Winning Bid: A Virgin Auction Romance

by Virginia Sexton

  Maybe this was a mistake.

  Yet, mixed in with my disappointment is something else: an undeniable sense of relief. The more I think about the other women here, the less I want to be one of them. They dressed nicely, put on nice perfume, and smile non-stop, but they’re clearly uncomfortable and nervous — it’s plain from their body language. Who could blame them? Going out looking to sell one’s virginity is a weird thing to do, and I think that’s dawning on all of us more every minute.

  Maybe Radha was right.

  I’m torn between ordering another Pinot and just leaving when I hear a coarse, gravelly voice. “Hello, can I get you something to drink?”

  Turning to face the man who spoke, I see he’s very pale and exceedingly tall. He wears a dark suit, and he’s a little on the old side, but far from geriatric. Still, even his weak grin appears forced, with gaps in his lips exposing his teeth, as if he never learned how to smile properly.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice catching. “Wine?”

  “Champagne,” he says, as though correcting me. The bartender opens a fresh bottle, hand gripped over the cork to keep it from shooting. He hands the flutes he pours to the tall man, who then passes one to me.

  “What’s your name?” he asks before taking a sip.

  “Wendy.” For a second, I cringe, wondering if I should have made something up. Too late now.

  “Wendy, hello. I’m Orson. Have you ever been to one of these before?” he asks, settling over one of the bar stools, but not sitting.

  I look up to meet his gaze. “Do a lot of women come here more than once?”

  He laughs, a raspy sound that curdles my blood. “No, I suppose not. It’s very rare we have a woman turn up here and fail to get any bids. The Exchange makes its selections with great care.”

  “Seriously?” I snort, looking down at my thick sweater. “Then what am I doing here?”

  “Oh, you’re here for me, Wendy.” Orson finishes his champagne, which makes me realize I haven’t even tried mine. I take a tiny sip, too nervous to drink any more.

  “For me?” I ask.

  “Yes. The Exchange probably took one look at you and said, ‘That’s Orson Bishop’s type, send her an invite.’ They know me very well here,” he explains.

  “Is that so?” I’m not sure if that’s creepy or comforting — he may like his virgins, but at least he’s probably not leaving them in a dumpster somewhere.

  “It is. That’s why I’d like to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars, right here, right now.”

  Holy shit.

  “I don’t need to look at any of the other girls,” Orson continues. “And I don’t need to bother with the auction. I’d be willing to pay that much if you agree now.”

  A connection in my brain misfires and I feel lightheaded, the room spinning slightly. It’s not the champagne.

  Twenty. Five. Thousand.

  Holy shit!

  Airfare, hotels, food, drinks, entertainment, souvenirs — all of that would be no problem. I’d probably even have enough left over to pay a few months’ rent.

  On a dime, my opinion of the virgin auction turns around.

  This is incredible!

  I never imagined I would get anywhere close to that much. Also, this Orson is a bit off-putting, but is he really that bad? Maybe if I get to know him better…

  “I can pay however you like: direct deposit, cash, certified bank check – whatever you want, I can have it done in ten minutes. But you have to decide immediately. I’m sorry if that’s a lot of pressure.”

  “It is,” I say, my wooziness not getting much better. “I don’t understand, why do you have to know right now?”

  “Wendy, I’m a man of many virtues, but patience is not one of them. I know what I want, and when I see it, I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Oh, well, nobody likes to be kept waiting,” I babble, still trying to wrap my mind around his proposition. My stomach lurches, and I have to close my eyes and shut the world out. I expected to have more time to get used to the idea of losing my virginity to a stranger — I don’t know if I’m ready! This is too soon!

  But if I don’t take the offer now, I may not get another!

  What if The Exchange won’t take me back for a second try? I could miss the only chance I’ve got of affording the trip to Europe.

  “What’s your answer, Wendy? You have to decide now.”

