Seven Deadly Sinners: A Reverse Harem Romance

by Dark Angel

  They close this deal; make this arrangement, and all while I simply sit here. Damien's appraisal of my assets, my worth as an asset to him, takes away my ability to say anything else. I just want to form cogent thoughts, but all I can think about is what I've been missing. What I don't miss anymore.

  I'm some kind of bargaining chip for whatever trouble my father is in, and all I can think about is the man who will broker the deal. Will I be his? I'm breathing steadier now, but more shallow. Still, I say nothing. I can't believe this is happening. Could I be his? I can’t even begin to fathom what it would mean. Damien, though, oh he definitely knows. My skin is on fire. My heart is a drumbeat.

  "So, it’s a deal, then?" my father says to Damien. I can't look Father in the eye. He’s a weasel, sounds so weak. I should feel terrible for thinking that about my father if he hadn't just treated me like a bargaining chip.

  I mean, am I wrong here?

  So instead I dwell more on the comparison that my mind can't help but make. I'm in the presence of a foreboding, real man. I've never seen such a gorgeous man. One so full of danger. I'm touching him, and there's a wildfire in my mind sparking through my body. My father disgusts me in this moment, but I’m having just as strong of a reaction and making just as strong a judgment about Damien.

  The hot air in this room hangs heavy and for a few seconds, no one says anything.

  Damien so slightly runs his fingers down the center of my spine. He leans forward just a little and says to my father, "Yes, I'll accept your offer." Then Damien lifts me, placing me down and standing to look at me, his eyes dropping to the spot on the thigh of his trousers where my wetness seeped onto his clothing. He knows what I’m thinking. How my body responds to his. Am I imagining this eye contact, the split-second recognition? I can't be when I see that devilish grin. There's sin bolting through his dark eyes and connecting directly with my core. My pussy throbs. My clit twitches.

  I've never reacted to a man like this before. My face is so hot I must be blushing a furious red. I look up from my lashes at him, daring myself to return that gaze. When I do, heat burns in my belly. I'm singed with a single look from him. I can't stop thinking about the throbbing monster that had pressed into my ass while I sat on his lap. He's awakes a hunger in me that I didn't know I could have.

  Damien steps forward, mesmerizing me. "I'll send a car for you, tomorrow, to take you to my condo in Manhattan," he says, tucking a finger under my chin. Even though he doesn’t need to make me look at him, he adjusts my gaze so firmly that I'm stunned in place for several beats. I can't tear my eyes away from him, drinking in the site of him like I'm drowning and he's a sparkling water saving my throat with every velvety swallow. He quenches a womanly desire in me that I've never paid attention to.

  I hear that he's going to send a car. His condo. Manhattan. That’s not far from here in Westchester, but it feels like a million-mile journey to the lair of this dark tempter.

  The family Christmas is already ruined. Reality rockets back into me and I realize I won’t be with my parents. Then I start to think, oh crap, what about school? What about my friends? What about my life? And then Damien is turning to walk away and any thoughts I have about my life are sucked into the vortex of my mind and replaced with the filthy thoughts permeating my soul. Watching him walk away is pure sin. I didn't know that men could have sexy asses. I thought only girls wearing tighter clothes than I do could have asses that people want to look at.

  The sensual shape of Damien’s ass, the way the slacks fall on his legs just right, a perfect angle, the way that he glides away. How every last bit of air in my lungs collapses and exits when he leaves the room. All of this, as I'm sure you can understand, makes it a little difficult for me to focus on Christmas. I mean, hot chocolate was the only thing on my mind tonight. Trying to avoid thinking about my frustration with my parents for being too busy for Christmas. Now, I know they aren’t making time for me at all because they are making deals. Making money instead. I know that after the trouble with school that they need to make money, but how is this the way they choose to solve their problems? I gulp because no way this was the first resort. Selling me? That's a last resort action.

  Still, I can’t justify this behavior. How could they do this to me? I'm their daughter!

  I should be angry.

