Bondage Virgins

by Lilac James

  His head hurt.

  Reece Ferguson raised a shaky hand to swipe at the ache and discovered two things: his hand weighed a ton, and his face was wet. Then he realized the wet came from rain pelting him. Darkness blotted out his surroundings, but the smell of garbage couldn’t be hidden. His mind groped for some shred of memory or reason.

  “Hey, buddy. You hurt?”

  Reece didn’t recognize the voice.

  A stranger in a raincoat knelt beside him, blocking the rain from his face. “Can you sit up?”

  With the man’s help, Reece eased himself up. “What happened?”

  “That was my question. You get mugged?”

  “Don’t remember.” Reece felt for his wallet. “I guess so. Wallet’s gone.” His watch, his phone too. “Shit.”

  “Don’t try to move. I’ll call an ambu—”

  “No,” Reece mumbled. That was all he needed, a lot of shouting and publicity before he’d even arrived at the office to take up his new job.

  “Okay. No ambulance. Need some help getting home? I can call you a cab.”

  “No home. No money. Hotel info was in the wallet. Along with the phone numbers of anyone I could call. Shit!” His mother was somewhere over the Pacific with her phone turned off, and she wouldn’t hit town before tomorrow morning. His uncle kept his phone and address unlisted. Reece had his private cell number—in his stolen phone. And no one would be at the company until morning. That left the cops. Maybe they could help, if they even would. Maybe. But wouldn’t that make a wonderful impression at work. He was supposed to be arriving on a white horse to save the company, not staggering in as a helpless victim. Double shit. Looked like he’d be facing a long, cold night. With the stranger’s help, he got to his feet and stumbled out of the alley. “Welcome to town, right?”

  “What a bummer. Sounds like you’re really up against it.”

  “That would be my take on it. Is there a cop shop nearby? Maybe they’ll let me stay there until morning.”

  The stranger stopped under a streetlight and looked Reece up and down. “You’re a good-lookin’ dude. You up for working tonight?”

  Reece’s Beware Meter started ticking. “At what?” He thought his Good Samaritan flushed, but couldn’t be sure in the yellow light.

  “Don’t blame you for being suspicious. I work at Milady’s Pleasure—”

  “No way. Absolutely not. I appreciate your help, but—”

  “No, no. You don’t understand. You don’t actually have to fuck if you don’t want to. This club is a place for the ladies. They come in and order what they want and then pick out a guy from the lineup. You can say what you’re willing to do and that’s it. Some of them just want to look.”

  “Hard to believe,” Reece said skeptically.

  “Yeah. Me too. But some of the first-timers do just that. And you’d be doing me a big favor. I was supposed to bring another guy tonight and he flaked out at the last minute. It’d give you a warm, dry place to spend the night.”

  He should say no. The CEO of an international company didn’t have any business thinking twice about being—Reece gagged at the thought—about being a sex club worker.

  On the other hand…he cocked his head and considered his Samaritan. “Maybe.”

  “You’d get a place to stay. Get laid if you want. And save my butt. I’m Diego, by the way.”

  “I’m—ah—”

  “I get it. You don’t have to let anyone know your real name. You can pick a nom de club. Most of us do.”

  “They only want to look?”

  “Some of them. If that’s what you want.”

  Rain came down faster. Reece shivered. His head throbbed. He rubbed at the aching lump and weighed his options. Go back to sleep in the alley? Try to find a cop? Sleep in the doorway at the company? Sounded like Diego’s offer was the highest card on the table. “Oh hell. Why not? Just call me Mr. X.”

  Chapter Two

  Bessie stepped out of the shower and stood in front of her bathroom mirror, rehearsing her approach to Milady’s Pleasure. Every nerve she owned stood upright with panic. How could she walk into such a place? And ask a total stranger for— She gripped the edge of the sink. She couldn’t do this.

  She looked out into her bedroom and imagined the long, lonely nights that stretched ahead of her, a parade of old-maid evenings in front of the television. Maybe she’d get a cat.

  Fate had dropped the perfect opportunity in her lap. She couldn’t ignore it.

