Read A Virgin Enslaved (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) Online
Authors: Artemis Hunt
A Virgin Enslaved (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) (8 page)
I don’t know if I did the right thing in telling Beth about Selena. But I figured she had a right to know after what happened with my mother. Still . . . she seems rather perturbed by the whole story. I don’t blame her. It is a disturbing story.
I know I still have psychological scars from the experience, but I don’t think about them anymore or make a big deal out of them. Everyone has scars. We just have to deal with them in our different ways.
Some deal better than others – but that’s the way life is.
The sky above Grant Park starts to fill with clouds, and the breeze picks up with a hint of summer rain on its scent.
“Wanna go to a movie?” I say, to change track.
She smiles wanly. “OK.”
We walk down Michigan Avenue to the AMC cinemas near the Magnificent Mile. We choose an R-rated thriller that has been out for three weeks already, and we sit right at the back – the only ones on our row. There are only about twelve people in the whole theatre, and the closest couple to us is five rows away.
Beth still seems pensive and thoughtful after our little exchange.
I clasp her hand in mine. “You OK? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, you didn’t upset me. I’m OK.”
“You seem quiet like all of a sudden.”
“You just gave me a lot to think about.”
I squeeze her hand, not knowing what to say to that. I’ve bared more of myself to this woman than every other one since Selena . . . and my mother, of course. I don’t know what else to do to convince her to carry on with our arrangement. I’ve even explained to her in detail why it cannot be more than it is . . . and will be.
I’ve done all that I can. Brutal honesty without compromising who I am. I have never lied to her about what we can have together. I have never lied to Lisa and the others either. Surely they can see that.
Please, Beth, let what we have now be enough for you.
The movie starts, and we’re still clasping hands like high school sweethearts. It’s real dark in the theatre except for the flickering screen.
The warmth of Beth’s hand in my palm seeps through my flesh, invigorating me. I lean over to nuzzle her neck, and soon, we are kissing . . . and my penis is hard again. It’s amazing how much she arouses me.
“I have to tell you something,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Better yet, I’ll show you.”
I guide her hand to my crotch and place it there, where my considerable bulge tents my jeans.
“You see how hot you get me?” I say.
Her hand is still for a moment, cupping my jeans. And then she starts to stroke and massage my bulge. I hear her soft little laugh.
“Oh what the hell,” she murmurs, “I’m not going to think about too much stuff anymore today.”
I feel it too – a palpable release of tension between us, like a taut guitar string suddenly going slack.
“Thank God,” I say, “because I’m horny for you.”
“You’re always horny.”
“Not always, but plenty of the time. And it’s for you.”
She hesitates before saying, “Chris, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Oh no, not again.
Fuck
.
I shouldn’t have told her the truth about Selena.
“Of course. Anything.”
“You’re not thinking of her when you’re with me, are you?”
Beth’s voice sounds so fearful that a wedge kicks into my chest. Oh shit. She doesn’t think that, does she? Because it’s not true. It’s completely untrue. I have locked Selena away already in a special compartment of my soul.
Physically, and where my body’s responses are concerned, I live in the present now.
“No, no, no, no!” I say so vehemently that the nearest couples to us turn their heads. “When I’m with you, I think only of you. Look,” I press her hand down harder upon my erection, “this is because of
you
, and only of you.”
She seems to relent.
“OK,” she says.
“No. Not OK. I need you. I want
you
.” I start to kiss her again – a probing, concentrated kiss that holds so much fervor that I surprise even myself.
She responds more vigorously than before, and her stroking of my bulge increases. Indeed, her skin is hot – flushed, presumably, from sexual arousal. I deepen my kisses. Put a lot of tongue and passion into them, and soon, my hands are roaming all over her breasts, waist and jeans. Our bodies are turning towards each other, and only an armrest separates us.
I slip my hand beneath her blouse and feel for her nipples. They are as hard as little marbles.
Ohh
.
“Oh baby, you make me wild,” I whisper.
I desperately want her to touch my cock without a barrier between us, and so I unzip myself. I am wearing briefs. With minor manipulation, my hard rod rises above its nest of tangled cloth and zipper.
“All yours to play with,” I whisper in her ear. “Use me. No charges incurred.”
This seems to lighten the mood because I can hear her soft laugh.
“Yeah,” she whispers, “I may as well make full use of you while I have the chance . . . ” She lets this trail.
I’m too caught up with my own passion to attribute further meaning to that.
I was expecting her to give me a hand job like she did the first time we were together, but she rearranges herself and bends her head over my lap. I’m a little taken aback. She has never done this before.
“Are you sure?” I say in a low voice.
Five rows in front of us, the male counterpart of a couple looks back.
“Hey asshole, I’ve had enough of you already,” he hisses. “Why don’t you just shut yer yap?”
Fuck you too, I think.
Beth says, drawing me back to the matter at attention, “Yes, I’m sure. I want to try it.”
I’m sure as hell surprised, but pleased at the same time. Just a few days ago, she was this shy, retiring virgin. And now –
Hell. I must be more of an influence than I thought.
