Winning Bid: A Virgin Auction Romance

by Virginia Sexton

  I laugh, tickled by her reaction. It’s nice to see someone who truly appreciates high quality cuisine; most people I know take these things for granted.

  Finally, she picks up the thread I left hanging. “This auction. I know men want sex and are sometimes willing to pay for it, but I want it too — I don’t want to go to Europe a virgin. I’d like to have some experience, enough to give me confidence. So, to get paid to do something I want to do anyway… in some ways, that feels like a handout just as much as Radha paying for my trip.”

  She offers me a taste of her chicken, which I turn down, having had it plenty of times before. Instead, I think about her point. However, she doesn’t see it the way I do. “Wendy, the men who attend these auctions aren’t there just because they want sex. They can attract women, or hire escorts — these men want to claim a woman for the first time. Whether it’s a thrill or a status symbol, they want something that’s difficult to get. You know what I mean?”

  “Okay,” she says, nodding.

  “So, your virginity is a commodity. You can give it away, as many do, but you can also look at it as something of value that you can trade. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I suppose,” she says. “I’m still not sure though. Radha was pretty adamant about my not doing this.”

  I take another sip of wine. “She’s concerned for you. She sounds like a great friend.”

  Wendy moans to herself a little as she takes another bite of chicken. “She really is.”

  “I would be happy to meet her,” I offer. “Settle any fears she has about this arrangement.”

  Snorting a laugh, Wendy holds her hands up in defense. “No way, that is not a good idea. She would rip you a new one.”

  “I’d like to see that,” I chuckle, trying to imagine. It’s not very often people talk back to me. She grins, then polishes off the last of her chicken. I do the same for my lamb.

  “Hey,” she says suddenly. “Does this mean you’re going to be bidding on me? I thought you were just trying warn me about Orson.”

  Well, shit, I sigh to myself. I was hoping to put this part off as long as possible.

  “I’ve already declared my intention to bid on you; so has Orson. I’d like to convince you not to let Orson anywhere near you, but if I have to, I’ll try to outbid him.”

  Wendy picks up her wine glass but then sets it back down without drinking. She looks perturbed and in deep thought. “Is this because you really like me?”

  The last thing I want to do is lie. It always complicates things in the end. “We’ve just met, Wendy, and I think you’re very sweet. I do like you. But the real reason I’m here is because I hate Orson Bishop. I want you… because he wants you.”

  She clutches her purse and holds it tightly. “Are you serious?” She’s trying to sound angry, but I hear more pain in her voice than anything else.

  “I told you, I’m here because I don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s what Orson will do, Wendy. He’s vile and sadistic.”

  “Oh, so this is for my sake?” she says, incredulous.

  She’s so sharp, she doesn’t miss a thing. It kills me to come clean, but anything less and she’ll see through it.

  “No, I suppose it’s also for mine. Keeping you away from Orson will make him furious. I’d be untruthful if I said that didn’t matter to me.”

  She rises from her seat slowly, and tears well up in her eyes until they start to slip down her cheeks. “This is a game to you,” she states.

  That’s not how I like to think of it; game makes it sound fun.

  “I think of it more as a mission,” I reply.

  “Oh, excuse me!” she snarls. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? A freaking billionaire! What was I thinking?”

  Now I get up, wanting to tell her it’s not true — she has the wrong idea — but she isn’t wrong. Not in any way that matters from her perspective.

  “I’m sorry, Wendy,” I say.

  “I doubt that,” she replies, pushing past me to leave. I turn to watch her go but don’t chase after her. It wouldn’t help. I know what has to happen next, as much as I wish it didn’t.

  Okay, Orson. Your move.

  What a jerk!

  I’m so far from my neighborhood, I have to check a subway map to figure out how to get home — there’s no way I can afford a cab from this far out, especially considering it’s still pretty early and there’ll still be traffic. But on the subway, I get lots of looks from the passengers, and I’m not sure whether to feel paranoid or insecure. Do they wonder why I’m by myself, dressed like this? Or is it just to check out my tits?

