Monique moaned as I explored her most private parts with my kisses and caresses from my tongue. She arched her back and pressed my head against her whenever I hit a particularly good spot, and other times bucked up against me. When she climaxed, her whole body went tense for a moment, as if she was actually being electrocuted, and then she went limp. This happened a few more times before she could actually breathe again, and by then I was so hot for her I couldn't wait any longer for my turn.
Monique didn't want to do things like she had last time, so she made me close my eyes and lay face down on the bed. She kissed me all over my back at random, and then made me tilt my hips up so she could probe the folds of my sex gently with fingers and tongue, making sure to give me as much pleasure as possible. I couldn't believe how good it felt. Monique definitely knew what she was doing, and she was amazingly good. It wasn't long before I could feel something building deep inside of me. When I climaxed, it was like a blinding light was flashing in front of my face. Then, when it was over, and the waves of pleasure stopped coursing through me, I felt like I was coming to from being knocked unconscious.
The next day Ed loaded up the van while I spoke with Monique in the ranch house.
“I want to see you again,” I said. “I can't go without you. Not now.”
Monique took my face into her hands.
“There isn't anything out here for me anymore,” Monique said. “I'm going to move to Oklahoma City. I think that's where you live, right?”
I couldn't keep my joy inside me, and jumped up and down, screaming, before flinging myself into her arms. Monique was full of surprises, and this one bowled me over. I couldn't believe that she would be willing to leave all of this behind. But then again, like Monique had just said herself, there really wasn't that much left for her out here at this point. The town had to have been integral to her survival, and now it was completely destroyed.
“Will you need a place to stay while you look for an apartment?” I asked.
“Actually, yes,” Monique said. “But I don't want to impose.”
“You won't be!” I nearly shouted. “Listen, my place is too big for me anyway, and the station helps pay for it, so you're more than welcome and you don't have to feel like you're imposing on me at all. There is even an extra room.”
Monique paused and searched my eyes with hers.
“Would you rather me sleep in another bed?” she asked.
I looked at the ground between us, then kissed her.
“No,” I replied. “I wouldn't.”
Ed gave the van's horn a polite double tap to remind me we had to go. I gave Monique my number and headed out to the van. Ed was in the driver's seat, which was unusual for him. When I climbed in he gave me a knowing grin.
“Figured I'd drive because you didn't get any sleep last night,” Ed said. “Or at least I hope you didn't.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “I didn't.”
It wasn't but a few weeks later Monique had sold her ranch, which had a modest amount of oil underneath, and moved into my apartment in OKC. It was good having her around, and eventually she stopped looking for her own place and decided she'd live with me while she worked for the city. Her work and my work kept us both busy, so we didn't get tired of one another, and we cherished every moment we had together.
The Sold Virgin
~ Bonus Story ~
A First Time Lesbian Menage
My skin is tingling, my lips are parted, and I can feel the space between my lips and hers as though an electrical current traveled between us. I want…What do I want? Whit lowers her face towards mine and I think she will kiss me. Yes, that’s what I want!
But instead, she places her lips beside my ear and murmurs, “I think you’ll be just fine tonight.” Her breath in my ear and the soft brush of her cheek against mine sends delicious shivers down my spine and I’m left thrumming as she steps back, deliberately breaking the tension.
Chapter 1
The coarse, straw colored rope binding my wrists is too tight to chafe, but it cuts off circulation to my hands which look cold and small against the dark gingham of my dress. Josh and I bounce along the rough road, the wagon bucking at every pothole, root, and rock. I am terrified. I had always looked to Josh, my step-brother, as my protector and ally. In this rough world, I, a woman, have no power of my own. But Josh was like an amiable extension of me, popular and self-sufficient and safe. He took me in when I was a helpless child, newly orphaned. Or so I had thought. It turns out everything, from his business dealings to his identity, was a sham.
Once I discovered his secret, he immediately turned on me. He didn’t strike me or yell. He’s too cold blooded for that. He decided to simply neutralize me; if my reputation is ruined, then no one will believe me when I claim that Josh is the murderer and liar that I know him to be. Who would believe a whore who says that her own brother is responsible for their parents’ death?
As we rattle along, I search his face for any hint of human feeling for his young half-sister but see nothing but ruthless intention. Nevertheless, I plead with him one more time.
“I beg you, spare me. I will tell no one, I promise. Just do not condemn me to a lifetime of pain and humiliation. It is as good as a death sentence.” My voice trembles but I do not weep. I know that tears would only irritate him.
He sneers slightly without even glancing in my direction. “You will go to the brothel. Your innocence will be stripped from you and your body will go to any man who wants you and lays his money down. And when you are no longer my concern, I will be free from the threat of your accusations.”
Peering out the tiny window, I recognize nothing of the landscape. I do not have even the faintest idea of where we are; I know only that it is far from where we began. I think again about trying to escape and, for the twentieth time since leaving home, I calculate my chances of survival as a young, unmarried woman alone with bound wrists and no food, money, or practical skills. It’s useless. There is no way out of this situation and Josh knows it, which is probably why he did not bother to bind my ankles.
