Twisted Billionaires Series
Featuring dark & twisted, hunky alpha billionaire semes (tops) and innocent ukes (bottoms).
WARNING
This series contains dub-con, explicit sexual scenes (lots of it!), and obsessive, possessive (semes/tops).
Twisted Billionaires Series
Chained by Obsession
A Steamy Menage MM Dark Romance
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Synopsis
Once privileged, now ruined by my father’s betrayal of the Carmichael billionaires, I—Axel Hartman—am an outsider drowning in the opulent world of the elite. Desperation drove me to humiliating depths, selling pieces of my soul just to survive, until Dean and Eric Carmichael found me—the men I secretly worshipped, my hidden desires... my inescapable nightmare.
Their magnetic allure is as intoxicating as it is perilous. Once family friends, now they hunt me like prey, seeking retribution for my father’s deceit. They promised to ruin me, but not in the way I had imagined.
I should feel disgust at their rough touches and bruising kisses. But the shameful truth is, I crave the delirious pleasure they unleash, my heart and body achingly torn between escape and their provocative touch. As they push me past my limits, exploring my body and mind, fear and passion intertwine into an addictive, inescapable abyss of exquisite torment.
Can I escape this wicked game of forbidden desires and dark obsessions? Or am I forever doomed to be owned by the men who were once my idols... and are now my captors?
Warning: This story contains dub-con, explicit sexual scenes (lots of it!), and obsessive, possessive male leads (semes/tops).
R18+ READERS ONLY!
Contain explicit sexual scene!
Chapter 1: Axel
The chandeliers above me sparkled with a brilliance that made my eyes water. I tugged at the collar of my sleek suit, feeling like a penguin in an art gallery. The party buzzed with conversations about stocks and mergers, topics as alien to me as Mars.
The champagne flowed like waterfalls, and laughter bubbled through the air, mingling with the clink of crystal and the soft strains of a string quartet. A waiter offered me a tray of hors d’oeuvres so exquisite they could’ve been plucked from the pages of a gourmet magazine. I declined with a polite nod, my stomach knotted too tightly for foie gras or caviar.
My gaze wandered to the corner where Dean and Eric Carmichael held court, the billionaire brothers who seemed to make everyone in the room orbit around them.
Dean was a portrait of brooding masculinity; his emerald gaze could cut glass and his presence commanded the room like he owned every inch—which, technically, he did. His suit was tailored to perfection, accentuating shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of his family’s empire.
Eric, on the other hand, had a smile that could melt glaciers. His hazel-green eyes held a warmth that made you feel like you were the only person in the room when he looked at you. His charm was effortless, his athletic physique and sophisticated aura making him look like he’d just stepped out of a GQ magazine.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them. My heart did somersaults every time they laughed or even shifted their weight. I knew it was pointless—Dean and Eric didn’t see me that way. To them, I was nothing but a scrawny kid playing dress-up. Sure, we’d shared laughs and traded playful jabs—brotherly moments that I treasured—but longing clawed at my chest for something deeper. I doubted they’d ever see me as more than Jo Hartman’s son or consider me in the way I dreamed about when the lights went out.
I sighed and took another sip of my overpriced soda.
Dean had an arm draped around a beautiful woman with flowing blonde hair, while Eric charmed a brunette who seemed captivated by every word he said. It felt like watching an old movie where the heroes always get the girl—except these heroes were unattainable gods in my eyes.
Then Eric’s gaze met mine from across the room. He whispered something to the brunette before making his way over to me, her arm still looped through his.
My heart rate tripled as he approached. I tried to suck in a breath but it caught in my throat.
“Axel,” Eric said.
I gulped down my nerves and tried not to stammer. “Hey, Eric.”
“Enjoying yourself?” Eric’s voice was silk over steel.
“Oh, you know,” I quipped with feigned nonchalance. “I’m always at home among caviar and couture.”
He chuckled—that sound that could send shivers down my spine—and leaned in close enough for me to catch his scent: citrus and cedarwood. Those hazel-green eyes of his were dancing with amusement as they took in my appearance. “You clean up nicely,” he remarked.
The compliment hit me hard. I managed a shaky smile and nodded, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling my face heat up under his gaze.
Eric’s laughter danced around me like fireflies, but it was the spark in his eyes that kept me tethered. Just as I thought I could handle one Carmichael brother’s attention, Dean decided to join the party. He sauntered over, the stunning blonde hanging off his arm like a designer accessory. She was a vision, but it was his eyes that snagged mine—emerald flames in a room of soft light. He stopped inches from me, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes raked over me, making my skin prickle with a mix of excitement and nerves.