  Just a few hours ago, Radha was unable to contain herself over how fabulous I looked. She wished it didn’t take something so crazy as a virgin auction to get me to dress like this, almost admitting she may have been wrong about the auction.

  No, she was right. I was wrong.

  I should have known. Really, this is my fault. What made me think Cash Swain would be any different? I looked him up between The Meet and our dinner — billionaire tech firm owner — as handsome in person as he is on TV. He recently made a splash by lifting wages for his entire company, from the executives down to the janitors. At the time, I had thought that was pretty neat. Now, I can see it was probably just a publicity move.

  It’s a shame, too — I was having a pretty good time with him. He seemed so understanding about my situation, even though his life is completely unlike mine.

  And, of course, he’s so gorgeous. The way he smoldered when discussing Orson — anger looks good on him. With one glance, he can intimidate or intoxicate. Passionate and driven, I felt the urgency behind his “mission.” He wants to keep me away from a bad man. How noble.

  Does he think I’m not capable of making up my own mind? Or is Orson some kind of dark sorcerer who can steal me away with a spell? Please.

  And who’s to say Cash is the good guy? What is his and Orson’s history? That’s what I need to know.

  These thoughts tumble through my mind non-stop, and I almost miss my subway station. When I get back to my apartment, Radha is watching TV in her pajamas. Seeing me back so soon and reading my crestfallen expression, she hops up and makes for the kitchen.

  “I went shopping earlier. I got one of everything: mint chocolate chip, peanut butter fudge, orange sherbert, vanilla pecan…”

  She opens the freezer and she isn’t kidding: it’s like the ice cream section at a grocery store.

  “Where’d you put all the frozen vegetables?” I ask.

  “I’m using them to chill a couple bottles of Riesling. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Radha,” I mumble, slumping down into a creaky wooden seat at the kitchen table. “Is this the part where you tell me you told me so?”

  She shakes her head mournfully, setting out two red bowls and two soup spoons. “Not at all. You were so excited after the Meet, I thought the guy would actually be nice. What happened?”

  I tell her about the night as she scoops Cherry Garcia.

  “I should have known,” I say in conclusion, my tongue so numb from ice cream I can barely feel it. “He’s a billionaire — he thinks he can do whatever he wants.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” says Radha. She gets up to clear the dishes and put away the leftovers. I take out my phone, debating sending a message to The Virgin Exchange telling them I’m backing out. However, when I open the app, I discover I have two alerts.

  Congratulations! Two men have indicated their interest in you for The Auction: Bishop, Orson; Swain, Cassius. The next move is yours: come to The Gala next week and determine which, if any, of these men will be permitted to bid. See you then!

  “What is it?” asks Radha.

  I roll my eyes. “Just telling me something I already know.”

  Flipping to the next one, I see it’s a private message.

  Wendy, I’ve put my name in contention for The Gala. I’d rather not wait that long to see you; I’d rather discuss an a
rrangement ahead of time. I promise, no tricks. The pay will be too good for you to pass up. Tell me when you’d like to meet. —Orson

  “And now I’ve got mail from the other asshole I met today,” I say. A surge of spite crawls through me, and I realize I want to go hear Orson out, if just because of how much it will annoy Cash.

  Turnabout is fair play, after all.

  “What does he want?” Radha asks. “Wait, you know what? Forget I asked. Forget everything, Wendy! I wish I’d never told you about all this. Whatever this guy wants, it can’t be good.”

  She’s probably right, I realize. However, one thing still has not changed: I still need the money. I don’t have to sleep with anyone if I don’t want to — what’s the worst that could happen meeting Orson? He pisses me off more than Cash? I doubt that’s possible.

  “I’m going to hear his proposition. He says the pay will be really good, and I believe him.”

  Radha takes a deep breath as if she’s about to let out a rant for the ages, but then exhales, letting it go. “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind, Wendy. Just promise me you’ll be safe. I don’t like what I’ve heard about this guy.”