  My brain feels like scrambled mush. “I… think that I’ll…”

  “He’s lying to you, Wendy.”

  Orson and I turn to the new voice at the same time. He’s no one I’ve met, but I’ve never been so glad to see someone else in my life. His calm, soft smile hits the reset button in my head, and I start to feel better right away.

  Dressed in a light gray suit that tightly hugs his broad shoulders and chest, with matching slacks and a bright, turquoise tie, he winks at Orson as he stops in front of us.

  “Hi, I’m Cassius Swain. My friends call me Cash. What’s your name, Ms…?”

  “Wendy Hart,” I answer, past the point of having the wherewithal to withhold my real name. Every second I look into Cash’s emerald eyes, my body seems to loosen and relax. He’s an impossibly gorgeous man; I want to run my hands through his thick brown hair and feel the stubble of his strong jaw brush against my cheek. His perfect, white teeth and slight dimples lend his smile an irresistibly warm glow.

  Best yet, I can imagine what he’d look like without the suit: a built, chiseled physique, bulging with raw muscle. The sleeves of his suit bulge, barely containing his biceps. His trunk-like legs look like he could kick right through a brick wall with ease.

  “Wendy Hart,” he repeats, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “I hate to interrupt my friend Orson, but he’s playing a trick on you. You can do a lot better than twenty-five grand.”

  “Goddammit, Cassius,” Orson mutters, nostrils flaring. “Every damn time. You’re the biggest pain in the ass I have ever known.”

  “And you know the reason why, Orson,” Cash replies, his tone darkening. “Or have you forgotten how this all started?”

  Clearly, there’s history between these two men.

  Orson shakes his head then turns back to me. “Wendy, I can promise you one thing: a fortune beyond comprehension. I will pay whatever it takes to claim you. Whatever Cassius offers, I can triple it,” he says. “Have a good night, Wendy. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  He gives Cash one last sneer then marches off, fists hanging at his sides.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, Ms. Hart,” says Cash.

  “It’s okay.” My is head still swimming, trying to process everything.

  “Good,” says Cash. “Now, I have a question: what are you doing tonight?”

  Is he asking me on a date, or something? “Uh, nothing much… why?”

  Cash takes a deep breath, and his expression turns somber. “Because we need to talk about that man. About Orson Bishop.”

  “What? Why?” I’m so confused.

  “Because Orson is determined to have you,” says Cash. “And I can’t let that happen.”

  Poor girl, she has no idea she’s stepped on a landmine. She’s not the first; I’ve seen it many times. Maybe it would have been kinder to approach her first and warn her about Orson, but would it have helped? I doubt it. Better to let him try to play his little trick so that she knows Orson is as bad as I say he is.

  But damn, this girl is far more innocent than most. No wonder Orson couldn’t play it cool and wait for me to make the first move. His cock must be ready to blow; it’s a miracle he’s not sporting a full hard-on right here at The Meet. He wouldn’t be the first.

  “Sorry, what do you mean? What does it matter to you who bids on me?” she asks. She may be innocent, but she isn’t dumb. I can hear in her voice, she’s not just curious — she’s suspicious.

  “It’s complicated,” I reply. “And there are a few reasons. I’ll explain further, but I can’t do so here —
I’ll be disqualified. It’s actually against the rules to badmouth another buyer at The Meet. Otherwise, my work would be a lot easier.”

  “Your work?”

  Oh, don’t get me started, sweetheart.

  “Like I said, I’ll explain it to you. Can I take you to dinner tonight? We can talk. I’m sure you’re used to hearing this, but it would be my pleasure to get to know you better.”

  She blushes and averts her eyes. Maybe she doesn’t hear it often, though that seems impossible. Despite the plain way she’s dressed tonight, she’s clearly a beautiful woman. Lovely features, lithe figure — now if only I could get her to smile.

  “I… I could go to dinner,” she mumbles, still too timid to look at me. Instead, she scans the room as if worried she might get in trouble. “Is that allowed?”

