Chapter 11: The Price of Virginity
The door felt heavier on the second push, as if the room itself had gained density. Richard was exactly where I’d left him, still on his knees before the empty sofa. His head snapped up as I entered.The desperate hope in his eyes was a fuel I could almost smell.
“Stand up,” I said, my voice slicing the thick silence.He struggled to his feet, joints cracking. He looked old, suddenly.The proud lines of his posture were gone, replaced by a cowed stiffness. The evidence of his arousal strained against the fine wool of his trousers.
“Strip.”
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. There was a profound silence as he undressed, the only sounds the rustle of fabric and his own shaky breath. He folded each item with a habit of order that seemed pathetic now, placing them neatly on the armchair until he stood naked under the chandelier’s low light.His body was powerful still, but softening at the edges. And he was fully, achingly erect.
I walked a slow circle around him, letting him feel my gaze like a physical touch.I stopped in front of him, my eyes dropping to his cock. It twitched under my inspection. I reached out, not to touch him, but to hover my fingertips just above the flushed head.A droplet of clear fluid beaded there.
“Does your wife ever look at you like this?” I asked, my voice conversational.He swallowed. “No.”
“Tell me about her.”
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, followed by a dawning, horrible understanding.This was the price.“Eleanor is… a good woman. A devoted—”
“I didn’t ask for a campaign speech,” I interrupted, my tone sharpening to a point. “I said tell me about her.The truth. What’s wrong with her?”
He closed his eyes for a second, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he opened them, they were fixed on a point over my shoulder.“She’s… cold. Has been for years.She says it’s headaches. Or fatigue.”
“She’s a frigid bitch,” I stated flatly.“Say it.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “She’s… frigid.”
“Louder.”
“She’s a frigid bitch!” The words burst from him, loud in the quiet room.They hung there, ugly and true. A crack had opened.I moved closer, until my breath ghosted over his chest.“What else? Why did you really marry her?”
His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Her father… he chaired the Appropriations Committee. It was a strategic alliance.”
“So you married a nagging, cold cunt for a political leg-up.” I let the vulgarity drip, savoring the flinch it elicited. “And now you’re stuck with her dried-up pussy while you beg to taste mine. Isn’t that right?”
His composure shattered.“Yes!God, yes. She nags me about everything—the time I get home, the whiskey I drink, the fucking mail on the hall table. She’s a skeletal, judgmental ghost in my own house.” The confession was a purge, his face twisting with a bitter vitriol he’d clearly bottled for decades.
“Good,” I purred. I turned and walked to the couch, the same one where he’d knelt.I lay back against the cool leather, letting my knees fall open once more. The apex of my thighs was still slick, swollen from his earlier attention.“Now come here. And finish what you started.”
He moved like a sleepwalker, his naked body lowering itself over mine. The heat of him was immense.He braced himself on his arms, his cock pressing against my entrance. The blunt pressure was alien, terrifying.He looked into my eyes, seeking permission, seeking anything.
I gave him nothing.I simply nodded.He pushed forward.
A sharp, tearing pain lanced through me, white and blinding.I cried out, a short, involuntary gasp. He froze, his eyes wide with a panicked concern that almost made me laugh.
“Don’t stop,” I hissed through clenched teeth.He pressed deeper, and the pain morphed, stretched into a burning fullness. I could feel every inch of him sinking into untouched territory. When he was fully seated, a strange stillness settled.It hurt.And it was profoundly, irrevocably mine.“Move,” I whispered. “Slowly.”
He obeyed, drawing back and then pushing in again with a tentative, grinding slowness. The pain began to recede, replaced by a deep, stretching sensation that wasn’t pleasure, but was somehow more powerful.It was possession. I wrapped my legs around his hips, locking him to me.I pulled his head down so his ear was against my lips.
“Now tell me,” I breathed, as he slid in and out with a torturous pace, “what you’d rather be doing. Instead of listening to your wife bitch about the mail.”
He groaned, his hips stuttering.“This.Fuck. Just this.”
“Say it filthier.”
“I’d rather be… balls-deep in your tight little cunt. Feeling you milk my cock while I tell her to shut her fucking mouth over the phone.”
A thrill, cold and electric, shot through me.“Yes.”
His rhythm became more assured, each stroke grinding deeper. The initial shock had faded, and a raw, electric feeling began to build in its place. It wasn’t the clean pleasure of his tongue; this was heavier, more invasive. It was dominance in a physical form. With every thrust, he was breaking his own vows, defiling his marriage bed in this, his other sacred space.I clenched around him, and he swore, his control fraying.
“She’s never… God, Evelyn… she’s never felt like this. You’re so fucking tight.Hot. Like you’re sucking me right in.”
“Cum for me,” I commanded, my own breath coming in short gasps now. The pressure was coiling, a spring tightened by pain and power.“Fill me up. Give me everything you’ve been saving for that dried-up bitch.”
It was the permission he needed. His body locked, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he plunged as deep as he could go. I felt the hot, pulsing release flood into me, a shocking intimacy that marked the ultimate violation. The sensation triggered my own climax, a brutal, convulsive wave that ripped through the remains of the pain, turning it into a savage, claiming joy. I cried out, my nails digging into his back, my spine arching off the leather.We collapsed into the aftershock, a tangle of sweat and spent bodies. He was heavy on top of me, his face buried in my neck, his breath sobbing.
I waited until the pulses inside me faded.Then I pushed at his shoulders. “Get up.”
He rolled off, his body spent, his cock already softening, slick with our mingled fluids. I sat up, feeling a warm trickle escape down my inner thigh. A faint, coppery scent joined the smells of sex and leather.My own blood.
I looked at him, lying there, wrecked.Then I swung my legs off the couch and stood. I reached between my legs, collecting a mix of his semen and my virginity on two fingers. I held them out to him.
“Clean it up.”
His eyes, hazy with exhaustion and shame, focused on my glistening fingertips.He didn’t hesitate. He took my wrist gently and brought my fingers to his mouth. His tongue, the same instrument of his frantic worship earlier, laved slowly, thoroughly, cleaning every trace.He swallowed.His eyes never left mine.
When he was done, I pulled my hand back. I walked to where his clothes were folded, picked up my own simple dress from where I’d let it fall, and slipped it over my head. The fabric felt coarse against my sensitized skin.“Get dressed, Richard,” I said, not looking at him. “Your wife will be wondering where you are.”
I left the study without a backward glance. The hallway carpet was too soft under my feet.My body felt hollowed out and reforged, a different shape entirely. There was a soreness between my legs, a trophy. And a cold, quiet knowledge in the center of my chest: I had taken everything.His dignity, his secrets, his seed. I had made him eat his own corruption.The phantom wasn’t just visiting anymore.It had taken up residence. And it was hungry for more.