The Virgin

by Tiffany Reisz

  “Pick on someone your own size,” Kingsley heard a woman yell at the boy in a strong French accent.

  Then a rock whipped through the air and hit the boy again on the back of his Ludacris T-shirt.

  “Crazy bitch,” the boy shouted. The woman picked up another rock and threw it at him, hitting him in the thigh.

  “Tu n’es qu’une merde, tu ne sais à rien,” she shouted.

  “You’re psycho,” his friend yelled, and he picked up a rock as big as a fist. The woman had thrown rocks the size of walnuts which would leave nothing but bruises. This boy was out for blood.

  “Do it,” she said. “You murdering little bastards.”

  Kingsley stepped between the woman and the boys.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Kingsley said in English to the boy with the big rock.

  The boys took one look at him and made their first smart decision in their young lives.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” the other, smaller boy shouted at his friend. The older boy dropped his huge rock and ran off as fast as his pale, hairless legs could carry him.

  “Casse-toi,” came the woman’s voice again. She cursed in French but switched back to English when she saw him standing there. She must have assumed he was American. How insulting. “I should have killed them.”

  She bent down and picked up a soccer ball.

  “You forgot your ball,” the woman shouted, this time in English. “Want it back?”

  She made as if she would throw it at them. Kingsley stopped her.

  “I’ll take it,” Kingsley said. He grabbed the ball out of her hands, dropped it on the sand and kicked it with the perfect blend of force and precision. A hundred feet away, the ball hit the older boy in the back of the legs and sent him tumbling to his knees. He scrambled up and ran off again.

  Kingsley looked at the woman. She looked at him.

  “You have good aim,” she said.

  “You’re not the first woman who’s told me that.” He waited. The woman got the joke. He could see that in her eyes. She did not, however, find it funny. She turned from him and knelt on the ground.

  “What were they doing?” Kingsley asked her.

  “Killing babies.”

  Kingsley looked down and saw a bird’s nest on the ground, eggs shattered and oozing on the sand. A small bird with yellow on its wingtips danced in distress around the branches of a flowering bush. The woman studying the broken nest had dark skin and large black eyes. She looked much closer to twenty-eight than eighteen, thank God. Her long straight hair was pulled back in an elegant high ponytail. She wore a white ankle-length skirt and a white halter top that left her flat and muscled stomach bare. She was tall, too. Almost as tall as he. Her eyes were full of fury and her hands had balled into fists. She had the bearing of Cleopatra, the face of Venus and the wrath of God. And whoever she was, she’d attempted to stone two boys to death for the crime of throwing rocks at a bird’s nest.

  “Little monsters. Look what they’ve done.”

  “Do you want me to kill them for you?” Kingsley asked, almost sincere in his offer. He could hardly imagine a good man growing up out of the sort of boy who’d crush bird eggs for pleasure. “I didn’t pack my gun, but I can use my hands. I can drown them and make it look like an accident. Oui? Non?”

  Her dark eyes flashed in his direction.

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Not at all,” he said. Pas du tout. If this woman had asked him to bring him the heads of those boys to her on a platter, he would have done it.

  “No,” she said. “Let them go. They’re in God’s hands. We all are.”

  It could have been a platitude—in God’s hands—but the way she said it made it sound like a fearful threat.

  The woman knelt in the sand in front of the bush that the boys had attacked with their rocks. She studied the scene of carnage—the shattered eggs, the broken nest.

  “Men destroy everything,” she said, talking to herself. “Why do they have to destroy everything?”

  Carefully, as if the nest was made of glass, the woman lifted it off the ground and tucked it into a tree. Then she bent down again and covered the broken eggs with sand. She did so quietly, reverently, as if performing a sacred burial ritual. The mother bird flitted down to the sand, looking for her lost babies.

  “Try again, Maman,” the woman said to the little bird. “Try again for me.”

  He looked at her face, and saw tears on it. Tears over a broken nest and a baby bird.

  Fuck Manhattan. And fuck the entire world.

  Haiti had just got very interesting.

  10

  Upstate New York

  “BEWARE THE IDES of March” read the note Kingsley had slipped under her bedroom door. “Don’t drink any alcohol today. Dress in your finest and wait for me by the Rolls at ten.”

  Eleanor supposed this note was Kingsley’s version of a birthday card? Card and invitation. She hadn’t planned on a big party for her twenty-sixth birthday. Sounded like Kingsley had planned one for her.

  When evening turned to night and the city turned on its lights and switched off its inhibitions, Kingsley put her in the back of his Rolls-Royce. He had a smile on his face, a secret little smile. Something told her she was about to get her birthday present.

  “You know I’ve had sex in the back of a Rolls-Royce,” she reminded him. “So don’t even ask.”