A curve of the road reveals a seedy looking town in the distance. As we roll inexorably onward, the reality of my situation grips me and mounting hysteria causes me to begin sobbing uncontrollably, hiccupping and gasping for breath as the dusty wagon approaches a dilapidated A-frame. We pull to a stop in front of the structure. The entire town seems to consist of a saloon, brothel, feed store, and a few ramshackle dwellings scattered up and down the main, and only, road.
Josh opens the door and grabs my bound wrists, hauling me roughly to my feet and callously ignoring my tears. He pulls me out of the wagon and gives me a prod, expecting me to walk to the door of the brothel like an obedient dog. I dart away from him, desperation giving me speed I wouldn’t otherwise possess. Even as I sprint away from him, I know that there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. But blind terror makes reason unimportant; every instinct says “run” and I do. And when Josh catches me, as I knew he would, I crumple in defeat, all the adrenaline leaving my body as suddenly as it came. He tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of grain and stomps back to the brothel.
We’re met at the door by a reedy, middle aged man in a stained shirt. He seems to be expecting us. He points his chin, indicating a doorway behind his left shoulder. Josh strides to it and, seeing a low pallet in the corner of the room, he unloads me on to it. The shady looking stranger comes in behind us.
“Hold her arms. I need to verify her value,” he mutters. Josh nods and seizes my wrists again. I’m shaking all over as the man steps impersonally up to the bed and, without addressing or acknowledging me, lifts my skirts and yanks my drawers down. His dirty hands are on my bare thighs pushing them open and then inside me. The pain as he explores me with his rough hand is shadowed only by the all-consuming humiliation of being ‘handled’ like livestock. He grunts in apparent satisfaction and unceremoniously pulls out his hand.
“She’s a virgin, alright. I’ll fetch
you the money, as agreed upon.”
I lay in shock on the pallet as the men discuss me with the same nonchalance as if selling a cow. There’s a thin blanket on the pallet and I cover myself as best I can with my wrists still tied and my hands shaking. I feel something wet on the pillow and realize that my eyes are leaking. I hadn’t realized that I was crying. When the men leave to exchange coins, they lock the door behind them. They have said nothing to me directly. I lie in the dark room crying silently until the man returns, his sharp profile backlit in the open doorway like a hunched and evil crow.
He hauls me to my feet in much the same fashion as Josh had earlier in the day. This time, I walk numbly as he tugs me along. Struggling would only give him reason to lay his hands more directly upon me and my skin crawls at the thought. He leads me down a hallway with several doors and, choosing one seemingly at random, he leads me inside. Once there, he produces a wicked looking knife. For a moment, it occurs to me that he might kill me. I dismiss the thought almost immediately. I’m worth more alive. Besides, the thought of death does not frighten me as it once did. I stand passively as he grips my wrists and slides the knife behind the knotted ropes binding them together. Once the rope is cut, he leaves me without explanation, locking the door behind him.
Again, I’m left to wait in a dark room. At least I’m alone in here; the true horror of my future life has not yet begun. This must be the antechamber to hell, I think bleakly. The room is bare of furnishings aside from a bed. It’s none too clean but I curl up upon it and cover myself with the thin quilt. As the evening deepens, noises from neighboring rooms begin to penetrate the thin walls. I can hear men groaning and the dull thud of bodily impact. Sometimes, the higher register of a woman’s voice crosses the threshold and I desperately try to close my ears to the sounds which are alternately ambiguous and distressing.
Hearing footsteps outside of my door, followed by a key in the lock, I cower on the bed, huddling underneath the quilt. Peering out from beneath the covers, as the door swings open I expect to see a man. But the doorway frames a respectable looking woman. She’s dressed plainly and looks to be in her 40s or 50s. Confusion swims to the surface of my tumultuous emotions.
“Emma.” Being addressed by name pulls me back to reality somewhat. “My name is Madame Claire. I am the owner of this brothel. I have been informed that you are a virgin. I have no intention of ruining a good girl. But you’re young and pretty, as well. You’re worth more as a wife than as a whore. Therefore, you will not be staying here. Tomorrow, you will be sold at auction, married off to the highest bidder.” Her keen eyes watch for signs of incomprehension or resistance. Seeing none, she continues. “For tonight, you will remain in this room. This is for your safety as well as to protect our investment. I will send food up directly and come to fetch you in the morning.” She turns to leave but adds one last comment over her shoulder. “Try and sleep. You never know what tomorrow might bring.” And with those ominous words, she departs.
Her parting advice chills me. I do not understand what she means about being sold in marriage but she left before I could ask questions, seemingly on purpose. She had said her piece. I would have to wait in fear and suspense until morning. And try to sleep…Who would let their guard down in a place like this?
Chapter 2
I must have slept, at least fitfully, because my dreams were laced with terror and images of strange men advancing towards me. When morning comes, I must sort the realities of the day before from the stuff of nightmare; there’s little distinction. My eyes feel gritty and tired and my stomach is roiling with nerves. Once I get my bearings, the apprehension of the day before settles back about my shoulders as though it had never left. Today, I will be sold like chattel to any man with cash who wants to get his dirty paws on me. I feel sick.