  “It is, Wendy. Participants in The Exchange are encouraged to meet with the potential buyers before the auction as much as they wish, just as long as they don’t have sex.”

  “That would defeat the point,” Wendy adds, nodding in understanding.

  “Exactly. So, what do you say?”

  Finally, she lifts her gaze to see me. I don a neutral expression, not wanting her to know just how badly I need her to agree. Waiting on her response makes me realize something I hadn’t expected: my interest isn’t just about keeping her away from Orson. She’s smarter than most, yet also adorable. It might be early to say for sure, but it feels like she’s waking in me a real desire.

  It can’t be true… Can it?

  I’ve only just met Wendy Hart, but I trust my instincts. If there’s an animal or spirit or whatever inside of me, and it recognizes its mate in this woman, then I will listen.

  “Okay,” says Wendy. “I guess that’s fine.”

  A weight lifts off my shoulders, and I grin. “Good. But, Wendy?”

  “What?” she asks, a sudden panic in her eyes.

  “You’re more attractive than I think you realize. Don’t be afraid to show off.”

  —

  When I pick her up that evening, I see she’s taken my advice to heart. When I get out of my limo to let her in, the Wendy Hart I met this afternoon is nowhere to be seen.

  And she knows it.

  Her little, black dress ends less than half way down her thighs, hugging her shapely hips and squeezing her pleasantly proportioned cleavage. Her hair is done up in a cute bun, while her black heels add inches to her height and do wonders for her posture. She looks gorgeous and carries herself with a confidence absent earlier.

  I’d like to think this is the effect I had on her, but who knows? I look forward to finding out.

  “You look stunning,” I say.

  She looks so good, in fact, that if I were a weaker man, I’d tell my driver to take us back to my place instead of the restaurant. I want nothing more than to take her by those hips and sling her over my shoulder, clutching her by that cute ass until we’re at my bed. She’d laugh and scream as I drop her onto the soft mattress, then pull up her dress and find out what kind of panties she wears. She’d moan as my fingers find their way between her legs, not stopping until they find her wetness begging to be touched…

  But not yet. Patience, Cash.

  “Thanks,” she replies, pink spreading through her cheeks. “You look very handsome.”

  “Thank you.” I’ve put on a dark, bespoke suit with my favorite tie, navy blue with razor thin, gold diagonal stripes. Then I added a splash of cologne — subtle, masculine, and musky — and black, leather dress shoes shined to mirror perfection.

  Helping her into the car, she thanks me again, her nerves starting to show once more. For a while, we ride in silence, and soon I realize she’s checking out the limo. I take it she’s never been inside one before.

  “Do you like the car?” I ask.

  She nods quickly. “It’s really cool.”

  You have no idea.

  “Do you know how they make most limousines?” I ask.

  “I don’t,” she says, perking up. “How?”

  “They take a regular-sized car and cut it in half. Then they make it longer and put it back together.”

  “That’s neat.”

  I shake my head. “Actually, it’s not. It makes the car much less safe than a regular car. That’s why my limo is different: custom-built, structurally sound, and safer than the inside of a tank.”

  “Oh,” she murmurs, turning back to look out the window.

  She’s losing interest, and I’m not surprised. But I do have a point to make. “Do you know why I’m telling you this, Wendy?”

  “Not really, actually.”

  I slide across the leather, padded seats so that we’re sitting next to each other. “It’s because I need you to understand that you’re here because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Now I’ve got her attention. “Get hurt? What are you talking about?”

  Sighing, I take her hand in mine and hold it gently. “Did you think The Virgin Exchange was going to be like a trip to the mall? Did you think you’d show up, shop around, find something you like and then have a quick and easy transaction?”

  Her palm starts to sweat in mine, but I don’t let go.

  “I thought it sounded fun,” she whispers. “And I need the money.”

