Buying the Virgin

Chapter 65: The Girl Who Came Back - Chapter Twenty-One

In the dungeon room, Michael places me centrally, under an overhanging brass ring. He cuffs my

wrists: wide leather restraints that fit snugly, containing my arms almost to the elbow.

As he clicks the cuffs closed, he leans in, kissing me softly. “I’ve been looking forward to this. It gave

me a few ideas, playing with you by the pool the other day….”

“What are we doing tonight?”

He smiles again. “Spoilers,” he whispers.

Simply having Michael speak to me like this, already, is loosening me inside, warming me, and in the

close air of the Club, I am beginning to perspire.

My Master arrives, carrying a tray: a bottle of wine, chilling in a bucket, with glasses, and a cup,

steaming slightly. He sips from it, then offers me some.

“Coffee?”

“Mmm, no thanks.”

“Wine?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough to drink.”

He pours a glass of wine, passing it to Michael. Michael seems to enjoy it, taking a large mouthful,

swishing it around his mouth, then taking another mouthful.

The two seem in no hurry. My Master fishes candles from Michael’s bag, placing them around the

room, lighting them, to cast a golden glow over the room. Then, turning off the main lights, he leans

back against the padded horse, sipping his coffee. Michael loops a rope through the brass ring, and

then around my cuffs.

“Time to play Charlotte.” And he draws on the rope, pulling my arms firmly upwards, over my head.

“Can you stand comfortably?” he murmurs.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He glances out towards the viewing windows, where faces are gathering, looking in. Some are clearly

visible; others, simple pairs of eyes, reflect whitely, in the fade-to-dark at the back of the room.

“Warm in here isn’t it?” says Michael. Standing in front of me, he strips off his shirt, then his shoes,

locking eyes with me as he does so, my beautiful man, my Lover; bare-chested, broad-shouldered, with

a scattering of golden hair that traces a fine line down to his belt. I see the eyes of the women looking

in and know that they envy me.

And the eyes of the men are on me.

Michael goes to the rack of ‘tools’, making a show of choosing. Picking one out, a flogger, he tosses it

across the room to my Master who, still sipping at his drink, catches it mid-air, one-handedly, then

dangles it, the tails trailing suggestively, watching me as I follow his movements.

This ‘show’ is giving me tingles. Are they deliberately making me wait?

Of course they are….

Michael, pausing for another mouthful of the wine, pulls something from the pocket of his black jeans: a

silk scarf, in a fine filmy fabric. Brilliantly red, matching the bright lipstick I am wearing, it shimmers and

glimmers in the candlelight. He tugs at it a couple of times, snapping it tight as though testing its

strength, then, with a glance at my Master, eye-points him over to me.

Putting down the cup, my Master also removes his shirt and shoes, then strolls over, snapping the Belongs © to NôvelDrama.Org.

flogger a couple of times as he does so.

Watching all this, hand-bound, I am trembling, and fully dressed though I am, a warm trickle escapes

my heating core, soaking my panties.

They haven’t even touched me yet….

Standing very close to me, holding me tight at waist and shoulder, the flogger in his hand trailing tails

down the naked skin of my back, my Master inhales. “Ah, there’s my girl. Wet already. You smell

wonderful.”

My hips, pressed tight against his, feeling his erection hard against me, quiver at his words. He backs

away from me, with that non-smiling smile of his, allowing the leather tresses to trail over my shoulder

as he moves.

The faces beyond, pale against the darkness, seem mesmerised by the performance. There is not a

sound, only the gaze of a hundred eyes on me.

Michael, stepping behind, curves his arms around me, running hands over the flatness of my stomach,

up through the curve of hip and waist, over the roundness of my heavy breasts. The eyes follow his

every movement, as he displays me to them.

The beautiful dress sparkles and shimmers as it ripples under his hands before, fingers rising to the

nape of my neck, he unbuttons the halter; the two tiny buttons which are all that hold the dress on me.

Pressing himself close to me, he slips down the halter so that it dangles from my waist, leaving me

bare-breasted to the crowd,

Still behind me, he binds my eyes with the scarf, pulling it taut over my face. “Not too tight?” he asks.

“No, it’s fine.”

The gossamer fabric does not quite block my vision; golden light penetrates the red gauze, bathing my

eyes in a fiery mist. Although I can see no details, there is a hazy shadow to one side of me, which I

know is my Master, silhouetted against candlelight.

My nipples crinkling in the sudden coolth as the halter falls away, there is a movement in front of me, a

wash of warm air.

With a yelp, I arch back against Michael as icy wetness laves my left nipple. It rubs briefly around and

over my breast, before moving to my right nipple. Again, I yelp.

Michael chuckles behind me. “A chilled wine glass wet with condensation,” he whispers close by my

ear.

Abruptly, heat encases my left nipple, the right still being stroked with ice.

And now I moan, blind, writhing against my bound wrists, Michael’s arm wrapped around my waist to

support me.

The heat moves to my other nipple. hot and moist, sucking. “Your Master,” murmurs Michael, “suckling

on you after warming his mouth.”

Ah.… the coffee….

And Michael’s voice, always deeply rich, masculine, is now even more so; my other senses intensified

in my blindness.

The heat leaves me. The cold too. Michael is no longer behind me, and for long moments I hang,

suspended in my almost-dark, only the glimmer of the candles penetrating my blindfold.

Then, again from behind, my dress is eased down from my waist, puddling at my feet. My ankle is

grasped, lifting my foot, and then the other, as the dress is pulled away from me. Now I am naked, save

for scant, black lace panties.

How do I look to them? The Watchers? My pale skin, golden in the glimmer-light, my nipples, rosy

buds, my long red hair, a waterfall of flame, cascading to my waist.

Cool fingers glide inside the lace, sliding it away…. the red at my loins turned to glistening ruby, in the

shimmer of the candles, moistening in the heat of my core.

Quivering, tensed…. I wait…….

The smoothness of soft velvet over my skin: my breasts, my belly, my thighs…. the tails of the flogger?

Then a sharp pang as the tails lick past my nipples. I cry out, as pleasure-pain stabs down through me.

The tails kiss by my nipples again, touching only the nipple, not my breast: wielded by a maestro; my

Master surely?

Again…. nothing….

I drift in a glowing crimson-gold limbo.

Heat on my thighs, warm breath washing over my skin. I shiver, hot juices trickling from my warm

pussy.

Fingers ease my ankles apart, the air now close and hot, over the vee of my legs.

My clit pulses as ice glances over it and I scream.

Icy fingers draw slowly between my legs, parting folds, circling my clit and then….

Gone.

To be replaced by lips, hot over my bud, a scarlet heat that mouths, burning over me, and is gone.

Shaking and shuddering now, weak-kneed, my pussy is pulsing. Hanging with most of my weight on my

wrists as I pant, my lungs heave, and I whimper uncontrollably.

There is the briefest of glancing touches over my nipples again, ice swiping across breast and areola,

the cold freezing my skin, but oh, so fleetingly. The searing heat of the mouth replaces it, sucking

briefly, before it too, is gone.