by Dark Angel
She stops me with a hand on my wrist, and I look up at her, her beautiful face even more angelic with the bliss of an orgasm fresh across her features.
She shakes her head, and I start to worry she’s having second thoughts.
But then she makes my day—no my whole fucking life—when she leans forward and wraps her fingers around my cock and says, “My turn.”
Poppy
How many times have I got myself off to the fantasy of sucking Dom’s cock? I’ve lost count. But I’m about to do it now. Really and truly.
I stare down at him as I stroke my fist up and down. I was right. He’s huge. Like mind-bogglingly, make-me-cum-with-one-look huge. My pussy clenches again. I want him inside me so badly. But first, first I want to make him feel as good as he just made me feel.
I push against his chest until he takes a step back, and I slide to my knees in front of him.
Dom groans, his fingers twining in my hair again, gripping my head in desperation. “Fuck, baby. You don’t have to do this.”
I look up at him, darting my tongue out to lick the bead of precum on his thick head, my eyes wide and innocent as I stare into his face. “Oh, you don’t want me to?” I tease, squeezing the base of his shaft for emphasis.
He bites out a laugh. “You’re going to kill me, woman.”
I grin. “I can stop if you want.” Another flick of my tongue.
A growl rips from his throat. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“That’s what I thought.” I lick him from base to tip, reveling in the sense of power that I feel that I’m able to make this man so hungry, so desperate. It’s crazy. I never would have thought that I would be the one to do this to him.
He grips my head more firmly, and I take him into my mouth, running my tongue over the ridge of his head, then lowering myself further, wanting to take as much of him as I can.
Dom thrusts into my mouth, shoving my head hard against his cock, and I cry out in surprise, then moan around him as he fills my mouth with his thickness.
“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, “you just feel so fucking good.”
I want to smile that I make him lose control like this. I wrap my fist tightly around the base of his shaft and pump him while I work my mouth up and down him until his breath is coming in sharp gasps. Just when I think I’m about to send him over the edge, he yanks me up, pulling me to my feet and wrapping his arms around me.
“Don’t want to cum like that,” he growls, lifting my arms above my head and running his hands down my sides.
He spins me around and bends me over the bed, then I feel his hard cock swiping through my folds, teasing me.
“Please,” I whimper when the tease gets to be too much.
I hear him rip open the condom wrapper, then a couple seconds later I feel him pressing against me. I push back, so, so ready.
He pushes just the tip inside me, running his hands back up my sides and arms, then he grips my wrists and holds them in one hand above me, pinning them to the bed. Grabbing my hip with his other hand, he slams into me, filling me in one swift stroke.
I cry out, feeling full in the very best way.
Then Dom begins to move inside me, stroking my pussy in fast, furious pumps, driving me to the edge of insanity in a matter of moments.
The angle he’s hitting is perfect, and suddenly I’m hurtling over the cliff, my pussy clenching and clamping as it tightens around his thickness. I moan his name over and over, the sheer ecstasy better than anything I ever imagined.
I start to come down from the orgasm, but he doesn’t let me get far before he pulls out, flips me around and tosses me higher up on the bed. Then he’s crawling up and over me, his face going intense. Serious. Passionate.
“Poppy,” he whispers, running a finger along my cheek. And what I see in his eyes is everything I ever hoped for. Everything I know is wrong because he’s my stepbrother.
But I don’t know how it can be wrong when it feels so very right.
Dom lowers himself to his forearms, framing my face, and slowly slides himself back inside me. Both of our breaths rush out, mingling in the intense energy that’s suddenly between us. This moment is everything.
He moves slowly, drawing out our pleasure, his eyes never leaving mine as he fucks me in a way that feels a whole lot like making love.
I watch as all the emotion I’m feeling crosses over his face like a mirror. He feels it too.
Then he wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck, and we both shatter into a million pieces as we cum together, but somehow, I feel more whole than I ever have.
After a while, he lifts his head and presses a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.
“Mine,” his whispers, in awe, as if he can’t believe it.
And I know it’s true. I’m his. I always have been. And I always will.
Celine & Wes
Celine
My heart jumps up into my throat as the train comes to a stop. I glance out the window, then sigh in relief when I see I’m not at my stop yet. I’ve been trying to disappear into my own head for the past twenty minutes on the ride in from Brooklyn, trying not to think about what I’m about to do.
There’s still time to back out.
I bite my lip, wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Who the hell auctions off their virginity?
Broke-ass chicks who are one step away from spending their last hundred bucks on a bus ride back to Kansas, apparently.
I close my eyes again and draw a deep breath. Well, I try to, but my chest feels like a thousand pound anvil is resting on it.
“You okay?” a smooth voice says softly from right beside me.
My eyes fly open again, and I turn quickly to see if the man is talking to me. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
As if I’m not already a bundle of nervous energy, seeing this ridiculously hot guy next to me has my erratic heartbeat ratcheting up even higher.
