Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  “My recovery time, as you can no doubt tell, is brief.”

  “The perfect combination. As it just so happens, I am insatiable. Come to bed.”

  “I could get a wink or two.” Weakening, he reclined behind me, two spoons in a snug drawer. The conman had not conned me here – the bed was awfully narrow.

  Less than a minute later, masculine snoring ended the companionable quiet between us. I found the noise rather soothing. So nice to have a warm body next to mine…

  Melancholy had made me a light sleeper. Four hours or less, and I was up again, the whole day spread before me with nothing to do. And so I donated all those extra minutes to the Asylum. Not generosity – just a way to fill time.

  I nodded off quickly with him at my back, awakening to the clock downstairs chiming nine times.

  Dead to the world one minute, fully awake the next, I tugged him closer, drawing the single leg tossed over my hips around me like the nightgown I had failed to wear to bed.

  “Go into me, sir.”

  Though groggy, he came quietly. Literally. His cry of release was smothered in my hair upon finishing. Indeed, he continued to pump into my passage front to back even then, my thigh raised to accommodate his cock, his hand supporting my bent knee, a penetration I wished never to end.

  “Sore?” he asked, his heaving gentling a disappointing amount.

  “Not at all,” I lied, though I had obviously gone dry. His smooth slides had changed to uncomfortable jabs three thrusts ago.

  “Could we try for truth between us in this at least?” he asked, and pushed himself away from me, then rolled to his back, his male member straight and proud and projecting…through his gaping trousers.

  Was I never to see him fully disrobed?

  “Have you any creams and such, sir, for the malady? I left mine at home.”

  “You have had enough for one day.”

  I had an entire abstentious adulthood to make up for, and so at his dismissal I said forlornly, “But surely I might minister to you. Finish you off,” I said, as my dressmaker had called it.

  I was given to a whole-hearted fascination with his cock. To put it mildly, I was intrigued by that towering ode to male vigor. The process of this ministering, however, left me floundering. How finish him off?

  He conveniently filled in the details:

  “Put your mouth on me, you mean? Suck me off?”

  I assumed so. The French modiste had been quite forthcoming but my appointment had only been an hour in length, and she’d had common pins in her mouth a goodly portion of the time. Not much information could be passed along with those limitations.

  With a nod, I proceeded with the task at hand. Leaning over him, my hair falling over my shoulders, my breasts bobbing a bit, I did as told and took his length and breadth between my lips, a tremendously awe-inspiring challenge which I accomplished nonetheless. Mimicking a man’s up and down motions, my mouth pursing and releasing as my innards – my cunt – must surely do during the act of sexual congress, I suckled him.

  Amazing. Truly amazing this control he, a self-described dominant, had granted me over him. More amazing was his responsiveness. He was humming. Strumming. His lids sealing as I guided him swiftly toward completion, an explosion of prestigious magnitude that coated my throat with ejaculate.

  My mouth was full of the stuff. Now what? The bawdy French modiste had left this integral part out…

  I could always…swallow, I supposed.

  Having no preconceptions against doing so, I did. Robustly. The gulp rather noisy to my ears.

  I was feeling rather proud of myself over the accomplishment when he opened his eyes and smiled. “Christ. You must have been a courtesan in a former life.”

  No. Only a good listener. My eavesdropping habit was paying off…

  “I should dress, sir.” I popped off the bed with renewed sense of energy and purpose. “I need to go out.”

  “But you only just arrived.”

  “And you told me I might leave at my own whim. This is not whim, but a prior commitment of a charitable nature.”

  That last was an untruth but only to a mild degree. Mr.’s Osborn’s visit would most likely turn out to be an act of charity, a sympathy visit to an aging woman on the cusp of spinsterhood.

  Yes, I did dream about him courting me. About us wedding, starting a family. I even made romantic plans to that effect in my head. But I could separate fact from fiction.

  Mine were out-and-out fantasies. Deep inside, I knew the reporter could not possibly be drawn to me.

