Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  Our present positioning, which sealed my back to his front, felt more impersonal than before, even as he whispered in my ear, “A rear approach. Less likelihood of conception that way, a technique with which you must have some knowledge.”

  Was that explanation supposed to convince me of something?

  “How about you, little peeper? Do you guard against the clap by always insisting gents use rubbers?”

  I had very little understanding of his meaning. Fortunately, while personally poor at social interactions that required the give and take of chattiness, I was sensitive to reading the reactions of others. Not body language, not here in the dark, but I could discern even minute changes in voice.

  Going by his tone, I responded as I thought I should.

  With a protest:

  “Sir, what do you take me for?”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Your reassurance was all I needed to hear. Sorry for asking. It goes without saying that a high-class purveyor such as yourself would use protection. Against conception. Against disease.”

  Purveyor?

  Of what, pray?

  For years, I had worked with the unwanted and the neglected, knew orphans carried the stigma of being unloved throughout their lives. Never would I have that wrath visited on a child. And so, while I did applaud his prudence in avoiding bringing unwanted babies into the world, I remained thoroughly confused about something else.

  What on earth was the clap?

  His inference pointed to disease. What sort of disease? And how did one pass it along?

  He seemed to think I should have information in regard to its avoidance.

  I did not.

  I had misrepresented myself to him in more than one area, a fact he had somehow surmised. Though...he still seemed unaware this was my first time. But how cruel was fate to assign me a choice to either proceed or to stop. That was no choice at all.

  Knowing so little of carnality, I could hardly contradict his opinion on the relative safety of a rear approach in regard to conception. I could hardly fault his questioning me about the clap. He was only trying to protect me, a thirty-two year old virgin spinster currently naked in a dark room with him, a stranger, belly pressed to an unseen wall, my ladylike clothing in tatters, standing bent and splayed only a few feet removed from a society charity function over which I presided. Right or wrong, the questions he asked made me trust him.

  “Wiggle your hips for me, little peeper.”

  This situation grew worse and worse.

  Or, better and better.

  A toss-up which would prove correct, I thought, shimmying my hips.

  “You move like a cat,” he said, his voice containing a smile, definitely a compliment. “I knew you would. As soon as I saw you tonight, I recognized the feline in you.”

  Odd, how in him, I had also recognized the cat. A lion, to be exact. That wild beast of the jungle was essentially a large cat without any nod to domestication. What were their characteristics?

  I was about to find out some, at least in regard to mating.

  Suddenly, the door rattled; the knob creaked.

  Someone outside sought entry to our love nest, and I startled in horror.

  In such close proximity to one another, he felt my jerking, of course.

  “Shh,” he advised me, covering my mouth with a hand. “Unless…do you wish to be found out? We can do that too. I have no concerns over losing my reputation, but you might not want to be found out. Police look askance at situations such as ours.”

  At another time, in another place, where the success of the asylum building fund did not hang in the balance, I might have found the scenario he described – minus the reference to legalities – rather titillating. As it was, I just wanted the person out there gone.

  My wish was granted, when all went quiet again outside.

  Immediately, he cradled me between the legs. Nothing intrusive. Only a deliciously firm and steady pressure, concentrating on that sensitive region he had discovered.

  “How do you like it?” he asked. “Is this too much?”

  My eyes were practically rolling back in my head in ecstasy. I did manage a weak, “Not too much. Just right.”

  “I thought so. Your slit feels as wet as a lake in my hand, a sex lake.”

  Sex lake?

  Ordinarily, I would have found this expression overly precious. Here, its sweetness suited the occasion. Even the grin in his voice, which ordinarily would have rubbed me the wrong way, rubbed me precisely the right way here. Everything he did, especially the rubbing, was exactly right.

  I swayed back and forth, wetness running down my thighs, the sticky honey flowing to my knee. He moved in on me, then. His cock – I had to assume it was his cock – hard and demanding, lancing between my thighs, a rear approach, sawing back and forth, his aim directed at what he had just referred to as my cunt.

  I knew it went in there. Still, beyond shocking what he was doing, what I was allowing him to do! With the exception of my wetness and information I had gleaned second-hand from gossiping matrons and bragging twelve-year old boys, I was ill-prepared for any of this.

  “Well?” he asked hoarsely, now grinding his relentless way toward my virgin notch. “Do we have an agreement here, little peeper?”

  In a manner of speaking we did, one based on misunderstanding, misconceptions, and a pack of whopping lies. So as not to add another one of those to the mix, I silently nodded. But not because I feared putting my foot in it, conversation-wise. For once in my life, I was confident of not stammering as I usually did during social occasions. And what could be more social that this?

  For this one night, he had cured me of my shyness. And he was about to cure me of my inexperience as well.

  Begone virginity! Begone ignorance! Enlightenment could not happen fast enough for me.

  “So good,” he moaned, pushing slowly into my cleft, patiently nudging the access to my channel, back to front. “You must have done this hundreds of times before and yet you feel tight, just as I suspected you would.”

  He was mistaken about that hundreds of times prediction. I had never held hands with a man, never embraced a man, never kissed a man.

