Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  “I gave up Pony Play long ago, Emma.”

  Pony play. What on earth? Where had he come up with that? The circus, perhaps?

  I was beginning to think there were hidden depths to this man I knew nothing about.

  Far from frightening me, I was intrigued by his air of mystery.

  “I am game, sir.” And, after that Pony Play remark, I gathered I would have to be with him. But at least he believed I was not lacking in experience.

  He would never go forward if he thought me still a virgin. He was far too honorable. And, I gathered, experienced in bed sports that went beyond drawing room etiquette. Fortunately, my maidenhead was missing so he would not catch me in my lie there. But what of the rest? Could I pretend to experience I did not possess?

  He believed me deflowered. The dark should help there. And I excelled at pretense. Dancing was about acting as well as athleticism. Both skills would come in handy here.

  From behind me came the rustle of bed linen, the dip of the mattress. And he was there, his cock at the demarcation between my buttocks. A hint of things to come?

  Oh, my. Was I ready?

  I sought to reassure him, if not me. “Everything is on the plate, sir.”

  “I expected as much. Though, good to know.”

  His voice was gruff, and not in repulsion. Even I recognized the gruffness for what it was:

  He wanted me.

  “It need not be done all at one time, Emma.”

  “Whenever you want, sir,” I said with a sultry promise in my voice.

  Mr. Simmons had a dark side, probably unfulfilled by his present mistress, a devoted and provincial wife to someone else. So be it. Unlike her, I was committed to fulfilling my beloved’s every dark desire. And committed to enjoying it too.

  Eventually.

  That eventually was the sticking point. The question was – how well could I fake that enjoyment right now?

  He transgressed no farther. His heavy breathing told me he wished to, however. He was holding back.

  I was not holding back. Not anything. This might be my last chance to gain, if not his affection, his approval. I stayed right where I was, on all-fours in front of him. “There is nothing I will not allow you, sir. No act, legal or otherwise.”

  With another gusty sigh – this time of surrender, I hoped – he again flicked the strand of hair in his hand. Then, as if he held the reins of a, God help me – a – pony, he pulled me up, bringing me onto my knees.

  “Stay like so,” he whispered and dropped his hold on my hair in favor of reaching between my thighs, back to front.

  “Between your legs is beautiful, the curls as dark as midnight, the cunt the portal to paradise, the plump lips indescribably kissable.”

  I nearly swooned at his poeticism.

  Then, he fingered me, a shallow penetration back to front between my loosened legs that had me biting my lips, pained for all that his thick digit was not in all that far.

  I was ready. More than ready. Wet with my readiness. But his fingers were long and thick, rough with calluses. Not an easy fit. How would I ever accommodate his cock, if that was what he meant to stuff in there?

  Not in one gulp, that was for bloody sure.

  I had no experience with any of this. None. In my life, there had been work and practice and discipline, some self-inflicted, some done unto me by another man in a position of authority over me.

  I was used to males in authority over me. It felt familiar to me. No reason to balk. Or complain. I was an orphan after all. And most orphans were mistreated in some fashion. My mistreatment had not been sexual. Some punitive measures, but mostly neglect.

  Now this! Naked in a bedchamber with a man I trusted but still and all, barely knew. And, I could no longer delude myself – this was no courtship, no passion-driven prelude to marriage.

  No romance.

  I was alone in the world, without a protector or even a licentious patron who would subsidize my living through the use of my flesh. Realities for a single woman were harsh. For a dancer, they were far worse. And the dream of love alone would fail to sustain my spirit or feed my belly during lean times. Even my new friend here at the gambling den thought me a prostitute. We were all of us dancers tarred by the same brush and our reputations suffered as a result. If classical ballet dancers must contend with men ogling them, pressuring them to set up trysts, what chance did a former cancan dancer like me stand?

  As for my returning to work as a servant in a kitchen…it was too late. I had set my sights higher, and going backwards was not my way. I had ambitions…

  A wedding band was a fool’s dream. But this, being with him, was not a dream. I could have this! Only for a time, but a brief interlude was better than nothing.

  If I could make it happen. Force it if need be. When would I get a chance like this ever again – a clean room, a sumptuous satin quilt, a wide bed, the sound of rain coming down outside, and with a decent man who had rescued me? All the makings of a love story, only without the emotion and fairytale resolution.

  I said fatalistically, “Treat me as you would a whore, sir. Never have I prostituted myself, so I could use the experience.”

  A clap of thunder, and I startled, a jerking motion that sent his finger deeper inside me.

  “No rubbers, Emma. I apologize. Is withdrawal agreeable?”

  “Yes,” I replied, not knowing to what I agreed.

  “We must take care. No missionary position. Stay as you are. I can get it in you with more control, back to front. Maintaining my control is never a concern with my mistress but it will be with you.”

  Why? Why would control prove problematic for him with me, but not when he was with his mistress?

  I was given no time to ponder the answer. The next breath I took, he was saying. “Go lower, if you please.”

  Such polite and genteel language!

  “You mean…bitch fashion,” I said brightly.

  “None of that coarseness between us, Emma.”

