Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  The Paris Opera Company was notorious for the routine sexual exploitation of their apprentice dancers. This was common knowledge even amongst the public though paintings of Degas and other much admired artists who used the backdrop of the ballet and its performers as a subject for their paintings. In exchange for financial support…and important auditions, nearly impossible for would-be ballerinas to obtain on their own…the young protégées would provide carnal services to their patrons.

  Essentially, the young females would whore themselves out to the highest bidder.

  This exchange was the only way for dancers to get ahead in an extremely competitive profession. In plain talk, the young apprentices became high-class prostitutes to rich old men for the grueling “privilege” of dancing.

  None of this shocked me. What took me aback was Mr. Simmons thinking those terms acceptable to me. Then again, he had no knowledge that I had come to him a virgin.

  The onus was on me here. I had to ask myself – how much did I really wish to dance? What price would I pay? What cost was too dear? Did I really wish to sell myself all over again to another man?

  And how did Mr. Simmons fit in all this? Would my body be owned by two men simultaneously? Would they fuck me on alternative weekends or did they plan on sharing me? Or perhaps Mr. Simons was selling me outright for the sake of making a neat profit he could then funnel back into his gambling den?

  A problem amongst many here was this:

  I loved Mr. Simmons. My devotion was not a cheap and shoddy thing easily traded for the sake of an opportunity. If all I could ever hope to be was his whore, that place in his life would satisfy me.

  But not if I had to share that limited space with a mistress about whom Mr. Simmons seemed to care a great deal. That field was just too crowded for me.

  Asking him directly about the situation was out of the question. Too indelicate. Mr. Simmons could fuck me while I stood on my head but talking about it?

  Too, too terribly déclassé.

  Without making myself appear gauche, I needed to find out where I stood with Mr. Simmons. If there was no chance of my having a future with him, any kind of a future, I might just as well throw in my lot with Mr. Claret.

  Opportunistic?

  Yes. But it was the only practical thing for me to do under the circumstances. I had put aside every penny of my earnings thus far and it was still not enough for me to start anew somewhere else. I simply could not get by all on my own financially without a paying position guaranteed me. Those were the grim realities. As an orphan and an unwed woman, I knew all about such hard choices that must be made in life.

  * * * *

  As I set my hair to rights with a new silver comb set gifted to me from Mr. Simmons, a stern but generous master, he came up behind me as I sat at my bedchamber dressing table. Because his visit was unexpected, I was only partially dressed in an open satin dressing gown thrown hastily over an undone camisole.

  From the waist down, I was nude.

  My sluttish disarray embarrassed me horribly. Ordinarily, I spent hours trying to look my best for him, primping and grooming – though, at his instruction, not shaving my underarms and legs and mons. He wanted me as Mother Nature intended, as animalistic and ungoverned as possible. He was quite strict about my toilette in this respect. This morning, he caught me unaware and about to douche from our dawn lovemaking session. Consequently, I had left off everything in my lower regions in preparedness.

  Taking no chances on my conceiving a child, Mr. Simmons began using rubbers after our first time together. But, only a week prior, when a prophylactic broke, he had also insisted upon me douching, a horribly sloppy process. A careful man, he had shown me how it was done, positioning me naked and squirming astride the commode, my legs spread wide, my bare breasts shifting, as he pumped me full of a homemade spermicidal solution. Ghastly stuff, ghastly process, and it usually had to be repeated directly afterwards anyway. All my wiggles excited him, all his touching aroused me, and there we would both go again, against the wall of the WC.

  Generally speaking, I was rubbed raw down there all the time. His cock fared little better.

  As for today…I thought, we were done clawing at one another, at least for the morning, and so there I sat, partially unclad, about to repair my snarled hair before douching.

  “I must be off,” he told me, dropping an absentminded kiss on my shoulder, where the strap of my undone chemise loosely dangled. “Not to wait up for me. Mine will be a late return. While I am gone, why not catch up on the sleep I have been depriving you of lately?”

  Without him having to tell me so, I knew he was off to see his married mistress…in the middle of the day, in the middle of the work week, in the middle of our usual time together. I had only just given him my all in bed, and he had given his to me, and he was now leaving to see another woman

  The sudden flare of jealousy took me by surprise. Second to my love for him, I had never before experienced such a strong emotion directed at another human being as at her, my completion for his affections, the woman I had never met and knew little about.

  He rarely mentioned his mistress. And when he did, it was always in a glowing if abbreviated fashion.

  His offhandedness hurt. As to my catching up on sleep during his absence – what a cold-blooded thing to think, never mind say. Did he know me so little?

  I loved him! I would toss and turn all night thinking of those two together.

  Besides hurtful, his laissez-faire attitude also terrified me. How could he be so…so…lukewarm about missing our usual greedy session in bed…or anywhere else…during the late afternoon? Could it be…was it possible…was he over me so soon? Tired of fucking me?

  Hardly tepid, our times together could burn down the place, and this building was made of brick. Only recently he had broken that damn rubber on me with all his pounding! And he still had bitten into my nipples with noisy gusto and continued to enter me hard, as if he could not bring himself to stop, ruined condom or not.

