The Virgin Slave free porn video

“I just wanted to kiss you.”  I paused, feeling uncertain and vulnerable, “But I was scared if I did, you might hit me.”

Gazing at her prone beside me, she looked out in a thousand yard stare.

Dismissively as a snort of air could be, her eyes narrowed to focus, “I probably would have, too.”

I did not know much about her but that look I understood well.  A sultry stare full of determination, her gentle caress travelled from my torso to my stomach and onto my loins.  My reaction still had the power to amuse.  Rolling on top, slotted perfectly against each other, I felt where I had been.

On locked elbows, her eyes blazed with mischief, “You can kiss me now though.”

That candy-pink pout loomed in, grazed my lips, and lingered for more. 

Bewildered, I needed to ask, amidst the carnality, it felt proper, if incongruent, “Again?”

In her grasp, she guided me in, another kiss brought out her low purr of satisfaction, “Again.”

Rising onto her haunches, she reasserted herself.  Watching, her head tilted in fascination, she pressed down.  Lurching up, I groaned heavily addicted to its novelty, and she pushed me back into the bed.

“Mmm, so hard for me Jack.  Good boy.”

Biting her lip, her stare never wavered. Until now, everything was a blur of nerves and half-made memories.  I felt confident now; I knew what I was doing.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Head it!”

It was one of those balls, the perfect gravity-defying cross.  The goalkeeper beaten, it only needed a tap to direct it into the back of the net.  My chance to endear myself to my team - it was mine, all mine.

I missed.

The collective groan from my teammates mixed with mocking laughter from the opposition.

Though the smears of sweat and mud over his disappointed features, Keith glared at me, “You total penis Jack, why are you so shit?”

Admonished by his laconic Welsh drawl, something snapped, “Because every time I wear my football kit, your mum shags my brains out.”

I enjoyed the ripple of laughter, and relished how he floundered for a response.

“You… you…” his face contorted with exasperation, “Virgin!”

He shouted it so loudly, it echoed off the clubhouse walls.  Laughter came from the four corners of the pitch, the small crowd of spectators, and even the referee.

It was my turn to flounder and my game went to pieces, the bastard. 

The shrill of the whistle signalled full-time and the referee smiled that same smile when I glanced at him.  My glare of disgust did not work either; he just smiled wider.  I wanted to stick that whistle right where the sun did not shine and everyone would know when he farted. 

We lost one-nil, humiliated into the bargain; it only took the first match of the season to hate football all over again.

Caked in mud, I trudged towards the changing rooms.  With the conviction of a condemned man, I dreaded the inevitable post-mortem of recrimination.  

Seeing her in those hooped tights and patent black Doctor Marten boots, her legs looked like two golf clubs.  An ensemble of dark purple and black, she stood amongst the brood of Goths.  Resplendent in a black biker jacket with too many zips, she huddled with the others, demure, aloof, with no meat on her bones.  China white skin, black eyeliner, eyeshadow, and purple lipstick; a black woolly hat hid her black bobbed hair. 

Furtively, I could not help but stare; there was something about her, something hidden beneath that garb and heavy make-up.  She caught me and I tried to avert my eyes.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Grace.”

One of the other goths, a tall stringy thing called Charlotte sniggered.

I did not stay for niceties; I had no idea what to say, in all honesty.  She might as well have been a Martian.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The gut-wrenching anxiety made me restless and so skittish that I finished my beer to take the edge off.  Peering from the side of the stage, there was not an empty seat in the student’s union bar.  All years were there, eighteen to twenty, although our mature student brethren were too ‘mature’ for this – the ball-aching pseuds.  Some of the university lecturers were not so mature, well, the more lecherous of them.  I just hoped Mrs. Peters was not here, not after what happened last year - allegedly.

The fundraising committee mugged me and Keith was especially convincing.  Taken in by the local hospital needing a new scanner; I did not ask what their epic idea was. 

A slave auction, I was a slave, and it meant obedience to your owner for a whole day.  Then came the sucker punch, if someone doubled the final bid, it would be the whole weekend.  That was Keith’s genius idea on the night itself, bastard.

