A Virgin Enslaved (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance)

by Artemis Hunt

  “Oh, no one you’d know. Old friends. From college.”

  “Great.” He smiles.

  “Yeah.”

  The elevator doors open and I dive out before he can ask any more questions. I head swiftly for the parking lot elevators. But scoot, he follows me. Of course, I berate myself. His car is parked down there too.

  “You don’t have a car, do you, Beth?”

  I am so not good at this.

  “No, not yet.” I stop in my tracks. “I think I have to go to the washroom first.”

  Sully is a congenial man. Nondescript. But the first inklings of amused suspicion light up his features.

  “You’re not avoiding me, are you, Beth?”

  “No, of course not. Why would you think that? I really have to go, Mr. Sully. I mean Steve.”

  I scuttle away to the washroom in the lobby. My palms are already damp.

  Shoot. My date hasn’t officially started, and I’m already a mess.

  CHRIS

  Actually, I don’t believe she said ‘yes’.

  But I totally believe her when she said she was a virgin.

  Fuck. How do I deal with that? I haven’t had a virgin since I was in tenth grade. None of the girls I knew after that were virgins.

  She certainly wasn’t a virgin when we both seduced each other back then.

  Beth is nervous when she gets into my official company car – a Merc. I don’t have a company driver, even though I’m entitled to one. I like cars too much to let someone else drive them.

  “Relax,” I say, opening the door for her. “I’m not going to bite.”

  With her face flushed like that, she looks good enough to eat, actually. It’s going to take everything I have to control myself. I’m not good at controlling myself when it comes to sex. Taylor calls me aggressive. I would rather think of myself as exact.

  During our drive back to my penthouse, we talk about inconsequential things, all the while skirting the issue on what she really wants to talk about – as to what we are going to do when we get to my place.

  “It’s a surprise,” I say, smiling.

  She smiles back, but I can see the unease on her pretty features. A pang fleets through my chest. Is this what I do to innocent young girls? Make them scared of me?

  “It’s going to be OK,” I assure her. “No intercourse, remember?”

  “It makes me nervous when you call it ‘intercourse’,” she says, not meeting my eyes.

  “Oh? What should I call it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had such a frank sex conversation before.”

  Of course.

  “I was just trying to make the distinction between the actual sex act and other stuff we can do.”

  I can tell this is too much for her. Inwardly, I’m shaking my head bemusedly. Is she really such an innocent? And yet she’s here, with me – ready to be initiated. But I’ve been told I do that to women all the time.

  Mom would have been proud of me, but Dad hates it.

  We take my private elevator up to my penthouse. I can tell from her awed expression that she’s impressed with my interior decorating – not that I had any hand in it, of course, having hired an expensive designer. But I’ll admit it’s impressive, and it should be, because I spent several million on the furniture and art and fixtures and everything else in between. As a result, my penthouse looks like a luxe baroque hotel suite.

  “It’s . . . nice,” she says a little breathlessly, taking it all in.

  “It’s livable. You want a cocktail before dinner?”

  “OK.”

  I go to the bar and mix us two margaritas. I’m pretty good at mixing stuff, having worked a stint as a bartender when I was in college. Not that I needed the money, of course, but everyone else (equally rich) was working at some thing or other just to boast that they had experience at being plebeians. Being ‘middle-class normal’ was the in thing to be.

  We sit at the lounge with the tastefully upholstered armchairs and sofas. Beth still seems ill at ease. She’s wearing a demure blouse and skirt. None too expensive stuff, but they look good on her. She’s got a good body. In fact, scratch that. She’s got an amazing body. I don’t like girls who have anorexia – there’s no mass there, nothing to grab and hold. Beth’s body – under those clothes – is just right.

  “See? I haven’t jumped you yet,” I say.

  She manages a laugh.

  “Do you want dinner?”

  “OK.”

