Buying the Virgin

Chapter 11: The Girl Who Sold Herself - Chapter Eleven

Downstairs, one step at a time, my footsteps and theirs, echoing...

There is a murmur of voices ahead, several voices, but muffled, and the smell of good cigars and

something alcoholic. Brandy?

Against all reason, my panties are becoming moist.

For a moment, the arm supporting me to the left releases me. There is the sound of another heavy,

creaking, door, and abruptly, the sound of voices grows much louder.

We stand, I think, framed in the doorway, the three of us, Michael to one side of me, my Master to the

other, me blindly between them.

After a moment, the hubbub of voices falls silent and then a deep earthy voice says, “Good evening,

James. Good evening, Michael.” There is a footstep or two, and then my hand is taken, raised and

kissed. “And good evening, Charlotte. Thank you for coming. You look beautiful.”

The voice and the kiss, are accompanied by the waft of expensive aftershave and a rich, deeply

masculine scent. My panties are becoming really, quite uncomfortably, wet, and there is a flush rising

from my breasts, over my chest and neck to my face. I am beginning to pant.

The voice continues. “Would you like something to help you relax Charlotte? Cognac perhaps?

Although we probably have anything else you are likely to ask for.”

My voice emerges as a squeak. “Cognac would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Of course. Michael, James, take the lady to a chair. Let her be comfortable for a few minutes, while we

gather everyone together.”

Everyone?

Again, arms take mine, but I can tell that it is not now Michael, nor my Master. Something in the rhythm

of the walk, the scent of musk and aroused masculinity, is not theirs. My two strange companions lead

me, then gently guide me to sit. A glass is eased into my hands.

The brandy is aromatic and heady. I bury my nose in the glass, inhaling before I drink, sipping at first,

then gulping down a couple of mouthfuls. Arousal and fear fight for first place within me and my pulse is

racing, my heart pounding. Around me I can hear footsteps, stepping lightly, but all around me, and

soft, almost whispered, comments on the edge of my hearing. About me.

I tip my head back to drain the glass, closing my eyes behind the blindfold.

The cognac works its magic, and my nerves dissolve, leaving only electric arousal in its place.

Oh God! I want to be fucked.

I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.

Michael’s voice whispers by my ear. “It’s time, Charlotte,” and he takes me by an elbow, raising me

from the chair.

Another hand takes my other arm. It is my Master I know. The two lead me some distance, and the

echoes change quality. Then Michael, I know it is him, I can scent him, takes both my hands and clips

cuffs around my wrists.

They don’t feel like the usual cuffs that Michael and my Master use: wider by some inches, snuggling

my wrists and lower arms, encasing me, and linked together. They smell pleasantly of leather, creaking

with my movement.

Michael moves me a little, positioning where I stand, then raises my arms. Something snaps into place

above me, then pulls, tensioning my arms so that I am, not quite teetering, but certainly unable to move

from my spot.

Strange hands cuff my ankles, then ease my legs apart. I stagger a little but am supported at the wrists.

My ankles are parted further, the cuffs pulling me into position. As my thighs part, my pussy lips are

swelling and curling open, and I feel hot wetness escaping my folds.

A male body slides up my legs and torso, pressing against me. He smells delicious but unfamiliar. He

kisses me, forcing my mouth open, roughly, tongue deep and briefly, very briefly, slips his hand

between the folds of my wrap-around skirt and down between my thighs, feeling between.

His voice is an announcement. “Oh yes, Gentlemen. She’s wet already.”

The hand and the body withdraw, leaving me stranded, blind, suspended.

There are footsteps and then a voice.

“Now then gentlemen. You know the rules. Aces high or low. The pot goes to the lady. The winner of

each hand has ten minutes of the next…event…with her.”

They’re playing cards for me?

I hear soft noises: swishing, a soft slapping noise. Cards being dealt?

There is the rattle of small objects on a wooden surface. (Chips going down?)

And voices:

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“One more.”

“Fold.”

