Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  Fashion designers, a pet peeve of mine. Whatever were they thinking, at once dressing women provocatively on the outside but with the protective design of medieval armor underneath?

  The tremendous size of a horsehair bustle served no other purpose save to draw male attention to a female’s rear quarters, this while a metal cage guarded that region like the great wall of China. Was I supposed to become scandalized when men actually accepted the unspoken invitation and looked?

  Well, not me, specifically. Men never looked at me like that. But generally speaking. Rather hypocritical, I thought for women to wear clothing that called to mind the rear of a horse as it did with a bustle and then bluster when men wished to saddle up and take a ride.

  And the bustle was not the only wardrobe offense. Designers regularly sent out mixed messages. The corset was another. Mine acted as a shield against encroachment – all while projecting my small breasts forward as if on a curio display shelf. Little wonder current fashion trends confused men and women alike.

  Still, confusing or not, outrage was to be expected…or at least pretended to…in this situation. “Sir – you will let me go at once!”

  “Your body pulsates against me. I feel your tremors. Which shall I believe – your lips or your response?”

  “Please no,” I whispered when he began drawing up my skirts, a rear attack that set me to squirming as my hem inched up the back of my hose-encased legs. That I felt.

  “Stop,” I panted and arched my jaw, my head waywardly tipping back against him.

  My lack of consent?

  Dubious at best.

  “These have to go,” he pronounced, toying with the unmentionable’s waistband. “Drawers only get in the way.”

  My somber gown was now up around my waist, a multitude of voluminous petticoats – in the heat of the moment, the exact number escaped me – with it. He first untied, then pushed downward on my drawers. Propelled to my knees, the modest garment hovered at the garters that held up my silk stockings.

  “Open your legs,” he rasped.

  The man was indeed a poet. Who could refuse such a lyrical request?

  Me! After years of self-inflicted reclusiveness, I was made of sterner stuff. I could easily have refused…had I wanted to.

  I jerked my head once, and only once, in the negative, the only objection I could summon. I was too far lost to the moment to resist any further.

  And so I did not. Resist, that is. I did wonder, however, if he could see my triangle of fair curls there at the notch? And if so, was my slickness also obvious?

  I had grown wetter with every liberty he took. This in no way mortified me. What did that say about the perversity of my nature?

  “More denials of your nature?” he sighed. “Very well, little peeper. If you need to be taken to enjoy yourself, I can do that too.” He smoothed his hand over my naked belly, lowered that palm to my tightly closed thighs, before ingratiating the thick fingers at the top of my mons, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, persuasively rubbing my privates, until they…what?

  Shone, I guessed.

  Oh, I was persuaded. Very persuaded. And trying desperately not to show it.

  “Open to me,” he growled. “Your slit. Open it.”

  “No,” I said half-heartedly, the best I could offer.

  “Do it, or I do it for you.”

  The provocation was just so strong. Irresistible. Fighting against it and him was too much for me.

  Crumbling under his insistence like a stale cookie, I splayed myself.

  Immediately he cradled me there. Right there. At what he called the slit. His thumb moving back and forth over my cleft for a torturously long time before delving me shallowly. Once again, his touch remained only at the very top.

  I lost my breath. I did! Went weak in the knees, too. Could hardly stand upright as he investigated a small protrusion about which I had no prior knowledge…save that I was very glad of having it now, whatever it was.

  “Ohohoh,” I murmured thrashing about in an unladylike manner, no longer paying lip service to fighting against the sensation or him. Who knew women could be such carnal creatures?

  Him. He knew. Certainly not me. I knew nothing.

  The little information I had on physical congress from reputable sources – in other words, not pubescent orphan lads – I had accidentally overheard and those salacious tales had only been alluded to in broad strokes. Most had been presented as wifely duty, an obligation that came along with the wedding band, not expected to be enjoyed by the woman, only endured for the sake of producing male heirs.

  That differed not at all from how I saw the rest of life. I viewed most everything in those same uninspired terms – a to-do list one must accomplish by day’s end.

  Not this, though. This was no duty.

  “You must not, sir,” I found the breath to say while wiggling, dancing uninhibitedly, under his knowing touch. “Indeed, you must not.”

  If my first protest sounded unconvincing to my own ears why ever did I believe the second one would be more so? My body simply was not making an effort to deny him.

  “Wet,” he said in a boastful tone. “Christ. Dripping wet. The slit is so open, I can get it in you with hardly any effort. Just slip it inside, put it right where you need me.”

  Oh, I did need him, and specifically for this purpose, and I was beginning to understand precisely where.

  Do it, do it, do it!

  That need he spoke of would crush me otherwise. Where would I be then?

  Hardly even human. I would turn into something pathetic, a creature with no more intelligence than an aching nerve looking to be stroked.

  As I came undone, my tightly braided hair also escaped its captivity. Without my knowledge, he must have released the coronet by removing its unforgiving hairpins that kept the style in place. The escaped strands fell over my shoulders, over my face as well.

  Like a wild animal trapped in a cage, I shook my head back and forth, and snorted unintelligible sounds as my never-ever trimmed hair whipped across my features, covering my eyes. The little I could see before diminished yet again. I was blind to everything save this, save what I felt him do to me.