In a good way, I hope.
She lowers her mouth onto my upright organ. It is dark, and I can only see the reddish tint of the flickering screen light reflected on her hair. Her warm, wet mouth encircles my turgid flesh. Her tongue flickers out and licks my shaft. Sultry, catlike licks.
Oh God!
A marvelous corona of pleasure immediately assails my cock, and I groan out loud.
The couple in front turns again.
“Ssssssh!”
I’m too lost in the swirling sensations that cascade throughout my groin to care.
I know that this is probably Beth’s first time, and so I just let her be. I don’t guide her or try to restrain her (as if!). She experiments with tasting my flesh, dipping the tip of her tongue onto my head and the little aperture at its apex. I squirm and grip the armrests.
She decides that this is my erotic spot (it is), and concentrates firmly on making me lose control.
“I may come into your mouth if you don’t let up,” I warn teasingly.
In response, she bites gently down on my head. I almost lose it then and there.
“Hey asshole,” the man’s voice cuts through the cinema. Couples everywhere swivel their heads in the dark to look. “If you don’t cut it out this instant, I’m coming over to break your legs, I swear.”
“OK, OK, we’re leaving,” I say loudly.
We rush back to my penthouse even before the movie ends. There, on my king-sized bed, I lay myself on top of Beth and make love to her with all the heat and passion I can muster, especially after our emotional catharsis today.
Our sweaty bodies merge, entwine, curl around one another’s and merge again. We try different positions to find out which ones she likes best (she seems to feel more uninhibited when she is on all fours). I go down on her again and tongue her sex until she’s screaming and clawing at the sheets.
Our climaxes seem to flow into each other’s, over and over and over. We sleep. And when we wake up in the early morning, we fuck like animals again.
I don’t recall being so happy in a long time.
It isn’t just the sex. It’s everything else that goes along with it – this wonderful woman who makes me feel so secure and at peace with myself. It’s as if I don’t have to pretend to be someone else. I’m exactly who I am – who I declared myself to be.
It’s dawn when I open my eyes and realize I have to go to work.
Fuck
.
I just want to lie here in the warmth and make love to Beth, who is sleeping peacefully on her side, her lovely face turned towards me. I wonder if I can call in sick.
But of course I can. I’m the boss!
In fact, I’ll give Beth the day off too.
But I won’t. I have too much responsibility to the company to do this.
I watch her for a while, my head resting on my crooked arm. Her hair is sprawled like a messy fan on the pillow. It’s just-been-fucked hair, and I have never seen anything more glorious in my life. I lift a tendril of it and let it fall back on the pillow.
I’m loathe to wake her, and so I extricate myself gingerly from the bed. There’s a message on my cellphone from the previous night that I haven’t read. I pick it up.
It says:
“Are we on tonight?”
It’s Taylor.
Oh fuck. I’d forgotten completely about tonight. It’s our usual Monday night. Apparently, Aaron carouses with his buddies every Monday, and Taylor is left to her own devices.
I start to text back to cancel . . . and then I hesitate.
What am I doing? I’m basically putting my life on hold for Beth, and I swore I would never, ever do that for a woman. I mean, I didn’t take a vacation this week from work for our seven days together. So why should I alter my routine, right?
I’m not making any sense to myself.
Never again
.
That’s right. If I want to live by that, I’ve got to stop rearranging my life around women. It’s not as if I’m in love with Beth or something.
Right?
A creeping doubt worms into my marrow, making goose bumps rise on my flesh.
I swallow.
No. I can’t allow myself to fall in love with her. It would be Selena all over again. They even have the same hair, for Chrissake. I would be dooming us to an early demise if I let this through. I’m jinxed. Just look at my mother. I loved her to bits too (though not in the same way), and she was taken away from me as well.
Never ever ever again.
A bolt of pain racks my chest, and I have to sit down for a moment on the bed to let it subside. Memories of Selena’s pale, wan face fleets across my mind screen.
What’s happening to me?
Shit shit shit.
Before I can lose myself again, I text back to Taylor:
“Tonight it is, but I can only stay for two hours. Meet me at the White Rabbit.”
I have my suspicions (or reservations, rather) when Chris tells me that he has to urgently meet a client tonight.
“It’ll only be about two hours,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Then I’ll come home and we’ll have a lazy dinner together. And then we’ll make love by the TV in front of a dirty HBO original.”
I have no claim on him, of course. He has made that quite clear from the beginning. But within every girl, there resides a hope that
she
will be the one to change the handsome, eligible bad boy with deep psychological issues.
That’s why I stayed on yesterday despite knowing what I do about Selena, and the fact he will never reciprocate any romantic love given to him. That’s why I worked myself up to enjoy the easy physicality we have between us.
Enjoy his body, I tell myself. Enjoy what he has to offer. Use him like he uses you . . .
Carpe diem.
Oh, but what he does to me! Every time I think I’m OK with just enjoying his body, my former self pulls me back – the one who wants
more
. So much more than what he has placed on the offer table.