  I would not cry out. I would not scream. I would not take on the role of a nervous and inexperienced bride. I was too old for any of that, especially theatrical hysterics. What I would do was go into this escapade with my eyes wide open – metaphysically speaking, as my lids were squeezed shut – and try to commit every nuance of this, my first and most likely last time with a man, to memory.

  The stranger took my chin in his big hand, turned my jaw toward him, and settled his mouth on mine. While opening my lips to his whiskey-flavored tongue, he opened another part of me to receive him as well, delving both inlets simultaneously.

  The kiss?

  That I liked enormously, and would gladly do again.

  The ending of my virginity?

  Thank God it could only happen once.

  I had a high tolerance for discomfort, but this jumped the post-and-rail. As he poked about inside me, deep inside me, I scratched the wall with my fingernails. His comings and goings down below something I could only endure.

  A situation he seemed not to notice.

  More inebriated than I had credited him with, I suspected.

  For all I knew, his was a semi-unconscious state. If not for some thrusting, the occasional grunt, and some other vague guttural murmurings, I would have thought his mind otherwise occupied.

  Mercifully, his culmination rapidly approached. I knew this for his breathing suddenly went choppy, whiskey fumes surrounding me at his each gusty exhale. Unaccountably, I found the hard spirits overlaying his breath agreeable, a traitorous admission coming from a member of the Temperance Movement.

  With a slurred curse word of unspecific meaning, he withdrew, opened my buttocks, and spewed.

  Ew.

  On the spot, I revised my former opinion. The less remembered about my first experience the bet
ter, I decided then.

  With my virginity a thing of the past, I succumbed to tearfulness. Great silent blobs dropped off my lowered chin onto my naked breasts, the nipples of which remained painfully erect under his renewed exploration.

  Would he never quit the room, take himself off somewhere while I got myself together in private?

  Even turning his back would allow me a few minutes to absorb what had just happened. I was not opposed to going at it again. Now that I knew what to expect, I was sure to do better. Perhaps. And perhaps, with sobriety, he would do better too.

  Go at it again. Had I just thought that?

  At times, the workings of my mind baffled me. I had yet to recover from the first occasion, and I was thinking a second?

  Apart from that, these past sad months – and even before – I had lived as a near recluse. I was not used to being around people, never mind a man in intimate circumstances. How was I supposed to behave?

  He was crowding me!

  Then, he took his closeness to the extreme.

  “Christ,” he said, thrusting into my channel once more from the rear flank.

  Now inside me, he could not get any closer. Well, physically, he could not. As for me, I refused to let him invade my thoughts as he invaded my body. To achieve this end, I concentrated on the particulars of the engagement.

  The penetration proved easier than before, less painful. At least, the getting inside me part of things. Once he made the invasion, his tempo increased, as if he expected more of me, this our second time coming together.

  What? I wish I knew what.

  With each immoderate stroke, he grew more possessive, more physical. Until he was rutting hungrily on me, his cock hammering and jabbing at me with much more finesse than before but with more of a demand for my active participation, as well.

  “C’mon,” he rasped into my ear, sounding quite different than before, not as careful with his use of language, not as stiff. “Give over. Let yourself go.”

  Something inside me responded to his order, and I found myself finding his rhythm and matching it, thrust for thrust. Gone was my hanging back, limp and passive, like a dead fish on a hook. No longer did I view this engagement as something he did to me; rather I saw this as something we did together, each of us urging the other on to greater heights of – dare I say – bestial roughness. I was moving with him, dipping my knees, pumping my naked bottom against him, squeezing my interior muscles.

  “Ohohoh,” I panted, doing what felt good, uncaring of what he thought of me.

  Grunting, he squeezed my bosom, then dug his fingernails into the areola. Painful. Delicious. Just right!

  “God, yesss,” I groaned, arching my back while keeping my hips glued to his loins, refusing to allow any space between us, all the time moving with him, especially my bottom.

  “The best,” he grunted, ramming me back to front, his cock buried impossibly deep. “The best fuck ever, little peeper. All your past partners were fortunate men.”

  Uncaring of the sticky substance he had just deposited between my buttocks, he pulled me close, our lower regions moving in a harmony I could not reasonably explain.

  Although shy since childhood, I was rather competitive by nature. If I could not do something well – such as socializing – I withdrew, refused to participate. Here, this trait continued. But there were limitations to this approach. Sex was part of life, and I had no wish to withdraw from life, not anymore. Despite the newness of it, I had this tremendous urge to…to…

  I had no idea what that urge was all about, only that there was a primal immediacy to it.

  Long and short – he was most definitely rather long – rather thick too – I kept pace with him, my hips lifting and undulating, the silky motion of our joining as perfect as it was strenuous.

  Just when I thought something was about to happen within me, something mysterious, he pulled out. My tension escalating, I moaned at the separation.

  At the sound, he immediately speared me again with his cock, grinding to me, flesh on flesh, blunt force against my surely bruised buttocks, taking what he wanted from me, while providing me, his receptacle, with an insistent need to…need to…

  He covered my mouth with his hand again, and I screamed into the palm, the animal sound I made smothered against his thick fingers as he spewed between my buttocks, which he had unceremoniously opened.

