Virgin Romance by Penny Wylder

3

"How are you feeling, Gram?" I hold her arm as she makes her third circuit of the gardens outside the temporary home where she's staying, which is already costing me an arm and a leg every night. At least that price comes with certain privileges, like how I bullied my way in to visit even though technically I missed visiting hours (thanks a lot Pierce with the spontaneous and distracting webcam call).

I don't even want to think about the loan bills racking up with every day that she remains in here. Not to mention the credit card I had to charge my rent to last month.

"I told you, Bonnie, I'm feeling fine," she grumps, because it is the third time I've asked her, to be fair. But according to the nurses, she was anything but fine today. Her PT session was a disaster, and there was a particularly scary moment where she forgot her general practitioner's name, a man she's known for at least five years.

I can't even begin to think about losing her. I know she's getting older—it's inevitable. And I know that one day, I'll need to face a world without her in it. But I can't bear the idea. She's my only family left, since Mom passed, and my father was never in the picture. She raised me from the time I was eight years old. She's the only real parent I've ever known.

I can't lose her. Not yet.

But she's also never been one for talking about being sick. Or admitting she's human. Even when she had pneumonia once, when I was fifteen, she ignored the symptoms and kept working. Right up until she collapsed in the middle of a shift at the hospital. Her supervisor forced her to take 3 days off, but after that she was right back up and at 'em, saving lives and helping people.

She's the reason I decided to become a nurse. Trailing around after her at the hospital was where I first fell in love with the idea of helping to care for the sick.

Carers don't like to let people take care of them, I guess. Against their nature. I squeeze Gram's arm tighter. "Just listen to the doctors, okay? And take it easy when they tell you to. They told me about you wandering around after curfew, you know."

She huffs. "Well it's ridiculous. I'm not a child. I'm a grown-ass woman who can take care of myself."

I stare at her pointedly. "And why did you leave the ward at three in the morning, Gram?"

That huff turns into a sigh. "I was craving gummy bears from the visitors vending machine."

"Right. Sounds very grown-up," I tease with a smirk.

"When did you become such a smart aleck?" she grumbles. But she's smiling, so I know she doesn't really mind. "Anyway, enough about me and my old bones. Tell me about yourself. Your stories keep me young at heart." Her eyes twinkle as she smiles up at me.

Up. Because she's shrunk in the last few years, not because I've grown. We used to be exactly the same height, 5'4", and I loved that. Now I feel abandoned here, as she's shrinking away.

I shake myself to attention. "Oh, not much. Work is as miserable as ever. Paul's still a jerkwad."

"And school?"

"Going okay." I shrug, feeling a pang of guilt. I haven't worked on prepping for my next exam, and it's in just a week and a half. I really need to get on that. "I guess a little hectic. But nothing new."

"This is not keeping me very young." Gram clucks her tongue. "No exciting adventures or wild nights out with Erin? No suspicious young men I should be interrogating or threatening, hmm?" She grins, and I groan and turn my head away.

Mostly to hide the flush across my cheeks. Oh yeah, Gram. This hot new guy, total asshole, who I'm about to sleep with for a bucketload of money.

That would go over great.

"I shall take that as a negative." Gram shakes her head. "Well, all's the better I suppose. You can't go getting distracted from your studies, not now. The right man will come along when you least expect him. Until then, you're smart." She pats my arm with a smile. "Keep your eye on the prize, and everything else will work itself out."

Oh, Gram. I am keeping my eye on the prize, trust me. But the prize, for me, would be keeping her whole and healthy as long as I can.

I'm not ready to navigate this crazy world on my own yet.

* * *

"Right, what's going on?"

I freeze in the middle of the living room, as the kettle whistles from the stove. It's been twenty-four hours since I first met Pierce. Well, "met" via the computer, I guess. And already I'm about to head off to let some strange woman get all up in my business, seeing parts of my body no one else has, just to please him. I wonder if he convinces every woman he fucks to jump through this many hoops?

Thinking about those wolfish eyes of his, and that predatory grin, it's not hard to imagine. I'm pretty sure every woman on the planet would say "how high?" if he told them to jump.

But, I haven't exactly mentioned any of this to my roommate. I force a huge smile and face Erin. "What do you mean?"

She smirks. "Well, I wasn't sure. Until you put your guilty face on just now." She takes a running leap onto the couch, sending my laptop bouncing through the air. "Tell me, Bonnie! Are you quitting your job? Starting a secret business empire?" Her smile turns sly and knowing. "Is it a boyyyyy?"

"It's nothing!" I protest, snatching the kettle from the stove as it continues to whistle at a deafening pitch.

"Bullshit. You were closed in your room talking to someone yesterday, now you're up way before noon, when I know for a fact you don't have classes today and you don't start your diner shift until 7 tonight."

