Buying The Virgin Part 1-3 novel Chapter 10

“What do you want, Charlotte?”

Who said that? Which of them spoke?

“I want…”

“Yes?”

“I want…oh God. Fuck me. Please fuck me. I want to cum. I need to cum.”

My Master speaks. “Not yet, Charlotte, but it’s good that you’re learning to ask nicely. We can give you something as a reward for that. Michael, if you would.”

Michael crawls forward over the bed, sliding his hands over my shoulders, kneading and massaging my arms, back and neck. As the lash comes down again, and I jerk again in response, his hands slip around to my breasts, cupping and rubbing. My face near his now semi-erect cock, I can smell myself on him, my own perfume from where he has fucked me. He rolls and tweaks my hard nipples, arousal undulating down to my sex.

Mindless with lust, I howl as the lash licks my pussy. Pain ripples through me, echoed in my nipples where Michael now pinches hard. I am lost in the embrace of torment and ecstasy.

Oh, God…

“Please, please, I need to cum. Master, please.”

Something nuzzles at my entrance. My Master’s cock? No, it is something else. “I’m not going to fuck you yet Charlotte. I’m only going to come myself after I’ve finished you.”

There is a buzzing, a vibration, and something slips inside me, convulsing my inner muscles. Michael is still pinching, hard, and I whimper. Climax curls up within me, tormented groans squeezing past my lips.

Thumb and forefinger take my clit, rubbing gently, so gently, on my hot and swollen bud. It sends an unbearable surge through me from clit to spine, my thighs pitching and shoving against the excruciating-ecstatic thrill.

Orgasm takes me, welling up, overwhelming me as I scream and writhe in my bonds.

For long seconds, the finger works my clit, urging on my climax before pulling away. Then my Master smoothly sheathes himself in my pulsating cunt.

Through my sexual miasma, I can smell his arousal, a wild male scent that drives me even higher. His cock is huge, engorged, and already I can feel the tension of his own climax waxing. He fits me tightly, stretching me as he pounds inwards, riding me, my pussy slick and hot, his erection spearing me.

He slams in, thrusting hard, again and again, then, every muscle tensing into stillness, his release comes and he pours himself into me. His cock spurts and dances inside me, then, with a roar of satisfaction, he pulls out.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “Wonderful. Oh Charlotte, you’re a beauty. And you didn’t even ask me to stop.”

Limp with exhaustion, rosy with afterglow and wondering how I scrape myself off the ceiling, I ask, “May I lie down Master? I’m a little tired.”

“Of course.” My Master releases the cuffs, catching me as my now spaghetti-like knees give way under me. Scooping me up, he places me on the bed, pours a glass of wine and thrusts it in my hands.

“Relax Girl,” he says. “You’ve had enough for one day.”

Gulping at the wine, I enjoy the clean, sharp taste. There is no need for instruction, I am astonishingly relaxed.

“Thank you, Master. Yes, I’ve had enough for one day, but I enjoyed it. It was marvellous.” I turn to Michael, perched at the end of the bed. “And thank you too. That was wonderful.”

A slow smile creeps over his face. He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

The three of us settle together on the bed. After a few minutes of enjoying the wine in silence, I ask “So what comes next?”

Michael splutters his wine over the bed, and my Master bursts out laughing. “Next? ‘What comes next?’ she asks,” raising his eyes to Heaven in mock anger.

He swings and points a long finger at me. “What comes next, is that we eat, before you wear us both out.”

Michael breaks in. “There is a rumour Charlotte, that you were a virgin three days ago.”

“It’s not a rumour. It’s true,” I protest. “It’s just that…it’s just that…” My voice trails off.

“It’s just that you had a lot bottled up, and you’re actually cut out for the life of anything from good-time girl to professional courtesan,” finishes Michael for me.

Sucking in my cheeks to avoid grinning, I return to my wine in silence. Of course, he’s right. How could I have known what I am really like? I never had a chance to find out, with my rotten so-called ‘marriage’ and my lousy husband who never said that girls just are not for him.

I gulp down more of the wine. “I trust you, Master. And I need the money. Bring ‘em on.”

*****

The following evening, having slept most of the day, I am bathed, made up, dressed to the nines, and feel like a million dollars.

My Master has been very specific about what I should wear: a black satin wrap-around skirt, held in place only with two buttons; a matching halter top, which ties at the neck and, cut low, unbuttons at the front; stockings; shoes with a heel, but not too high, chic but comfortable. My red silk panties tie at the sides. A heavy Cleopatra-style necklace. Hair up, eyes lined dark, lips deeply scarlet, expensive perfume. Looking at myself in the mirror, I feel completely fuckable.

Michael is carrying a briefcase and I wonder what is in it.

We take a taxi to a part of the city I do not know. Basically medieval, modernity has over-run it, and in the darkness of the evening, neon glares brilliantly at me, garish ad boards dazzle, and the noise of traffic is deafening. Pulling into the rear car park of an unfamiliar building, the noise abates and I wonder where we are going. From the front, this looked like just a parade of shops.

My Master sees my puzzlement. “It’s in the basement,” he explains. “A part of the old town which not many people know is still here. And now, Michael, please.”

Michael opens the briefcase, producing a red silk scarf.

What is that for?

The question answers itself, as Michael blindfolds me. “Not too tight?” he asks.

“No, fine.” But I feel a bit unstable.

The two men each take me by an arm. “Just walk slowly,” says my Master. “Don’t worry. We won’t let you fall.”

They lead me, unseeing, across the tarmac of the car park. There is the creak of a door opening. “Lift your feet a little,” says Michael’s voice. “There’s a threshold.”

Obediently, I raise my feet a little more, then am guided through a smell of damp, not unpleasant, but musty, as though of old stonework.

Downstairs, one step at a time, my footsteps and theirs, echoing...