“Well, well,” he said, his voice dripping with that trademark smirk. “Look at you, Axel, like a kid who raided his dad’s closet.”
My pulse quickened, a cocktail of thrill and dread flooding my veins. My cheeks flamed with heat, and I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. “Really, Dean? A kid?”
I was nineteen, technically a young man, not a kid.
He chuckled, that deep sound that somehow made my knees weak even when I was annoyed. “You know, with that getup, maybe we should’ve put you in a dress instead. It’d suit you better.”
I was pretty sure steam was about to shoot out of my ears. Anger mixed with embarrassment as I glared at him. “You’re such an ass.”
“Oh shit, now the little rabbit’s pissed,” he said, amusement lacing his voice.
The woman with him leaned in close and purred, “Stop teasing the kid.” Her gaze softened as she looked at me. “He’s actually very pretty.”
She reached out, her fingers inches from my face, but Dean’s hand shot out like lightning, catching her wrist mid-air. His eyes were chips of ice as he stopped her. The silence that stretched between us was thick with tension until Dean’s smile returned—sharp and reckless.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” he murmured into the blonde’s ear before planting a kiss on her neck.
His gaze locked with mine once more as he spoke over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there like a wallflower all night, Axel. Make some friends.”
Then he was gone, leaving me in the wake of his stormy presence.
Eric ruffled my hair—a familiar gesture that somehow eased the tightness in my chest. “Have fun,” he said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd with his own companion.
Alone again, I exhaled slowly. Would I ever find myself wrapped in those arms like those women? Doubt gnawed at me. But life was full of twists, and mine? Mine was the most twisted of all.
Two Years Later
The mirror reflected a stranger—a young man with hollow eyes and a face too pale, like he’d been sculpted from moonlight and left in the dark. That man was me, Axel Hartman, once the pampered son of Jo Hartman, now nothing more than a ghost haunting the fringes of high society.
I paced the cramped makeup room, its walls closing in like a vice. Breathing became an art form I hadn’t mastered, each gulp of air sharper than the last.
“Get it together,” I muttered to myself. “You have to do this.”
No choice left, really. My wallet was a barren wasteland; the last crumpled bill lay forgotten on my dresser, barely enough to cover next week’s meal—if I stuck to instant noodles and tap water. Next month loomed over me like a thundercloud ready to burst, promising nothing but the bitter rain of homelessness.
And then there was Grandma Lillian. Her eyes, once vibrant and mischievous, now watched the world with a quiet resignation that broke my heart every time I visited her at the rest home. The bills for her care piled up like snowdrifts, and I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—let her down.
A year ago, life was a golden dream. My father’s treachery hadn’t yet come to light; we lived lavishly on money that wasn’t ours—money that belonged to Ben Carmichael. But karma has a wicked sense of humor. Now my parents were gone, swallowed by tragedy and leaving behind debts as their only legacy.
And me? I was just the prey in a hunt led by Dean and Eric Carmichael—the same men whose laughter once filled my home like music now sought retribution with cold determination. The brothers I had loved were now my relentless hunters, demanding payment for my father’s sins with my own flesh and blood.
A shiver ran through me at the thought of Dean and Eric—how different our lives could have been if not for betrayal and greed. They had become specters that haunted every shadowy corner of my mind; their anger was justified, yet my heart couldn’t quell its yearning.
A knock on the door snapped me out of my reverie. “Five minutes,” called a voice from the other side.
Five minutes until showtime—until I stepped onto a stage far removed from the glittering world I once knew. Tonight, survival was the name of the game.
I stared at the mirror again, at the stranger in a pink tutu dress that could barely pass as clothing. The skirt was a flimsy piece of fabric, its hem barely covering what was meant for private eyes only. The top was just as scandalous, clinging to my chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. White thigh-high stockings completed the ensemble, making me feel like a caricature of innocence—a twisted joke at my expense.
And then there was the pièce de résistance—a cotton rabbit tail, sticking out from the buttplug nestled in a place I’d rather not think about.
“Really hitting rock bottom, aren’t we?” I whispered to myself, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. The customer’s twisted fantasy had become my grim reality, but rent waits for no one, and neither do the bills for Grandma Lillian’s care.
The door banged again, the sound echoing through the room. “Get out there, Rabbit,” a voice barked from the other side, devoid of any warmth or humanity.
I took a deep breath, straightened up as much as the outfit would allow, and stepped out of the makeup room. My legs wobbled as I made my way down the narrow hallway, each step echoing my apprehension. This wasn’t the life I imagined—no one dreams of parading around in fetish gear for rent money—but here I was.