Making love to him is like eating a chocolate-laden, calorie-covered snack. Even when you know it’s wrong and that all this will end in a train wreck, you are drawn into indulging. Every time he kisses or touches me, I melt. I can’t help it. I’m behaving like a wanton slut who hasn’t had sex in years (and essentially, that is what I am). There’s something so mesmerizing and addictive about Chris that I’m drawn like the proverbial bug to a flame who must consume me.
It’s just a few more days, I tell myself. Three precisely. Take your time. You can decide later on.
But I know I have already decided.
I have decided that I need more time than just three days to give him my evaluation. Call it ‘needing more grace period’.
“OK,” I tell him. “I need a few things, so I’ll just go down to Walgreen’s down the corner.”
“Great. See you soon.”
He kisses me tenderly on the lips. It’s a kiss that makes me want to sigh. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was in love with me.
It’s heartbreaking – the thought that I have to compromise my values, and that he doesn’t have to do the same. But in this kind of relationship, someone must yield.
I’m heading towards the Walgreen’s in the direction when his Lamborghini revs out of the parking exit. Its engines purr sleekly, turning heads as usual. Chris is nothing if not an attention-grabber. He doesn’t see me.
The car stops at a light, and I make a swift decision.
I hail a cab, which screeches to a stop in front of me. Feeling like every clichéd amateur detective, I get in, slam the door and say, “Follow that car.”
“It’s going to be hard,” the cab driver cautions me.
“I’ll give you an extra fifty if you try.”
What the hell am I doing?
I’m not a stalker. I have never stalked anyone in my entire life. I know what I’m doing is wrong – acting like a jealous girlfriend – and yet I’m compelled to follow it through. Maybe I just want affirmation. Maybe I’m secretly a masochist.
Visual evidence. Yes, that’s what I’m seeking.
And yet . . . what do I want visual evidence for? He has been upfront and open about his lifestyle with me. Do I want visual evidence that five days with me hasn’t changed him profoundly, that I’m not the alpha and omega of his life?
Who are you kidding, girl? You
know
that already.
I’m trapped in the moving cab anyway. Trapped by my own stubbornness, like an automaton which refuses to give up the last refuge of her ideals.
The cab manages to keep up, thanks to many red lights littering the block junctions. Maybe the gods of traffic lights are smiling upon me. The Lamborghini finally pulls in front of a seedy-looking club – all neon and glitter and flashing lights – with a white rabbit insignia on the side of its entrance. Chris gets up and hands his keys to the valet.
He walks in without turning to look back.
“OK, don’t stop right in front,” I say to the cab driver.
A couple of tough-looking guys with tattoos and leather glare at me balefully as the cab screeches to a halt in front of them. We are about twenty feet from the entrance of the club.
My heart sinks as I tip the cab driver generously.
What is Chris doing in a place like this?
I know Chris has tendencies. The very first night we were together suggests that he may not have an aversion to bondage play. It strikes me as hilarious that up till one week ago, I didn’t even know what bondage play was!
But still, to watch him walk into a club like this . . . it’s another threshold I haven’t yet crossed.
The doorman – black leather, metal studs and with multiple long silver earrings on either ear – watches me as I enter. In my simple blouse and jeans, I must look out of place.
Inside, the thud of the music is almost too loud for my ears. The place looks like a Halloween party of strobe lights and PVC – all sleekly shining black, and with more flashing metal than a scrap yard. I quail a little at the sight of almost naked women and men dancing in suspended cages.
A woman with more studs on her nose and lips than I have ever seen on anyone. She’s dressed in a metallic outfit that resembles a 1960s depiction of a spaceman. She comes up to me.
“You wanna get high, sugar?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
I sidestep her neatly, and look frantically around until I catch sight of Chris’s back vanishing behind a trio of Goth women (or they may be men, it’s difficult to tell). People press in on me from all sides, and the first pangs of claustrophobia begin to worry the edges of my consciousness.
I delve in after Chris, narrowly avoiding a hulking black man who stares at me as if I’m something to eat. I find myself at a doorway of a darkened room.
I stop, unable to make myself step in.
Chris is kissing a beautiful blonde goddess, all decked up in a black latex suit. She has breasts the size of which dwarf mine completely, and her body is lithe and graceful. The way they are all over each other – groping hands on waists and buttocks, hungry mouths on mouths – suggests that they have been lovers long before this.
Intellectually, I know she is one of his ‘friends’.
An archetype of what he wants me to be.
If I embark upon starting an affair with him, this will be what I am reduced to – occasional fumblings at seedy nightspots, forced to share him with myriad other unidentified women. God forbid, he might even force me to do things I’m not ready for.
It’s as if my eyes have been opened to everything he really is.
A heaviness swells in my heart, and despair like I’ve never known it descends like a dark cloud.
I can’t do this. I really can’t.
I can’t be someone’s sexual plaything without emotional intimacy or hope for ‘foreverness’, no matter how much he desires me and how much I want him. The last few days have been surreal, dreamlike. But like a dream, everything must now dissipate as I fall down to Earth – my wings broken –with a resounding thud.
I leave the club.
Even though it wrenches my soul, I know what I have to do.