Chapter 10: The Girl Who Sold Herself - Chapter Ten


    “What do you want, Charlotte?”


    Who said that? Which of them spoke?


    “I want…”


    “Yes?”


    “I want…oh God. Fuck me. Please fuck me. I want to cum. I need to cum.”


    My Master speaks. “Not yet, Charlotte, but it’s good that you’re learning to ask nicely. We can give you


    something as a reward for that. Michael, if you would.”


    Michael crawls forward over the bed, sliding his hands over my shoulders, kneading and massaging my


    arms, back and neck. As theshes down again, and I jerk again in response, his hands slip


    around to my breasts, cupping and rubbing. My face near his now semi-erect cock, I can smell myself


    on him, my own perfume from where he has fucked me. He rolls and tweaks my hard nipples, arousal


    undting down to my sex.


    Mindless with lust, I howl as thesh licks my pussy. Pain ripples through me, echoed in my nipples


    where Michael now pinches hard. I am lost in the embrace of torment and ecstasy.


    Oh, God…


    “Please, please, I need to cum. Master, please.”


    Something nuzzles at my entrance. My Master’s cock? No, it is something else. “I’m not going to fuck


    you yet Charlotte. I’m only going toe myself after I’ve finished you.”


    There is a buzzing, a vibration, and something slips inside me, convulsing my inner muscles. Michael is


    still pinching, hard, and I whimper. Climax curls up within me, tormented groans squeezing past my


    lips.


    Thumb and forefinger take my clit, rubbing gently, so gently, on my hot and swollen bud. It sends an


    unbearable surge through me from clit to spine, my thighs pitching and shoving against the


    excruciating-ecstatic thrill.


    Orgasm takes me, welling up, overwhelming me as I scream and writhe in my bonds.


    For long seconds, the finger works my clit, urging on my climax before pulling away. Then my Master


    smoothly sheathes himself in my pulsating cunt.


    Through my sexual miasma, I can smell his arousal, a wild male scent that drives me even higher. His


    cock is huge, engorged, and already I can feel the tension of his own climax waxing. He fits me tightly,


    stretching me as he pounds inwards, riding me, my pussy slick and hot, his erection spearing me.


    He ms in, thrusting hard, again and again, then, every muscle tensing into stillness, his release


    satisfaction, he pulls out.


    “Wonderful!” he exims. “Wonderful. Oh Charlotte, you’re a beauty. And you didn’t even ask me to


    stop.”


    Limp with exhaustion, rosy with afterglow and wondering how I scrape myself off the ceiling, I ask,


    “May I lie down Master? I’m a little tired.”


    “Of course.” My Master releases the cuffs, catching me as my now spaghetti-like knees give way under


    me. Scooping me up, he ces me on the bed, pours a ss of wine and thrusts it in my hands.


    “Rx Girl,” he says. “You’ve had enough for one day.”


    Gulping at the wine, I enjoy the clean, sharp taste. There is no need for instruction, I am astonishingly


    rxed.


    “Thank you, Master. Yes, I’ve had enough for one day, but I enjoyed it. It was marvellous.” I turn to


    Michael, perched at the end of the bed. “And thank you too. That was wonderful.”


    A slow smile creeps over his face. He tilts his head in acknowledgement.


    The three of us settle together on the bed. After a few minutes of enjoying the wine in silence, I ask “So


    whates next?”


    Michael splutters his wine over the bed, and my Master bursts outughing. “Next? ‘Whates next?’


    she asks,” raising his eyes to Heaven in mock anger.


    He swings and points a long finger at me. “Whates next, is that we eat, before you wear us both


    out.”


    Michael breaks in. “There is a rumour Charlotte, that you were a virgin three days ago.”


    “It’s not a rumour. It’s true,” I protest. “It’s just that…it’s just that…” My voice trails off.


    “It’s just that you had a lot bottled up, and you’re actually cut out for the life of anything from good-time


    girl to professional courtesan,” finishes Michael for me.