And the sound of cards flicking down on a table.

How can I hear this? Such a quiet sound. The echoes of the chamber?

“Seventeen.”

“Deal.”

Slap.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Twenty-one!”

I never play cards, but even I know that twenty-one is a winner.

And now?

There is silence, interrupted by the scrape of a chair, several chairs, and footsteps, coming towards

me.

“Hi.” I am a bit wobbly, but feel I should acknowledge my…guest?

A finger presses against my lips. I can’t speak?

Or he can’t speak? It’s against the rules?

A body moves, and clothes rustle, close to me.

Hands run over my clothes, flat against my stomach, around my waist, up and around my shoulders.

Blindly, my lips open, and I start to pant, my breathing growing faster by the moment.

The hands slide over my breasts, caressing, squeezing, massaging, then upwards over my neck and

face. Fingers slip into my hair, finding pins and combs, removing each by turn, and releasing my red

tresses to tumble down around my breasts and back. Hands brush my hair back behind me, over my

shoulders, keeping my front exposed.

The fingers quest to the back of the halter-neck, struggling a little with the knot before releasing it and

the straps fall loose. I feel them flapping free by my still-clothed breasts as a mouth fastens on to mine.

And now, my breasts are grasped, hard, pinching at the nipples through fabric.

“The pot goes to the Lady.”

How much am I going to earn from this? Nôvel(D)rama.Org's content.

More if they have a good time with me…

The mouth, kissing hard, pushes at me, tongue pushing inwards. I meet it. Opening to welcome this

stranger. Blindfolded I might be, but he smells clean, wholesome, fuckable.

“Touch me,” I say. “I get it. You can’t speak. But I can. Touch me. Suck my tits. I want to be fucked.”

There is a sharp intake of breath, and I feel, lower down, the growing hardness of an erection pressing

against me. The fingers are unbuttoning my top, releasing my breasts. In my mind, I imagine myself, in

my little black wrap-around skirt - so easy to remove – bare-breasted, with the red silk blindfold,

straddle-legged in the cuffs and arms stretched upwards, bound at the wrists.

My pussy is flowing. I must look red hot to them. Who is going to fuck me? How many are going to fuck

me?

The halter-neck top falls free, and I am naked from the waist upwards. Lips fasten onto a breast, softly

sucking, rolling a nipple between teeth and lips. A hand kneads at the other breast. Pleasure pulses

through my veins and I moan, leaning into the caress.

Hot breath sweeps over my skin and the erection pressing against my leg hardens.

“Hot damn,” says a voice close by.

Is it him? Or is there an audience gathered around?

“Time!” shouts a voice, and there is a general murmuring and shuffling of feet. Many footsteps retreat

and I hear chairs scraping again, followed by the faint swish of cards being dealt and the rattling sound

again.

“Deal.”

“Damn.” The slap of cards on table, the clink of chips being moved.

Another voice. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

And the thump of a hand on table-top. “Fold.”

Yet another voice. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Twenty-one!”

This time, the immediate sound of chairs moving, followed by many footsteps.

Straddled and bound, blindfolded and half-naked, I feel powerful and alive. My sopping panties are truly

uncomfortable, and I cannot wait for them to be removed.

Another body approaches me, comes in close immediately, seizing me by the waist, pulling me in,

making me gasp and arch my back in response.

Lips and teeth clamp onto a nipple. A hand seizes the other nipple. The spare hand slips south and

inside the wrap-skirt.

The teeth are gently nibbling my already crinkle-hard nipples, alternating between left and right, and I

gasp and pant. Surely my heartbeat can be heard around the room.

The hand inside the skirt fingers its way down inside my panties, exploring, seeking. There is a

“Mmmff” of satisfaction as my wet and swollen condition is discovered, and the hand withdraws to

fumble for the buttons of the wrap-around.

Something about the buttons foils the fingers, and after a few seconds of impatient groping at the

fastenings, the hand loses patience and simply tugs, ripping the skirt from me, leaving me only in

panties and stockings…