Madame Claire returns to fetch me, as promised, and I go with her willingly, eager to leave my one room confinement if only to trade it for unknown torment. She leads me outside and I blink in the bright morning sunshine for a moment before registering the scene before me.
A raised platform has been erected several yards from the brothel and a modest crowd is gathered in front. I’m confused by the number of men present; the town itself couldn’t possibly contain so many. Then I notice that horses and buggies are staked or tied nearby indicating that the assembled men have traveled from elsewhere. I see several other young women already displayed on the platform as well as a sinister looking man with a hand on his holster. He’s clearly there to ensure compliance from the female captives.
I balk reflexively as Madame Claire tugs me in their direction. Taking my arm in a firm grip, she propels me towards the dais. My knees wobble as I ascend the narrow steps. Glancing nervously around, I see the same fear on the faces of each woman and quickly look down, fear and shame evoking another wave of sickness. The women vary in age and appearance. Some are very young, around my age I think, maybe fifteen years old. Others are fully mature; their faces show more wariness and fatigue than outright panic. These are the women who have survived more than once, I think. I can see it in their eyes and the lines of strain on their pretty faces. But the young girls mirror my own terror. I cannot bear to watch their eyes darting this way and that like birds in a net desperate for open sky. Mostly, I look down.
One by one, the women are brought forward and men holler from the crowd, jockeying for position in their efforts to secure a prize without over-betting. I keep my eyes fastened on my shoes, afraid that if I am forced to see the faces of these brutes, they will haunt me forever.
As each bid is finalized, the young woman is led from the dais to be claimed by the winning bidder. I feel more and more exposed on the dais at each transaction. Finally, I am alone before the crowd. I’m shaking all over and can feel my face flaming red. I am tugged forward, towards the front, and the bidding begins for my hand in marriage, or some sad version of it. Despite my attempt to tune out the rude noises, I notice when the bidding becomes frenzied. Perhaps because I am the last woman available, or perhaps because of my thick gold braid and wide blue eyes, the men are fighting over me with unrestrained zeal. My terror increases in proportion to their excitement. The clamoring is so overwhelming, I can’t follow what’s going on and I still will not raise my eyes, but the noise abruptly subsides as the man on the dais declares somebody the victor.
I’m hustled off the platform by the enforcer with the gun and maneuvered through the already dispersing crowd. We stop and I see two pairs of men’s boots, scuffed with wear, and slowly raise my eyes to see the man who has purchased me. There are two men in front of me, both lean and sinewy and both wearing wide brimmed hats under the hot western sun. They are armed and well outfitted and both wear bandanas which cover much of their faces. I wonder which of them I now belong to and wish that their faces were revealed so that I might read their expressions. Nothing about their demeaner reveals which of the two will be husband to me and each of them gently grips one of my elbows to escort me to their waiting covered wagon. With one on each side, I am boxed in but they are not rough with me as they assist me into my seat. They settle themselves quietly on either side.
As the horses begin picking their way across the road, one of the men turns to me and takes a deep breath.
“Emma. Do not be afraid. We mean you no harm.” His quiet voice is muffled by the bandana and I am forced to lean forward to catch his words. “You should understand, however, that our intention is to marry, if you will have us. We reside at Bridgewater Ranch. It is…unusual. We who live there have been soldiers together and our bond to each other is that of blood brothers. We prefer to share our wives with close friends. In this case, it is I and my friend here, Ian Stewart, who have purchased you together.” I glance at Ian, for confirmation, and he nods methodically.
I am incredulous and spend several moments in silence, absorbing this information, before addressing the man who had been speaking. “And what should I call you?”
Smile lines appear bes
ide the eyes of the masked man who had addressed me and he says, “my name is Whitmore Kane, but people call me Whit.”
We bounce along the rutted track and I reflect on how different this ride feels from the one yesterday when I had been bound and headed towards certain prostitution. I still don’t feel entirely safe; I don’t know Whit or Ian and I’m essentially at their mercy. They can do whatever they want to me and I lack the physical strength or the social clout necessary to protect myself. Nevertheless, they pose no immediate physical danger and, more than that, their demeaner is in no way intimidating. Far from it. They seem to be trying to put me at ease.
We ride in silence for much of the afternoon. During this time, I study them out of the corner of my eye. Whit seems to be the spokesman of the two, friendlier and sunnier in disposition. He is taller than Ian, with fair hair and light blue eyes. I can tell a lot about a person from the lines around their eyes and, even with the mask, it’s apparent to me that Whit has a jovial nature. Ian is harder to read, particularly since he has not yet spoken. His face is itself like a mask behind his bandana, but his dark hair curls out from under his hat and, when he turned his face to me earlier, I was struck by the intensity of his electric blue eyes. They both sit straight backed like the soldiers they are, with hands on knees. Their hands look rough but clean and for that I am grateful.
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