  Authority lurked beneath his amiability. His definitiveness left no room for argument. And made me feel…if not exactly cherished, then protected, as if nothing bad would ever happen to me when I was with him.

  After that, my waiting was over. An arm wrapped around my waist – to hold me in place? – he entered me with a determined push.

  No help for it, I bit back a sob.

  The tremendous stretch. Goodness! Who knew?

  Tears burned my eyes. My throat was too tight to swallow.

  “In deep,” he grunted. “As deep as it will go. I cannot help myself here.”

  Nice to hear he was out of control, but deeper than this?

  Impossible!

  “I am in only halfway,” he explained.”

  God, what had I gotten myself into here? Surely, I had no more space left where he thought to go?

  He reared back and rammed me full on.

  My silent tears turned to silent sobs. I resisted pounding the bedding. Very much wanted to pound him. Punching him would have given me much in the way of personal satisfaction.

  He was hurting me. Unintentionally. The hurt based on my lie of prior experience. As much as I loved him, even unintentional hurt was hard to bear. Or forgive. At least not right away.

  This was no honeymoon, and that was for sure…unless, perhaps this was indeed much the same, at least in regard to my hurting.

  “I am bedded deep inside you,” he told me.

  At his running commentary, I sniffed. “I am now officially your whore.”

  “Not before we finish. You can still back out” was his reply. His voice was guttural, as if he were as pained as myself.

  Good!

  “Your tightness is incredible, Emma, an aphrodisiac in and of itself.”

  Panting, I shuffled to ease my horrible fullness. A lot of good it did me. I still thought I might die.

  Then, unbelievably, his ins and outs speeded up.

  What? Was he a racehorse at the gate? Where was his blas
ted hurry?

  I caught myself before uttering:

  Bloody fuck! Get the fuck off me, you fuck.

  There was no more polite conversation between us after that. Just as well, considering my vindictive thoughts. I was too pained and he was presumably too taken with viciously killing me to pick up the slack. I was only surprised he was not wearing those rubber boots of his.

  After his initial nod to hesitancy, his poundings escalated. He did me as if I were a slab of steak in need of tenderizing. Nearing what I could only pray was the conclusion, he brought me back up onto my knees, held me there, his bent arms shelving my heaving breasts.

  Lord, but the bouncing of my bosom pained me, my turgid nipples tightening hurtfully with each of his…there was no other word for them but blows. One last one, and he was pulling out, his chest laboring with his exertion.

  Straight away, he pried open my buttocks.

  What was this?

  Holding the cheeks apart, done while I twisted and squirmed, he exploded.

  A stream of wetness spurted inside me, the sticky abundance leaving me gasping in utter disbelief.

  What, sweet baby Jesus, was that?

  While I questioned whatever possessed me to do what I had just done with an uncivilized beast like him, I pushed away from him and collapsed face down on the bed.

  “All right?” he asked.

  No. I was not all right. I might never be all right again.

  How did society ladies ever do it? How did coddled and spoiled and pampered ingénues ever survive their wedding night?

  I, who had neither been coddled nor spoiled nor pampered, felt ready to expire. Minimally, I was close to fainting in terror over the thought of ever having to repeat that singularly awful performance. And if that was what it took to conceive, I intended to go through life a childless spinster.

  I knew so little about these matters. Were babies conceived every time a woman submitted to that torture? If so, five occasions equaled five children.

  Good Lord!

  Perhaps, if ever I changed my mind, I could have triplets, then twins, and get the worst of it over with on the second occasion. I would never wish to do that heinous act five separate times.

  I backed up off the bed, almost toppling during the transition. Once my feet made solid contact with the rug, I still swayed back and forth, shaky as can be.

  “Hey, not so fast,” Mr. Simpson instructed, reaching out and steadying me, his hand on my sticky rump. “The night is still young. We cannot have you falling.”

  The fuck had seemingly humanized him. Alas, the fuck had turned me into a raving lunatic.

  When would he grovel at my feet begging for forgiveness?

  Apparently, the gesture would not be forthcoming.

  A hug would have been nice, however.

  He advised me in the dark, “Afterwards, a whore rises from the bed and accepts payment. Unless the customer leaves the contract open-ended.”

  Giving up on him, I hugged myself.

  His loss. I made for a nice handful, if I did say so myself. And that was all who would say so – there had been no hugs in my life. .

  Could a person die of overwhelming disappointment? Was it possible?

  I brushed a self-pitying tear from my eye.

  I had gotten through many a disappointment just fine and I would survive this one too. His rejection would not crush me.

  “You mentioned an open-ended contract, sir. Kindly explain if you would…”

  “A contingency plan, allowing the customer to do it again.”

  “Do it, as in do me? At the whore’s discretion, sir?”

  “No. At the customer’s. Always at the customer’s.”

  “Hardly seems fair, does it?”

  “Looking for fair? Give up on the idea of whoring. Or keep the hostess position and whore here on the side. In this gambling den, the girl has the right to refuse, an option not available elsewhere. Some fancy houses specialize…for example, in virgins…but that is a whole different subject and does not hold water here. You were no virgin.”

