Sold To A Billionaire

Officially, Rebecca was the secretary to the editor of a leading glossy magazine; but Rebecca felt more like a personal assistant. Or rather a dogsbody and gofer. The fact was, that the magazine was chasing an increasingly dwindling audience which was jaded by the internet, and it was becoming harder and harder to titillate or shock their readers. This had meant a dwindling staff and increased work for everybody. Well, increased work for everybody apart from, seemingly, the editor herself.

In her capacity as an overworked, overlooked and underpaid lackey working above her pay grade, Rebecca often attended effulgent charity occasions, finding herself in the midst of the well-off and confident, and sometimes the rich and famous.

As a child, she had always been attracted to the beautiful, to the frilly and the glittering. She daydreamed about the pretty, the elegant and the charming - everything that she thought she was not. As she had grown to be a woman, just that little bit older, that little bit wiser - and rounder - she had pretended to leave those things in her childhood, deciding to find such things facile and without merit. But she hid a heart which still fluttered at the idea of billowing ball gowns, glittering chandeliers and wealth with taste; or, quite frankly, sometimes without.

However, her intrusions into that world were never as pleasant as her daydreams. The reality never lived up to the expectation. At those evenings, she spent most of her time on edge, keeping an eye on her boss - who regularly became increasingly boisterous and contrary as the evening wore on and her rate of intake of cocktails increased. It was Rebecca’s job at such occasions to remember what was said to whom throughout the evening, ensure her boss did not make too much of a fool of herself or insult anyone important, and to pick up the pieces after the event if anything did go wrong. It was a particularly thankless responsibility. And if anything did go wrong, it would be completely and solely her fault, of course.

She always felt like a fish out of water at such events. Her job paid the bills but little more, so she was unable to fit in with the extravagant displays of wealth around her, and she often felt like a somewhat short, definitely overweight, unattractive duckling in the middle of a troop of elegant, confident swans effortlessly gliding to and fro as she scurried about on her short legs doing her bosses bidding.

She must have been doing something right though, and she had actually begun to suspect that she must be actually very good at her job, as she kept being asked back to such events. Or perhaps it was just that she was the only one who would put up with her boss’s behaviour.

But the idea that someone would rely on her without thanking her, would throw responsibility on her shoulders and then walk off without a murmur of dissent from Rebecca was not new to her. She had always been the reliable one, the one on whom people depended to behave responsibly to look after others. She had a great deal of responsibility at work, and a great deal of responsibility at home, looking after an ungrateful and invalid father, who gave to her life a constant background of complaints, criticism and insults.

Sitting beside Rebecca, Rosetta Stone continued to whoop shrill cries of encouragement. “Oh, look at him!” she shouted over the din of hundreds of excited voices, leaning in close to Rebecca’s ear. “He’s lulvey! Lovely!” she ‘whispered’, as she waved her Cosmopolitan (an ironic choice of cocktail considering the competition) in a manner which came perilously close to drenching Rebecca’s expensive (comparatively speaking, to Rebecca's normal attire) shirt. “Nicest arse I’ve seen in months!” she grinned, taking another deep swig from the wide glass in her hand. “And,” she continued, suddenly turning very serious and seemingly gesturing towards Rebecca with her glass, the liquid within remaining still magically unspilled , “and, I don’t say that lightly.” She slightly hiccuped. “I’ve seen a fair few arses even in that time, I don’t mind admitting. But,” and she leaned intently in towards Rebecca, the glass now thrust beneath Rebecca’s nose for emphasis, and her ample cleavage, untrammelled by bra and uncovered by a not too respectable (in Rebecca’s view) dress swimming into view in the depths below, “but, you should never underestimate the value of a good butt. Not only the feel of the thing itself”, she continued, staring intently into Rebecca’s eyes and now wagging the forefinger from her free hand towards the tip of Rebecca’s nose, “and the strength for thrusting” she went on, seemingly demonstrating something with her arm to emphasise the word, “but it’s like… like.. horses teeth! Yeah. If they have a good arse, you can guarantee - guarantee! - they’ll be a good fuck.” She paused for a second, then nodded, then leant back to watch the proceedings.