  Coitus without the benefit of marriage was wrong, but never had something wrong felt so good. His wrongful fingering of my private regions – particularly the insistent pressure he applied there on top – was unlike anything I had ever experienced before and would doubtlessly ever experience again.

  And still, because it was the expected thing to do, I pleaded, “Please, sir. I am a decent woman.”

  “Hush,” he crooned, walking me to the wall, guiding me there with his hands, hands going everywhere, lingering on improper areas untouched by anyone else since my childhood, hardly touched by even me now. One thumb was still shallowly buried in my privates, and so he lifted the other hand from my bosom – Why could men not have three hands? – to arrange me as he liked.

  What he liked was me bellied up to the wall. Not that I saw the wall, not with the dark and my fallen hair blinding me, but I felt its resistance against my bare flesh. There was no place for me to go, to run, to hide, to escape.

  “Better this way, more support for you, more control for me,” he apprised me, smoothing his palm over my naked flesh, up and down and over my bare belly, his touch concentrating on the lower regions, to where my legs were parted.

  Seductive. Hypnotic. Possessive.

  “Without a rubber,” he added, “this way in is the only way.”

  Once again, I said half-heartedly, “But, sir, please, no…”

  A pathetic entreaty he ignored in favor of ordering, “Lean forward, bent arms resting against the wall, and bring your hips back. No, make no attempt to arrange your hair. There is no reason for you to see your surroundings. Just listen to my voice. My voice will tell you of my wants.”

  Oh, God. Completely under the influence of his authority, of his male power and prerogative, I was dependent upon him for my very orientation in the room.
For my everything.

  I leaned forward. Bent my arms against the wall. Brought my bare hips forward, just as he told me to do, all the while listening for further and more graphic instructions. The only question in my mind was how far he would take this and to what lengths I would comply.

  “Very good,” he complimented. “You make for an obedient submissive. Now open your legs nice and wide for me.”

  Bravo! For once, I approved of the way the word nice was used in a sentence when referring to me.

  He added, “Now say, yes, sir.”

  I shivered convulsively. “Yes, sir.”

  While still ministering to the dripping notch between my upper thighs with one hand, he drew a spare finger over my naked bottom, a slow perusal of the hillocks, as if he owned them and me. In abject deference to him, I made no move to fight against him or my own body, but simply allowed my chin to fall to my chest, more strands of hair covering my lowered face as a result. How provocative I must look, how wanton.

  “I would enjoy seeing you naked with the lights on, your bare ass lifted proud and high, your small firm breasts thrusting into the air, nipples rosy red with your arousal. But someone might decide to investigate. Even a faint illumination sneaking out under the door from the moonlight has the potential of drawing intruders. We cannot have that, now, can we?”

  I licked my lip. Was his a rhetorical question? Because I was not so sure…

  A second later, he growled, “Fuck. I need to see you.”

  Menacing! This was no choir boy I dealt with. What I had wondered about a few minutes prior was indeed possible, might even happen. To me. He might rip my clothes off.

  Please, please, please, do!

  He sounded sick with it, burning up with it. Although I hadn’t before, I knew what that it was now.

  Urgency to mate. I felt the same.

  “You seem the type of woman who likes living dangerously, who likes balancing on the edge.” He spoke quickly, intently, when he said, “And the door is locked. So – this is how we will proceed: We will ignore any knocks. They will cease eventually.”

  I heard a metallic click, but saw little evidence of a lit lamp. Very little illumination shone through the messy mass of my fallen hair. The light must have been very dim indeed. Not enough for me to see, but he appeared to have little difficulty in that respect. Regardless of my greatly reduced vision, I certainly was aware of him ripping open my bodice, the buttons pinging as they flew off.

  God help me, I felt only relief when he exposed my flesh to his sight…and his busy hands.

  “Such sad rags for such an unusual woman,” he muttered, further loosening the now undone gown I wore. “You deserve better. You deserve to be clad in happiness. Here on out, wear apparel that reflects your zest for life.”

  Air played across my uncovered shoulders, and I started to cry softly. Fear of the unknown combined with escalation of my unholy excitement poured down my cheeks under the thick fall of my hair. How had he known what to say, exactly the right thing to say, at the right moment?

  He made no attempt to unlace me. Rather, he used what I assumed was a pocketknife to bare me further to his gaze. Cold metal scraped against my overheated flesh. My corset and chemise came away in strips. He was cutting my modest underclothes to pieces, his destruction of my past life done with lightning fast speed.

  His touch concentrative, he squeezed my naked breasts, then pinched my throbbing nipples, which further elongated under his brutal attentions. He then wrapped his arms around me.

  I could not move! Not my arms. Not any other part of my body. His embrace, my very first, painfully imprisoned me. Was the hurtfulness of his tyranny a sign of things to come?

  Chapter Six

  He stepped back, pulled me away from the wall, but only a little, only enough so that he could lower his arms and place his hands on my ribcage, to torture my breasts.

  “Your tits,” he said approvingly.

  And I thought…his language! Good heavens! The crudity of it made me sweat. Not perspire. Not glow. Sweat like a ditch-digger!