  She’d had sex with him in the back of a Rolls-Royce so many times she’d lost count. Luckily it was a limousine-style Rolls that kept the backseats separated from the driver by a partition and a thick black curtain.

  “I know you’ve had sex in the back of the Rolls-Royce. But not with him.”

  “Him who?” Eleanor asked.

  The car pulled over. The door opened.

  A young man of about twenty-three years old with dark spiky hair, a handsome face and a dirty grin got into the car.

  “Happy birthday, beautiful,” he said.

  “Oh my God. Griffin.” Eleanor threw herself into Griffin’s arms, and he pulled her so close to him it almost hurt. “When did you get back?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  “And you didn’t call me?” she asked, feigning irritation.

  “Surprise,” he said, grinning.

  She sat on this lap and wrapped her arms around him. Griffin...she loved this kid. Had it only been eight months ago when Kingsley had first summoned Griffin to the town house and shown him the ropes? She’d been in the ropes that night as Kingsley beat her and fucked her, all as part of a demonstration showing Griffin what kink in action had looked like. He’d taken to the scene like a duck to water, but old habits had died hard. Kingsley had caught him snorting coke in one of the town house bathrooms one day and stone drunk the next day. Kingsley had enough demons of his own, he’d said, without inviting Griffin’s demons over for tea. So Kingsley had laid down the ultimatum—go to rehab and get clean or...get out. Griffin had gone to rehab.

  And now he was back.

  “God, I missed you,” she said as she pressed her face against his warm strong neck and inhaled cedar and suede. Griffin always smelled as if he’d just stepped out of a shower.

  “Good,” he said, taking her by the upper arms and positioning her on his lap. “Because I’m your birthday present.”

  He smiled ear-to-ear, a wide dirty grin that Griffin had perfected. Women and men both fell for that grin all the time. She was no exception. But until tonight he’d been off-limits for anything but friendship.

  “Are you serious?” She looked back at Kingsley. “Søren’s okay with this?”

  “He is,” Kingsley said. “But if you don’t believe me, you can ask him.”

  The car pulled over again. The door opened again.

  And Søren got inside.

  She was off Griffin’s lap and in Søren’s arms in an instant.

  “I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Søren whispered in her ear. “But is it for me? Or for him?”


  “Always for you,” she said, kissing him on the mouth. “I can’t believe you...”

  “This is what you requested for your birthday, wasn’t it?” Søren asked, a slight smile at the edge of his lips.

  “I was joking. Sort of. I didn’t think you’d say yes.” Now she understood why Kingsley wouldn’t let her drink. Griffin was two days fresh out of rehab. No reason to tempt fate by letting him taste alcohol on her lips.

  Søren had teased her about her crush on Griffin, the new Dominant Kingsley had found. She’d sworn up and down her feelings for Griffin were of the purest sort of friendship. Although she wouldn’t mind getting fucked by Griffin, of course. It would make a lovely birthday present, she’d said to Søren. She’d been joking obviously. Sort of. Not entirely.

  “I pay the most attention when you pretend you’re joking,” Søren said, proving once and for all that he knew her better than anyone.

  “I love you, sir.”

  He kissed her back, kissed her deep, and at the moment when she thought the kiss would go on forever, Søren gripped her by the back of the neck, unbuttoned the top button on her blouse and said, “Who’s first?”

  That’s when Eleanor knew Griffin wasn’t her only birthday present that night. All three of them were.

  The silence that follows such a question is pregnant with possibility. And in those few seconds, the various possible scenarios flashed through Eleanor’s mind. Søren shared her with Kingsley all the time. Kingsley even had permission to be with her when Søren wasn’t there. And once Søren had ordered her to spend a week at a mansion in New Hampshire with a man named Daniel. But she was one woman in the back of a Rolls-Royce and three different men were about to fuck her.

  Happy birthday to her.

  “I’ve been in rehab for the past month. If I don’t fuck soon, I will literally die,” Griffin said.

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Søren intoned smoothly. He unbuttoned another button on her white sheer blouse. “Eleanor’s fond of you, Griffin. I think she’d be most heartbroken if something happened to you.”

  “I would, Griff. You’re my favorite rookie.”

  He glared at her, his handsome brow furrowing in playful disgust. “I should spank you for calling me that.”

  “You should,” Søren said. “She won’t learn to respect your authority any other way.”

  “Come here, bad girl.” Griffin tapped his lap. “I have a present to deliver.”

  “One moment.” Søren reached into the pocket of his black overcoat. “First things first.”

  He wrapped her collar around her neck and locked it into place. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes.

  Søren put his mouth at her ear and whispered, “Even with them you’re with me. Remember that.”