I offer a small smile and nod, not quite meeting his eyes, then I grit my teeth. This right here is exactly why I’m still a virgin. I’m barely able to look at a guy, much less speak. Flirting is entirely out of the question.
“You sure?” He quirks a dark eyebrow at me, a cocky smirk spreading across his face—his gorgeous, make-me-sin face. “You look like you’re ready to jump off this train while it’s still moving.”
“That obvious?” I ask, finding my voice.
He shrugs. “Maybe it’s the way you’ve nearly chewed your finger off since I’ve been sitting here watching you.”
Watching me? How long has he been watching me? I look down at my fingernails and cringe. So much for that manicure. Now I get to be an awkward as fuck virgin up on stage in addition to having mangled nails.
“I’m Wes,” he says, that smirk still in place.
And damn it, if he doesn’t have my heart stuttering again. His eyes are an unusual greenish-grey, and they have me hypnotized.
The smirk grows wider. “And you are?”
“Oh,” I say, my face flushing as I jerk my gaze from him. “Celine. I’m Celine.”
I look all around the train, trying to focus on anything but Wes. He has me totally flustered. I just don’t know how to act around men.
So why the hell are you about to sell yourself to one?
I press my lips together, wishing for the millionth time there was another solution. But this is it. If I want to stay in New York and have a real chance at the life I want, I need money.
It’s not like the first time is supposed to be special anyway, right? It’s just an initiation. Like jumping into a freezing pool. You acclimate, and things get better after that. Best to just get it over with so I can move on to the fun part.
Except I can’t even hold a conversation with Wes here, so I don’t know that the having fun part is coming my way anytime soon.
“What are you doing tonight?” Wes draws my attention again. Apparently, he isn’t catching on to the fact that I can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.
; I shift uncomfortably. “Just going to this club,” I mumble.
That seems to interest him. He leans in closer. “Me too. What club?” There’s a spark in his eye.
Shit. Why did I have to say that? Like I really want to tell this stranger that I’m going to some underground club where they auction off women for sex.
Wes seems really nice. Someone that I might like under another circumstance. You know, if I wasn’t trying to psych myself up to hand in my V-card. Or if I didn’t become a bumbling mess in the presence of his kind of sexiness.
“What do you do, Celine?” He changes the subject, obviously aware that I don’t feel comfortable telling him where I’m going. But that question isn’t much better.
I don’t have a job. This is my last ditch effort to make enough money to go to school at NYU. And if things work out well enough with the auction, the lady I spoke with said there were other exclusive opportunities to make money. Whatever that means. I was afraid to ask.
“Your mother must have really drilled it into your head not to talk to strangers,” he teases, flashing a lopsided grin that makes his entire face look less intimidating. He reaches down and twirls a lock of my hair around his finger.
Even though I would normally be even more freaked out than I already am by his attention, I can’t help smiling back at him this time. That smile is totally disarming.
“You’ve got me,” I say, laughing. “And I’m nothing if not a good girl that follows the rules.”
He hums. “Just what I thought.”
I think I see a flicker of something in his eyes, something heated and greedy, but it’s gone in a flash.
“College student,” I blurt out, then want to smack myself for being so inept at simple conversation. Again, no surprise here that I’m still a virgin.
His eyebrows lift in amusement, and I continue. “That’s what I do. You asked what I do,” I add awkwardly. It’s almost true. It will be after tonight.
“What do you study?”
“Screenwriting.” I don’t know why I tell him that. I don’t usually tell anyone that, afraid they’ll think it’s ridiculous.
Wes smiles again. “You know, Celine, I’d love to take you out for coffee sometime. Get to know you better.”
I shake my head quickly. “I can’t. I have to be somewhere.”
“Me too,” he says, almost regretfully. “How about tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I find myself saying before I can think better of it. God, what am I thinking? I can’t go have coffee with this guy. After tomorrow I may end up being some kind of escort or something.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
“Perfect,” he says, pulling out a card and pressing it into my palm as the train slows to a stop.
I look up. This is where I get off.
I didn’t want to do this to begin with, but now after talking with Wes, I really don’t. Figures that the first time I’m able to have a real conversation with a hot guy it would be on my way to auction off my virginity.
Wes
Strolling slowly toward the club, I can’t get my mind off Celine. I should have gotten her number. She might never call me. Not that I should care. I don’t get hung up on any one girl. In fact, I’m willing to pay the highest price to ensure that not only do the girls I’m with know there’s no chance of it being anything more than sex, but I also have a very particular kind of girl I like.
But my dick doesn’t seem to remember that. It’s completely focused on the memory of that sweet, shy girl on the train. I continue down the sidewalk, stepping to the side when a group of burly guys in western gear, complete with cowboy hats, passes by me going in the opposite direction. It barely registers, even though they should stand out like a sore thumb in this city. But that’s New York for you. A little bit of everything.