  What was I doing wrong?

  He never had to ask me to suck him off. No need. I always volunteered. I had even gone down on him while we were both at work, getting on my knees in the communal employee pantry, no lock on the door, his hands in my hair making a mess of my neat chignon, the sounds of the roulette wheel coming clearly through from the other side of the wall.

  And that not to say, it was always about me doing him. He was forever diving between my legs as well.

  I loved it all. Doing it, receiving it. The odd places he wanted it. The threat of discovery in public places. The soreness of excess. I loved everything about it with him.

  Evidently, it – or rather, I – was not enough for him, however. He must have wanted something from me that I had thus far failed to provide. And so he sought another outlet elsewhere for his unflagging virility.

  Evidently, our earlier coming together at dawn today had been insufficient to meet his needs. Evidently, I left him craving something else. And so, off he went to his mistress at noon.

  Miffed as anything, I tossed my head at my reflection in the mirror. I was not having it. Minimally, I was not taking his cavalier attitude lying down. Indeed, I was determined that if anyone was to appease his sexual hunger, it would damn well be me. By the time he left this chamber, he would be quite unable to walk, never mind get it up…

  Her.

  “Leaving! Really? So soon?” I purred.

  Still seated upon the velvet tufted seat, I suggestively parted my satin dressing gown down the front. I was the queen of subtlety when I had to be.

  Despite my sneaky approach, he was far from stupid. And very observant. He understood very well what I was up to. Would he allow for my seduction?

  He raised a brow. “I suppose I could delay my departure a few minutes…if there were something you wanted of me. Is there?”

  His tone was good natured, jovial even, but beneath the light humor lurked an element of hard-to-digest truth:

 
My carnal need for him.

  Most definitely, I needed him more than he needed me. Because I loved him. Love made all the difference. Love gave me strength but love also weakened me. Just look at me now! I never used to be so susceptible to hurt, but now I was. Because I loved him, he had the power to wound me deeply.

  Letting onto those feelings of vulnerability was not my way. Why would I ever wish to make myself an object of his pity, of his derision, of his scorn? Why would I chance losing his respect that way?

  Speaking of which…what about my own self-respect? Why endanger my view of myself as a capable woman with tears?

  I had too much pride to beg him to stay.

  Seducing him was another matter entirely. Seducing him would empower me. But only if I succeeded in the seduction. Failing here would only make me feel like a worse failure.

  “I would make it worth your while, sir.” I fluttered my lashes flirtatiously.

  I never expected him to take me seriously. My intent was to keep things light and airy, even humorous, no pressure applied. He must have had a bellyful of pressure in his line of work already without my adding to it, I decided. What I offered him was down and dirty fun, no strings attached, a release from all the responsibilities of his business.

  “You always do make it worth my while, Emma, and that was not my meaning before. Do you need something from me?”

  He was talking about a spanking or some other form of discipline.

  Oh, God. He would bring me so low here. He would force me to say the words.

  I hung my head. “Yes, sir. I do need something from you.”

  He would go to her, his married mistress and never look back…unless I offered him something he would not get from her, my competitor for his affections, a nice respectable woman…apart from her affair with my lover.

  I stood. No hurry. Setting the mood was everything, and creating the proper atmosphere called for taking one’s time. It was what I had once done on the stage. In this scene, he would be able to look his full as I let my dressing gown fall to floor of my whore’s bedchamber.

  And it was my whore’s bedchamber. Though he had never before kept an in-house prostitute for his own use here, there was no mistaking that I was his whore and that this was my room, close to his so he might call on me whenever he felt the urge.

  Urge, not need. Urgency was not the same as privation. Mr. Simmons would never admit to needing anything or anyone. Damn him! Need was strictly my department in our relationship.

  That was not right either. I must get my definitions straight. Silly me, anyway, for thinking what we had between us was something as personal as a relationship.

  We had no relationship. We were certainly not having an affair – that would be what he had going on between himself and his mistress. Ours was only a temporary business agreement, and a cold one at that, I thought resentfully. Despite the open door between us, we shared no bedchamber suite. Point of fact – and at his polite insistence – I returned to this room, the chamber he assigned to me, his whore, every evening after we coupled. I never slept with him throughout the night. If I suspected…or if he let it be courteously known…that he would require my services again before our next time together in the morning…I would tiptoe back into his master suite before dawn so he could have me without bestirring himself. Then, he would have me once again as the sun rose in the sky.

  That was what happened today. Three times between just after midnight and breakfast, and now he was off to visit his piece of arse on the side.

  Not without taking a memory of my arse with him, he was not!

  Chapter Fourteen

  I caught his eyes in the glass. Once again I was situated before a mirror – there was no escaping them lately – and I watched his expression darken with desire. When he looked away, I smiled at my reflection knowingly.

  I had done that to him. I had made his face go dark. Not his nice wedded mistress. Me! His un-nice whore…until such time as he rid himself of me.

  Sooner rather than later unless I did something about it.