    Sucking in my cheeks to avoid grinning, I return to my wine in silence. Of course, he’s right. How could


    I have known what I am really like? I never had a chance to find out, with my rotten so-called ‘marriage’


    and my lousy husband who never said that girls just are not for him.


    My Master interrupts my thoughts. “Would you like to go out to dinner, Charlotte? Or eat in? Your


    choice.”


    “Err… Eat in I think. It’s nice here.”


    “Fine, I’ll phone out for something.”


    Half an hourter the three of us are sharing crispy duck, pancakes and prawn crackers. I tuck it away.


    I seem to have built up an appetite.


    “To answer your question Charlotte,” breaks in my Master. “‘Whates next…’ is that tomorrow


    evening we are going out, the three of us. We have something special nned for you, but we wanted,


    tonight, to find out what…what your inclinations are…”


    Through a mouthful of duck and plum sauce, I mumble “Sorry? Not with you.”


    Michael is, I note, smiling through his own pancake, but chooses to remain silent.


    “We wanted to be sure that you enjoy the ‘SM’ part of BDSM,” says my Master.


    I must still look nk, as he continues, with a touch of impatience in his voice, “We wanted to be sure


    that you enjoy a moderate degree of pain, under the right conditions of course.”


    The penny drops. Going out? Tomorrow? “You mean we’re going to some sort of club? A BDSM club?”


    With a well-manicured fingernail, my Master delicately picks a sliver of duck from between his teeth.


    Belonging ? N?velDram/a.Org.


    “Yes. We are going to a club. To be precise, we have booked the club for the evening. There will only


    be the three of us plus a number of other…” he hesitates, “…selected, guests. The general public will


    not be there.”


    I am wondering now. “In what way, selected?”


    “They were at your original auction, Charlotte, most of them anyway, plus some who I know personally,


    and who I know, understand the boundaries of what is eptable. And don’t worry, I know, or know of,


    all of them. I know how they behave and I know they keep themselves clean.”


    Most of them? Plus, some he knows?


    “How many will there be, Master?”


    He leans forward. “How many would you like, Charlotte? You have enjoyed me and Michael together.


    How many men would you like to fuck you? How much money would you like to earn to put towards


    that college education of yours? And how far will your sense of adventure take you?”


    I gulp down more of the wine. “I trust you, Master. And I need the money. Bring ‘em on.”


    *****


    The following evening, having slept most of the day, I am bathed, made up, dressed to the nines, and


    feel like a million dors.


    My Master has been very specific about what I should wear: a ck satin wrap-around skirt, held in


    ce only with two buttons; a matching halter top, which ties at the neck and, cut low, unbuttons at the


    front; stockings; shoes with a heel, but not too high, chic butfortable. My red silk panties tie at the


    sides. A heavy Cleopatra-style ne. Hair up, eyes lined dark, lips deeply scarlet, expensive


    perfume. Looking at myself in the mirror, I feelpletely fuckable.


    Michael is carrying a briefcase and I wonder what is in it.


    We take a taxi to a part of the city I do not know. Basically medieval, modernity has over-run it, and in


    the darkness of the evening, neon res brilliantly at me, garish ad boards dazzle, and the noise of


    traffic is deafening. Pulling into the rear car park of an unfamiliar building, the noise abates and I


    wonder where we are going. From the front, this looked like just a parade of shops.


    My Master sees my puzzlement. “It’s in the basement,” he exins. “A part of the old town which not


    many people know is still here. And now, Michael, please.”


    Michael opens the briefcase, producing a red silk scarf.


    What is that for?


    The question answers itself, as Michael blindfolds me. “Not too tight?” he asks.


    “No, fine.” But I feel a bit unstable.


    The two men each take me by an arm. “Just walk slowly,” says my Master. “Don’t worry. We won’t let


    you fall.”


    They lead me, unseeing, across the tarmac of the car park. There is the creak of a door opening. “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...