Bondage Virgins

by Lilac James

  She had to sit on her hands and grip the chair to keep from getting up.

  After a moment of suspense, he pulled the boxers down over his thighs and let them drop.

  The music changed to “Wicked Game.” She’d expected something raucous, but perhaps Mr. Lafcadio knew best.

  The door opened, and two men came in. Bessie shrank back in her chair. Tough guys. Thugs. Bouncers. But they didn’t even look at her, and when they grabbed cuffs that dangled from the ceiling near the walls and, in practiced unison, cuffed Mr. X, she could see they handled him almost gently. Mr. Lafcadio had been correct, apparently, about no one being hurt without agreeing to it. She shivered and blanked the images that wanted to form in her mind.

  When Mr. X’s arms had been pulled out to the side, they repeated the process with his ankles. Controls by the door enabled them to pull the cuff chains tighter, separating his legs so that impressive package hung free and totally visible. His arms stretched outward and up, so that he formed an X, hooded, gagged, and spread for her pleasure.

  REECE COULD FEEL her eyes on him. She must be desperate to have to resort to this to see a naked man. He should be sympathetic and sorry for her, but damn it if he wasn’t also a little bit aroused, and Chris Isaak wasn’t helping. He’d been told what to expect with the cuffs and all, and the guys had made sure he didn’t suffer any discomfort, but being stretched out like a Thanksgiving turkey about to be stuffed kind of spoiled the moment. Thank goodness. An erection now might be what she wanted, but it would embarrass the hell out of him.

  He heard her soft steps. She paused behind him. He imagined her gaze sweeping down his body. Would she linger on his shoulders? Fate had given him wide shoulders and narrow hips. Playing football in college had given him enough muscle to rate being on a calendar—he’d been Mr. July, described as hot, hot, hot—and he’d been careful to stay in good condition.

  Maybe he ought to do something. When Diego had told him what she’d have to pay for her hour of peering at him, he’d been shocked. His sense of fairness almost demanded that he do something to make it worth her money.

  He flexed the heavy muscles in his arms and shoulders, just a little.

  Her soft, indrawn breath didn’t quite qualify as a gasp, but it came close. He swallowed a smile and waited.

  Her shoes made a soft scrape against the deep pile of the area rug on which he stood, but he couldn’t be sure if she’d taken a step away—or come closer. He’d walked across a hard-surfaced floor, something that sounded like wood, when he’d been led into this room, but when he’d stripped himself and been handcuffed, he’d been standing on something soft and lush. A rug. He had no idea how big it was, couldn’t begin to guess how close she might be. At least he couldn’t feel the heat of another body, so maybe she wasn’t within touching distance.

  He’d been promised she wouldn’t touch. For a panicky minute he wondered what he would do if she did. If he’d welcome the touch of a stranger.

  She remained completely silent.

  Doing nothing, he figured. Staring at his butt? Now there was an unsettling thought. He flexed again but didn’t hear any reaction. Damn it, she was staring at his butt. Refusing to think about how much worse this could get, he waited, motionless as a statue.

  Finally she moved. Walking around him. She paused, looking at his left side as nearly as he could tell from the soft noises.

  The stress of standing completely motionless knowing a stranger inspected every inch of him began to torment him. His muscles wanted action. To move. To get him out of here. He couldn’t even be sure the person looking at him was a woman. He swallowed a curse. What if—what if they’d rented him to—oh, say some big Hell’s Angel type? He almost lunged against the cuffs and chains but forced himself to remain still. Yep, he’d heard chains when those two bozos had cuffed him.

  He stood still, but he couldn’t stop the shivers and twitches that swept over him.

  She gave that little almost-gasp again.

  Okay. That was a female sound. He could relax now. Sure he could. Tied up, at the mercy of a stranger…just what he’d always wanted. It must have been the blow to his head that had made him agree to such an insane proposal. On the other hand, he’d agreed to do this, and he always kept his word. Not to mention the difference between soft rug in a warm room and a hard sidewalk in the rain.

