Buying the Virgin

Chapter 10: The Girl Who Sold Herself - Chapter Ten

“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.

My Master interrupts my thoughts. “Would you like to go out to dinner, Charlotte? Or eat in? Your

choice.”

“Err… Eat in I think. It’s nice here.”

“Fine, I’ll phone out for something.”

Half an hour later the three of us are sharing crispy duck, pancakes and prawn crackers. I tuck it away.

I seem to have built up an appetite.

“To answer your question Charlotte,” breaks in my Master. “‘What comes next…’ is that tomorrow

evening we are going out, the three of us. We have something special planned for you, but we wanted,

tonight, to find out what…what your inclinations are…”

Through a mouthful of duck and plum sauce, I mumble “Sorry? Not with you.”

Michael is, I note, smiling through his own pancake, but chooses to remain silent.

“We wanted to be sure that you enjoy the ‘SM’ part of BDSM,” says my Master.

I must still look blank, as he continues, with a touch of impatience in his voice, “We wanted to be sure

that you enjoy a moderate degree of pain, under the right conditions of course.”

The penny drops. Going out? Tomorrow? “You mean we’re going to some sort of club? A BDSM club?”

With a well-manicured fingernail, my Master delicately picks a sliver of duck from between his teeth.

“Yes. We are going to a club. To be precise, we have booked the club for the evening. There will only

be the three of us plus a number of other…” he hesitates, “…selected, guests. The general public will

not be there.”

I am wondering now. “In what way, selected?”

“They were at your original auction, Charlotte, most of them anyway, plus some who I know personally,

and who I know, understand the boundaries of what is acceptable. And don’t worry, I know, or know of,

all of them. I know how they behave and I know they keep themselves clean.”

Most of them? Plus, some he knows?

“How many will there be, Master?”

He leans forward. “How many would you like, Charlotte? You have enjoyed me and Michael together.

How many men would you like to fuck you? How much money would you like to earn to put towards

that college education of yours? And how far will your sense of adventure take you?”

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

***** This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

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...