  She took a deep breath, forced herself to ignore the way her breasts lifted against her loose sweatshirt, the way the fabric rubbed her nipples, and said, “I’ve never seen a naked man before.”

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  She repeated the sentence, watching herself in the mirror. Definitely not. The words sounded pathetic coming from a supposedly sophisticated, almost-thirty career woman.

  “Show me a penis.” Ugh. She sounded—well, not even dominatrix-like. More desperate, and she’d do anything to keep her desperation from showing. Almost anything.

  “Tonight I want…” Yes. Simple, direct, clear. Now if she could only figure out how to finish the sentence. “Tonight I want to look.” Okay. A good start. “Tonight I want to look at a man. I understand I can pick from a lineup.” She’d be sure to add she wanted him hooded and handcuffed, so things couldn’t get out of hand. “Make it risk-free,” she’d say.

  Tonight, she’d start. Long overdue, but finally she’d see what she’d been missing.

  Her heart had settled somewhere in her throat by the time she reached Milady’s Pleasure and rang the ordinary-looking doorbell. Instead of a buzzer or chimes, Tank’s “Sex Music” sounded from inside the building. Her hips and shoulders picked up the beat before she could stop herself. She froze into a more ladylike posture and glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. That music sounded a clear message to anyone within earshot.

  Before she lost her nerve and ran, the door opened and surprise held her motionless. A butler! “Yes, madam?” he said in a perfect upper-crust BBC accent.

  “I—I want to—I want—” she stammered.

  “To participate in an evening fantasy, madam?”

  Numbly, she nodded.

  “Of course. Please come in.” He stood back for her to enter. “Mr. Lafcadio will be pleased to discuss your desires.” He ushered her into a charming reception room furnished with two velvet-upholstered chairs by a small fire, with soft lighting and, fortunately, no bed. A small oil painting of Adam and Eve hung over the cherrywood mantel.

  Bessie sank into a chair and waited.

  Mr. Lafcadio appeared within moments, slim, dark, and faintly satanic in appearance, but nonthreatening in action. “Good evening. I am Maurice Lafcadio, your host. Shall I call you Ms.…Smith? Clients often prefer anonymity here.”

  Bessie nodded, her mouth so dry she wasn’t sure she could speak.

  Mr. Lafcadio picked up a small silver bell from the table in front of them and rang it. Almost immediately, the door opened and the butler entered bearing a tray with a teapot and two bone china cups. He set the tray on the table and left, closing the door quietly.

  Tea would be wonderful, but Bessie knew her hands would shake if she tried to pick up a cup. She clasped them tightly in her lap.

  Mr. Lafcadio poured a gently steaming pale-green liquid into the cups and set one before her.

  Her hands did shake as she lifted the cup. Fear or anticipation, she couldn’t tell. She set the cup back on the table.

  “The tea will help you relax. First visits here are often traumatic, but there is nothing to fear. All you have to do is tell me what you most desire, my dear, and I shall make it happen for you.”

  To her chagrin—and relief—Maurice had pegged her as an innocent and had settled in to make her choices as easy as possible. He couldn’t possibly be this patient with every client. Now all she had to do was tell him…

  “I want,” she began and choked.

 
“Another sip of tea,” Maurice suggested.

  She took a nervous slurp and blurted, “I want to look at a naked man.” There. Heat burned up her neck clear to her forehead, and she knew she blushed. She bent her head and stared at the floor. When Maurice didn’t say anything, she sneaked a peek at him.

  He didn’t look surprised. Or offended. Or critical. “But of course. That can be arranged easily.” He sipped delicately from his cup. “Tell me about your fantasy.”

  “Oh, well, uh, I hadn’t thought…” But apparently her baser self had, because a picture sprang into her mind, so detailed it must have taken hours to construct. “I’d like him to come into the room, and—and—”

  Maurice smiled at her hesitation. “We have a policy of complete anonymity unless clients request otherwise. Anyone you see will be hooded.”

  “And then he should take off his clothes. Not a professional striptease, just a man taking off his clothes.”

  Maurice nodded. “And then?”