  So relax, Reece. This will only be an hour or so. All you have to do is keep your cool and not think about naked and private room and woman and how long it’s been since…

  She’d shifted again and moved in front of him.

  She hadn’t said anything, but he’d been warned she’d probably be silent. Complete anonymity, that was what the lady wanted, and he couldn’t fault that. He wanted that too. If anyone ever found out about this…but it beat a cold, wet night on the streets. And he didn’t think his head could take another mugging.

  Total silence filled the room. He listened so hard his ears rang with the effort. What the hell was the woman doing? He made his breathing light and quiet and finally heard her soft, shallow exhalations. She had drawn nearer than she’d been before. She must be staring at him. God, he felt like a complete dork.

  He began to imagine he could feel her heat. True or not, he definitely could smell her perfume. She’d scented herself with something soothing and sweet. After a moment, he got it. She smelled like raspberries. He loved raspberries.

  He shouldn’t love what he was doing. This should be business. Nothing but business, a fair trade for a place to sleep. But somewhere along the line, he’d begun to enjoy this little scenario. It had been too long—months—since he’d enjoyed a woman, and the time and situation couldn’t be more wrong to start thinking about that now.

  He wrenched his thoughts away from that path and concentrated on trying to guess how long he’d been cuffed in this room. It didn’t work. Having his mind on something else only allowed him to realize that under the tempting scent of raspberries was something even more tempting: the scent of woman. She had the clean, soft scent of temptation. That “I’m ready” flag that a lover waved just before leading him into her bedroom.

  His dick, that inconvenient, most important part of him, sensed woman and twitched.

  No. Oh no. He couldn’t. The embarrassment of being a perpetually hard and horny teenaged boy paled beside the potential embarrassment possible tonight.

  He pulled up the picture of the cold, wet alley where he’d regained consciousness. The pain in his head. The shock of finding his wallet gone.

  Didn’t help.

  What the hell could he do now?

  Determinedly, he silently recited multiplication tables. Imagined a cold shower, the icy water freezing his shoulders, his belly…his tentative erection. That helped.

  He realized she’d moved off to his right. What was she doing now—looking at him in profile? He resisted the urge to pull in his stomach and square his shoulders.

  The guy who’d sort of hired him, the maître d’, hadn’t said anything about how long he’d been rented for. That’s what it amounted to—the blasted woman had rented him. He should hate the idea. He should hate the tingle of excitement that came with the knowledge.

  He didn’t.

  He had no idea how much real time had passed. Subjective time had passed a couple of lifetimes long ago. He gritted his teeth, shifted his weight, and heard a softly indrawn breath.

  She repeated the whole circling maneuver twice more and then stopped in front of him again. Closer this time. In the centuries since he’d removed his clothes—stripped, that was what he’d done, and the memory rankled—the sensitivity of his skin had increased exponentially, and he sensed her heat across whatever distance separated them.

  His dick felt the heat too, and it twitched again. He clenched his teeth. Damn thing. Why couldn’t it ever do what he told it to do?

  Stubbornly, it made its opinion known.

  He leaned against the cuffs and chains, dizzy with the rush of blood leaving h
is brain and heading south as that most willful part got ready to do its job. The heaviness of his balls reinforced the message—he didn’t control this operation. The zinging awareness that centered between his legs told him his dick lengthened, widened.

  He’d almost forgotten the woman. Even if he couldn’t feel the arousal taking over his senses, her shocked gasp would have let him know he’d come flagpole erect.

  Oh hell.

  On the other hand, he was certainly giving her her money’s worth.

  Yeah, that was the ticket. Give the customer her money’s worth.

  The customer seemed to be enjoying the show. The increase in heat told him she’d come even closer. He gritted his teeth against the urge to thrust. Calm down, buddy. There isn’t anything to thrust against.

  Right. Like buddy would listen.

  He twitched again, a surge of frustration he couldn’t control.

