I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and wincing. “Can you please not talk about your… pussy. Ugh.”
She throws up her hands. “This is exactly what I mean! You’re supposed to be a romance writer and you have the same phobia of the male and female anatomy as an elementary schooler. It’s no wonder you never write that sex scene. You’re probably worried Mrs. P. is going to show up and drag you by the ear to the principal’s office.”
“That’s just ridiculous,” I say.
“Okay. Then say fuck. Out loud.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Say it!” demands Lacey, jabbing me in the boob with her finger.
“Ow! What is your--”
“Say it!” she says, raising her finger and threatening to poke me again.
“Fuck,” I say quietly and deliberately. “Okay? See? I can say it.”
She laughs. “Oh, Bri. Where have I gone wrong raising you.”
“Seriously though, I’m not meeting this guy. Do you even realize how weird this all is? You cyberstalked a billionaire and set me up on some BDSM date with him so I can yell at him in person?”
Lacey shrugs, looking as though she really doesn’t see how crazy this is. “Well, if you don’t want to yell at him, you could just show up and give him what he wants. A willing virgin. God knows you could use the money,” she says, plucking at my ratty clothes.
“What money?” I ask.
“Oh, you know. Just the crazy amounts these rich BDSM pervs bid to own you.”
A tingle runs down my spine at her word choice. I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. “Remind me how this is any different than prostitution…”
“Uh, you get the money and you don’t get slapped around by a pimp?”
I grin. “So that’s the only thing that has kept you off the streets, Lacey? You just wanted to be your own boss?”
She glares at me. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Can you blame me? Listen to yourself. I mean, come on. What kind of self-respecting woman would agree to this?”
“Maybe the kind of woman who doesn’t care what people think? Just look at the guy. You want to jump his bones?” she cups a hand over her mouth and says ‘yes’ in a high pitched voice for me. “Then what’s wrong with getting some tuition money for it? Besides, imagine what it could do for your writing. If he really went for it and wanted to use you. You’d have enough material to write ten books!”
I frown at her, holding up a finger. I hate that I only start seriously considering this when she mentions how much this could help my writing. It feels dirty even thinking it. I couldn’t really use someone like that. Could I? “If I go meet this guy, will you stop pestering me about it?”
“Probably,” she says.
“Okay. Maybe I’ll go meet Jackson, but it’s not to have sex. It’s just because my creative writing professors are always telling us if we want to write about the world, we need to experience it. That’s all this is, an experience.” I clear my throat. “That’s all.”
“A toe-curling, moan-inducing, life-changing experience,” says Lacey, grinning devilishly.
“No!” I snap. “I’m just going to go, talk to him, and explain how this whole thing was just a giant misunderstanding.”
“Right,” says Lacey. “Talk. Well, I’ve got some clothes you can borrow and I’ll help you with your makeup and hair. Because you can’t show up looking like this.”
6
Jackson
I wait at Seasons 22, a popular restaurant downtown with a nice view of the water, where we agreed to meet. It’s just past afternoon and only a day after I responded to the dubious message from VirginPrincess88. I sip at the ice water in front of me and watch the entrance, wondering what I’m getting myself into. I haven’t even seen pictures of this woman. Worst case scenario, I waste an hour and move on with my day. Normally, I wouldn’t give up an hour for something like this, but this new insatiable hunger I have to dominate has me reordering my priorities. Hard. That, and the possibility that I may have actually found a complete and total virgin, not just to the BDSM scene, but a virgin in the full sense of the word.
For as long as I’ve been around the scene, I’ve never known someone lucky enough to expose a woman to her first sexual experience and her first BDSM experience simultaneously. The possibility has me completely exhilarated.
The guilt hasn’t gone away. Not at all. But the need for release has finally reached a tipping point, and I can’t suppress it any longer.
Every time a new woman walks in, I wonder if it’s her. The first woman through the doors is passably attractive. She has nice calves and a build a little more muscular than I prefer, but she greets a group of women at the other end of the restaurant, waving and taking her seat.
It’s fifteen minutes past the agreed time when the door opens. I freeze, glass half-lifted to my mouth, eyes locked on her. She has dirty blonde hair that cascades into curls past her neck. Her build is slight, but the dress she wears highlights the most irresistible hips I’ve ever seen. On her small frame, the wide hips scream of sexuality so powerfully I can hardly believe my eyes. She has a face so pure I know in an instant she really is a virgin. It’s written all over the soft cast of her expression and the gentle set of her eyes. She stands by the hostess stand, clutching her handbag nervously as she looks around the restaurant.
And she’s young. So young I should call this whole thing off right now. She looks like she might be twenty years old, maybe younger. I’m thirty-five, and the thoughts that go through my mind at the sight of her have me feeling dirty as hell. Right now, I’m in a dangerous state of mind, and the dirtier, the better.
I stand, motioning for her to come into the dining area. She hesitantly approaches and I pull out her chair, helping her sit before taking my own seat across from her.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of water. “Virgin Princess eighty-eight. In the flesh.”
Her lip spasms in a smile that’s gone so quickly I could’ve imagined it. She takes a long drink of water and sets her glass down a little too hard. “That’s me. Yep.” She sucks in a deep breath and her eyes fall to the floor, widening slightly as if she’s on the verge of an anxiety attack. “Virgin Princess eighty-eight,” she mutters under her breath.
“You okay?” I ask.
She meets my eyes for a fraction of a second and then looks away, swallowing hard and putting delicate fingers to her neck. “I’m, um, just a little thirsty.” She downs another few gulps of water nervously.
I signal for a waiter and order their best bottle of wine. “It’s a red. You’ll love it.”
She gives me the same, nervous smile.
I grin, leaning forward a little. “You know, that smile of yours is absolutely breathtaking. You shouldn’t hide it.”
A real smile crosses her face this time, but she still looks down, as if unable to meet my eyes. She’s the perfect fucking submissive and she has no idea. Virgin. Naturally submissive. Sexy as hell. Goddamn. I can’t believe a woman like this reached out to me unsolicited. If she was on the bidding scene, a month with her would easily go for six figures, maybe seven.