“Layyy… dees and Gentlemen,” Keith’s mellifluous tones simmered the chatter down.  “Rightie-oh, onto our next victim.  Now, a special one for you.  Our very own number eleven and his two left feet.”

I admit the twat knew how to work a crowd.

“Let’s have it for everyone’s favourite donkey, that’s donkey footballer, not donkey dick, laydees.”  He let the crowd have its laugh, “He’s not packing much there apparently.”

For the punchline, they roared.  I could kill him, easily.

“Lay... dees and Gentlemen, what are we bid for… Jack Somersby!”

“Two Pounds Fifty!”

“Easy… easy…” interjected Keith, “Mind you, you’d get change for that.”

He let the ripple of laughter rise and fall, “Okay, let’s hear it for Jack Somersby!”

On his cue, I stepped onto the stage, the swirl of laughter, boos and cheers made me cringe as the spotlights zeroed in.  The strength of the lamps gave it an interrogatory air.  At least, I could not see my prospective purchasers.

“Okay, I’ll start the bidding at two-pounds-fifty.  Any takers?”

“Five pounds!”

That sounded like Mrs. Peters.

“Six!”

“Ten!”

“Fifteen!”

“Twenty!”

Staccato like a machine gun, I was already worth more than most of my teammates.

“Twenty-five!”

I admit I felt a twinge of pleasure amidst all the nerves.

“Thirty!”

The bidding was slowing down.

“Thirty-five!”

“Thirty-six!”

I could not see who that was.  A distinctly female voice and I took a small crumb of comfort from that.

“Forty!”

The unmistakable tones of an excited Mrs. Peters carried over the throng.  My stomach lurched and I bit my lip to stifle my horror.

“Go… ing once…”

Keith could not contain his glee.

“Go… ing twice…”

I wanted the ground to open up; I considered a little prayer for the rumours not to be true.

“Anyone?  Going three times…”  I looked at the unadulterated pleasure on Keith’s face, “… final bid.”

Nothing, my mouth felt dry enough to swallow and wet it.

“Eighty pounds!”

It carried as explosive glottal stop and a shrieked plosive sound.  It would have stopped a rhino in its tracks.  Female again, I did not recognise it.

Keith looked as stunned as I felt. 

Recovering his composure, he whacked the gavel down hard, “Sold!  And whose name shall I have tattooed on his buttocks?”

“Cunt,” I hissed under my breath.

“Grace… Grace Carrington,” came the assertive reply.

The Goth. I froze in fear, at least it stopped me revealing my discomfort.

Keith sucked in some air, “That’s a lot of tattooing, do you have a middle name too?”

He raised another titter or two with that one.

“Josephine.”

I was not sure if the laughter was for her unusual middle name, being a good sport, or the schadenfreude of tattooing her whole name across my arse cheeks. 

Right then at that precise moment, I would have preferred Mrs. Peters.  Her name was Jill, and she was not a weirdo just a man-eater with a predilection for virgin students - allegedly.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“So then, slave?  When are you going to be at my beck and call?”

In the cold light of another dank autumnal morning, I frowned at Grace.  I should have gone straight home from lectures and hid for a month or three.  My toxic hangover, a tribute to cheap lager and cheaper vodka shots, still rankled.  The idea of spending any time with Frankenstein’s bride did not sit well with me.  Goths kept to themselves, a coven of dyed crimped air and sun-starved skin.  The men wore makeup, gazed at their shoes a lot, and looked glum. 

There was no way anyone was worth eighty pounds at that auction, not even Keith managed more than twenty pounds and a packet of crisps – cheese and onion.

“Well?” she sounded very assertive.

“Dunno, when you like I suppose.”  I built up to a final flourish, “I am your slave.”

Her neutral expression changed into one of amusement, “This weekend?”

I shrugged and kicked a piece of gravel, “Sure.”

“Y’know, I’m not going to be horrible to you.”

I looked at her, lips curled in a weak smile.  I was not buying it but she did have nice blue eyes hidden behind all that dark eyeshadow and eyeliner.

“I know,” I kicked another piece of gravel, “so why did you pay eighty quid for me?”