"Do you memorize my schedule, you creeper?" I laugh, back still turned to her. I wonder how much more noise she'd be making just now if she found out I called out of my shift tonight, asked Raul to cover. It's the first time I've called off of work in the entire time I've worked there. Normally I work right through sick days. But I faked vomiting sounds on the phone, and I guess Paul was afraid enough about the potential for cross-infection with the food that he let me switch. Projectile vomit and waiters do not make for a healthy combo.

"You've only had the same one for a year." Erin splays across the couch. "Not my fault I'm observant."

"Well, observe your own business," I call over my shoulder. But by the time I've poured the tea, I turn around to find her full-on pouting at me. Puppy dog eyes and all. Shit. I can never resist those.

"Come on, I share all my good stories with you. Even the embarrassing ones! I told you about hooking up with Chaz, for chrissake."

"Okay, okay." I huff. "You don't have to guilt-trip me." I hold up my steaming mug of tea and another bare palm in the universal sign of surrender.

"So it is a guy!" Erin squeals and sits up on the couch, clapping her hands. "Who is he? Where'd you meet? What's he like?"

"We haven't met yet!" I protest. "It's probably nothing. I don't know."

"Oooh, a hookup? Has our sweet little Bonnie finally decided to slut it up?" Erin leaps off the couch to catch my shoulders and size me up. I'm in my usual jeans and a tighter T-shirt than usual, but nothing special. After all, Pierce is dressing me up like his personal doll anyway, so why bother?

Erin tsks, though. "If this is a first date, you can't go looking like that. It screams desperate dork."

"Gee, thanks. I wonder why I didn't tell you anything." I snort and swat at her hands.

"At least let me do your makeup," she protests. There's that pout again.

I sigh and roll my eyes, though secretly I love when she fusses like this. "Fine, but nothing too weird."

"Just some blush and subtle lips, I promise!" She bounds toward her bedroom. "Maybe some mascara," she calls over her shoulder. "Hmm, or eyeliner too . . ."

I sigh again and check the clock. "Fine, but I only have twenty minutes. Then I need to run."

"Wow." Erin returns with a scarily large makeup bag in tow. "Early for a date. This gonna be an all day thing, or does he work nights?"

I shrug again. This earns me another sigh.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," she tells me as she paints a pale pink gloss over my lips. "Everybody needs to get laid now and again. We're not Puritans. Hookups are perfectly normal. There, how's that?"

But as I check myself over in her hand mirror, admiring the subtle way she brought out the green in my eyes and made my skin look smoother, more uniform and less prone to blotchy red blushes, I wonder how normal she'd think this situation was. Being a virgin at 19 is weird enough. Agreeing to lose it to some guy from the internet might be a little more usual nowadays, I guess.

But getting paid for it? Oh hell no.

So I just smile, close-lipped, and thank my best friend for her help.

"Well if you won't give me his name, at least let me know where you're going," she demands as I'm throwing on my coat to leave. "If he's from online, he could be anyone, y'know."

I pause at the doorway, relenting. She's right. "I don't exactly know yet . . ." I admit, wincing when her eyes widen and her mouth drops open with a million more questions. I raise a hand to stem the tide. "It's a surprise. But I'll text you as soon as I find out, I swear. If I don't message you by two, feel free to send out the search parties."

She salutes. "Aye, aye, captain." Then she melts into a wink. "And hey, Bonnie? Do me a favor. Have some fucking fun, will you?"

* * *

So far, I am failing in my promise to Erin to have fun. There's nothing enjoyable about lying spread-legged on a sterile white table in a colorless room while a strange woman sticks her head between my legs. And that's before the hot wax.

I flinch as a huge glob of the searing hot stuff lands on my nethers. I've got my fists clenched at my side and my teeth gritted in preparation, but honestly, that wasn't so bad. I crack an eyelid to peer up at the woman, an Amazon of a redhead who looks like she could twist my leg off as easily as de-hair it.

"Was that it?" I ask, starting to breathe again. That wasn't so bad. After all the horror stories I've heard about waxing, I was expecting way worse, to be honest.

"No," Red snaps.

The next thing I register is white-hot, searing pain. It's accompanied by a horrifying ripping sound—I mean, I get the whole process in theory, but I didn't expect it to sound like Velcro being torn open. Luckily, I'm so shocked by the stab of agony in my delicate flowery bits that I don't remember to scream in pain. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, though, and my palms have four crescent moons dug into each one in red, where my nails cut my skin.

"That was," Red says.

"Jesus," I gasp, starting to sit up.

She shoves me back down onto the bench. "I did not finish. That was the first strip," she clarifies.

Fuck my life.

Four more agonizing bouts of that, to clear all the hairs between my ass cheeks, down my thighs and across my faint happy trail. By the fourth one, I'm not as shocked anymore, so I remember to yell.