  I should be terrified, particularly of Damien. He emanates danger from every pore of his masculine being, yet the mystery he presents enraptures me. Distracts me. I find it hard to fear Damien when I just plain want to know more about him. I want to see what his body looks like under his clothes. I want to know what he really thinks about the mess I left on his thigh when I sat on his lap. I know some boys my age, in college, think that I'm gross. But Damien isn’t a boy. He's a powerful man with a raw sexuality that tells me, no, he’ll have much more interesting thoughts about my arousal. Not that I could ever ask him. Oh God, what if he sends the car for me, and I see him again, and he brings it up? Any bravery I feel is leaving me in shivers.

  I run up the stairs as soon as Damien is gone. Let my parents think whatever they want; I want to be alone. They shut me out all night to handle this business. I lock my door, turn off my lights, climb into my bed, and bury my hands in my panties under the covers. I think about Damien here where everything is safe to explore when it's just my hand, my dreams, and my heavy breathing to contend with.

  Except, I'm not the victim of a killer in hot pursuit. I'm the one in hot pursuit, of a fantasy that is taking hold of me stronger than anything ever has before. I need to get my hands on my body and relieve this pressure building up within me.

  Like, I’m also the one whose parents are planning to sell her to a strange man. Yes, I know I should focus on that part. Instead, the fantasy in my mind? That’s safe. That’s what I want to focus on—the heat in my blood and not the fear.

  Now, I'm a virgin, but I'm not a prude. Not exactly. I'm just really nervous, okay? Like I haven't quite figured out what to do once I'm turned on, and I need to figure it out nice and slow by myself.

  Except the lust sweeping through my body right now doesn't seem to think that I need any lessons. I'm feeling certifiably thrilled at this exhilarating new confidence. I have to get my hands on my body because I can't get the way he felt pressed against me out of my mind. I turn off the light. It will help to set the mood. I tear off my clothes, fast, like I'm a skinny dipper rushing to get in the safety of water. No, I haven't gone skinny dipping before, but I'm a girl who reads, who watches movies. Who does everything to live her life utterly vicariously through the experiences of others.

  Not tonight. I drop my panties to my ankles and step each foot out and I walk slowly toward my bed. I'm eager, and I know I want touch my pussy. I dip my hand down and feel how wet I am, sliding a finger through my slippery folds. Wow, it's kind of incredible.

  What would it be like if Damien put his massive hand here on my wetness?

  I lie down on my bed, scooting my pillows so that I'm half sitting up, imagining that I'm looking right into his eyes as he touches me. Now, could I ever, ever be so bold? Of course not. But in my fantasy, he wants me. I want him. And everything feels right. I let my eyes flutter closed. I press my palm against my whole pussy, thinking about his hand there. His hands were easily three times the size of mine, if the look I got was correct. Of course it was. I memorized his every trait I was able to see today, or feel, better than any vocabulary words.

  I start to rock my hand, and at first, the only real titillation is the fantasy, but I hit a certain angle against my clit and it starts to feel good. My head falls back, and I bite my lip. Picking up the speed and adjusting the angles of how my hands touch my wet pussy, I'm finding that it feels really good.

  Of course, it feels even better imagining his hands on me. My other hand travels up my stomach, a trail that makes me shiver. I imagine it is Damien's hand that brings chills to my stomach, then my breast, and squeezes tight. Almost too tight.

  The intensity
of the sensation makes me bolder. I have to heighten the sensations I've created in me, and I imagine one of Damien's large fingers inside of me. I slide three of my fingers against my wet opening. I feel how swollen with desire I am. Should I start with fewer fingers? Perhaps. But Damien's large fingers, just one of them, would be so much more than my slender ones.

  So I slide all three together inside me, and I feel strange. Thinking of him doing this makes me twitch a little. I keep up the pressure on my clit because the instant I relent, I'm losing some of the sensations that were heating my whole body up.