  But would it not be wonderful if he were, I mused, cupping my breast as I charted out the reporter’s much awaited visit.

  I knew I would no longer stumble and bumble, conversation-wise. I was past such revealing signs of shyness now. After sleeping with a man, after letting him do shocking things to me and doing the same in return, little would throw me off-kilter anymore.

  Save not appearing my best during the visit.

  Nathaniel Osborn was scheduled to arrive that evening and I needed to wash my hair and select just the right new gown to wear. Nothing too terribly elaborate, but sensual…in a refined way. And there was the no small matter of appearing ladylike again after behaving as anything but with the man frowning darkly over at me as I stood there immodestly naked, my legs carelessly stretched wide, the fair curls covering my mons sticky from his leavings.

  In front of my audience, I gathered up my hair, twisting the mass into a loose chignon.

  “Not so fast. Douche first,” he said, rising from the bed and putting himself away.

  With his cock reinstalled in his trousers, he gave me his next set of instructions. “To the WC with you, Miss Malone. You will find what you need in the cabinet to the left of the tub.”

  Stored there for the convenience of his other women, I supposed. Jealousy rearing its ridiculous head, I sniffed.

  My wishful thinking about Mr. Osborn over and done, I went into the bathroom.

  About taking precautions – Mr. Ignatius was right, of course. And I resented his highhandedness all the same. The conman had done his part to prevent conception by ejaculating outside my passage. Now, it was my turn to act the grownup. No excuses! After my talk with the seamstress, I had a fairly good understanding of what to do by way of personal hygiene.

  I closed the door behind me. After installing the syringe and rubber tubing over the tub’s faucet in preparation for sluicing out my body, my partner walked in.

  I was naked, in an ugly crouched position at the bottom of the porcelain tub, my thighs spread unbecomingly wide, my round bottom pitching up and down as I hosed down my inner folds.

  From my douching position, I looked up at him. “Not even a knock?”

  “No,” he said briefly, and took a seat on the tub’s high side.

  I started closing up my legs. “Sir, this is most unorthodox. I am not at my best at present. You should not be in here with me.”

  “Give that here,” he said, taking the metal nozzle from my grip.

  “Sir, really,” I squeaked, my old modesty returning tenfold as I covered my genitals. “You must leave at once.”

  Rather than go, he had the temerity to widen my legs before placing each separated foot up on the tub’s edges, which sent me sprawling backwards on a humiliating slant.

  He grinned at my outrage. “Hush. Nothing I have not seen before.”

  I cringed. This was personal care not eroticism! How dare he compromise my dignity this way!

  He started irrigating me, the nozzle inserted deeper than I had managed possible, calmly spraying me internally with the warm water and douche ingredients.

  It felt wonderful. So much so, I relaxed to the degree of becoming slumberous. Long-term sleep deprivation combined with my recent spate of unfamiliar carnality contributed to my drowsiness. Even when he had finished, put the hose away, and started patting me dry all over, I could not bring myself to move from my unladylike pose.

  “Hurts?” he
questioned, his fingers entering me. One digit, then two pushed up inside me, until the knuckles disappeared.

  I gasped. “Yes. Hurts.”

  “A good hurt or a bad hurt?”

  My chin dropping to me chest, I hung my head in shame. “Good, sir.”

  “The cunt is unbelievably tight,” he muttered. “But I will be able to introduce another finger after training you.”

  “Why stop there? Push your damn fist up there too,” I suggested caustically.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Miss Malone. Most generous of you. I think I shall.”

  As my eyes bulged in terror, he pulled out his fingers, sticky-wet with my renewed interest. “Stay in that position. I would like to try something on you.”

  “Yes. All right,” I agreed, any denial I might have made dulled by his touch. “Should I roll to my belly, sir?”

  “That will not be necessary. This time,” he qualified. “You are not to move a muscle.”

  I stayed in place, so mellow and calm, I almost slipped off to sleep while awaiting his return.