  “What can I offer you as an inducement for your delay, sir?” I asked coyly and spread my legs a little. Nothing brash. Nothing overt. Just a genteel spreading of my bare thighs. I was only wearing two garments – the dressing gown and the camisole – and the latter left nothing to the imagination, undone as it was and very nearly transparent. If that was not enough of an enticement, my already full bosom swelled under the instigation of his stare, the nipples popping out into plain view, the bruised tips lengthening before his eyes.

  Were the nipples always so scandalously large and upright? Had he ever seen them in full light, the gold hoops inserted through the middles of the tips catching the rising sun and sparkling? Usually I was either in dim light or total darkness when I was with him.

  The sight startled even me. I just looked so…well…promiscuous. Ready for a fuck. A hard fuck.

  I returned the new silver comb to the dressing table. I made no move to face him. Instead, I shrugged out of the dressing gown I wore and turned even more completely away from him.

  As I arched my spine, my hand went to my bared arse, a long and slow stroke, my pose lifting the rounded buttocks high.

  He liked that rounded part of my body a great deal, spooning against me there, his cock straying there, nudging me there, giving a swift intake of breath afterwards and then dutifully apologizing for daring to enter the crevice just the tiniest bit with the head of his huge erect cock before slowly and regretfully withdrawing.

  For what did he apologize, I always wondered? For carrying things too far?

  Silly, man. Nothing was too far, not with him. Love smoothed out the bumps of difference between two separate people. Love made everything all right, even the illegal by law and the forbidden by religion.

  And he craved the act. I could tell.

  “Care for something different, sir? Quite all right if you do, sir.”

  That question drew his attention fast. Of course, he knew exactly what different act I was referring to then. No need to spell anything out. The question I posed was a mere formality. That we should step across all civilized boundaries was a fait accompli. But suspecting that naming it added to the taboo allure, I did spell it out for him.

  Almost. No reason for vulgarity. Unless, there was…

  “I am in a decadent mood, sir.” I tilted lower, a graceful and ladylike descent which raised my buttocks higher again, displaying the full globes to full, naked advantage, a naughty seductress attracting the man she desired. “Any objections?”

  Of course, he would not object. A man expected sodomy from his whore. Ergo, Mr. Simmons would expect sodomy from me. And I had failed to deliver.

  I was issuing him a direct invitation now. And he was too much the gentleman to refuse me, especially if I couched the invitation in need. Mine, of course. Mr. Simmons refused to believe he needed anything.

  “Please, sir.”

  “No objections,” he said softly. “If you need it.”

  And so, just as I suspected, he put it back on me. Forcing me to show my need while remaining aloof from all such human frailty himself.

  My lips trembled as I replied, “Do me hard. Please?”

  “Do what hard, Emma?”

  “Me. Do me hard, sir. No holding back.” I took a deep breath and said the words: “I submit to you completely, sir. Cock my arse deep.”

  Always courteous, he removed the tufted chair from in front of my dressing table. It was unquestionably lovely but nevertheless in our way.

  He flattened his hand against my camisole covered back. Through the gauzy fabric, his palm felt hot. Not moist though. He was still in control.

  Recognizing darkness in me, a darkness that matched his own, I aimed for him to lose that control for good with me. Whatever it took, no matter what I must relinquish, no matter how many stripes of flesh from my body I must lose, how much I must bleed, I aimed to break him free of all his ridiculous restraints.

&n
bsp; He would sweat. For me. No restrictions in love, even when the love started off one-sided.

  “Stay where you are. The dressing table will do.” Then, “Ever this before?” the careful man asked me.

  “Yes, sir,” I lied. “More than once.”

  “Same partner?” He lowered his hand to my waist.

  As waists went, mine was dainty. A two-handed span, with thumbs out-stretched, should encircle it…if they were his calloused hands. All my dancing had tightened my muscles and contributed to my middle’s diminutive circumference. Plus, there had not been all that much to eat in my life…not in the orphanage, not at the gentleman farmer’s estate where daily meals for the staff were limited to one, not in the boarding house where I could barely afford the rent, never mind food. Three meals a day had never been my experience. And now that I was here, where food was abundant, my appetite remained consistently small.

  Save for him. My appetite for sex with him was humiliatingly large.

  “No, not the same partner, sir. Different men.” I shrugged and my breasts shifted again, becomingly so, I thought, in the mirror. “I grew up rough and started young with men, sir. And besides, I liked it. All of it. Though I never received money for any of it. I was never a whore. ”

  When telling a lie, giving details lent authenticity to the false claim. One was more likely to be believed that way.

  At my reply, his expression remained impassive behind me in the mirror. No shock at all registered when he said, “Still…you will need lubrication to ease the entry. Have you cream?”

  I reached for a mildly scented herbal variety that I used as a body lotion, picked it up, and showed him my choice. “Will this do, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  I placed my hands atop the glass tabletop, my breasts swinging a bit as I hiked up my hips, leaning over into a rounded position for him. “Will this also do, sir?”

  “Yes. But the top, the undergarment…”

  “Shall I remove the camisole? Is it getting in your way?”