She looked a little chastened, it puzzled me, “Well, it was for a good cause, and you are a charity case.  I’ve seen you play football.”

“Ha ha,” I mocked, “good one.”

“So, Jack, if you are my slave, you should answer all my questions, like…”

I did not ‘like’ where this was going one bit; she might be a younger version of Mrs. Peters, or worse.

“What music you into?”

She laughed; she was playing with me and still, my mouth ran ahead of my brain, “Me?”

She looked over my shoulder and behind her, “Yeah, you!  Do I scare you?”

I snapped back quickly, “No.”

“I won’t bite; well not if you don’t want me to.”

Slightly disgusted, I did not hide it, “I know that and I’m not scared of you.”

She flashed her eyebrows, “Yeah, that was convincing.  So come on then, what you into?”

“Erm, dunno, Stone Roses, Happy Mondays.”

“Pfft…”

I recoiled a little at the peculiar sound, “And you?”

“Fields of the Nephilim, Sisters of Mercy, The Cure.”

I nodded, “Figures.”

So this was the first thing we did not have in common; I felt sure there would be many more.

“So, Jack, slave time.  It’s for the weekend, so that’s Friday night to Monday morning...”

Horrified, I immediately interjected, “Erm, Saturday morning, Sunday night, surely.”

“Erm, slave, I’m in charge and eighty quid is eighty quid, I’m getting my money’s worth.”

I shrugged, there was no fight in me.  My hangover hurt too much if I did something rash like thinking.  It was either Grace’s house, or Friday night at the Union with the team.  It was Mr. Bastard Rock meets Mr. Bastard Hard-Place.  I could be out drinking with the likes of Keith, my nemesis, or staying in with Grace, the freak-show.

I did not want to sound defeated, I tried to sound upbeat, “Okay, Friday night, Monday morning.  Where do you live?”

“Morton Street, number sixteen.”

“Okay.”

“Erm, you better bring some clothes and your toothbrush.”

“Huh?”

I looked mortified and she laughed, “Oh you are staying!  I want breakfast, lunch, dinner, and you at my disposal.  Can you cook?”

Scoffing, I huffed, “Yeah, I’m alive aren’t I?”

“Great.  Slave, Butler, Cook, Cleaner, all the same to me.”

I felt nauseous, “Okay, Friday night, say eight?”

“Seven.”

“Fuck!” I hissed.

“See ya,” She laughed and walked off with a skip in her step, probably the thick soles in those outrageous boots of hers.

I needed some paracetamol and a lie down.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“No, I won’t do it!”

Charlotte, the lanky streak of piss, hovered over me and stunk of patchouli oil, an eyeliner pencil mere inches from blinding me.  There I was, nervous on the sofa, and I found myself accosted with the first bombshell of the weekend - the need for cosmetics.  This was my first slave duty, attendance at Goth Night in some dive-hole of a nightclub.  I was making up a foursome with an apology of a man called Dave, Charlotte’s boyfriend.

Grace, being all of seven-stone dripping wet, was surprisingly strong, “Hold still, slave!”

Thinking better of a night in Accident & Emergency, I relented.

The lipstick felt terrible, all sticky.  Grace threw a ridiculous and massive black chunky-knit jumper at me, I had a pair of black jeans, and the boots belonged to an ex, a size too big.

“Right, now, let’s backcomb your hair.  Lottie, the hairspray.”

This was too much, “Oh fuck! Come on, guys!”

Sitting in the chair, Grace made a fuss over me.  I choked on wave after wave of aerosoled humiliation.  My soul laid in the pit of my stomach, in a foetal position, and cried about wanting to go home.

Holding the mirror, I paused for a moment.  Part horrified, part bewildered, I looked at Grace; she had an odd look on her face too.  It looked like pride so I gazed at the stranger in the mirror again; I looked a real horror show.

“You look great Jack.”

“Yeah, you look great,” added Charlotte.

“Yeah, you look good,” Dave checked himself.  “Y’know for a bloke, with, erm, makeup on.  In a, erm, non-sexual way.”