  We bring our margaritas to the dining room. My housekeeper, Rita, has left some pasta for us and set two dining places. There’s white wine chilling in a half-melted ice bucket. So we were late back from work.

  We tuck in.

  “It’s delicious,” she says.

  She has a hearty appetite. I love it. I believe it will extend to bed . . . if she cuts herself loose, of course.

  After we finish dinner, she helps me put the dishes in the sink. She starts to run the tap, but I say, “No need. Rita will get that tomorrow.”

  “I’ll bet you haven’t washed a plate in over a decade,” she says, smiling.

  “More like two.” I laugh. “Seriously, if I didn’t have a housekeeper, I’d live off paper plates and restaurants, not to mention Chinese takeout.”

  “So you’re a typical guy.”

  “Yeah, I’m not that different from your average couch potato beer guzzler.”

  We go back to the lounge with our wine glasses and the bottle. I fill her glass.

  “I don’t drink that much,” she confesses. “This is the most I’ve drunk in one sitting.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I know you think I’m a hick.”

  “I don’t think you’re a hick. I just think you’re a twenty-three year old young woman who hasn’t been exposed to the real world.”

  “That depends on your definition of the real world. I come from a real world too,” she points out. “And my world is every bit as real as yours.”

  “Well put.” I ponder this, and find it surprisingly true. I like being surprised like this. It reveals facets about Beth I never knew.

  After a while, she says, “So . . . what do we do now?”

  She’s wringing her hands.

  This is when I have to take charge. I don’t really have a game plan. I never do. I don’t plan out seductions like some sort of strategic roadmap – do this, and that, and you’ll have her dropping her panties at the end of it. It doesn’t work that way for me.

  I say, “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there. Tonight is just . . . well, getting to know each other. In the physical sense, it’s for you to get to know me.”

  She furrows her brow. “How so?”

  “Just stay right there.”

  It’s impromptu, as such things are. I stand up. I’ve taken off my jacket, and I’m still in my shirt and well cut Tom Ford pants.

  I begin to unbutton my shirt.

  “What are you doing?” she says, alarmed.

  “Stripping. For you. Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you. I just want you to get comfortable with my body.”

  She looks panicked for a moment, but when I shrug my shirt off, her eyes go round. I always get that look from women and quite a few men. I work out, and so I know I have a great body. My chest and shoulders are broad and well-muscled – but not too bodybuilder heavy. My abs are an eight pack.

  I unzip my pants, and I can see her hands clutching the armrests and her fingernails digging into the fabric. I’m wearing briefs underneath. I wasn’t hard throughout all of dinner, but now that I’m undressing and in an escalating sexual mode, my cock starts to fill with my sap. I rip off my briefs, and it rises like the head of a rearing snake.

  I have a huge penis and it’s impressive, but for a virgin, I understand that it can be scary. As soon as it reveals itself, Beth can’t take her eyes off it.

  “I’m not going to ask you what you think.” My voice comes out more hoarsely than I intended. And no wonde
r. I’m as tumescent as a protruding outcrop of rock.

  I want her. I want her so badly. I want to go to her, kneel before her and take her in my arms. But there she sits, speechless – in wonder. I’m beginning to doubt she’s ever seen a naked man before.

  She says, a little breathlessly, “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  I seat myself on the couch. We stare at each other. Her eyes rake me in – up and down, lingering especially on my cock.

  I say, “Do you want to sit next to me? I’m not going to touch you today unless you want me to.”

  She hesitates only for a while before she gets up and comes over.

  I hold my hands up. “Look inside the drawer of the table.” I nod towards the stylized coffee table at the center of the armchair arrangement.

  “Why? What’s inside?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She’s curious as she opens the left drawer. And gasps when she sees what’s inside.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Put them on me.”

  BETH

  Gingerly, I take the handcuffs out. They are the police procedural type – cold metal and clinking chains.

  I turn to Chris again. The sight of him naked is like the sun in my eyes – beatifically dazzling. I don’t think I have ever seen such a beautiful man in my life. He should be immortalized in sculpture, on frescoes, on naughty calendars.