"Sorry," I mumble, after shouting at what felt like the top of my lungs. Definitely loud enough to hurt my throat.

"Don't be," Red replies gruffly. "It's better to let it out." She slaps my tender pussy with a huge glob of liquid heaven. I flinch from the slap, but relax at the cooling sensation of whatever magical moisturizer she's applying. "Healthier to scream, I always say."

"None of this seems particularly necessary for health," I groan between clenched teeth, though the cream is starting to cool the burning sensation at last.

I'm starting to wonder if $500k is going to be worth all this after all. I mean, what's next? A full-body scrub with sandpaper? Carving off any moles or blemishes? Boob implants? Who the hell knows where this all ends.

Though, I have to admit, when the Amazon leaves the room, indicating I can get dressed again, and I slide off the table to check myself out in the mirror, it does look very neat and tidy. I run a hand between my legs and marvel at the baby-smooth skin. It's still bright red, angry from the wax, but the red is fading already thanks to the miracle lotion.

Without thinking about it, my fingers drift to my clit, massaging it gently. As they do, as I watch myself in the changing room of this fancy as hell salon, after being molested by a burly Irish woman, all I can think about is the way Pierce looked at me on camera yesterday. Those ice-blue eyes devouring every inch of me. His parted lips and the steel in his voice when he ordered me to stand up. To strip.

I remember him telling me what he wants to do to me. When I fuck you, I will make you come so hard you forget your name. I can hear his voice now, the surety in his gaze. That man gets what he wants. Always.

And what he wants right now is me . . .

My fingers stroke across my clit in a slow, circular rhythm. My lips part, and I gaze at myself, naked in the changing room mirror, trying to picture what Pierce sees. My pert breasts and my tight waist. I run my free hand over my hips, up my stomach to circle my nipples. With my other hand, I trace the lips of my pussy, feeling a drop of moisture there as I start to breathe faster.

I imagine him standing behind me, watching me touch myself. His hard eyes on my bare pussy. I picture him wrapping his arms around me from behind and stroking me, teasing me with his fingers. I close my eyes and my hand becomes his, toying with my clit, so close to touching the hard little sensitive spot at the tip, but never quite getting there. Dragging this out as long as he wants.

Pretty soon I'm sagging against the mirror, heart pounding as I finger myself harder, faster. My clit feels so sensitive, my pussy tight and wet with desire, every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation as I race toward a climax . . .

Clatter clatter.

The doorknob of the dressing room starts to turn and I gasp and leap away from the mirror to grab my clothes. I'm holding my jeans and shirt defensively in front of my body when the Irish Amazon re-enters, her small eyes squinting over at me.

"Sorry. Thought you'd be dressed by now." She steps inside the room anyway, and I guess it doesn't matter since she's already seen my formerly hairy vagina. She sets two fat store boxes down on the bed, each one wrapped in gold ribbon and tied in a bow that Gram would've killed to be able to imitate for Christmas presents. "Forgot to pass these on earlier—these are for you. Also, there's a car waiting out front when you're ready."

I nod a reply. Something about the mute confusion on my face must strike a nerve with her, though, because Red pauses before leaving again, her eyes on mine.

"Be careful with his type," she says, her gaze all too knowingly sharp. "They'll eat you alive if you let 'em."

Before I can ask what she means, she's gone, the door to the room slamming shut behind her.

Has Pierce sent girls here before? Has he had other virgin sacrifices prepped this same way, before he had his way with them?

I shake my head. Of course he has, Bonnie. Don't be crazy. There's a reason this mad rich man is willing to pay an insane amount of money to sleep with you. It's because this is what he gets off on doing.

I try not to worry too much about what that means, what it makes me to accept his money, as I turn back to the bed and undo the ribbon on the first box.

My jaw drops.

Okay. Not what I was expecting. I figured he'd want me in a slutty schoolgirl getup, or maybe some kind of frilly, doll-like dress. Instead, I unfold a gorgeous black silk gown from within a fluff of gold tissue paper. It's floor-length, with a slit up one side, tasteful yet just revealing enough to tantalize. The neckline is similar, dipping low enough that it would show only a hint of cleavage, if I had much to display. It's a sleek, modern style, the kind of gown you see on red carpets or in the Who Wore It Better sections of celebrity gossip rags.

Not the kind of gown you wear to a paid hookup, I think. Then again, it's not like I know anything about hookups, paid or otherwise.

The second box catches my eye. When I lift it experimentally, it feels a lot heavier than the first one. Huh. I undo the second ribbon and open the lid to reveal two separately wrapped bundles. Within the first, heavier bundle, I discover a pair of black and gold heels. They're not sky-high, thank god, because I don't know if I'd even make it to the door of this changing room wearing a pair like that, let alone out the front door. But they are at least 3 inches tall, and narrow. Not quite stilettos, but real honest-to-goodness heels, nothing like the cork wedge sandals that are the closest thing I own to heels.