  Not so ew this time, perhaps owing to my pleasure. My reserve gone, my tension relieved, my knees gave way and I sagged naked within his embrace.

  I now understood what that primal urgency had been all about…

  His hand lifting from my mouth, he nuzzled my nape, bared by my hair which had drifted to one side.

  “You act on me like an aphrodisiac,” he said haltingly, then groaned.

  And so did I, half-pain, half-arousal, as a long finger slipped inside my passage again.

  No courtship, no promises, no offer to see me again, he moved me out from the wall, kicked my torn clothing away without ever losing a beat, and pressed his free palm against my spine.

  “Go lower,” he instructed. “Hands on the floor.”

  Why? Was he checking me for flexibility?

  I was no circus acrobat, but I could touch my toes, and did often, especially before cycling.

  Though his instruction was most peculiar, I did so. Wearing only hose gartered at the knee and sedate black shoes suitable for an eighty-year old, I bent for him.

  Shockingly, he went into me again, controlling my every move, one arm under my now intemperately bouncing – what there were of them – breasts.

  “Three times in quick succession. Fuck, a once in a lifetime occurrence,” he said gruffly, his cock still within me, hammering me as if I were a slab of tough mutton he sought to tenderize with his butcher’s mallet.

  Another scream was about to erupt within me. Before I gave vent to that scream, he clasped his hand over my mouth once more, muffling my cry of unadulterated release. Making no sound at all, he withdrew his flesh from mine, and commenced to stroke my trembling body while fluid drained from my woman’s parts, the channel for conception.

  Stepping away, he handed me a silken square, a gentleman’s handkerchief. “Clean up.”

  “Here?” I asked, appalled, still bent at the waist. “In front of you?”

  He chuckled. “Why not?”

  “We are strangers, sir!”

  “Not any more. I would call us well-acquainted now.” He palmed by bottom. “Why the sudden modesty? You must have experience in these situations. Besides, in this dim light, I could be with anyone…”

  “Stop, sir,” I said dryly, hiding my hurt in sarcasm. “You will turn my head for sure.” I knew going into this that I was not memorable, but why rub my face in how easily he would forget me?

  He chuckled low. “Make yourself presentable.” He gave my posterior a sharp pat. “Go on,” he said with another fast smack on my bare bottom.

  I muttered, “Oh, for a WC.”

  He dropped his hands from my person. “And miss seeing your swollen slit?” He shook his head. “No WC for you, little peeper. Not ever. Next time we meet, I shall have you crouch before me, knees wide, buttocks spread. And I shall look and look and look.”

  I could not believe the graphic nature of this conversation and the ease at which I was engaging in it with him. I had never used the term WC or admitted its function to a man in my life. And now I was discussing both without embarrassment.

  “Here, with only a low light,” I said petulantly, “you will see nothing anyway.”

  “I have a vivid imagination and excellent night vision. Proceed. And face me when you do.”

  After turning toward him, I shamelessly wadded up the borrowed handkerchief, as I would with a cotton pad during my monthlies, and began ministering to the smarting area, cleaning the residue of illicit intercourse as I did. And true to his word, he watched.

  “Not so fast,” he directed. “And go gentle. The flesh is delicate. Most l
ikely sore too.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “Mine. I own up to it all. So pretty there,” he said wistfully, his glance steady. “Sweet. Erotic as hell. The lips are past plump. They spur me into doing something I should not do. And they pout at me. Who can blame them? I should have held back, not gone at you so hard. You have fine bones, a fine ass too,” he said with a chuckle. “As to your cunt – perfection. Made just for me. I wish we had met before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before you started selling yourself. How much do I owe you, little peeper?”

  Chapter Seven

  Straightening and still naked, I walked toward him in the dark with as much dignity as I could muster with sticky stuff running down my inner thigh, raised my arm, and slapped him across the face with my palm, missing most of his jaw, but winging his ear. A glancing blow only.

  So what, my aim was bad? It was the principle that counted. And besides, the sound of my slap was deeply satisfying. “How dare you, sir?”

  “Do not put this on me, madam. I dare because of what you allowed me. You are not the innocent party here. That would be me.”

  “What!”

  “You seduced me!”

  “What!”

  “I thought you a widow. At first, I fell for your story. I admit it. But that story along with rest was fabricated, right? Not even a randy widow would allow a stranger a fuck in a room little better than a storage pantry.”

  The tightwad owner of the house liked to impress his business associates. With making money his goal, he only decorated “public” rooms; all others stood empty and unheated.

  “This space an unfurnished antechamber,” I said. That at least made the space sound more romantic. True, this was not exactly a rose-petal-strewn bower suitable for a virgin’s first time, but why was he complaining over the lack of ambience? I was the virgin here, not him. I was the aggrieved party.

  He blew out a gusty breath. “Oh. I see. An unfurnished antechamber. Thank you. I stand corrected. That distinction makes all the difference. You, madam, are a prostitute. Who else would carry on like this, steps removed from a party given for poor kids?”