Unconvinced, I glowered at them all.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Our bodies instinctively flexed to the rhythm.  She clutched at my chest, her heavy eyelids and half-opened mouth displayed how she felt.  We moved as one, the self-assured sweep of her hips pushed out one groan and then another.  My roaming hands had to touch everything; I needed to remember everything.  As soon as I closed my eyes, I forgot how this looked. 

Looking down on me, if telepathy existed, I felt her pleasure.  Loins to loins, she pressed against me, the enveloping grip of my erection provoked another fluid lunge.

Astride my prone body, her eyes directed mine to watch.  My whole length sank into her.  Impaled to its hilt, the spring in her thighs created a delicious friction.  Her hair, that raven mop, swirled in time with her tempo.  The cadence of her hips demanded deeper thrusts into her lithe body.

Her head snapped back, it stretched her breasts over her torso, “Fuck you feel good.”

I held them and toyed with the long erect nipples.  Staring intently, we goaded each other in this playful game of sexual contempt.  A challenge to provoke a little more, discover a little more.  Brittle words of encouragement followed, our response gauged by our soft gasps and moans.

Rolling her onto the bed, with a sly thrust of my hips, I fucked any resistance from her.  Her thighs, soft and warm rubbed against mine and her insolent hands grazed my sensitive nipples.  Her heels pressed into the back of my thighs to help find that rhythm again.

Rasps of air, punctuated by an occasional yelp maintained an uneasy sense of timing.  I could not recall when the music stopped.  The compact disc waited to play again; I could not care less for time.  Hours or minutes held no importance for something this intense.

“Oh, God!” I liked how uncontrolled her voice sounded.  Her hands clutched my behind and pulled me in.

“You… you like that?”

Her soft yelp carried, “Careful, you are writing cheques you can’t cash.”

I retaliated with a gentle circle of my hips.  Filling her completely, her grasp of my body weakened.  The fingertip caress along the valley of my spine brought me in for a soft kiss.

“God, yes… yes….” her tongue flicked at my earlobe, her shallow breaths petered out into airy gasps.

Ensconced in that snug warmth, the need to feel that tight envelopment pushed me fully inside her.  I felt her body underneath shudder, and a rigid tension followed.  Writhing to grind her mons against my pubic bone, I repeated the soft thrust again.  Grinding harder and faster, the clatter of our bodies quickened.

“I’m… I’m gonna cum,” her breathing urgent.  The sound of our bodies colliding punctured the still air.

“Cum on me, I want to feel you.”

My words made her flex immediately with a groan.  Her stare locked on mine and she tightened again, “Oh God, oh god… don’t stop.”

“Cum for me, cum for me.”

I had never spoken such words before; they felt right for the moment.  Their immediate effect took me by surprise.  Those sobs of air stuttered to a halt, she stiffened, tight as a vice.  Leaning up, her expression changed; eyes squeezed shut, mouth pouted in ecstasy.

“That’s it, let it all out.”

Opening her eyes, I watched her climax and felt the tense muscular heat quiver along my whole length.  Still moving, still pressing on, she trembled loudly beneath me.  In fear of hurting her, I slowed and peppered her breasts, neck, and lips with soft kisses.  Our bodies clammy, she pulled me in and a tender shuffle of my hips pressed my ardour between her thighs.

“Again?” she asked, her febrile voice barely a whisper.

I nodded and eased my whole length inside.

“Oh, God….”

Matching our rhythms once again, I felt her respond, her eyes ablaze with lust.

“That’s it… good girl…”

Looking down, I moved against her, those beautiful features stuck in an expression of incredulity.

Throwing her arms up, she opened her thighs wide, “Take me… take me and make me yours.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

I greeted Saturday through bleary eyes.  Blinking in the watery light, this was the day after the night before.  I crashed out in worse places than this; the sofa was deep and comfortable.

Using the bathroom, my bed-hair looked outrageous and resembled barbed wire; I needed to wash the hairspray out.  Removing the make-up, I felt a bittersweet sense of relief. 

Last night, as a culture shock, my sharpened senses took it all in.  Initially, I tried to make myself invisible.  I thought I would stand out, yet to my surprise, nobody gave me a second look.  Emboldened after a few pints, I joined in and found people friendly and chatty.  Giddy with relief, I started to enjoy myself.  My slave duties that night were simple; I held the kitty and got in the drinks in. 