  “I want him to be standing, but tied, so his arms and legs are spread. So he’s like a big X in the middle of the room. A chair for me. Some music, but I don’t know what. And he must not be able to see me,” she repeated. She paused, suddenly unsure. “And could he be gagged? So he can’t talk to me?”

  “Do you want to touch him?”

  Bessie shivered. “N-no.” Her breath clotted in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “Not—“

  “Not this time?”

  Bessie nodded, not looking at him.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Relaxation is important to the enjoyment of the evening."

  The tea had relaxed her. Bessie eyed the teapot suspiciously. “It’s not—I mean, it—what is it?” she blurted.

  “Our special blend of chamomile and passion fruit.” Maurice smiled. “Tea. Nothing but tea.”

  Embarrassment heated her face. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

  “The first visit is always the hardest,” Maurice said comfortingly. He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from a pocket and used a gold pen to make a note. “But there is an incentive for our first-timers. As well as being the hardest, a lady’s first visit is without charge. Should you choose to return, you will find a schedule of our fees on the table by the door.” He smiled at her. “Now, please sit here by the fire while we prepare your fantasy room and a selection of gentlemen.”

  It was really going to happen. What had she done? Panic shot through her. “About the gag…and the tying… He wouldn’t be hurt, would he?” she asked.

  “No, no,” Maurice soothed. “Nothing such as one sees in those violent gangster movies. Only a pristine scarf tied over his mouth to remind him not to talk.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You are obviously a very kind lady in addition to a lovely one,” Maurice said. “One of the inviolate rules of the club is that no one is hurt—against his or her will, that is. Every scenario requires a safe word, and all action must stop instantly when that word or phrase is uttered. Since you are not planning any touch this evening, this will not be an issue, but I must still have your promise.”

  Oh my. Apparently things could get a bit rougher than she had imagined. But she certainly agreed with the concept. “Yes, I promise. But he’s not to speak, and you said he’d be gagged…”

  “He will be, just as you requested. But he can make a sound. An ‘Ahhh’ will do, and that can be his safe word. You understand this is a rule that must be followed.”

  Bessie nodded.

  “Excellent. Thank you. Now I will leave you for a few moments while I create your fantasy, and then you shall have a splendid evening.” He tucked the pad and pen into the breast pocket of his tuxedo and quietly left the room.

  Bessie relaxed back into her chair. Her hopes for the next few hours flowed faster and faster as she drank her tea. When she had finished it, she held the translucent cup up to the firelight and looked more closely at the pattern around the rim. Not an abstract pattern, as she’d thought. Small figures. Were they…? They were. She brought it closer. She knew she blushed, but no one could see, so she peered at the intricate, tiny figures, tracing with one finger the amazingly athletic positions. Whoever would have thought—

  The door opened behind her, and she jumped guiltily. The cup dropped to the floor, rolling on the thick rug.

  “It is a fine piece of art, is it not?” Maurice said, amusement coloring his voice.

  Bessie felt the telltale blush again and cursed her fair skin. This blushing business had gotten very tiresome.

  Maurice crossed the room and picked up the cup, returning it to the table by her chair. “Now you have but to select your consort for the evening and your perfect fantasy will take place. Shall we go to the viewing gallery?” He held out a hand to help her stand.

  Bessie followed him along a hall paneled in dark wood and carpeted in scarlet to what looked like a very small theater. Half a dozen seats faced a curtained window.

  “One-way glass,” Maurice assured her. “The gentlemen you are about to see know someone is here, but they cannot see you. Your privacy is sacrosanct.” He pulled the draperies aside.

  Bessie had expected to see a police-blotter lineup. Instead of scruffy criminals, though, a group of gorgeous men who looked like cover models, at least from the neck down, stood in a relaxed group. Instead of a rigid line, the group had been subtly spread out so she had a clear view of each one. She exhaled a rapturous, “Oh-h-h.”

  Maurice had apparently noticed—and understood—every nuance of her requests. Each man appealed to her in a different way. Like the best casino buffet, she faced a surfeit of luscious promise.

  “I’ll leave you to your selection, my dear. If you’ll pull the bell rope when you’ve decided, please.”