  I nod slowly, masking my anger. Of course she needs the money — so does everyone. And women have the same expectation of fun — I just didn’t think Wendy Hart would be one of them. “If you were an eighteen-year-old with better looks than brains, you would have been right. You’d get bid on by some nice men like me, you’d get paid tens of thousands for your innocence, and you’d have a night you’d never forget,” I say. “But you’re different, Wendy. You’ve got a different appeal, one that makes you a target for Orson Bishop.”

  I give her a minute to take this all in. It’s not fair, and I feel for her, but she needs to know. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time.

  “But let’s get to all that later. I don’t want to scare you off — just steer you in the right direction,” I conclude. “Let’s have a nice dinner and worry about everything else later.”

  “Okay,” she mumbles, unconvinced.

  Good for her. She’s still concerned, as well she should be. That means she’s smart, and cautious — maybe I’m worried about her for nothing.

  We arrive at Jean-Georges, one of the finest restaurants in the city. The normally bright, white interior has been dimmed for the evening, casting a café au lait tan across the restaurant. The waiters recognize me with subtle nods, and the maître d’ shows us to a table.

  Wendy’s blue eyes sparkle, open wide and taking in every detail. “Have you ever been to a place like this before?” I ask, though I know the answer.

  “Never,” she replies. “Not even close.”

  “Good.”

  I wave off the wine list from an impeccably dressed waiter and order a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. It probably costs more than her monthly rent, but I don’t tell her — I’m not trying to show off.

  “Just relax,” I say. “I read in your profile that you’re graduating from college in a few months. What are you studying?”

  “Psychology,” she replies. “I’m thinking of becoming a doctor, or maybe a therapist.”

  “Interesting,” I say as the waiter returns. He pours me a taste and waits for me to sip. “Very nice,” I tell him, prompting him to fill our glasses.

  Wendy doesn’t wait for an invitation; she has a taste, but not before taking in the aroma. “It’s wonderful,” she says at last.

  “Glad you like it.”

  The waiter returns to take our order — Parmesan chicken confit for her and spiced lamb chops for me. I thought about getting the oysters but didn’t want to send the wrong message.

  “So, does that mean more schooling for you? Masters degree? Medical school?”

  She nods. “Probably. I might just want to get a job first, though — I’m sick of not having any extra money.”

  I give her a symp
athetic look, fully aware of my inability to relate in this regard. “Is that why you’re in the auction? For tuition?”

  Her face falls as if I’ve slapped her. “No,” she says, suddenly looking ashamed. “It’s for a vacation. I didn’t even think about putting it toward school.”

  Reaching out to take her hand, I say, “You can do with it whatever you want, Wendy. It sounds like you could use a nice vacation.”

  She takes my hand, and a faint smile breaks across her lovely face. “You have no idea.”

  “Where would you be looking to go?”

  “Europe,” she says immediately, and I can feel her excitement like a vibration in her hand. “France, Italy, Spain… wherever we want to go.”

  “We?”

  “Oh! My best friend, Radha. We’ve been talking about going since we were freshmen.”

  I grin, swept up in her enthusiasm. “If you’ve never been outside the country, traveling is a great way to expand your horizons. It would be a fine use of the money, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  “Thanks,” she says. She tells me about her friend, who has offered to pay for their trip entirely — apparently her family is well-off and wouldn’t mind the expense. “But I can’t do that,” she says. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Can I be honest with you, Wendy?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  “I respect your decision to pay your own way. Not being reliant on others is the mark of a strong, successful person. However, if your friend wants to give you a wonderful gift, there’s nothing wrong with accepting. If she’s truly your friend, then she means well.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” says Wendy. “But it just doesn’t sit right with me. And this is sort of the same thing, you know?”

  “Actually, no, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The waiter brings our meals and sets them down; both look delicious, as usual. “Would you like to try this?” I ask.

  She doesn’t hesitate to pass me her fork so I can cut her a piece of my chops.

  “Oh God,” she says as it hits her tongue. “That’s insane.”