CHAPTER 13: The Virgin No More, Part 4

“Lift your feet a little,” says Michael’s voice. “There’s a threshold.”

Obediently, I raise my feet a little more, then am guided through a smell of damp, not unpleasant, but musty, as though of old stonework.

Downstairs, one step at a time, my footsteps and theirs, echoing. There is a murmur of voices ahead, several voices, but muffled, and the smell of good cigars and something alcoholic. Brandy?

Against all reason, my panties are getting moist.

For a moment, the arm supporting me to the left releases me. There is the sound of another heavy, creaking, door, and abruptly, the sound of voices grows much louder.

We stand, I think, framed in the doorway, the three of us, Michael to one side of me, my Master to the other, me blindly between them.

After a moment, the hubbub of voices falls silent and then a deep earthy voice says, “Good evening, James. Good evening, Michael.” There is a footstep or two, and then my hand is taken, raised and kissed. “And good evening, Charlotte. Thank you for coming. You look beautiful.”

The voice and the kiss, are accompanied by the waft of expensive aftershave and a rich, deeply masculine scent. My panties are becoming really, quite uncomfortably, wet, and there is a flush rising from my breasts, over my chest and neck to my face. I am beginning to pant.

The voice continues. “Would you like something to help you relax Charlotte? Cognac perhaps? Although we probably have anything else you are likely to ask for.”

My voice emerges as a squeak. “Cognac would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Of course. Michael, James, take the lady to a chair. Let her be comfortable for a few minutes, while we gather everyone together.”

Everyone?

Again, arms take mine, but I can tell that it is not now Michael, nor my Master. Something in the rhythm of the walk, the scent of musk and aroused masculinity, is not theirs. My two strange companions lead me, then gently guide me to sit. A glass is eased into my hands.

The brandy is aromatic and heady. I bury my nose in the glass, inhaling before I drink, sipping at first, then gulping down a couple of mouthfuls. Arousal and fear fight for first place within me and my pulse is racing, my heart pounding. Around me I can hear footsteps, stepping lightly, but all around me, and soft, almost whispered, comments on the edge of my hearing. About me.

I tip my head back to drain the glass, closing my eyes behind the blindfold.

The cognac works its magic, and my nerves dissolve, leaving only electric arousal in its place.

Oh God! I want to be fucked.

I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.

Michael’s voice whispers by my ear. “It’s time, Charlotte,” and he takes me by an elbow, raising me from the chair.

Another hand takes my other arm. It is my Master I know. The two lead me some distance, and the echoes change quality.  Then Michael, I know it is him, I can scent him, takes both my hands and clips cuffs around my wrists.

They don’t feel like the usual cuffs that Michael and my Master use: wider by some inches, snuggling my wrists and lower arms, encasing me, and linked together. They smell pleasantly of leather, creaking with my movement.

Michael moves me a little, positioning where I stand, then raises my arms. Something snaps into place above me, then pulls, tensioning my arms so that I am, not quite teetering, but certainly unable to move from my spot.

Strange hands cuff my ankles, then ease my legs apart. I stagger a little but am supported at the wrists. My ankles are parted further, the cuffs pulling me into position. As my thighs part, my pussy lips are swelling and curling open, and I feel hot wetness escaping my folds.

A male body slides up my legs and torso, pressing against me. He smells delicious but unfamiliar. He kisses me, forcing my mouth open, roughly, tongue deep and briefly, very briefly, slips his hand between the folds of my wrap-around skirt and down between my thighs, feeling between.

His voice is an announcement. “Oh yes, Gentlemen. She’s wet already.”

The hand and the body withdraw, leaving me stranded, blind, suspended.

There are footsteps and then a voice.

“Now then gentlemen. You know the rules. Aces high or low. The pot goes to the lady. The winner of each hand has ten minutes of the next...event...with her.”

They’re playing cards for me?

I hear soft noises: swishing, a soft slapping noise. Cards being dealt?

There is the rattle of small objects on a wooden surface. (Chips going down?)

And voices:

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“One more.”

“Fold.”

And the sound of cards flicking down on a table.

How can I hear this? Such a quiet sound. The echoes of the chamber?

“Seventeen.”

“Deal.”

Slap.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Twenty-one!”

I never play cards, but even I know that twenty-one is a winner.

And now?

There is silence, interrupted by the scrape of a chair, several chairs, and footsteps, coming towards me.

“Hi.” I am a bit wobbly, but feel I should acknowledge my…guest?

A finger presses against my lips. I can’t speak?

Or he can’t speak? It’s against the rules?

A body moves, and clothes rustle, close to me.

Hands run over my clothes, flat against my stomach, around my waist, up and around my shoulders. Blindly, my lips open, and I start to pant, my breathing growing faster by the moment.

The hands slide over my breasts, caressing, squeezing, massaging, then upwards over my neck and face. Fingers slip into my hair, finding pins and combs, removing each by turn, and releasing my red tresses to tumble down around my breasts and back. Hands brush my hair back behind me, over my shoulders, keeping my front exposed.

The fingers quest to the back of the halter-neck, struggling a little with the knot before releasing it and the straps fall loose. I feel them flapping free by my still-clothed breasts as a mouth fastens on to mine. And now, my breasts are grasped, hard, pinching at the nipples through fabric.

“The pot goes to the Lady.”

How much am I going to earn from this?

More if they have a good time with me...