Bondage Virgins Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Loose Id Titles by Lilac James

  Lilac James

  BONDAGE VIRGINS

  Lilac James

  www.loose-id.com

  Bondage Virgins

  Copyright © January 2015 by Lilac James

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623008185

  Editor: T. Mitchell

  Cover Artist: Mina Carter

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 806

  San Francisco CA 94104-0806

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  To David, always.

  Acknowledgment

  Writing is a solitary occupation. Getting a book published, on the other hand, is not. The list of wonderful people who helped this book happen includes Jasmine Haynes, Tamzin Mitchell, the Sunday Brainstormers, and my ever-patient DH. Thanks also to the real Bex, who gave permission to use her name, even though she didn’t do the things the fictional Bex does. As far as I know.

  Chapter One

  “Yeah. Happy birthday to me.” Bessie Edna Baxter slammed her apartment door behind the last of the departing guests and leaned against it. “I’m twenty-nine years old, the only people who cared enough to come to my party were friends of my mother, my apartment’s a mess, my name is a joke from the last century, there’s no man in sight, and I’m a fucking virgin. Excuse me, a nonfucking virgin. You bet it’s a happy birthday.”

  No one answered. Not unexpected, since no one else was present. Bessie continued to mutter as she carried glasses and plates to the kitchen. Grumbled while she washed dishes. Fussed while she ran the vacuum.

  Nothing to look forward to except one more virginal night, the latest in a years-long string. One more night of wondering what a man’s hands would feel like on her breasts.

  Men whistled at her sometimes. She was twenty-nine, not fifty-nine. Nice high breasts, trim waist and hips—pretty damn good for almost thirty. Why couldn’t she have a man?

  Time to do something about it.

  But what?

  She’d missed something big in life. She could read. She knew other women felt something, lots of somethings, things she didn’t know about. Things she wanted to know about. Sometimes the vague longings settled low in her stomach, settled, really, between her legs in the place she’d been taught never to touch. And sometimes her breasts tingled, just as though they wanted to be touched.

  Other women wanted to be touched and didn’t have guilt about it. Sometimes loneliness overwhelmed her when she realized no one wanted to touch her. She wanted to be touched. She longed to have a man touch her.

  How to remedy the problem? She’d never even seen a naked man outside of pictures. She knew some women took care of such longings themselves. But every time she thought about doing that, she heard her mother’s disapproval loud and clear, even though Mother had never uttered the word “sex” and besides, had been dead for two years. Bessie could have learned before now. But she’d been too intimidated by Mother and then paralyzed by the shock of Mother’s death.

  The grief had eased, become part of her life, and now she had to move on. She’d heard about a sex-toy shower for one of the girls in the office before her wedding. Would they have invited her if she hadn’t been out of town? She’d never know. Probably not. But she could have learned—stuff—that evening. Stuff that could change her life.

  But she hadn’t. And nothing had changed. Plain, dull old Bessie hadn’t changed. She turned back to the sink to wash the dishes. Mother would be so proud of her for not leaving a mess for the morning.

  Rebellion bubbled as she dried the last of the dishes and slammed them into the cabinets. This was the first night of the rest of her life and way past time to learn. Fuck tomorrow. She’d start tonight.

  She checked the kitchen automatically, making sure everything was clean, put away, all that jazz, just the way Mother had always insisted. And maybe it was time to get off the “it’s all Mother’s fault” kick, while she was making changes. Mother had been kind and loving. She’d been fun too. Except for the whole sex thing.

  Bessie’s heart beat a little faster as she headed to her bedroom ready to start shedding a lifetime of prohibitions and inhibitions. Throwing habit to the winds, she started to take off her clothes in the bedroom instead of the bathroom. Not good enough. She marched in to stand in front of the mirror and unbuttoned her shirt. Undid the front closure of her bra and watched the curves of her breasts come into view. Not exactly centerfold material, but definitely attention worthy. In her humble opinion.

  She ran her hands down over her breasts, brushing the plain white bra away.

  It felt good.

  She shrugged the straps from her shoulders and let the bra fall to the floor. Her nipples tightened in the cool air while she watched.

  If her fantasy lover were here, he’d stand behind her, close behind her. She’d feel the heat of his totally ripped, romance-cover body and his hands… He had big hands, strong and tanned, and he’d slide them around her, cupping her breasts and lifting them.

  Her hands cupped, lifted, and wetness started between her legs. He’d run his thumbs over her nipples—she mimicked the action…

  Oh that felt good.

  She wanted more. She wanted the fantasy lover.