  The thing was already partially buried inside me, pressing against the bump at the top, when my hooded eyes flew open.

  “What is that, sir?” I asked in agitation.

  “An electrical vibrator. Physicians use them to treat female hysteria. I picked this one up new from a doctor friend of mine.”

  “But I do not suffer from any condition that would warrant the introduction of that thing into my body. I have no such affliction.”

  “Shh,” he whispered, “Just let yourself go.”

  “But what of you?” I panted, and started to shimmy, started to gyrate, my knees bent wide, my feet raised up on the tub. “What of your pleasure?”

  “Watching you pleasures me. Apart from that, you already saw to me in bed.”

  There was a vulnerability that came of being naked and spread wide in a cold porcelain tub under the harsh glare of an overhead light. There was no face-saving soft glow of candles here. No shadows to even out my uneven features. No romance either. And yet…and yet…I was willing to forsake my vanity to make him happy.

  But mine was not a completely altruistic motive. What he was doing to me just felt so good, too good to refuse despite my forfeit of pride.

  “Yesyesyes,” I cried, then sobbed, then screamed as I flew off into nothingness, my hips lifting vulgarly off the bottom of the tub. My entire body going airborne, I convulsed.

  “So beautiful, so beautiful when you orgasm.”

  So – that was what it was called. What I just did…what he had just done to me…was called an orgasm.

  I collapsed afterwards, my length and small curves sinking back down, no comfort offered by the unforgiving porcelain under my back, no warmth to be found alone in the cold tub, no place to hide beneath the ceiling light. The orgasm was over, and reality intruded.

  Shivering, I could make no objection when he withdrew the device from my passage and then picked me up in his arms, sat himself back down on the tub’s edge, holding me on his knees. The sharp crease of his finely-tailored trousers would get all damp and mussed now, I thought, drawing up my legs and curling into him.

  He took my lips then and kissed me, his tongue taking up a dominating residence in my mouth.

  I lost track of time, had no idea how long he cradled and cuddled me thus, how long he kissed and petted and opened me, how long I stayed still and pliable under the persuasiveness of his roaming hands. No mysteries remained; he knew my body inside and out. My responses too. If not for Mr. Osborn’s visit, I would have stayed there perfectly content forever. What I felt for the newspaper reporter was romantic and sweet, nothing at all like the base attraction I felt for this thief.

  That one thought returned me to sanity.

  I began to struggle, tried to push him away, attempted to straighten my spine and sit up within the confines of his arms.

  “Do not,” he rebuked. Rolling me to my side on his lap and firmly keeping me there, he swatted my bottom. Not lightly either. The sting remained long after the punishment was done. He knew just how to use his thief’s hands. To mete out punishment, to tempt me.

  “But the day grows short, sir. I cannot stay here any longer.”

  “You need permission from me before you go.”

  “But in advance of all this, I told you I must leave. You answered that I might.”

  “Permission,” he repeated. “And you are never to tell me anything. You will ask me nicely.”

  He placed my feet back on the cold marble floor, and the rest of me went with their placement.

  “May I leave, sir?” I asked, unbowed but submissive all the same.

  “Your departure cannot be delayed?”

  “No.”

  Still seated on the edge of the tub, he reached up and took my left breast in hand. “Dainty,” he said, first delicately squeezing the small mound, then painfully twisting the elongated nipple until it stretched out obscenely, at least an inch from the wall of my chest.

  “Oh, God,” I gasped, rubbing my thighs together, uncaring that he saw me in this state of naked arousal despite myself, uncaring that he now knew of his power over me, uncaring that a sticky slick of arousal coated my folds and dribbled down between my slowly parting legs.

  For him. I parted my legs for him.

  After bringing me closer, he took my other nipple in hand too and pinched that tip as well, a simultaneous engagement of my flesh. “If I told you to get down on the floor on all-fours like a wanton, you would do it.”

  I licked my lips. “Yes, sir.”