  “I remember, sir,” she whispered back.

  “You want this?” he asked, even softer now.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Happy birthday, Little One.”

  He kissed her neck where the leather of her white collar met her skin and she shivered in pleasure. Fear radiated through her body as Søren transferred her from his lap to Griffin’s. But he was there, Søren was. Watching, guarding, protecting her. Nothing to be afraid of. Tonight was for her pleasure only.

  Griffin had never kissed her before. And before he did now, she saw him glance at Søren for permission. Søren nodded and Griffin pressed his lips to hers. She opened her mouth, sensing his nervousness at performing for a crowd, this crowd especially. Kingsley and Søren sat on the back bench seat. She and Griffin were on the front one that sat behind the curtained wall separating them from the driver. No two men in the Underground were more feared and respected than Søren and Kingsley. And now Griffin was going to fuck her while they watched. If he could get it up under such circumstances, she’d be impressed. He shifted her on his lap and she felt his erection pressing hard against her bottom.

  Count her impressed.

  Griffin deepened the kiss while Eleanor unbuttoned his shirt. She touched his broad muscular shoulders and biceps as he bit and nipped at her lips. For a moment she forgot she had an audience until Griffin threw her onto her back in a quick show of power and dominance. She gasped in surprise. From the back of the Rolls, Kingsley and Søren applauded.

  “Good show,” Kingsley said. “Nice technique.”

  “It’s not easy to catch her off guard,” Søren agreed.

  “Are you two going to comment the entire time?” Griffin asked, looking up from her.

  “Of course,” Kingsley said, reaching into a black satchel next to his booted legs. “I’m the French judge. He’s the Danish judge.”

  Kingsley handed Søren a set of cards with the numbers one through ten on them.

  Score cards.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Griffin said, groaning and burying his face against her chest.

  “Be glad Mistress Irina isn’t here, Griffin.” Kingsley shuffled casually through his cards. “No one ever impresses the Russian judge.”

  Eleanor reached up and touched Griffin’s face. He met her eyes and she met his. He had rich hazel eyes, sweet and soulful, like a child’s almost.

  “Make me feel good,” she said in a voice low enough only Griffin could hear it. “Please, Mr. Griffin. It’s my birthday.”

  “For you, anything,” he said back. He sat up and yanked her across his lap. She’d thought the threat of a spanking had been only that. A threat. But he wrenched her skirt up to her hips, pulled her white panties down to her knees, and hit her hard enough she flinched.

  “God damn,” she said, shocked by the force of the hit. She braced for a second slap, but instead he worked a single finger into her vagina from behind. She dug her hands into the leather of the seats as Griffin pushed his finger deeper into her. Very quickly she grew wet from the touch and Griffin pushed a second, then a third finger into her. With both hands he spread her open wide, exposing her to the view of everyone in the back of the car. It was a humiliation, a violation. She loved every second of it.

  When he judged her wet enough, Griffin grabbed her by the shoulder and brought her to a sitting position on her knees. From the speed of the car, Eleanor could tell they were out on the open road. Good. No sudden stops likely on the highway.

  “King?” Griffin asked, and Kingsley tossed Griffin a condom. He opened his pants and rolled it on. He was big definitely, but nothing she couldn’t take and everything she wanted to take. When he was ready, Griffin crooked his finger at her, and Eleanor, eager to obey, straddled his legs facing him. She expected him to enter her immediately but instead he kissed her again almost tenderly.

  “I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you,” he whispered.

  “No whispering,” Kingsley said, and Griffin rolled his eyes.

  “I wanted it, too,” she said, making sure only Griffin could hear her. The hum of the engine and the tires and the face-to-face position awarded them a modicum of privacy. To show Griffin how much she adored him, how much she’d wanted him, she took his erection firmly in her hand and brought it to the entrance of her body. Griffin gripped her by the hips and lowered her down onto him. She stretched open as she settled onto him, sighing as he penetrated her fully.

  “It’s only you and me now.” Griffin mouthed the words and she nodded. As she moved on him slowly, relishing the fullness of him inside her, he unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off her. It might have landed on the floor. She had a feeling, however, that when Griffin threw it, it had landed in Kingsley’s lap. Or on his face. Her bra came off next, just as slowly, just as sensuously. Griffin lifted and kneaded her breasts in his hands as her head fell back in pleasure.

  “I was meant to know you,” Griffin whispered to her. “I don’t know why but I was.”

  “Maybe we’ll find out why someday,” she said.

  He kissed her on the mouth again and said against her lips, “Maybe this is why.”

  Griffin slid his hands from her breasts to her sho
ulders, from her shoulders to her arms, from her arms to her wrists. He held her arms behind her, forcing her to arch her back.