  I’m grateful she doesn’t launch into another tirade about the auction, and of course I’m going to stay safe. “Definitely,” I say. “I’ll bring pepper spray, and I won’t go anywhere alone with him.”

  “Good,” Radha replies, though there’s still concern in her voice.

  I can’t blame her.

  —

  After such an emotionally draining day, I can’t sleep. Tossing and turning as the minutes count on, I’m stuck in a tug-of-war between the night I had with Cash and the one I’ll have tomorrow with Orson.

  Of all the nice, handsome men at the Meet, I really don’t know how I ended up with two jerks. Maybe if I’d dressed a little nicer, I’d have gotten more attention — but that’s not where I should put my blame, is it? I could have done more than stand around by the bar looking miserable. I didn’t exactly put myself out there, which is probably why I’m still a virgin in the first place.

  It’s really too bad that Cash turned out to be such a prick. He really seemed nice at first. The way he smiled, and how he made me feel like I was the only person around — as if for those moments, I was the center of his world.

  And that body of his… the things he could do with it…

  He’d watch as I undress, and I’d stare back at him, taking in his pursed lips as a smile spreads across his face. He’s taken off his shirt, and his muscles flex as he gets up, walking toward me slowly.

  Trembling, I instinctively step back. He keeps coming, though. Soon I reach the wall, and I have to stop. He closes the distance, and then he’s so close, I can feel his warm breath. My heart pounds, wanting him despite my nerves.

  “Finish undressing me,” he says in his most dominant voice. I don’t argue; I was hoping he’d say that. I can already see a massive tent in the crotch of his slacks. I want to see what’s underneath so badly…

  Then, just as I’m starting to reach between my legs, I stop.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I am not going to fantasize about Cash, I don’t care how hot he is. He had his chance, and he blew it.

  Too bad, though, I realize. If he was my first, I bet he’d be incredible. It’s a pity I’ll never find out for sure.

  —

  Orson is overjoyed to hear I’m willing to meet. He suggests a café uptown; I Google it and see it looks nice and popular, so I accept the evening invitation.

  During the day, I try to get my mind off the matter by studying — I haven’t put in nearly enough time on coursework the past few days, so I want to make up for it, but find concentrating to be nearly impossible.

  For a while, my mind wanders toward what I should wear tonight. Mentally flipping through my closet, I reject dress after dress. That’s not how I want to look. In fact, I don’t even want to waste time giving it any more thought. I’ll wear what I have on right now: a gray, long-sleeve V-neck shirt and my jeans. It’s plain, but I look presentable. And, judging by The Meet, Orson would rather see me like this, wouldn’t he?

  Finally, at dusk, I head out to catch a bus that’ll bring me close to the café. I fidget in my seat as I ride; I’m not calm, for some reason. Perhaps Cash’s warnings are eating away at my nerves; I try to tell myself this will be fine, but I’m not convinced.

  Orson’s already waiting at a table when I arrive, sipping from a latte. He doesn’t get up or pull out a chair for me; he just waves me over to sit down.

  “Hello, Ms. Hart,” he says, his voice low. He’s dressed in a dark suit like last night, which stands out sharply compared to the young, trendy patronage. Though easily the oldest person here by fifteen years, he doesn’t seem to care. “Come join me.”

  “Hi, Mr. Bishop,” I say, matching his formal tone.

  “I’d like to know how things went with Mr. Swain last night.”

  He really cuts right to the chase, doesn’t he?

  “Could have been better,” I say, my hackles raised. “I learned that all he cares about is pissing off you.”

  A faint grin pulls at his lips; it’s not the best look on him, so I turn away, pretending to check out the menu, which is written entirely on chalkboards. Small tables occupy as much floor space as possible, cramming in customers to the limit. Red brick walls and hanging light fixtures give the place the feel of a budget loft, but the desserts in the display case look delectable, and the overpowering coffee aroma makes my mouth water.