  “You mean . . . on your wrists?”

  He sits up, still seated, and puts his wrists behind his firmly muscled back. God, he’s beautiful. I’ll never stop thinking that. He’s the epitome of sex himself. I mean, look at him. You can’t help but think of sex when you look at him, and I’m thinking of myself entwined with that wondrous body right now.

  But he’s bad news, my inner voice hisses.

  I know, I know, I know, but I still badly want to touch him.

  “Are you sure about this?” I say.

  “Yes.” He stands up, his back to me. He has a tattoo on his lower back, inscribed in some runic language I can’t decipher. I have a mind to ask him about it later, except that he’s distracting me in the most distressing of ways.

  His tight, tight buttocks are at my eye level, and they are quite a marvel to behold. He spies me looking at them, and turns to grin. “Do you want to touch them?”

  I blush. I’m frazzled by such frank sex talk. Maybe it’s a good thing that I put these cuffs on him. That way –

  “You don’t have to worry about me losing control,” he says, finishing my thoughts. “You’re the one in control now.”

  He says this in a significant tone. I take it that it’s usually the other way around with him where women are concerned.

  My hands tremble as I circle his wrists with the cuffs. I lightly brush against his buttocks as I do so – accidentally, mind you. A thrill of deep desire courses through me.

  Click.

  He’s now manacled like a common prisoner.

  He remains standing as I place my palms upon his butt cheeks. His flesh is warm and soft and hard and taut all at the same time. I can hear him take a sharp breath as I traverse the contours of his flesh, feeling its texture and tensile strength. I roam my hands down the backs of his thighs. A shudder seizes the area between my legs.

  “Do you want me to sit?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  Carefully, he seats himself again, hands behind him. His penis is ramrod stiff – so masculine that I daren’t gaze too long at it. His arms are nicely veined with gym pumping. His chest glistens under the warm yellow light, and his nipples are stiff and very erotic.

  “Kiss me,” he says.

  Emboldened by his obvious captivity, I lean over to kiss his mouth. He immediately seizes my lips with his own. I can’t help but be drawn into him – his warmth, his intoxicating scent. My hands fasten onto his pectorals and sweep down the silky hardness of his muscles. Down, down to his abdomen, where his ridges lie. And he’s kissing me savagely, devouring my mouth like I’m ambrosia, and I’m getting lost in him again.

  I’ve been kissed before in high school and college – but not like this.

  His penis comes between us like a sentient rod, and my right hand moves on its own volition down to it. I have never touched a man’s penis before, but with his tongue wrapped up in mine and my sex on slow burn, I can’t help but touch it. OK, more than touch it. I grab his thick flesh – it’s like a reflex action. So this is what a cock feels like. It’s nice and firm and springy and sordid and everything that sends electric tingles up my arm and into my spine.

  He moans against my mouth, and it’s sexy as hell.

  “Stroke it,” he murmurs onto my lips, “play with it. Do what you want with it.”

  He’s supposed to be the one in a vulnerable position, all cuffed up, but it’s like I’m enslaved to him instead. I can’t take my hand off his cock and his ripe testicles below it. I spend a considerable time feeling him up everywhere, all the while kissing his lips, clean jawline and neck.

  “Don’t leave me a hickey,” he teases.

  As I roam my lips down his throat and sternum, I plant a kiss in between his collarbones.

  “Mmmmm, don’t stop,” he says.

  I would like to kiss his nipples, but I hold back, suddenly feeling shy. My cheeks are aflame. What must he think of me? Here I am, his PA, and I’m behaving like a first class slut.

  He says in a husky voice, “Have you ever given a guy head before?”

  No. Funny thing, I balked at that in college. Figured it was one step closer to sinning.

  “Do you want to try?” he asks me.

  I stiffen. My hand on his shaft trembles.