  This time her gasp was louder and longer, but she didn’t move away. He knew, because when she let her breath out, the damp warmth bathed his appreciative dick.

  And then she did it. She must have leaned closer, and she must have had long hair worn loose, because a whisper of softness brushed against his belly, and a lock of hair came to rest on his already-surging dick.

  The universe centered on that one bit of throbbing flesh, and he’d give anything to have her hand on him, a soft hand surrounding him, holding him… Without conscious direction, his hips rocked, pushing his erection toward her.

  She said, “Oh!” the sound a soft punctuation to the music, and pulled away. The lock of hair tugged on him just enough, and with a muffled groan he lost all control.

  His climax jolted through him, and she gasped a louder, “Oh!” as he spurted again and again.

  The music stopped. Dead silence filled the room.

  Thank God for the gag. What could he possibly have said? She’d been so close. He must have drenched her.

  He closed his eyes behind the hood and waited to die of embarrassment.

  WOW! OH JUST wow. She couldn’t see his face, but his muscles clenched for a moment in what looked like agony. The sound he’d made had been somewhere in the moan-groan-muffled-shout vicinity, and she was pretty darn sure it hadn’t indicated pain.

  After he’d finished spurting…semen, yes, semen, she could think the proper words now…he’d been limp in the restraints, and what little she could see of his face had been flushed. With embarrassment, maybe? She’d read that men got that way when…well, when they had orgasms unexpectedly.

  She’d never imagined she’d actually get to see…at close range…a man…doing that. No, that was the old Bessie. The new Bessie could say the words. She’d never imagined she’d actually get to see a man ejaculate.

  And boy, had she seen it. Up close and personal. Her blouse was probably ruined. Did she care? No way.

  She left the room, just as Maurice had instructed. The door must have been alarmed in some way, because he came bustling down the hall immediately to meet her.

  She wiped at the sticky damp spot on her blouse and faced him. Looked right at him and said, “I want him again tomorrow. I want to touch him.”

  Maurice was what she’d come to think of as his usual unflappable self. He eyed the stains on her blouse. “And would tomorrow include intercourse?” he asked quietly.

  Was she ready? She still tingled between her legs, but… She shook her head.

  “If Mr. X is not available, would another man suffice?”

  She tapped her chin, as if in thought. Gathering her courage, she said, “No. I want him.”

  “I want him.” She might faint from the way her heart leaped at the sound of those forceful words. Maybe experience would turn her into a cool chick instead of an easily flustered office worker, but it didn’t seem to be happening tonight.

  Maurice didn’t turn a hair. “Very well. I will arrange it. When you arrive tomorrow evening, all will be as you wish.”

  She must have looked surprised, because he added, “This is Milady’s Pleasure, remember.”

  So she had another appointment, a date, sort of, to look forward to. How would she ever concentrate on her work, knowing that incredibly buff body would be stretched out for her pleasure in twenty-four hours?

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, acting like nothing had changed took every ounce of effort Bessie could scrape together. She wanted to dance. Sing. Shout from the top of the nearest skyscraper. She wanted to dress in something tight, low-cut, and bright red. Instead, she dressed in one of her boring, drab gray suits, ate her boring, normal breakfast, and took the same boring bus to work.

  Still, her inner exaltation must have shown, because she hadn’t even reached her office before a voice behind her said, “Someone’s happy today. What’s up?”

  Bessie turned to face the CFO’s admin, a wimpy-looking, supercapable nerd named Edwin. She’d always gotten along well with Edwin, but no way could she share the reason for her current ecstatic state with the biggest gossip in the company.

  “Good morning, Edwin,” she said primly. But—she couldn’t help it—she eyed him critically, wondering what he’d look like naked.

  Such a nerdy guy. She’d never looked at him twice. Today—today she was seeing with new eyes. She tried to be surreptitious when she looked him up and down, lingering halfway. He might actually look better without clothes.

