Page 9 of Anton's Grace
“Watch her carefully,” Anton whispered in my ear. “Even though she has nothing on you vocally, the type of performance you do would never grant you a spot in elite venues. Look at the way she moves, the way she interacts with her mic. Do you understand the difference?”
Seria was mesmerizing. Her movements were slower, measured, and more delicate than mine.
“She’s more elegant,” I said.
Anton shook his head, frowning. “The end result is elegance, but it’s the intention that makes all the difference. When you sing, you treat your mic as a cock that you’re stroking and aching to deep-throat. You’re essentially fucking on stage.”
He gestured at the mic stand. “Look how she handles the stand and the mic. That’s a lover she’s slowly, sensuously making love to. See how she caresses the length of the stand with her fingertips? It’s the same way you would the thighs of your lover. The way she softly brushes her mouth against the mic is like fluttering kisses on his lips. Each time she rubs her thumb under its length, she’s stroking her man or licking his cock. And when she holds the stand and mic tightly like that with both hands, swaying from side to side, that’s penetration.”
Anton turned to face me and gently brushed my hair aside before softly kissing my lips. “Anyone can fuck, Grace. If you want to move to the next level, learn to make love.”
Chapter 4
Grace
Three days had gone by since I had become Anton’s indentured servant. He gave new meaning to the word workaholic. People often referred to him as Mr. Ant or The Ant. I always assumed it was just them shortening his given name, but Anton literally worked like those little critters from dusk ‘til dawn. No wonder he built such a massive empire by the age of twenty-eight. Still, he managed to have plenty of time for me.
Though he owned me for the next six months, so far, Anton treated me more like a girlfriend than property... and I was falling quickly for it. Dr. Hazan, my former therapist, wouldn’t be pleased.
Anton was insatiable, which was pretty common in new relationships. Oddly, he didn’t fuck me often. It’s not like he suffered from any kind of erectile dysfunction; he could all but get it up on command. I should know. My throat and that glorious prick of his had become quite intimately acquainted over the past few days.
But it wasn’t just sex with him. Every time we went out, with surprising patience, Anton taught me something new. First, that impromptu mentoring session while observing Seria. The second day, I learned proper table etiquette dealing with the slew of utensils and glasses in multiple course meals. Last night, we attended a wine tasting event. I never realized there was such a science and community of connoisseurs around it. If nothing else, I now understood the basics of wine pairing.
The only cloud in that perfect sky was that he wouldn’t let me share his bed or have one of my own. While he didn’t have me on a leash or make me eat from a bowl, I was his pet. My bed was a large, plush cushion on the floor at the side of his bed. When he first indicated where I would sleep, I laughed, assuming he was joking. He didn’t smile.
Anton confused the hell out of me. One minute he was tender, passionate, and considerate, and the next, he looked like he wanted to crush my bones.
By the time we returned from Risqué, William not only handled the creditors hounding me, but he also retrieved all my things from the hotel. Anton loved my fuck-me shoes. He often made me parade for him wearing nothing else. My sarongs were a hit, and not only because of their versatility. They offered little obstruction to Anton’s wandering hands. However, the fabric didn’t meet his quality standards and he intended to remedy that problem. As for the rest of my wardrobe, he asked William to dump it all in the incinerator.
Anton didn’t mind that my other clothes did nothing to hide my curves or that there was very little fabric to them. I was an exhibitionist and he didn’t mind. It’s the clothes themselves and their cut he didn’t approve of. Over our first couple of days together, Anton made me examine the way the women in the VIP section dressed. He then compared it to my own aesthetic.
Many didn’t show half as much skin as I did while others wore outfits even tighter than mine. They were sex on legs and yet still looked classy. As Anton pointed out, it wasn’t necessarily how much skin you showed, but how and which parts. You wanted to flaunt just enough to get a man’s cock to perk up with interest, but not so much that his imagination didn’t even get a chance to kick in. In short, the way I dressed made me look cheap and slutty, which wasn’t okay for his woman.
His woman…
It caused a strange fluttering in my stomach. Braxians had a thing about human women. It was major bragging rights for them to have one as their pet. So Anton parading me around wasn’t surprising and had nothing to do with my personal merits. Still, I loved being a trophy.
I had mixed feelings about what Anton was doing. On the one hand, he showed me all the things I had been too blind, lazy or stupid to realize. On the other, he turned my life upside-down, opening me up to things I never thought accessible to a girl like me. Only three days in, and I was already addicted to him, to this life.
This morning, Anton took me to Aphrodite’s Vault. The price of a single dress there could feed a family of four for a year – or two. The minute we stepped inside the boutique, Ms. Braddock, the owner, treated us like royalty. She took us to an elegant room at the back of the store. Our own reflection greeted us in the ceiling-high mirrors covering the walls. They were separated by light brown draped curtains hiding the changing rooms. Anton and I sunk into a comfortable khaki couch, surrounded by throw pillows. A glass coffee table, laden with fresh fruits, cheeses, and a platter of amuse-bouche reminded me lunch time was fast approaching. The champagne set to chill in the ice bucket drew my attention. I recognized the brand from last night’s wine tasting.
It made me feel worldly.
While waiting for Ms. Braddock to bring in the racks of clothes, I distractedly traced the dark linear patterns on the beige rug covering the marble floor with the tip of my shoe.
Three pretty models gave us a private fashion show. Any piece either of us liked was set aside. In the end, it was my turn to model for Anton. The girls assisted me in and out of the clothes – right in front of Anton – and brought whatever accessory would complement the outfit. Thinking to earn extra points, one of the girls tried to cop a feel while helping me wiggle my way out of a second skin of a dress. I put a quick stop to it with a slap on her wrist and a stern stare; I wasn’t looking for some girl-on-girl action and didn’t want Anton getting ideas.
We returned to the boutique’s entrance where Anton settled the bill with Ms. Braddock. The elegant older woman beamed at us, multiplying the niceties. I couldn’t blame her. She was a shrewd businesswoman. Her boutique was renowned for a reason. Anton bought me a full wardrobe, including lingerie – that I had no clue when I would ever wear it since he wanted me commando all the time. It struck me that this shopping spree alone would cost close to, if not more, than my entire debt.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I realized one of my earrings was missing.
“Anton, I’ll be right back. I lost my earring. It probably fell off while I was trying on clothes.”
He nodded. “Go ahead. There’s no rush.”
I smiled and headed for the private room at the back. The door stood ajar. Beyond, the conspiratorial voices of the models stopped me.
“I don’t agree that ‘clever slut’ is the right term to describe Mr. Ant’s new squeeze. Well, the slut part sure, but clever, not so much,” a voice said.