  “OK, not tonight,” he says, understanding. “Do you want to finish me off?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He nods at his magnificent straining organ.

  “Do you want to give me a hand job?”

  A hand job? Oh yes. I’m innocent, but not that innocent.

  “I-I don’t know how.”

  He’s patient. “I’ll teach you. Grab it and squeeze it real hard. No . . . harder. You don’t have to treat it with such care. I can take it. Now move your hand back and forth. That’s right faster. Faster.”

  I do all that he tells me. He tips his head back, closes his eyes and groans as I increase my rhythm and pressure. He’s such a sexy sight, handcuffed and naked and completely at my mercy. As I go on, his panting escalates and his wonderful chest rises and falls.

  “Make sure you rub the head,” he murmurs. “Oh you’re good, baby, so good.”

  His praise tinges my cheeks. I ascertain that I include his enormous mushroom-shaped head in my ministrations. My hand becomes a blur, and my forearms begin to ache as his breathing becomes more labored. His face contorts in a mask of ecstasy.

  “Don’t stop, baby, don’t stop.”

  My own breathing dissolves into a series of pants. And finally, he utters a soft cry and ejaculates in a wide arc into the air. The spatter is furious upon the table and carpet.

  “Kiss me,” he gasps.

  I lean over, still holding his spurting organ in my wet, sticky hand and kiss him. He ravages my mouth back – a melding of hot, wet tongues and moving lips.

  “Oh baby, how I wish that cock was inside you,” he whispers.

  I won’t pretend to deny I wish it too. Though a sliver of dread – of something so huge entering me – taints the heady anticipation.

  I hold him until he subsides into a series of shudders and trickles. His semen is everywhere – white against the wood of the table, against the green and gold carpet, against the luxe upholstery of the couch. I have never seen so much semen in my life, and it exudes a pungent smell of virility and deep desire.

  “You going to leave this for Rita to clean up?” I ask in horror.

  He laughs.

  “Nah. I’ll do it myself. Now, if only I can find the keys to the handcuffs.”

  BETH

  I think that when you’v
e given someone a hand job, you automatically become more comfortable with them. At least that’s how it is for me.

  So when Chris suggests a visit to the spa after work on our second day ‘together’, I don’t bat an eyelid, even though I’ve never stepped into a spa in my entire life.

  “What do they do in spas?” I ask, knowing I stand the risk of sounding like a total dweeb.

  He grins at me and hands me a leaflet. The receptionist has stars in her eyes as she gazes adoringly at him. I suppose he gets that a lot. I wonder what it’s like to go through your adult life being objectified, but I suppose he doesn’t even notice it anymore.

  I peruse the leaflet and the list of body treatments – scrubs with various organic materials like aloe vera, coconut husks and walnuts, massages, facials, manicures and pedicures, oxygen therapy, hydrogen therapy.

  I didn’t know there were so many things you could do with base elements.

  “I’ve arranged for us to have a massage today,” Chris announces.

  Oh? Without asking me what I wanted? Maybe this is the controlling part of him creeping out into the open. He is a CEO after all. They have to maintain some modicum of control, right?

  “OK,” I say. I don’t know what I want anyway, so I shouldn’t be making a fuss about it.

  A hostess ushers us into a dimly lit room with two massage beds side by side. Soft background music pipes through, and an ethereal scent of sandalwood and other exotic spices wafts from a brazier in one corner. On the massage beds, soft white towels are folded neatly.

  “Your masseuses will be right with you,” the hostess says. “Please undress and lie face down on the beds.”

  She flashes me a look of envy.

  Something occurs to me.

  “Do I have to undress for this massage?”

  “Hell, yes.” Chris starts to unbutton his shirt, an action I don’t think I will ever tire of watching.

  I’m suddenly self-conscious. Chris has never seen me naked before, but then I’ve never seen him naked before yesterday, and that’s the point of this whole seven-day exercise, right?

  Chris takes pity on my blushes.