  She’d heard one of the data clerks talking about a trip to the beach—she’d called it a “free beach,” which apparently meant no clothes. Bessie shivered at the idea. Could she Google “free beach” and find one? Would she have the courage to go to one alone? She swallowed a smile. Yes, and yes. After last night, she definitely would. Last night…the executives’ hallway, with its luxurious carpet, richly paneled walls, and original paintings, lost focus.

  Edwin shifted uncomfortably. “Bessie?”

  She had to say something, but her mind couldn’t produce anything except the amazing Mr. X.

  Edwin saved her. “Oh, right, the new CEO arrives today. You must be really nervous.”

  Whew! “Why, yes, I am, just a bit. I’d better double-check to see that his office is ready.” She bolted down the hall, through her office, and into Mr. Ferguson’s domain. She’d left everything in pristine readiness yesterday, and nothing had changed. Nothing for her to do except wait and be nervous.

  She twitched a vase of mixed lilies over an inch to center it on the credenza under the window. Inspected the bookshelves and desk for dust. Made sure the wastebasket hadn’t acquired any contents overnight. Went back to her own desk.

  One of the executive administrators paused in her doorway. “All ready for your new boss?” she asked.

  “All ready,” Bessie said in her usual, colorless voice.

  “I was scared to death before Mr. Carson arrived. The right boss is so important. I’ll bet you’re nervous. And eager to meet him. I hear he’s a hunk,” Anne rattled on. Anne was a talker.

  Yesterday Bessie would have drawn herself up primly and said something snotty and depressing like ”That’s not a nice way to refer to the head of the company,” or “It’s our job to get along with any boss.” A new lightness and sense of—freedom? Competence? No. Sense of knowledge made her stand straighter, and she admitted, “Skittish as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, Anne.”

  “You seem different today.”

  It did show. “Just nerves, I guess. Mr. Ferguson is due any minute.”

  Anne nodded. Regally. The way she did everything. Anne ought to be the highest-ranking admin. And she wanted Bessie’s job so obviously Bessie had never been comfortable with the woman. “I can understand your nervousness,” Anne said. “Well, we’d better get to work.”

  Bessie slumped in her chair. She should have stayed home to come to terms with all the new feelings swirling through her. Now Anne would tell the others that Bessie had…what? Become human? She snorted.

  About time.

  Tonight she’d learn a new
lesson—how all that fascinating flesh felt. Goose bumps prickled her arms, and the fine hairs rose in anticipation of holding that amazing rod of flesh, of feeling it pulse in her hand while it jetted musky fluid.

  Once she would have been appalled at her wanton thoughts. Now she resolved to wear something bleachable tonight. And giggled.

  A gasp from the doorway made her look up just in time to see Anne and two of the typists goggle at her in amazement. Well, why not? Bessie had never giggled, not in the office, and not, as far as they knew, ever.

  She leveled a glare at them, and they left. Oh dear. At this rate she’d alienate the whole company before lunchtime. Maybe she shouldn’t have come to work today. She could have pretended to be sick and just spent the day at home. In bed. Having delicious daydreams about Mr. X. Although calling him Mister after the intimacy they’d shared…

  “Bessie? Are you all right?”

  Bessie jumped. “Oh Edwin. I didn’t expect you back. Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

  “You’re all flushed. Are you running a fever?”

  Damn the man. “No. I was—I dropped my pen. I was just bent over looking for it. No problem. Thank you for asking, though.” Bessie, shut up. You’re babbling. You never talk that much at the office. “Did you want something, Edwin?”

  “Oh. Oh yes. Mr. Hanson asked me to bring you this.” He handed her a folder. “I’ll—ah—I’m just—” Edwin turned and bolted out the door, but not before Bessie saw that he’d flushed the rich, ripe red of a strawberry.

  Well, what the heck was that all about?

  She reached for the jacket she’d taken off earlier. Some idiot had designed the office layout so the best place for her desk put her right in the icy draft. As she buttoned it, she realized her nipples were clearly visible, stiffly poking at her creamy silk shirt.