Training Her Curves - Kinbaku (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Short) by Christa Wick
Authors: Christa Wick
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Training Her Curves - Kinbaku
Rough weather put me down in New York ninety minutes after the plane's estimated arrival time. My body shaking from the last side roll on our descent, I waited in my first-class seat for the aircraft to empty and tried not to think about how it was a bad day to be running late.
My first appointment was with the photographer I had hired to shoot the premier catalog for the Wicked Threads line of luxury lingerie and fetish wear. While I had paid an astonishingly large fee to get him, Rick's time behind the camera was never about money. Now I had to make good on the other half of my deal with him. He expected me in his studio in less than twenty minutes while he took reference photographs for the oil painting he would make of me.
When I didn't arrive as scheduled, he would probably think I had lost my nerve.
Unhooking the lap belt, I fished into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone. With no reception showing, I browsed through my schedule for the three days I would be in the city. My first appointment after Rick's was dinner at seven at Le Bernardin with a fashion journalist to discuss the upcoming launch of the clothing line. How long the interview lasted would depend on whether the journalist stuck to the agreed upon subject or decided to dig for confirmation on all the gossip about my brother Jake and Alexa Hunt, the company's spokesmodel.
I had lost count of all the ridiculous rumors circulating in the press and online. One trashy magazine had Jake, Alexa and Dylan in a threesome. Another claimed Alexa was pregnant. The stories devolved from there into even uglier lies.
Stopping by my seat, the stewardess smiled at me and did one of those game show hostess gestures toward the exit door. "All clear, Miss. Do you have a bag in one of the overheads?"
"No." Realizing my answer sounded more curt than brief, I mumbled my way through an apology. "Sorry. Could have used a smoother landing."
Her head bobbed, but her eyebrows lifted at the same time, letting me know she thought I was a wimp if that spot of turbulence had bothered me. Shouldering my bag, I brushed past her and into the terminal.
The luggage carousels were chaos, the flight boards changing so fast I thought I was looking at the display on a slot machine while everyone screamed for triple sevens. Mine wasn't the only plane arriving late. Air control had stacked us up on the runway like dominoes, another thing that had scraped my nerves raw.
Or so I wanted to believe. Certainly I wasn't nervous about my trip to Rick's studio. I'd already been on the other end of his camera lens half a dozen times over the last month.
Except for the naked and alone part...
My cheeks heating, I re-focused my attention on the flight board with the hope that my carousel number would soon appear. After five more minutes, it did. Another ten minutes passed before the conveyor belt spit my bag onto the carousel's tracks. I shouldered my way through the other passengers and extended my arm.
Someone stepped on my foot. Another genius grabbed my ass. I didn't bother looking around for the culprit. The contact had been brief, so I would give him or her the benefit of the doubt that the grope had been nothing more than accidental. A second grab and I'd find a face to punch.
Snagging my bag, I squeezed and pushed through the labyrinth of tightly packed human flesh until I found clear space a few feet from the exit. Pulling my cell phone out, I saw that I had gained two and a half bars since checking it on the plane. Knowing I didn't have a chance of hearing or being heard at the airport's noise level, I thumbed through my texts until I reached the last one from Rick.
I typed out a message.
His reply popped up and my phone almost fell from my hand as I read.
Mystery guest?
No problem, my ass!
Gripping the phone harder, I thumbed a reply.
I didn't add an "LMAO"
Rough weather put me down in New York ninety minutes after the plane's estimated arrival time. My body shaking from the last side roll on our descent, I waited in my first-class seat for the aircraft to empty and tried not to think about how it was a bad day to be running late.
My first appointment was with the photographer I had hired to shoot the premier catalog for the Wicked Threads line of luxury lingerie and fetish wear. While I had paid an astonishingly large fee to get him, Rick's time behind the camera was never about money. Now I had to make good on the other half of my deal with him. He expected me in his studio in less than twenty minutes while he took reference photographs for the oil painting he would make of me.
When I didn't arrive as scheduled, he would probably think I had lost my nerve.
Unhooking the lap belt, I fished into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone. With no reception showing, I browsed through my schedule for the three days I would be in the city. My first appointment after Rick's was dinner at seven at Le Bernardin with a fashion journalist to discuss the upcoming launch of the clothing line. How long the interview lasted would depend on whether the journalist stuck to the agreed upon subject or decided to dig for confirmation on all the gossip about my brother Jake and Alexa Hunt, the company's spokesmodel.
I had lost count of all the ridiculous rumors circulating in the press and online. One trashy magazine had Jake, Alexa and Dylan in a threesome. Another claimed Alexa was pregnant. The stories devolved from there into even uglier lies.
Stopping by my seat, the stewardess smiled at me and did one of those game show hostess gestures toward the exit door. "All clear, Miss. Do you have a bag in one of the overheads?"
"No." Realizing my answer sounded more curt than brief, I mumbled my way through an apology. "Sorry. Could have used a smoother landing."
Her head bobbed, but her eyebrows lifted at the same time, letting me know she thought I was a wimp if that spot of turbulence had bothered me. Shouldering my bag, I brushed past her and into the terminal.
The luggage carousels were chaos, the flight boards changing so fast I thought I was looking at the display on a slot machine while everyone screamed for triple sevens. Mine wasn't the only plane arriving late. Air control had stacked us up on the runway like dominoes, another thing that had scraped my nerves raw.
Or so I wanted to believe. Certainly I wasn't nervous about my trip to Rick's studio. I'd already been on the other end of his camera lens half a dozen times over the last month.
Except for the naked and alone part...
My cheeks heating, I re-focused my attention on the flight board with the hope that my carousel number would soon appear. After five more minutes, it did. Another ten minutes passed before the conveyor belt spit my bag onto the carousel's tracks. I shouldered my way through the other passengers and extended my arm.
Someone stepped on my foot. Another genius grabbed my ass. I didn't bother looking around for the culprit. The contact had been brief, so I would give him or her the benefit of the doubt that the grope had been nothing more than accidental. A second grab and I'd find a face to punch.
Snagging my bag, I squeezed and pushed through the labyrinth of tightly packed human flesh until I found clear space a few feet from the exit. Pulling my cell phone out, I saw that I had gained two and a half bars since checking it on the plane. Knowing I didn't have a chance of hearing or being heard at the airport's noise level, I thumbed through my texts until I reached the last one from Rick.
I typed out a message.
His reply popped up and my phone almost fell from my hand as I read.
Mystery guest?
No problem, my ass!
Gripping the phone harder, I thumbed a reply.
I didn't add an "LMAO"
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