  I slide my fingers in deeper. My body gets used to the feeling of such fullness, and then I feel a spongy, sensitive zone. My g-spot. I curl my fingers up against it, and the sensation makes me yelp. I furiously pump my fingers, my pussy squeezing my fingers in return, and I work my clit and keep up the speed as best as I can because I need to keep this feeling going.

  The fantasy in my mind, Damien's hands touching me, Damien's voice saying naughty things to me. His eyes looking into mine while he makes me feel this sensation that seems to jettison from my pussy to every inch of my body and make me erupt with quakes of ecstasy.

  It keeps me going from one orgasm, to another, and another, and I keep going as long as I can until my body feels weak and I'm oversensitive.

  Now, sated, I feel the pooled sweat around my body and the large damp spot on my bed where I came, again and again, thinking about him. I should take a shower, but I just want to curl up and sleep. I yank the comforter off the bed because it now has that massive wet spot. I might be a little cold later tonight, but I'm tired and I'm slipping under my sheet, falling asleep still warm from the orgasms. I'd never made myself really come before, and now I've been able to find something that felt good and was able to keep doing it enough to really experience an orgasm. Now I'm certain that I've made myself feel good before, but those were my first orgasms. For some reason, even though Damien didn't really give them to me, I feel like I've gotten something incredibly special from him. That night, I dream about nothing. I'm so pleasantly exhausted that I don't have a stress or concern for once in my harried college student life.

  * * *

  Westchester is nearly an hour from Manhattan. I could've taken a train. But when Damien said he was sending a car, it was no taxicab. The next morning at 6 am, as I'm debating whether I should drink orange juice yet or if it's too soon after I'd brushed my teeth, I hear a rapping on the door that almost makes me drop another glass in less than 24 hours.

  Christmas Eve has come, and I'm the present. Or at least the parcel. I'm grateful that'd I'd woken up bright eyed and bushy tailed. That’s a phrase with which my mother often derides her much less affluent sister whenever she had any pep in her step my mother hadn't managed to kill. I had all the energy that I could muster.

  My mother is nowhere to be seen the morning she allows my father to ship me off to a strange man. Maybe I should slam the glass down and leave broken shards to annoy her and remind her that I was here. Of course, I don’t do this. I swear, I don’t have a natural flair for the dramatic. That’s all my mother. I’m calm.

  Walking to the door, I gulp. I'm practically certain it isn’t Damien. This both disappoints me and terrifies me. Who will it be? I pull the brassy knob of the oak door to reveal a man who is large, but still not quite as large as Damien. Which was really saying something because the sharp dressed, dangerous looking man, who turns out to be the driver, opens the door of the car for me with bulging biceps beneath his suit jacket. If he was a Navy SEAL from my Kindle, or used to be, I would believe it.

  I wonder why I don’t find this man as exhilarating as Damien. While it's true that Damien's larger and even more impressive, part of me wonders if my holiday blues haven't simply made me catch some kind of slutty bug.

  Alas, I only have wet panties for Damien. I almost laugh at the joke, but I am too confused by exactly what to do. I'm just leaving my house? It seems so strange. My parents are gone. This driver appears … why am I left utterly in the dark? I screw up my face in frustration.

  "I'll be taking you to Damien's condo now, ma'am. Do you need me to get any of your luggage?" Well, at least the driver is trying to be nice. Maybe he thinks I'm stupid and is wondering why I haven’t packed any luggage. I have no clue how long I will be with Damien. I know almost nothing about this arrangement. Wasn't packing hard enough without all these unknown variables in the equation? After all, I’m not going on a vacation. Why should I pack away my belongings when I’m giving away my freedom?

  "I didn't actually pack anything," I say with a tentative laugh, a nervous smile coming in its wake. I tuck some of my hair behind my ears.

