs her houses in pretty much the

same fashion. And she has many houses, just as daddy does, giving me all sorts of options as to where to spend my playtime.


One of the benefits of that was that I could lay out in the sun, basking in its soft warmth, my skin glistening from the suntan

lotion, wearing nothing but a G-string to preserve what little modesty I possessed. Often enough I didn’t even bother with the G-string, in

fact. But that depended on who was home, who was even in the same city at the time.


I had done nude sunbathing at the Riviera, you see, and in Brazil, but it was different around my family, for some reason. I just felt

a little - squeamish - around my step-brothers and father, say, even though I didn’t around other men. Actually, to be honest, I can’t say I

felt nothing around other men. I felt - excited. I guess it’s the prudish American in me. Walking around topless or even naked on the beach

seems just so - naughty - so nasty - so sexually provocative and suggestive to my American sensibilities.


Knowing the men are looking at me, scanning me, their eyes moving over my bared breasts, my bare bottom, or even, sometimes, my

expertly denuded sex, always seems to make my insides squirm and my pussy throb with anticipation. It doesn’t even matter if they’re ugly or

old, or if I have no intention of ever, ever doing anything with them. Just the way they look at me, and the fact I’m naked makes my mind

and pussy squirm and buzz.


And that’s despite the fact that, to be honest, I’ve had a lot of sex. I mean, I am not a complete slut or anything, but I have few

inhibitions, and have been raised to believe that if I want to do something, then I should simply do it. So I have had a lot of sex with a

lot of people in a lot of different places! Not all of it was great, but all of it was pretty good!


In any event, as I lay there, content, soaking up the sun, enjoying my lazy ways, I was not altogether surprised when my step-brother

Kyle came out and sat down next to where I lay sprawled out on the chaise lounge. I had known he was home, after all. And I blushed ever so

slightly.


“Hey,” he said, sitting heavily, and giving me a casual wave.


“Hey,” I replied in kind.


It would not do, it was not proper to show one was embarrassed, made uncomfortable or intimidated in any way – by anything or anyone.

I had learned that at quite a young age. And in truth, I was not oh so bothered by Kyle seeing me like this.


“How was New York?”


“Lovely. And Japan?”


“Interesting. They’re really into bondage out there.”


I snorted. “Then you should have been quite happy.”


Kyle was as blessed as I was. He had a tall, fit, athletic body, with broad shoulders and well-defined pectoral muscles. He had slim

hips a great ass, and a very large, thick cock. We had seen each other naked on a number of occasions, of course, mainly on the beaches, but

I had learned, first-hand, about his cock a few months earlier in England, when I had been kind of stoned on ecstasy and pot, and he had put

me down on all fours and rode me like a bitch in heat. He had fucked me so hard my pussy had ached for days.


Does that shock you? It shouldn’t. We’re very spoiled and have never been denied anything we wanted. He wanted me, for obvious

reasons, and when the opportunity presented itself, he took me. I don’t blame him for it. I’d have done the same if the idea had come to me.

And, in fact, he’d been a great fuck. I had been a little bit - surprised afterwards, and bemused. The idea of fucking my step-brother was a

novel one. But then I sought out novelty where I could find it, so appreciated the irony.


Anyway, he had a great body, and was very handsome, so why not?


Okay, I admit that I feel a little squirmy about it. I guess that’s a holdover from the prudish American culture that surrounds me.

After it happened, I just wrote it off as one of those things, you know. He was drunk. I was zoned out. No harm done. But… it wasn’t

something I had planned on repeating. But it had, a month or so later, in Rio, during Carnival.


That incident had kind of changed my opinion about Kyle, and left me feeling a little – fluttery – around him. I had always thought of

him as just another spoiled playboy - like most of the men I hung around with. I had certainly never considered him to be particularly

forceful or dominant or strong-willed. But he really shocked me in Rio.


Admittedly, I’d been drinking. I had just come back from carnival. I was wearing very little, a very short skirt, and a glittery,

revealing halter-top. I had come home late - of course, and had expected to find the house in shadows as I made my way to the stairs. I had

not expected to run into Kyle for the first time since that earlier incident. I mean, we hadn’t even talked about it, really, except to sort

of laugh it off the next day.


And yet, there he was, suddenly just looming out of the shadows at me, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, his skin pale in the

moonlight. I was brought up short with a gasp, and then he was staring into my eyes from inches away.


“What – .”


That was all that escaped me, standing there, eyes blinking uncertainly in the near dark, confused a bit. Then his lips were on mine

and his arms around me and I was being borne back against the wall as his mouth and lips practically fed on mine, in an expert but demanding

kiss that seemed to never end. Meanwhile his hands raced over my body, and my clothes seemed to fall away on their own. Then he took me, up

against the wall, driving that long, hard prick deep into my oozing pussy and driving me insane as his fingers dug into my ass and my legs

wrapped around him .


I was - bleary, confused, muddled, drunk. It all happened so fast, and the feelings which he forced on me were so powerful that I felt

as though I had just waken up to find my bed racing up and down a wild roller coaster, with no idea how I’d gotten on the ride or how to

make it stop!


And no small fear either, that the thrills and chills might contain some actual danger.


After I had come - come so powerfully I had almost passed out, Kyle had thrown me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes - or maybe,

like a cave man bringing home his woman! He carried me to his room, threw me on his bed, and tied my ankles and wrists to the four corners.

Then he had proceeded to taunt and tease me and drive me into a thrashing, screaming sexual frenzy, over and over and over again. He had

brought me to the edge of orgasm again and again, then held me there, teasing me, making me beg for it, making me say - terrible things

about myself, to confess to the sluttiest of fantasies, in order to get him to push me over the edge.