  “If I said I meant to sodomize you before you left for your oh-so important appointment, you would agree.”

  “Yes, sir, I would agree. But please do not insist.” Even then, despite my pleas to the contrary, my knees were bending and I was sinking low.

  “Down on all-fours,” he said, cruelly withdrawing his touch from my body.

  Already I missed his fingernails digging into the sensitive areolas. I would do anything to regain his attention there.

  I scrambled to my knees, stretched out my back, pressed my hands to the floor before me, my arms unbent.

  Whole minutes passed. I stoically held the hands and knees position. There was a draft coming through the open door of the WC, but nothing would chill my nakedness. I was so hot and achy, and yes, desperate too, to have his hands on me, his cock in me. If I quaked, it was not from the cold.

  “Now, what do you say, Miss Malone?”

  I looked over at him as he continued his nonchalant pose on the rim of the tub. “Please, sir?” I rubbed my face against the crease in his wool trouser leg “Please?”

  “Arse high in the air. Waving high in the air. If you want my cock inside you, show me you do.”

  My arms had been straight before. At his directive, I bent them and elbowed the floor, my hips raised, and yes, waving, an easy target for his taking.

  He rose, walked around me. Stopping his leisurely stroll out of my eyeshot, he drew a slow finger down my spine and into the crevice between my buttocks.

  “Yes,” I sobbed.

  His hand fell away. “You may leave.”

  He came around where I could see him once more, and held out his hand to me. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Malone,” he said formally.

  As if we were at a grand ball where he was my escort, I placed my hand in his and decorously rose. My bruised breasts bare and bobbing, I asked, “My clothing, sir?”

  “Downstairs, crumbled in a heap on the kitchen floor. Too wrinkled to wear.”

  “But that is all I have. I arrived wearing that outfit.” I crossed my arms over my rapidly discoloring nipples, dropping them swiftly upon seeing his displeasure.

  “Never attempt to hide your naked body from me again.”

  I dropped my gaze. “My breasts are unsightly, sir. The nipples are…” I swallowed, not sure of how to phrase my reason without it coming out as an accusation. “The ends are smudged.”

  �
��They are lovely. All of you is lovely. Especially when you wear the signs of my possession on your silky flesh.”

  “I shan’t hide myself from you again, sir.”

  “As to your clothing…”

  Please, God, let him allow me common decency.

  “I shall lend you my cape as a covering.”

  After a sigh of gratitude, I pushed for more. “Underthings?”

  “No need. Particularly your corset. That goes in the fire as soon as you leave. I shan’t forbid you from partially closing the borrowed garment. I think that is generous, considering the abruptness of your departure.”

  “I will make up the absence at the end. I mean to keep my word, sir. I shan’t see Will suffer endangerment because of me.”

  “Will is a resourceful lad. Regardless of where he eventually winds up, he is not endangered.” He lifted my fallen chin. “But what of you? Do you feel endangered?”

  “Never have I felt more alive than I do right now. I have been my true self with you. That is your threat to me. That is my endangerment. Nothing else.”

  “Good.” He dropped my chin, took my hand, and away we went back down the stairs that I had climbed the evening before.

  My arrival seemed like such a long time ago now. In short order, I had fallen completely under this man’s spell. The only thing that would keep me whole was breaking away from him and never returning.

  That I would not do. And, God forgive me, not owing to Will. Because what I told him was no lie. I did feel more alive with him now than ever before in my life. I was my true self with him.

  At the kitchen door, he handed me back my stolen reticule – worthless with only the newsprint scraps inside – and placed his cape around my shoulders, closing the braided frog fastener at the neck.

  Only at the neck.

  My breasts were hidden from view. Not so my loins. From my belly on down, my nude body was on full display.

  “There you go. All set,” he said.

  My mouth opened, snapped shut. Heat rose within me, suffusing me with color from my waist downward as I gawked at myself. Past wayward or bold or even scandalous, I looked utterly defiant. Of all standards.