The four of us found a quieter corner, locked in conversation and the night became a revelation.  Grace was no awkward wallflower but an elegant creature that painted her words with colourful gestures and remarks.  Many times, she left me breathless by how funny and smart she was.  As friends, their sense of humour was in the situation, not the endless ribbing of each other’s flaws; I liked that the most.

Pulled onto the dancefloor, the eviscerating bass line with heavy metallic overtones literally moved me.  I seized its power and joined in with gusto.  Grace was a swirl of hair, over-sized grandad shirt, tight black jeans, and knee-high high-heeled boots.  The bright lights illuminated her top and revealed her skinny body.

I tried to match her move for move and we laughed together as I tried to keep up.  It might be the booze, or the unusual situation, but I felt it inside – an attraction. 

Back at her place, during the post-club wind-down, Grace gave me her instructions: tea and toast after midday-ish.  Charlotte and Dave asked for tea and toast too, I thought my raised middle finger made the point.  Grace found it funny.  I did not remember her turning in; I guess I passed out.

As the sound of the electric kettle did its best to aggravate my hangover, I pondered how I acted towards Grace and stared at my reflection in the window.  Was this the face that flirted with her?  Did I dance with her until she had stitch and had to stop?

Yeah, it was and yes, I did.

Was I the gentleman who held her close at the cab rank to keep her warm?

I smiled, she felt so fragile.

Steeping the tea for a few minutes, I buttered every inch of the toast.  Gingerly, I crept up the narrow staircase of the house, careful not to rouse the others.

She looked so peaceful, her hands under her face and those delicate full lips slightly open.  Devoid of makeup, she looked almost angelic; I felt it again, that attraction.

I was going to wake her up gently; it was one in the afternoon.  Instead, I found myself sat there gazing at her.  She looked so beautiful, feline cheekbones and an upturned nose, elegant jawline, and soft dimple to her chin.  I lingered on her heart-shaped lips.  That gooey feeling got me in the stomach.  It was hopeless to deny it; I wanted her.

Her eyes flickered and opened.  Blinking, there was a weak smile and I smiled back.

“Afternoon.”

“Woah,” she stretched out, “r… really?”

“I brought you breakfast.  Tea, a little milk, no sugar, and toast, buttered all over.”

“Huh, you remembered.”

I smiled, “Of course, eighty quid is eighty quid.”

“Aw!  Thanks.”

I felt a flush of pride, “No problem, thanks for a great night out, I really enjoyed myself.”

“You did?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I did.”

“I enjoyed it too.  Would you do it again?”

I tried to frown to make her laugh; she was too docile for that, “I might.”

“See?  Wasn’t so bad was it?”

“No, not at all,”

“Fuck, Jack, I mean slave, look at your hair!”

I tried to run my fingers through it and she laughed when they got stuck, “Yeah, I need to wash it.”

I had ridden my luck this far, I knew not to push it, and still felt nervous enough to fuck this up.

“I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Eighty quid was certainly eighty quid and they worked me for it.  At least they let me shower and have some breakfast.

They fucked off to go shopping and left me with the house to sort out.  As a two-up, two down, it was not a monumental chore.  Vacuum upstairs and down, the washing up, clean the kitchen, bathroom, and even clean the bloody windows.  I drew the line at the laundry; they were up for it, though and I blushed too, the dirty minxes. 

I had the football on the radio and found it peevish.  I tuned into some music and finished up.  Slumping onto the sofa, the house resembled a domicile you would invite your parents to.  I gave into my heavy eyes and the tired warmth of my body.

The slam of the front door and clatter of the letterbox woke me.  The autumnal dusk through the window confused me at first. 

“Hello.”

It was Grace, leather jacket with too many zips, thick black mohair jumper, and black short pleated skirt.  Her Egyptian-styled eyes had something of a sparkle about them.

“Hi, I think I nodded off.  Cup of tea?”

“Yes please, slave,” she giggled.