God it had been wild! And he had been so – so forceful, so macho, so tough and expert in his touch and behavior. Like me, Kyle had

always been able to have about as much sex as he’d wanted, and he had really learned from his experiences.


I had been left drained, exhausted, sore, bruised, and with the close experience of such intense orgasms inside me that I had

masturbated to those memories many times since. I mean, I had been tied up before, on occasion, but never with such intense determination.

And I would have laughed at the cliché of hot wax on the nipples had I not actually experienced it, tied there, gasping, moaning, overheated

inside and out, with him straddling me, leering at me, dripping hot candle wax down onto my throbbing, tingling, burning nipples as I arched

and twisted against the bonds.


Oh they were firm and tight around my wrists and ankles, those straps, so that no matter how I pulled and strained, no matter how my

muscles spasmed and my body writhed, they held me quite tightly in place for my perverted step-brother to continue taunting and teasing and

driving me insane.


Now he sat down across from me, then leaned forward, his hand reaching out lazily to grasp my thick hair, pulling me firmly, but not

roughly towards him as he leaned in and kissed me softly but deeply. It was not a step-brotherly kiss, by any means, his lips firm against

mine, his tongue sliding through them, dipping and darting, caressing my own before drawing back.


He grinned as he released me. No, that had been a lovers’ greeting, and it made my chest fluttery as I lay back and he sipped from a

bottle of beer.


“They’re so open about it, though. It’s part of the common culture. Men read pornographic graphic novels on the subway, even ones

which strongly feature bondage and schoolgirls. It’s really quite amazing compared to how things are here.”


“You spend a lot of time on subways here, do you?” I asked with a smirk.


“I’ve been on subways,” he said haughtily.


I laughed and he shrugged, and then eyed my tanning lotion.


“I trust that doesn’t have any strange, female smelling perfumes in it,” he said.


“No it’s a very natural, vegetation based oil with no artificial ingredients. You could even drink it,” I said.


“When I worry about my stomach getting sunburned I’ll give it a try,” he said, picking up the bottle.


He gazed at me, then grinned in a lopsided fashion. “You know, in Japan, women tend to know their place.”


“Uh huh,” I said suspiciously.


“They know how to serve and service their men.”


“Good for them. You should buy one and bring her back here.”


“You could learn from them.”


“I don’t have a man.”


“You have too many men, slut.”


“You’re a bigger slut than me!” I sniffed.


“That’s different. I’m a man. “


“Oh please.”


He turned the squeeze bottle around and squirted oil onto my bare chest.


“Hey, I already have enough!” I protested.


“Yes, but you need more so you can apply it to my fine, masculine body.”


“What?” I said in confusion.


He was pouring oil over my chest and belly and downwards toward my abdomen and tiny suit in a thick layer.


“You’re using too much.”


He grinned but didn’t stop, then put the bottle down, sat back, and skimmed his swimsuit down and off. I felt my breath catch as his

cock sprang out, semi-erect, and then he lay back on his chaise lounge and turned his head towards me. “Get on me and rub your body against

me to apply the lotion.”


I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but to be honest, the idea was turning me on. I hesitated anyway, feeling a sense of

sisterly rebellion and indignation that he was so arrogantly trying to tell me what to do. But then the heat between my legs pushed that

away and I sat up, my eyes starting to heat, and moved to straddle him.


“Lose the suit first,” he said.


I felt a little jolt of heat, and forbidden excitement. I glanced up towards the house, then slipped my thumbs into my little G-string

and pulled it down. I was, of course, completely bare and smooth beneath, all my body hair having been lasered away years earlier. I

straddled him and the chaise, the oil slowly running down my body, and felt my pussy throb powerfully as I sat across his thighs.


I ran my hands slowly over my body, feeling the thick, oil smearing across my breasts and belly, then I leaned in and down, laying my

chest down and pillowing my breasts against his chest. I rubbed my body slowly along his, smearing the oil onto him, while he just lay

there, hands under his neck. The back of the lounge was elevated a little so he could watch me as I rubbed my breasts against his hard,

firm, yet deliciously soft chest, exulting in the tactile sensations of warm, slippery oiled skin against skin.


I slid upward, my feet still on the ground, my groin sliding up along his thighs until it was over his cock. I rubbed my groin, my

abdomen, back and forth across his cock as it lay on his belly, and felt it hardening between our bodies.


My breathing had quickened, my chest tight, sexual electricity rippling through my body as I rubbed myself over him.


“Get up so I can turn over,” he ordered.


God! I was ready to fuck him right now! But he was going to tease me, I could tell, going to demonstrate, as he had last time, how

controlled he was, and how out of control he could make me. I wanted to respond in kind, to act haughty and above it all, to pretend like

this wasn’t affecting me, but I knew I couldn’t bring it off.


I rose, still straddling him, my legs obscenely wide, and he rolled casually over so I could sit down on his thighs, lay along him,

and rub my breasts against his back. God, the feeling against my skin was so sensuous, so erotic! I moaned softly as I rubbed my breasts and

chest and belly slowly against him, kind of tilting my body a little to the side so I could rub my pussy along the back of his thigh.



Reviews

5 out of 5

Best Selling Books This Year By Argus

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

Best Selling Books This Year By Argus

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

The Wealthy Slave Girl

Author Information

Argus is a man with long experience and credits in the publishing world. He has had almost two hundred novels published in the United Kingdom and The United States, by such publishers as Beeline, Star, Nexus, Chimera, Silver Moon, and Olympia. He has also been published in dozens of magazines.

 


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