Buying the Virgin

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.

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

open, roughly, tongue deep and briefly, very briefly, slips his hand between the folds of my wrap-around skirt and down

“Oh yes, Gentlemen.

hand and the body withdraw, leaving me stranded, blind,

are footsteps and then a

know the rules. Aces high or low. The pot goes to the lady. The winner

playing cards

swishing, a soft

objects

And voices:

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“One more.”

“Fold.”

sound of cards flicking

this? Such a quiet sound. The echoes of the

“Seventeen.”

“Deal.”

Slap.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Twenty-one!”

even I know that twenty-one is a

And now?

interrupted by the scrape of a chair,

am a bit wobbly, but feel

my

can’t speak? It’s against

and clothes rustle,

flat against my stomach, around my waist, up and around my shoulders. Blindly, my lips open, and I

combs, removing each by turn, and releasing my red

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

pot goes to

going to earn

if they have a good

at me, tongue pushing inwards. I meet it. Opening to welcome this stranger. Blindfolded I might be, but he smells clean, wholesome,