  Little he knew.

  “Sir – the customer could have a go at it more than once with a whore, you say? A repeat is possible for the man in the same evening? Physically, that is?”

  “Sure.”

  “That has not been my experience.”

  Which, of course, was nil. Was that even wise to have admitted to him?

  I should have had all this information at my fingertips! Ignorance in virgins was highly over-rated. A female should know these answers well in advance of puberty. But that did not describe my experience growing up.

  I rushed to cover my tracks: “I only ask owing to never having been a whore, sir.”

  “I assumed that was the reason. In explanation…if the man has the physical stamina and if he liked how it went well enough with the prostitute, then he would continue at his pleasure. A cut and dried business deal.”

  “I understand. And what is your pleasure, sir?”

  “I have many such pleasures…” His voice trailed off.

  All unconventional and decadent, I wagered. Not that he would expose himself to me that way by listing those ‘pleasures’. He held his cards tight against his vest. I would have to take the lead here, be the aggressor. He was too caught up in what was right and what was wrong, what was decent and what was indecent, to give a hint of his inner self to anyone.

  I spoke my intentions. “Again, sir. But not here in the bedchamber.”

  “Where then?”

  He must have liked doing it with me. Why agree to a repeat, otherwise? And no, I did not actually wish for a repeat. But…if this were to be my only time…I was going all the way.

  “Outside in the rain, sir.”

  Doing it outside in a storm sounded quite French to me, something that a sophisticated European lady would do.

  He looked at me skeptically. “No.”

  “I have certain exhibitionistic tendencies, sir, which require stoking.”

  “No. Too dangerous.”

  Not for him. Most likely, he would remain fully dressed, as he was now, down to the knot in his cravat and his overly starched, unwrinkled shirt. I had not even given him chance to completely remove his socks before barging in on him. Shoes, yes. Outside, I would be the naked one. As to any time served for public indecency?

  Done by me. Not by him. The police would never arrest him and toss his arse in Charles Street jail. Mr. Simmons was politically connected in town. Even the police captain gambled at the Roulette tables. I was the one who would serve out a sentence for indecent exposure.

  Yes, the inequities between males and females, between those with money and those without, between the powerful and the powerless, undid me. What would undo Mr. Simmons was his inability to loosen up and let go.

  I hiked my chin and raised my eyes until they met his eyes. “You know you wish to, sir,” I cooed. “And I definitely wish to feel your hot cock against my wet flesh. I swear, our coming together will be spectacular second time around.”

  My dream of wedding roses was gone. At this point, I only wished to love him, freely love him, with everything I possessed and for as long as he would allow me to do so. I understood how these situations worked. Naturally, had I been his affianced lady he would never presume to put my reputation in jeopardy. But I was not a lady, not the fiancée he intended to wed, and so those types of distinctions were out of reach for me. All I had, or would ever have with him, were memories. I would have thorns only, never the blossoms.

  “You will catch your death,” he said, his voice stiff, but not unyielding.

  He wanted it. Outside. In the rain. With me. He wanted it.

  “Have no fears, sir. The night is a warm one,” I cajoled.

  “Listen, Emma…before, you did not reach your pinnacle. And I want that for you. I want you to come. Whores never do. They never climax. They only pretend to experience pleasure.”

  “Why bother to lie?”

  “
To swell a customer’s head. Prostitutes are nothing more than a commodity to be rented by the hour. The more hours, the more money.”

  “Not here, sir!” I said, finding myself in the position of having to defend this establishment to its own owner. “There is none of that here.”

  “Because this is not a brothel and the women here are not treated like whores. They are not owned by any john. They are independent agents – courtesans in the finest European tradition. As such, they differ greatly from those unfortunate streetwalkers you see here in the Red-light District. As I have already explained – the women here are smart businesswomen who set their own terms, who are their own bosses. No woman here will ever find themselves in the position of being used and abused, then discarded. And if some member tries anything, I or another member of my staff will deal with them. Life banishment from the club is only the first step.”

  “But, sir – what of the member who wishes a darker carnality, one that involves certain deviant behaviors frowned upon by society?”

  “You mean…practices of the Dark Underground, dungeons where whips and crops, and dominance and submission and depraved themes written about in The Pearl, are regularly explored?”

  I knew nothing of such things, but I nodded anyway.

  His dark eyes lidded. “Mutual agreement between the man and the woman is the rule.”

  I sighed my pleasure when his hand lowered to my bottom. In the dining room, Gilbert had done much the same my first night here at the den. What was it about the male of the species and their obsession with a woman’s hindquarters?

  Considering how a bustle distorted that region, making the buttocks protrude no small degree, there had to be something…behind…the fashion, something carnal.

  I stuck out my lower regions for his leisurely perusal, then placed my hand over his hand, holding his palm persuasively against my naked flesh, smiling when his fingers clenched.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was a wrought iron balcony of no small consequence attached to his bedchamber through double-hung French doors. I had noticed the architectural feature straightaway upon my arrival here that very first night. As it so happened, the balcony also overlooked the garden.