The small showroom was intimate in the worst way, designed to strip away any illusion of privacy or dignity. I could feel their eyes on me, hidden predators lurking in the shadows, their gazes like hands roaming over my body.
I made my way to the plush lounging chaise, the subpar throne for my degradation. Sitting down carefully, I tried to ignore the intrusive presence of the plug, the way it shifted inside me with every movement. I perched on the edge, my legs crossed demurely at the ankles—a ridiculous attempt at modesty in a situation that had none.
The wait for instructions was a silent torture. Each second stretched on, a thread of anticipation pulling taut in the stifling room. I fixed my eyes on a spot on the far wall, focusing on the peeling corner of a faded wallpaper rose. Anything to escape the reality of my situation, if only for a moment.
The silence shattered with a command that sent a jolt through me, every syllable like a current of electricity. “Remove the top. Play with your nipples.”
The voice was deep, gravelly, the kind that reverberates in your bones and leaves you tingling. My heart raced as I glanced around, searching for the source. It felt achingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream, a haunting echo of a time when my world was a brighter, more innocent place. But here, in the dim illumination of the showroom, I couldn’t be sure if my memory was playing tricks on me.
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling as I slid down the flimsy top of my tutu dress, my hands trembling as I exposed myself to the room’s hidden eyes. The fabric whispered against my torso as I bared myself, the cool air teasing my exposed skin. My nipples hardened in the chill, puckering into tight buds that felt foreign.
My cheeks flushed crimson, the heat spreading down my neck as I began to play with my nipples, rolling them between my fingers. Biting my lip, I tried to stifle the embarrassing whimpers threatening to escape.
Just as I began to find a rhythm, a steady cadence to the motion of my fingers, the buttplug sprang to life, a sudden, unexpected vibration that made me jolt, my body spasming in surprise. A gasp tore from my throat, the sensation startling and intense, a current of electricity that seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of my heart.
“Keep going,” the voice commanded again, a hint of amusement coloring its tone.
I resumed my task, fingers teasing and pinching my now-sensitive nipples. The vibrations intensified, and a groan slipped past my lips before I could catch it. The sensation was overwhelming—my nipples grew perky and painfully aroused under my touch.
I could feel my body responding, a traitorous warmth spreading through me, my chest heaving with each ragged breath. The embarrassment was still there, a hot flush that stained my cheeks, but it was beginning to mingle with something else—a dark, forbidden pleasure that I had never expected to find in such a place.
The plug’s incessant buzzing only added to the assault on my senses, each vibration sending ripples of pleasure and discomfort through me. My breaths came in short gasps as I continued to toy with my nipples, trying desperately to stay focused on the task at hand despite the chaotic storm brewing within me.
The command came like a slap in the wind, cutting through the dense fog of my arousal. “Lift the skirt.” My fingers trembled, the pads brushing against the fabric of the tutu. I hesitated, caught in the web of my own vulnerability, yet I found myself obeying.
With a single, fluid motion, I gathered the flimsy material in my fists and lifted, exposing myself to the invisible voyeurs. The cool air kissed my heated flesh, a stark contrast that sent a shiver rippling across my skin. My cock, hard and traitorously eager, stood proudly against the absurdity of the rabbit tail.
Spreading my legs wider, I gave them a full view—my arousal on display, balls drawn up tight in anticipation. The pink of my tutu seemed garish now, clashing with the raw need painted across my features.
Silence engulfed the room once more, a silence so thick it was almost palpable. I sat there, splayed and exposed, my chest heaving with each rapid breath. My heart, a wild drumbeat, echoed in my ears as I waited for further instruction, knowing full well the eyes of my spectators were drinking in every detail.
The wait was a sweet, excruciating agony, every second stretched thin, taut with expectancy. And then it came—that voice, a dark whisper that seemed to caress my very soul. “Play with your cock, little rabbit.”
The command sent a bolt of lightning straight to my groin. My own hand, wrapped around my shaft, felt foreign yet tantalizingly good. I stroked tentatively at first, my movements hesitant and awkward. But the incessant hum of the plug, nestled within me, was a maddening distraction that fueled my arousal, pushing me towards a precipice I didn’t know I was sprinting towards.
The rhythm of my hand quickened as I lost myself in the dual sensations—the pleasure of my own touch and the relentless hum of the plug driving me to madness. My breaths turned into pants, each exhale carrying a note of desperate need.
I squirmed on the chaise, trying to find some relief from the overwhelming arousal that had taken hold of me. My hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction as I continued to stroke myself. The heat built within me, a molten core ready to erupt.