Instead of wondering about them, my mind goes straight back to Celine. Screenwriting. I smile. That was my dream once upon a time. Before I got dragged into the grittier, darker businesses that thrive in basements and old buildings. Before I headed up Pure, the most elite escort service in Manhattan. We specialize in auctions. Of the virgin variety.
I should be glad I didn’t get Celine’s number. Because pure is exactly what she seemed to me. And I have no business messing up yet another girl. I do that enough every day of the week.
Sighing, I push open the glass door of my destination, then follow a maze of hallways that lead to a stairwell that opens up to a giant ballroom. This is my life. Wishing it were different is pointless.
“Mr. Brightman,” my assistant greets me, clipboard in hand. “Everything is all set. The last girl just arrived. Ready to get started?”
I glance around the dim room, the white tablecloth tables scattered in front of a stage, wealthy men scattered around drinking cocktails and eating overpriced gourmet appetizers.
“Let’s do this,” I say, snagging a bottle of Scotch from the bar before settling into a table at the back of the room. I may or may not bid on a girl tonight, but I always come to the auctions, staking out the scene from the shadows, making sure my business is operating just how it should. When you deal in such delicate matters, you can’t trust it to just anyone.
I pour myself a finger of the amber liquid, then knock it back as Celine’s sweet face floats in my mind again. I have a feeling I’ll be going home alone tonight. If she does happen to call me, I don’t want some girl there in the way.
The emcee of the event makes his way onstage, going through his usual speech. But the men here know the drill. None of them are new to this. Still, part of the fun is the show. The experience.
When he’s done talking, a line of beautiful young girls parade out onto the stage, lining up in their evening dresses as if it’s a beauty pageant. Each one hoping to go home with the prize.
I shake my head and wonder for the millionth time how the fuck I got this deep in this shit. They have no clue what they’re doing. How this could mess them up, haunt them for the rest of their lives.
I pour another drink as the emcee begins to introduce the girls, barely paying attention. Until he gets to the end of the line.
“Celine,” he says smoothly. “Eighteen years old.”
My head snaps up from where I’m staring into my glass.
No fucking way.
But there she is. My sweet, shy girl from the 6 Train. Standing on my stage smiling out at the crowd of horny bastards just waiting for a chance to take her home.
I grind my teeth so hard I’m afraid they’ll be reduced to dust. What the hell is she doing here?
Auctioning her virginity?
I rake my hand through my hair, agitation taking over me as the crowd murmurs over her. Of course they fucking do. She’s gorgeous. Sweet. Innocent. Pure. Exactly what they come for.
She’s going to go to the highest bidder, and she’s going to command quite the price. I know this.
And it makes me come unhinged.
I sit on the edge of my seat for the next hour, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to be okay with some bastard going home with this girl. Trying to understand why I care so much. This is what I do. It’s my job. It’s business. I never get involved emotionally. Or really think too hard about what I’m doing, if I’m honest.
But with her? I can’t handle it. I want her for myself. And not as a prize because I bid the highest. I’m not even sure why. I just know that I saw something in her eyes on the train. Something innocent and hopeful. Something that reminded me of myself once upon a time. And I don’t want to kill that.
By the time the emcee gets back down to the end of the line, nearly twenty girls have been sold to the highest bidder. He stops in front of Celine.
“And our lovely Celine. Quite the prize.”
I bristle at his choice of words, a surge of protectiveness rising in me. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just go up on stage and pull her down, tell her she can’t do this. She signed up for it.
The bidding starts, climbin
g rapidly and shockingly high, and my agitation builds along with it.
When the bids slow, and it’s just down to two men, I can’t take it anymore. I stand up from my seat and call out, “Five hundred thousand dollars.”
Celine
A murmur goes through the crowd as my jaw nearly hits the floor. What just happened? I thought it was insane that these men were approaching two hundred thousand dollars in their bids. I never imagined that kind of scenario when I signed up for this. But half a million dollars?
I can’t even wrap my head around that. And half of it will be mine?
Even the emcee seems flustered. “Mr. Brightman?” he asks, as if he’s unsure what’s going on.
“You heard me,” a clear voice states from the shadowy back of the room.
I swallow hard. This has suddenly become all too real. Before, terrifying as it was, it was still kind of abstract. Now, this man that I can’t see has actually bid on me. And won, apparently.
I’ll be going home with him. Having sex with him. Losing my virginity to him.
I feel lightheaded, and my ears are roaring as blood rushes through my body. My knees feel weak, and I swear I’m about to fall out on the floor.
“Very well then,” the emcee says, then turns to me just like he did all the women that went before me. “Celine? You’ll be accompanying Mr. Brightman this evening.”
Accompanying. How quaint. I force a smile and step forward, squinting my eyes, trying to see into the shadows.
A tall man steps forward, slim but strong, and my stomach flips, my breath coming fast.
I lick my lips, not sure how to act.
He steps into the light, and my whole world seems to shift.
“Wes?” I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth. I’m embarrassed. Humiliated. And also strangely relieved in a way I don’t quite understand.