  "Don't worry about it. If you need anything, it will be taken care of. Damien will send someone to gather any of your things that you decide you need." It's a calm, polite statement, designed to soothe me, and I'm grateful for that. No reason for me to be anything but grateful, because he's just the driver. Still, I'm more confused than ever. Does the driver know why he’s picking me up? If he does, it doesn’t keep him from closing my car door and heading to the driver’s seat, pulling away from my childhood home, and taking me toward Damien. The trip won’t be long enough for me to form any coherent assumptions, just enough for me to feel thoroughly frazzled. My palms are sweating and I feel like my hair's getting frizzy on principle, just to make me feel worse.

  Would Damien be home? If my thoughts leave my own misery, they instantly glide into the realm of what to think of Damien.

  I try to look out the window and concentrate on anything other than my predicament … or my captor. The spires of the city start to come into view as we get closer to Manhattan, and I try to focus on that background feature and none of the people. I have the overwhelming urge to be alone, not for some secret action in my panties this time, but just to feel like I could finally exhale the metaphorical breath I’ve been holding since my father bartered me away. I guess I should be trying to make SOS signals with my eyelids or something, but the only things I blink are tears. I desperately try to keep those at bay, and I succeed.

  What the hell is in store for me?

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been in Manhattan. I never liked it before and I can’t find a reason to like it now. I rest one of my sweaty palms onto my leg, wiping the hand on my jeans, and placing it on the cool leather of the seat next to me. I think the temperature change on my hand might calm me. If I didn't feel like it would make me look like a dumb dog or something, I would press my face against the glass. I just want something to distract me from ... I don’t know what. That is it. The uncertainty is overwhelming and I need to be able to get my bearings.

  When we arrive, I'm absolutely shocked by how imposing the stonework of the building is. I thought every little idiosyncrasy of the buildings in New York were devoid of anything interesting to me. But there is something about this one, despite being surrounded by so much hustle and bustle of an obviously affluent crowd that makes the building seem to be a step above everything else around it. I looked up to the very top floor of the building, where expansive windows stand stark in a tasteful showmanship against the rest of the building's features.

  I have a feeling that is a penthouse. That it's Damien's. It just feels like his, right away. He is the king here in his Manhattan castle, I'm sure of it. I feel an involuntary shiver overtake my body for just a second before the driver opens my door. I step out, taking the hand the driver politely offers me. No spark there. Guess I'm a one man kind of ho, and that is fine with me.

  When I start to recall the way I felt sitting on Damien’s lap, how hard I'd come last night thinking about him touching me, I'm almost embarrassed even though no one knows what I'm thinking. Still, I can feel my face heat because I’m blushing.

  Of course I am, and I feel embarrassed because even if no one else knows, I know that the instant I think about Damien being the king of his big penthouse, I feel a gush of arousal dampen my panties. I don’t care about opul
ence, though there is certain to be plenty on display.

  It's Damien who keeps me in this constant state of arousal. How can he have so much power over my body when he's barely touched me, barely knows me? I don't know him or his intentions at all, and yet here I am, enraptured.

  When we step inside the building, we enter the elevator and the driver uses a special badge, and code, to access the floor he selects.

  Definitely the penthouse. I suck in a breath, smoothing my hands out over my jeans with some flailing hope that I will look presentable if Damien is home. My mind races with no single, well formed thought. What am I walking into? It is such a strange sensation to know that my whole life has changed, yet I still have no idea how, or even why.

  Damien

  Fuck. I took Sarah. She's mine now. I have her.

  So what the fuck do I do with her now that she’s standing in front of me, freshly delivered by my driver to my penthouse?

  I know what I'd like to do with her. Bend over her tiny little body and start exploring just how tight her pussy is with one hand, and spank those soft moons of her ass with the other. Feel her tremble around me.

  Taking her from her shitty no good parents was one thing. Owning her as some kind of collateral is another.

  I know that the Virgin Market is the best way to recoup the money...

  But I don't want to think about fucking money right now. In fact, I'm not. I'm thinking about her creamy thighs spread for me. Making her hold them open while her fingers tremble and her pussy is on display for me. Squeezing her tits until she cries out but not stopping until tears stain her face in hot streaks. Making her thighs as red as her face, and then spanking her pussy.