I bite my lip gently. No worries. I'll figure them out. They are gorgeous, too, and the soles don't look killer. When I stick a finger onto the pad, it feels soft and supportive, not like a lot of cute but deadly shoes.

Then I catch a glimpse of the brand and freeze in shock. Louboutin? I may not have known exactly how to spell that until this very second, but I can guarantee these babies aren't knock offs.

Shit.

I swallow hard as I untie the other tissue-wrapped package. Then I burst out in a grin. This is more what I was expecting.

A silk-smooth matching set of lingerie falls to the changing table. There's a thong, if you can even call it that, since it looks more like a string of dental floss mated with a patch of lace. And then there's the top, black just like the panties, lace as well as lace-up—it's a full bodice, complete with a bustier designed to give my girls a solid push. I check the size tag hesitantly, worried I might have given Pierce the wrong impression with the bra I wore on cam.

But no. It's exactly my size. 34A, a little big on the A-side, but not quite large enough to slip into B territory. When I shimmy into the bustier, it feels like putting on a hug. A really tight, slightly uncomfortable hug, but one that lifts my girls onto full display, cupping them just right, and hugging my curves the same way. The panties are a perfect fit too, and even though I shouldn't be surprised by this point, I do still lift my eyebrows when I slide the gown over top, because holy shit.

Not only does Pierce have flawless taste, but he's also got a dead eye for a lady's size. The thought of him memorizing every inch of me, figuring me out down to the centimeter, is sexy as fuck. The man pays attention to everything, every tiny detail.

The gown hugs my waist and flares out over my hips, giving me a gorgeous hourglass figure, emphasizing my chest without crossing the line into trashy territory, and dipping low in the back to show off the nape of my neck and the spot where my shoulder blades meet.

Even the fucking shoes fit. Jesus. How did he figure out that one? I wonder, until I remember that when I arrived at the salon this afternoon for my preparatory body massage and wax, they asked for my shoe size. I'd figured the masseuse needed it for some reason, but now I realize that Pierce must have asked them to relay that information and selected these shoes at the last minute.

However he managed it, I'm impressed. And the rest of the measurements, the salon didn't ask for those. He must have been able to size me up just from those few minutes we spent chatting on cam . . . Which tells me exactly how closely he was paying attention to every inch of my body.

In spite of myself (and my close call earlier), I can feel a faint pulse of desire in my pussy. Again. Damn. I'm going to get these nice, sexy new panties all wet before I even meet up with Pierce.

Oh well. I have a feeling he isn't going to complain. And whether it makes me crazy or not, I have to admit, a part of me is seriously enjoying this. I’m his doll, his plaything, and he’s dressing me up however he wants. And apparently, he is in to some really fancy dolls.

I slide on the heels and they're actually pretty easy to walk in. Supportive but sexy all at once. I twirl in the mirror for a moment, admiring my new look before I stuff my old clothes, which in comparison to this outfit look like something out of a Goodwill donation box, into my oversized purse. Thank god for San Fran sized bags, which we need to pretty much live out of, since no one here can afford a car to throw their extra necessities into. My clothes fit easily, and the slouchy hobo style bag still looks fine, albeit a little bit out of sync with the rest of my outfit.

Then I stride out of the changing room, feeling like a million bucks.

Well, okay. Half a million bucks. Soon to be all mine, baby.

I flash Red a bright grin, and she shakes her head in despair, though I notice she can't help but crack a smile, too. "This sugar daddy of yours has taste, I'll grant him that," she tells me as she waves me on out, adding, "Don't worry honey, it's all pre-paid for. The car's out front."

But I linger by the counter anyway. "Did, um . . .” My cheeks flush. I don't really know the protocol for waxing, but I feel sure that if any beauticians deserve a tip, it's the ones who get all up in your private parts. "Can I leave a tip?"

Red laughs, loud. "Oh, sweetheart, you're adorable. He covered that too, but thank you for asking." She winks, and I guess that's that.

Time to face the music.

I take a deep breath and cast one more glance over my shoulder at my reflection in the salon mirrors.

"You look amazing," Red reassures me. "And if he don't appreciate that, well . . . You know where to tell him to stick it." She grins, but for all her compliments, it's clear she doesn't have a high opinion of my mystery man here.

What if she's right? What if this is all a huge mistake?

But I remind myself of Gram. Of school. Of the angry texts collecting on my phone from my manager because I missed one day of work after years of being the only reliable employee. Of all the reasons I'm really doing this.

Eyes on the prize, Bonnie, I remind myself, and then I square my shoulders, lift my head high, and march through the front doors of the salon.