  “Christ, I could bite those dainty nipples all night,” he continued. “Firm and high, just like your ass. I knew they would be. And your cunt. Tight. I can tell without even burying my fingers inside. I intend to hold off there until I enter you. That will be the first time I feel your tightness pulse around me. Whether you have been with hundreds or thousands, I know with a certainty the fuck will be unlike any that have come before. Seems impossible, what with you being so bloody eager and wet, but I can tell you have been waiting for me. Waiting for the hard fuck only I can give you.”

  Romantic?

  No. Far from it! But his obscene words struck to the heart of the matter as sweet nothings never would have. I could hardly wait for him to join his body with mine. The thought of that physical connection buoyed my downcast mood of mourning as nothing else could have done. It seemed as if I had anticipated this coupling all my life.

  Why make my availability difficult for him? Why hide my raw anticipation? What was the point of playing hard to get? I might be a virgin but I was an impatient one.

  When he smoothed his free palm over my bottom – mostly naked now that the vestiges of my remaining clothing hung off me in tatters – I leaned further forward for him. With my elbows situated against the wall for support, I spread my feet wide without him telling to do so. My stance must have looked lewd, but I could not bring myself to care. All I cared about was him entering me.

  Specifically, when would he turn me round to face him? When would he brush my hair back from my face so I could look into his eyes when he came into me?

  I knew this much – men went into women and deposited their seed so a baby would grow inside their partner’s womb. A scant amount of information to be sure, but enough for me to have certain expectations of what would take place in the resulting congress.

  “Hurry. Why are you taking so long, sir?” I shamelessly lamented, so distraught I would permit anything he demanded of me.

  Not even demand. He could wordlessly indicate a desire and I would do my upmost to make it happen. Was this madness I felt what came of an extended period of grief?

  Behind me came the rustle of clothing, then a determined nudge between my thighs, back to front.

  He said, “Let me in.”

  As if I were keeping him out!

  He had not fully cut my petticoats away. Some of the flounces remained intact around my lower hips, a circle of cloth holding vertical linen strips in place. The same held true of my gown’s austere black skirts. Not that I could see them. I was however conscious of their shredded flutters against my legs, like the grass hula costumes of topless Hawaiian dancers. Somehow, these vestiges of my swiftly departing modesty made me feel even more naked.

  I made to turn around to face him, to see his eyes as I yearned to do, to gaze into them so we might share a spiritual bond as well as a physical connection.

  Those virginal dreams went up in smoke when he halted me, said sternly, “No. Remain like so. Belly to the wall.”

  From the rear then? Was that what he had meant before? That he would take me as I had once seen a horse take a mare, from the back?

  But what of gazing up into his eyes? What of the spirituality of the act? Was there to be no closeness of our souls? Would he take me as animals did?

  Yes! He would enter me in a way I had never once considered possible.

  None of this prevented me from widening my legs for his entry. Or for asking, a plaintive note creeping into my voice, “Is this what you desire, sir? If not, do me as you will…”

  I was just so easy. Desperation not to miss out on this defining moment, to finally understand what married ladies years younger than myself already knew, had me in its grip. I was not about to miss out on becoming a woman by playing hard to get, by playing at anything. No. No. No! Ladylike decorum would not lose me this chance. This was me, stripped down and needy.

  His hand stilled on my buttock,
flattened there a moment, before he fingered his way inside, investigating deep within my bottom’s crevice.

  Biting my lip, I tilted my hips upward, so he could get at me with little effort on his part. He would get no resistance from me, not in regard to anything he chose to do.

  “Mmm.” He made himself at home there, between my bottom cheeks, actually ringing my back opening. “I like how you think, little peeper.”

  But I was not thinking. I was only feeling, and what I felt was a need not to lose him at this juncture, not to have him turn away from me.

  I held very still and let him do as he would, and his breath roughened, quickened, the tip of his finger dipping inside the hole, another shallow investigation, as my nipples tightened even more under his hand, under his probing me in back. They tips of my breasts were so elongated they hurt, and I started to pant with discomfort.

  My bosom. The female place between my thighs. My hole in back. All of me throbbed. I needed something, something to quench the need.

  “No,” he said, his touch withdrawing from between my buttocks. “I cannot take what you offer. Not now.”

  It was as I dreaded. He had decided not to proceed, and my whole being slumped in dejection. Had his arm not been around me, I would have collapsed.

  I had offered him my all, and he had refused it. What was wrong with me? How many times in my life must I be rejected?

  “But why?” I asked forlornly. “You can have anything from me, sir. I told you so.”

  “For a price, right?”

  Before I could ask what he meant, he said, “I was mistaken about you, little peeper. I thought you were something other than what you are.”

  He must know I had misrepresented myself. But how?

  I had no time to find out.

  Suddenly, he started making certain adjustments to my pose. I squeaked in surprise when he pressed a hand against my spine, sending my upper torso into the wall again, my small breasts smashed there, flattened there. This new pressure helped my discomfort as much as it further hurt my turgid nipples, an unfathomable dichotomy. At least, to me. After all, how could additional pain lessen existing pain?