  Bessie didn’t look away from the view through the window as he left. She’d never seen such gorgeous men. How could she ever choose? She could have one of them naked and in any position—or all positions—she chose tonight. So who would it be?

  She bent toward the window. Four wore business suits. Each had a numbered placard around his neck. They stood in an open semicircle, facing her but talking among themselves, apparently relaxed and at complete ease. Three she eliminated at once. Male models, one in a poet’s shirt and khakis, all about as real as cardboard cutouts.

  Number four might be all too real. In jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, like one of the models, he might have been appealing, but in the suit—pure Mafia Hit Man.

  That left five and six, both businessman types, both tall and muscular, as far as she could tell while they were dressed. At this moment, she regretted the identity-concealing hoods. One had light skin that might go with blond hair; one had hair the color of really good espresso on his arms. Mentally she peeled away the suits, and her decision came easily when she thought about seeing bare skin and body hair. The maybe-blond was toothsome indeed, but something in her wanted, needed, to see the sharp contrast of dark hair against skin. Awareness tingled through her core. Her fingers, when she thought about actually touching… Getting a step ahead of yourself, girl. Not tonight.

  Maurice took her back to the little room to sit by the fire while he prepped Number Six—Mr. X, he’d said the man’s name was—for her entertainment.

  Shivering with excited anticipation, she followed Maurice to a small room. He opened the door, and she stepped inside gingerly. The gleaming wood floor, rich Oriental carpet, and dark oak paneling gave the room the look of a wealthy man’s library, but only a single chair furnished the space. Maurice escorted her to the elegant wooden chair, and she sat. “Enjoy,” he murmured, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

  Oh she would. She definitely would.

  Before she could think about being nervous, the door opened and two men escorted Number Six into the room. He stood across the room, hooded, presumably gagged, and gorgeous.

  When “The Stripper” began to play, the two men—guards?—stepped out, and Mr. X began to remov
e his clothes. He tugged his tie loose and tossed it over his shoulder. After a few seconds, he shrugged out of the charcoal jacket that had to be silk and slung it across the room. Swaying slightly to the music, he unbuttoned—slowly—the cuffs of his pale-blue oxford cloth shirt. The rest of the shirt. And let it slide off his shoulders to puddle on the floor. He wore a terribly normal short-sleeved, white T-shirt beneath. Standing there in undershirt and charcoal slacks, he looked mouthwatering, gorgeous, and so real she could hardly keep from throwing herself at him.

  Slowly he turned halfway around, so she saw his back. He pulled the T-shirt loose from his trousers, grasped the hem with crossed hands, and pulled it over his head. Slowly. His movements weren’t the practiced seductive ones of professional male strippers—she’d seen a brief clip of the Chippendales on TV—but the clumsiness endowed him with the touch of realness she wanted.

  He tossed the shirt across the room, and she gaped at the smooth skin and impressive musculature of his back. A perfect wedge from shoulders wider than any she’d ever seen to trim waist and hips.

  He turned back to face her, arms held out to the sides, and she saw how right she’d been to choose him. Dark hair dusted his chest, swirling around flat, dark nipples and narrowing to an explicit trail that arrowed into his trousers.

  His hands went to his belt buckle. Her mouth turned dry as the desert. He teased her by pulling the belt loose from the loops and flicking it like a bullwhip a couple of times before tossing it to join his T-shirt.

  She wondered if he cheated and could see in spite of the hood. He answered the question by tripping over the discarded shirt. Even as he tossed it aside, he took a deep breath and unfastened his trousers. Holding them up, he kicked away his shoes and toed off his socks.

  And he really couldn’t see her, she figured, because he faced slightly away from her.

  He let go of the trousers. They dropped to pool around his ankles, and he stepped away from them. She stared at the plain, white boxers that couldn’t quite conceal his—his—package. Her mouth went dry, and her fingers itched to touch.

  He ran his hands down his sides, slipping his thumbs inside the boxers and pulling them down a couple of inches. Heat seared through her belly and pooled between her legs. He edged the boxers down a little more, and more, until the band caught on that bulge. The happy trail had blossomed into a lush frame that beckoned her to tear the fabric away from what it concealed.