Looking at the clock on the cooker, I had been out for a couple of hours.

“Make yourself one,” hollered Grace, “I brought some stuff for dinner, you’re cooking it.”

The metallic din of the kettle brought me back into the lounge.  I caught her surveying my handiwork.

“Wow, I don’t recognise the place.  You are earning your keep.”

I liked her compliment so much I beamed, “Thanks.”

Sitting in the lounge, Grace had bought a new album and insisted that I listened to it.  I did not mind and admittedly, there was a musicality to the dark tones and throaty vocals.  Sat on the sofa, it felt good just being with her.  I sipped my tea, grateful that it revived me, and my nap resolved my hangover.

“So what I am cooking then?”

She smiled, “Lasagne, my favourite.”

I nodded, “Easy enough.  Erm, where’s Charlotte and Dave?”

The expression on her face looked odd so I watched her intently for her next move, “Charlotte spends Saturday night at Dave’s so it’s just us.”

I tried to look nonchalant, “Oh,” and scrabbled for something tangential, “You hungry now?”

“Yes, and it takes a bit of time to cook, doesn’t it?  I’ll be ravenous by then.”

Convinced, she fell for it, I confidently stared at her shapely legs clad in black tights, and that gooey feeling came back.  Concerned that an obvious erection might ruin the moment, I decided to make myself scarce.

“I’ll get to it then,” and picked up the carrier bag.

“Careful, there’s a bottle of red in there and lay the dining table… slave!”  She giggled again.

Staying in the kitchen, chopping, frying, cooking, I listened as she played the album again.  I dared not go back into the lounge for fear of messing up the food or displaying just how much I liked her.  The promise of a night alone with Grace felt good, too good to be true in fact. 

In twenty-four hours, this tidal wave of desire washed away my aloofness.  It was no good denying it; I really fancied her.  Caught in a daydream, I peered into the oven and took the blast of heat straight in the face.

“Fuck!”

“Everything okay?” wafted from the lounge.

“Yeah, just trying not to incinerate myself, everything’s perfectly normal.”

A lesson not to daydream, I made myself busy.  I laid out the table and found some tea-lights, clearly for emergencies when they ‘forgot’ to put money in the electric meter.  Dimming the lights in the dining room, I lit the gas fire to create a welcoming atmosphere.

Grace gasped when she saw the effort I made; I liked that smile on her face, it never got old.  She remarked that no one made a fuss like this for her.  I got the hint and she thanked me when I tucked her chair in too.

“So would madam care for some wine?”

She giggled, “You call me mistress tonight, slave, I’m not old enough to be a madam.”

I could beg to differ; she drove a hard bargain, “Of course, yes mistress.”

“Better.”

Serving the lasagne with some broccoli, the conversation stuttered at first but after a glass of wine, it flowed easily.  Chatting away, my gaze never wavered from hers.  I wanted to learn everything about her.  Rather than subject her to my own brand of low-wit sarcasm, my natural curiosity left me listening intently.

Food demolished, I poured out the last of the wine, there was that look on her face again.  A quiet instinct jarred me into thinking it might be important.  Confused, I simply stared at her.

“So, slave, answer me this.  Why has no one snapped you up?  You make a fine pet, very well house-trained.”

It jarred with me that coy look on her face; it looked odd.  She knew my ‘predicament’ thanks to Keith.

I tutted with exasperation, “Really?  You want to do this now?  Yes, I’m single.  Yes, everyone knows I’m a virgin.  Thanks, Keith.”

She laughed, “Erm… ‘You want do this now’… Mistress.”

“Eighty quid is eighty quid,” I mumbled.

Sipping at her wine, she lingered on my eyes with that look again, “So slave?  Why are you single?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know, it’s not through choice.”  I tutted at the look she gave me, “Mistress.”

“Choice?”  She asked with a rueful smile; I was sure she knew what that smile did to me.  “Slave, there is no choice tonight.”

That smacked me right between the eyes, “Huh?”

“Eighty quid is indeed eighty quid, slave.”

Hovering over her wine glass, she dipped her finger into it.  Her stare never wavered as she placed it into her mouth slowly, lasciviously.