Panting and whimpering, I fought to maintain control, but it was a losing battle. The pleasure was too intense, too all-consuming. Every fiber of my being was on fire, and I could feel myself teetering on the edge.
Each stroke brought me closer to the brink, my body trembling with need. The silence in the room only amplified every sound I made—the soft gasps and moans filling the space.
My heart raced wildly as I awaited further instruction, knowing that whoever was watching was taking in every moment of my torment and pleasure.
“Imagine your man fucking you.”
My breath hitched at the command. Easy for them to say. They hadn’t spent sleepless nights imagining exactly that, tangled in sweaty sheets, with Dean’s and Eric’s names whispering through my mind like a forbidden prayer.
Dean. His chiseled jawline, dark hair falling in disarray over those smoldering emerald eyes that seemed to pierce through my very soul. His muscular frame always appeared larger than life, the epitome of strength and raw masculinity. And Eric, with his suave charm, his hazel-green eyes warm yet hiding a core of steely determination. His athletic physique moved with a grace that belied the power lurking beneath.
Their images danced behind my closed eyelids as I lay back on the chaise. I could see it now: Dean’s strong arms wrapping around me from behind, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered dark promises into my ear. His hands roamed over my body with possessive intent, fingers digging into my hips as he aligned himself at my entrance.
In front of me was Eric, his lips curving into that charming smile. He leaned in close, capturing my lips in a searing kiss that left me gasping for air. His hands cupped my face, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss as his tongue explored every inch of my mouth.
Dean pushed forward slowly, filling me inch by agonizing inch. The stretch was deliciously painful, every nerve ending alight with sensation as he buried himself to the hilt inside me. I cried out against Eric’s mouth, but he swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue delving deeper in response.
Eric’s hands moved down to stroke me in time with Dean’s thrusts—slow at first but gradually picking up speed. Each movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through me, building an unbearable heat in my core.
Dean’s rhythm grew more urgent, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by our shared gasps and moans. I clung to Eric for support, nails digging into his shoulders as I struggled to keep up with the overwhelming sensations crashing over me like a tidal wave.
Eric’s lips left mine only to trail down my neck, his kisses hot and possessive. He nipped at my collarbone before moving lower, tongue flicking over a sensitive nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.
The dual assault on my senses was too much; I was on fire. Dean’s relentless thrusts hit that sweet spot deep inside me over and over again while Eric’s skilled hand worked its magic on my cock. The pressure built and built until it was almost unbearable.
My breaths came out ragged and shallow, my mind a haze of Dean and Eric, the buttplug buzzing like a relentless tormentor. I stroked myself faster, each touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. My mind was a whirlwind of desire and confusion, lost in the tempest of my own making. The buttplug’s insistent vibrations melded with the phantom sensations of Dean and Eric’s touch, each throb echoing their names like a mantra from my lips.
“Dean… Eric…” Their names slipped out, a whispered incantation as my body arched in pleasure.
In the midst of my ecstasy, I thought I heard a low growl through the speakers—a sound so deep and primal that it seemed to resonate from the very walls. Or was it simply a trick of my imagination, a byproduct of the fantasy I was so deeply entrenched in? I couldn’t be sure. The line between reality and my own heated desires was blurring, fading into a haze of lust that clouded my senses.
I was so caught up in the maelstrom that I barely registered the sound of the door opening. The room was no longer a private sanctum of shame and pleasure, but an exposed stage where the audience had decided to take a front-row seat. My heart skipped a beat as the reality of the situation began to seep into my consciousness. Customers… in the room? Was that even allowed?
Too terrified to lift my gaze, I focused on the worn patterns of the carpet, an array of colors that seemed to dance before my eyes. My hand continued its task, the rhythm faltering but not ceasing. The intrusion should have doused the flames of my desire, yet they continued to burn, stubborn and bright.
I could sense them—two towering figures, their presence dominating the small space. One remained by the door while the other approached with the confidence of a predator stalking its prey. My breath hitched as he came to stand before me, his shadow falling across my body like a shroud.
The scent of his cologne filled my nostrils, an intoxicating blend of woodsy and masculine. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that echoed the chaotic tumult of my thoughts.
“Hello, little rabbit,” he purred, his voice a dark whisper that sent shivers down my spine. “Long time no see.”
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Tags: bl romance novel, mm romance, boys love, yaoi, billionaire romance, steamy romance, smut, friends to lovers romance, enemies to lovers romance, debt to love romance, forced proximity romance, menage mm dark romance, threesome, captivity, dub-con, twisted obsessive posessive male lead
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