  She bent to pick up the discarded bra, ignoring the swing of her breasts, and went back to the bedroom. Music. Yes, she needed music, so she fiddled with the radio until she found a station playing something raucous and energizing. Let the music move her feet. Put a little hip into it for the first time ever and stripped. Yes, stripped. Like an exotic dancer. A clumsy one, but still…

  In the privacy of her own room, she could imagine dancing on a bar, peeling off garment after garment, enjoying the cheers and applause… Oh God, she’d turned into a closet exhibitionist.

  Who care
d? Her closet, dammit. She could do anything she wanted.

  And she wanted to know what being touched everywhere felt like.

  She walked across the room to the closet and opened the door so she could look in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of it. Naked, she stood in front of it and stared at herself. Common, garden-variety woman, she supposed. Except for the uncompromising red of the bush between her legs. As a little girl, she’d dreamed of being on TV, dreamed everyone would think her beautiful and unusual. Mother had been horrified by her red hair. "It makes you look fast," she had said. "People might think you’re not a good girl." And she had insisted Bessie dye both hair and eyebrows a dull, uninteresting brown. That took care of the childish dreams. TV stars didn’t have ugly hair. She hated the dye and wanted to quit, but what would people at the office say?

  That could wait until later. Right now…

  She didn’t really know much about what that red hair concealed. There were the tingles when she washed down there, but she’d never lingered. Or looked. Mother had insisted she sprinkle talcum powder over her bath water so she wouldn’t see… And how ridiculous was that? Poor Mother. Bessie had always wondered what made her so prudish. The accomplished seamstress who made Halloween costumes, the tireless reader of stories, the happy companion, had all disappeared at the least hint of that dreaded topic, sex.

  It had been a relief to switch to showers. Maybe now it was time to switch back, and damn the talcum.

  Time for a change. She grabbed the hand mirror from her dresser, stretched out on her bed, and propped the mirror between her spread legs. It took five deep breaths to squelch the feeling her mother might stride into the room, shocked horribly, but unfortunately not beyond words.

  Shoving a pillow behind her head so she could see clearly, she checked the view. Her breasts framed the patch of hair between her legs, just as though she posed for some awful porno picture. Her resolution wavered for a moment, until she noticed the way her nipples stood up in the slight chill of the room. Her body certainly was ready for a voyage of exploration tonight. Not fair for her mind to pull the plug.

  Nipples had never been anything but a problem in her life. Hers must be extra prominent or something, because sometimes she thought they controlled all her wardrobe choices. Mustn’t let them show, always a problem in the winter. Also in the summer, what with air-conditioning in almost every public building.

  How silly that seemed in retrospect. Other people had nipples. And they often showed. Even on men. The memory of her boss, coming into the office one afternoon, fresh from a golf game with a client, rose in fresh embarrassment. She’d taken one look at him in his tight T-shirt, muscles bulging and nipples showing clearly in the comparative chill of the office, and had run for the ladies’ room to hide until her color returned to normal. Wouldn’t his wife have been embarrassed to see him like that? But he hadn’t been. Why should Bessie? She had been, though. And she hadn’t really minded when he’d been transferred. How silly she’d been.

  All right. Back to the subject at hand. She swallowed a nervous giggle at her pun and brushed her fingers over the tight red curls. Very lightly. Just a whisper of touch.

  Nice.

  Guilt hovered over her, like a devil on one shoulder. Nope. Not tonight, dear, she told it. Him? Oh no. Did she have a male conscience? Could he see her?

  Could she be any more ludicrous? She slammed a door on the whole idea of conscience and male devils…except if she had one on her shoulder, she’d just enjoy the hell out of him, right?

  So she brushed the curls again, imagining the little devil watching and urging her on. The featherlight disturbance of the hair produced a new set of tingles. She dared to brush her fingers down the edge of the patch of hair, down to where it stopped, and the touch felt so good she did it again. Down the other side, her fingers tracing along the seam between her thigh and…there.

  Her hand hovered over her vagina, wanting to touch. Wanting to be touched.

  Hesitantly, she opened her legs farther and tilted the mirror back and forth. Her body. She had a right—no, a duty—to know what was down there. But her hand shook as she reached down and spread herself open.

  What she could see looked—simple. Not all complicated like what she imagined about men. All that changing size and up-and-down stuff. Too bizarre for words.

  She’d looked at pictures and drawings, so she could identify the orifices. And how clinical! She didn’t want clinical ever again. From now on, passion. “Yep,” she said aloud to the empty room. “It’s gonna be passion all the way.”