  “Yes, that’s Cassius,” says Orson. “It gets very annoying.”

  A waitress comes to our table, so I order a coffee with milk and two sugars. “Why does he bother?”

  “Because he’s petty,” Orson replies. “He holds a grudge over nothing and won’t let go of the past. For a man with his level of success, it’s mortifying.”

  He doesn’t mince words, either.

  If he and Cash are both going to be this shockingly honest, I may as well be direct too.

  “Alright,” I say. “You’re confirming what Cash told me — about why he wants me. What I need to know, before this auction goes any further, is why you want me.”

  Orson finishes his coffee as mine arrives. “Better make that to go,” he tells the waitress, pointing at my mug. “To answer that, I can’t tell you — I have to show you.”

  If Radha was here, she’d be shaking her head, the glare in her eyes screaming, Don’t do it!

  “Where?” I ask, a waver of uncertainty in my voice.

  “A club, just a few blocks away.”

  “What kind of club?”

  Orson’s eyes flash excitedly, and his smile makes me shiver. “A place where women misbehave in all the nicest ways.”

  Nothing about the way he says it sounds nice.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  I start to walk away, but I don’t get more than a couple steps when he calls out, “You haven’t heard how much, Wendy. Don’t you want to know?”

  Stopping in my tracks, I clench my fists and curse under my breath. I should keep walking, but Orson is very shrewd: of course I want to know how much he’s willing to pay.

  “Tell me,” I say, taking slow steps back in his direction.

  “Not until you see what I have to show you. I promise, this place is completely safe, Ms. Hart. You’ll be in no danger and for now you won’t be asked to do anything but sit, watch and listen. Is that acceptable?”

  I think of the pepper spray in my purse. It’ll be fine. If I don’t like the look of the place when I get there, I won’t stay.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Lead the way.”

  —

  The club is called Sinful, and I feel like this is not a place where you tend to see many virgins.

  Aside from the ones Orson brings here, anyway.

  It’s some kind of strip club or sex club — I’m not sure. There’s a couple on stage making out, half-dressed and showing no signs of s
lowing down. Along the walls, nude women dance in narrow cages, showing their bodies for anyone who cares to watch. An audience enjoys the action from tables and booths while they drink cocktails and beer. Low lighting makes everything take on a brutal shade of blue, except for the bar, which is lit in rotating shades of red and purple.

  “Why are we here?” I ask Orson as we sit down. I don’t like the place, though it appears safe enough.

  “In two minutes, you’ll see.” Orson nods to a man in a booth at the far end of the club — the DJ, as far as I can tell. A spotlight, which had been illuminating the couple necking on stage, slides across the room to shine on a young woman waiting by the entrance. She marches right past us, followed by the light.

  She’s probably about my age, though her eyes possess far more years than I can imagine. She wears a tight, white shirt buttoned from her neck to her midriff, where it cuts off. Her plaid skirt flows freely and down to her knees, effecting a schoolgirl theme.

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  “If you accept my offer, that’ll be you.”

  The woman climbs up a set of stairs onto the stage and makes her way to a metal pole rising from the floor to the ceiling. She rests a hand on it and begins to swing. She goes around in circles, slowly at first, before climbing up the pole and sliding down.

  As everyone watches, she begins to strip off her clothes, starting with the shirt, and moving on to her skirt and underwear. She dances as the crowd hoots and cheers, and when I look into her eyes, I see nothing. She may as well be a zombie — she performs her routine with skilled movements, but no passion. Not that most of the men mind.

  “If you want the money, Wendy, then this is how you’ll start,” says Orson.

  No fucking way.

  “I can’t, I’m not-”

  He waves a hand to quiet me. “You’re not a trained dancer — I don’t care. I don’t want to see you perform a stunning dance routine, Ms. Hart. I want to see you bare yourself to a crowd of total strangers.”

  I wait for him to finish, fury burning in my heart. “I was going to say, I’m not a stripper. I’m not a whore.”