As Rosetta went back to shrieking wordless cries of encouragement, Rebecca’s eyes drifted back across the room to the stage where the object of her boss’ attention stood.

Well, where the object of the entire room’s attention stood.

It was a charity auction. Rebecca guessed that probably at least three quarters of the people in the room couldn’t even remember (if they ever knew) what charity the evening was in aid of, and were there simply to take an opportunity to ostentatiously show off the expenditure of wealth.

It had started off with the auction of some donated objets d’art - and had gone rapidly downhill from there. They were now at the time of night when rich single bachelors were being auctioned off as opportunities for a dinner date.

“Do you know who… who that is? Hmm?” slurred Rosetta. “You..er.. you know who it is, don ’t you. You know whoitis.”

“Erm.. actually, no” replied Rebecca, peering up at the stage.

Rosetta tutted. “Thatsh… er.. Rob Wotsit! You know! Him! Ermm” she twirled her free hand in a frantic circle. “Hancock! That’s it! Her face lit up and she grinned as she laughed. “Ha! Hancock! I’d like to - heh! Han - cock! I wonder what he’s like? Any way, he inherited a small fortune, and made it much bigger. Hah! I’d like to - bigger! Han - cock! Heh! I can’t remember doing what. Something or other. I know what I’d like to do, though!”

The stage was in the middle of the room, and the auctioneer - a grey-haired lady with a mischievous smile and a ribald sense of humour somewhat more subtle than Rosetta’s was encouraging the crowd into higher and higher bids.

A ridiculous, demeaning spectacle, thought Rebecca, a demeaning farce which went against everything she believed in. She looked around at the crowds of half drunk (and fully drunk) cheering women (and the occasional cheering man) and tutted. She looked disapprovingly on at the stage, at his large, well built frame, at the expensive suit covering his obviously toned body (which wore that suit very well), at the taut curves of his buttocks….even at this distance, about twenty feet, he obviously did have a very nice arse, which was apparently a guarantee of a good fuck… She found herself smiling gently and daydreaming despite herself as she run her eyes up his body - to meet his eyes staring into hers, and smiling.

She suddenly blushed and looked down.

God, she had made a fool of herself! Even in a crowded room like this he obviously found the idea of someone like her looking at him amusing.

She felt a hand grip her arm suddenly and strongly. “Hang on! ” shouted Rosetta.“I’ve gotta nidea! We ought to interview him. Have him for an interview. I could put this on expenses! Any bids! Get an interview with him!” She shook Rebecca’s arm.“I could put this on expenses! The bids, you know! The bids.”

Rosetta didn’t like not getting what she wanted. Rosetta liked getting what other people wanted. Rosetta didn’t like other people getting what she wanted. Rosetta didn’t even really care for other people getting what they wanted.

Rosetta got what she wanted.

And put it on expenses.

At the end of the night, Rebecca called back in on her father, who lived in the flat next door, the flat being paid for by Rebecca’s overtime.

“You’re late!” he said accusingly from his bed, sitting up in the lamplight as she came in to switch on the main room light.

“I know, dad. I know. I had work to do. I’m sorry you were on your own for a time. Are you alright? Can you sleep?”

“I’m too cold! I’m too hungry!”

“I’ve turned the thermostat up a little. It is starting to get cold at nights. I’ll tuck you in more as well- you’ve come out of the covers again. There, that’s better.”

“Out whoring again, were you?”

“No dad, I wasn’t out whoring -worse luck. Work again. I had to stay out late, watching everyone else have fun. I think I’m becoming an expert on having fun, I’ve seen so many other people doing it.”

She finished plumping his pillows and walked to the light switch. “Do you want anything else before I go? ”

“Your mother was a lazy whore. Like you and your sister. A lazy fucking whore.”

“She loved you as much as you did her, dad. Good night.” she said as she switched off the light.