  And while her thoughts were centered on “down there,” why had she never learned to use tampons? The idea excited her, just a little, and she wished she had brought some home. Lying on her bed like this, the idea of pushing that stiff little cylinder into her caused a funny tingle in what Mother had once called her “nether parts.”

  Well, her nether parts were definitely awake tonight, however unladylike that might be.

  The tingle increased, and she moved her attention upward, to the center of the buzz. Clitoris. She’d never even said the word aloud. Never seen it. So she looked. Small. Pink. Innocuous looking. Not so innocuous feeling. Hesitantly, she spread her labia a little more for a better look. Did it look a little swollen?

  Novels had led her to expect a lot more action than she was getting here. She gathered her courage and brushed lightly across the small bud of flesh with one finger. And almost came off the bed. That felt—good. Really good.

  She did it again. Even better.

  The feeble voice of her conscience—no, her repressions—told her to stop. “Fat chance,” she muttered. She’d been looking for this all her life. Without knowing it, but still looking.

  As if it had a mind of its own, her finger settled on the sensitive flesh, traced around it. She felt it swell, firm under her touch. Her breasts tingled, and something in the region of her vagina followed suit. Wow!

  She drew her fingers down her cleft, from the pulsing clit to explore the new sensations from her previously unresponsive vagina. Her hips bucked upward without any conscious direction from her. Asking for…asking for a man, she presumed. In the absence of the real thing, she slid two fingers into the questing opening, setting off a new upward pulse from her hips.

  Her mind swam with the sensations she’d unleashed. As if she’d been doing this for years, she moved one hand up, tracing over her stomach to cup one breast. To run one finger around the areola. She shivered and the nipple peaked up hard and berry-like.

  Sensation swamped her, breast and vagina, and the neglected clit demanded more. She shifted, her thumb stroking the now swollen bud, fingers stroking in and out faster and faster.

  With the other hand, she feathered across the taut nipple. Not good enough. She squeezed the breast, gently, then harder. Better. Plucked at the nipple. Even better. Pinched gently, pulled at it, hips pumping, wanting something just out of reach.

  More. She needed more. Something hovered ahead of her. In a frenzy, her fingers and hips moved faster and faster, almost there…almost…

  Whatever loomed ahead had to be huge, the biggest thing that had ever happened to her, and she couldn’t get there. Her muscles burned as her arm and hand tired, the good feeling turned to irritation.

  With a cry of disappointment, she stopped, flopping helplessly on the bed, every part of her throbbing with frustration. Something better than she’d ever known had almost happened. What kind of incompetent was she that she couldn’t even do this for herself? Somehow she had to learn more about this sex thing. And it really ought to involve two people. At least.

  She buried her face in the pillow and cried.

  * * * *

  Bessie woke heavy-eyed, discouraged, and determined. The problem had wound through her restless dreams all night. She had to do something about it. She would do something about it. She could ask some of the women at work. Even as the thought surfaced, she knew she’d never let any of them know what a h
opeless loser she was.

  There had to be some other way.

  She took it as a sign from—well, somewhere—that she found the answer while riding the bus to work. She stood, clutching a strap as the bus bounced and lurched and trying to block the conversation of two women in the seat next to her. Then she realized what they were talking about and leaned closer to listen.

  “It’s the greatest place, Lisa. I couldn’t believe it. All those gorgeous men!”

  Bessie focused harder.

  “You actually got to touch them?” Lisa said incredulously.

  “You bet. You get whatever you want. You just tell the maître d’ ahead of time, and then you get to pick from the guys who are willing. It’s perfect.”

  But they might recognize you. Bessie repressed a shudder at the idea of a—a—gigolo approaching her in the office building. While her boss watched. Never!

  Fortunately, before Bessie horned in on the conversation, Lisa exclaimed, “But they know who you are! I couldn’t do that.”

  “Oh you’re such a prim silly. You make your selection through one-way glass, and everyone wears hoods if you want to be anonymous. I had this guy put in handcuffs, and…”

  Yes, yes, it sounds perfect. But how do I find the place? Bessie steeled herself to tap Lisa on the shoulder and ask. But luck was with her.

  “Okay,” Lisa said. “I’m convinced. Milady’s Pleasure, huh? That corner building across from Satan’s Den?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Do I have to knock three times and say Joe sent me?”

  “No. That’s the beauty of it, hon. Men get in by referral only, but women can just walk in. You’re gonna love it!”

  Yes, I certainly am. Bessie wanted to dance with joy. Milady’s Pleasure. The perfect answer to all her problems. Could the day get any more perfect? She looked up and realized she’d missed her stop.

  She’d be late to work.

  She didn’t care.

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