“Grace?”

“Mistress!”

Several deep pulses of blood made my erection viciously hard and I shuffled in my chair.  In seconds, the atmosphere crackled with need, mine, and I hoped she felt it.

“Oh slave, don’t tell me you are going to be all coy about it?”

“Coy?” I was not the one being coy, I really felt confused, “About what? Erm… Mistress.”

I think I understood but my mind wanted to argue about it, I had never experienced a sexual come-on before. 

“Aw poor slave, let me explain it to you.”  Her expression looked kindly and her caress of my hand made me jolt.  “I am going upstairs.  You are going to clear the plates away, wash up, and tidy up.  Then you are going to come upstairs and perform your final duties of the day.”

Her words hung in the air and I felt incapable of any response.  All my random thoughts arrived at the same conclusion so powerfully that I gasped.  Pulsing in my jeans, my body rolled out the red carpet and the band started playing.

“Do you understand, slave?”

Dry in the mouth, I croaked a little, “Yes.”

The jackhammer in my chest made my ears ring.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Her eyes tracked mine as I watched her leave; I had no idea what I looked like.  I was in shock, eager, and very aroused.  Making my way into the kitchen, my hands trembled so much; it made the cutlery rattle on the plates. 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The staircase creaked in the stillness, my forceful chest pounded with intense anticipation and fretfulness.  I wanted this and feared this in equal measure.  I wanted to get laid very badly indeed and that provided the motive power for two shaky legs.  Granted, this was unconventional, yet, I found the magnetic pull of having sex with Grace irresistible.  Finding her bedroom empty, she called me into the bathroom.

Opening the door, I gasped.  Struggling to comprehend, I stared at her attire and she revelled in it.  Hands on hips, perfectly proportioned, her black lingerie melded effortlessly into her curves.  Every single teenage fantasy rumbled through my brain at once, mesh panties that showed her trimmed bush, stockings, a lacy suspender belt, and a mesh bra that showed her nipples.

I froze and she approached me, her slight hand pressed on my chest.  Automatically, my eyes looked to her lips and my body braced for impact.  For a second I did not respond, and then instinct kicked in.  Actually, my instinct smashed its way in and took me hostage.  The kiss escalated, her uncompromising passion made my head swim.  The intensity rose until her grasp of my erection forced out a surprised yelp.

Under that kind of full frontal assault, it obliterated any frame of reference.  This situation went way beyond the reader’s letters in my stash of porno mags. 

“Strip, slave.”

Blunt, direct, I surrendered, “Yes… yes, Mistress.”

The heat of the air embraced my nakedness and I felt a little embarrassed at my predicament.  Her eyes ablaze, they scanned me and lingered at the violent protuberance from my body.

“Fuck me, slave, that is a nice looking cock.  So thick.  The rest of you looks very delicious too, must be all that chasing a football around.”

I shrugged, my brain still jammed with the heavenly sight before me.

“Well slave, tonight, I’m after your balls and their contents.  Now, get in the bath.”

The taunting near misses of her touch were tortuous.  Senses overloaded, she admonished me repeatedly for trying to tell her how good it felt.  Soaped up, rinsed down, and erect for far too long, my heavy balls ached for relief.  Dried with a soft towel, her lips found mine again and drove me beyond the limits of what I could endure.

“You are trembling, slave.  You need this don’t you?”

Want, need, I could debate that; I fell quickly on the side of need and nodded, “Yes, I need this.”

“Mistress?”

“Yes, I need this, Mistress.”

Watching my reaction, I dared not deviate by eyes from hers.  The soft caress of her finger meandered down my chest. 

She watched me intensely, “That’s so cute, slave.”

I had to bite my lip and felt so pent up with these powerful strong urges, I had only one recourse.  I groaned heavily, she liked that.

She stared at my penis again, not a glance, a full-on ogle of my equipment.  Looking at me, wide-eyed, she returned to inspecting my reaction.  Grasping me again, I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly, I saw colours behind my eyelids.

“Oh fuck… erm, Mistress.”

“Christ, slave, that is one very hard cock.”

She took my hand and I opened my eyes to see her devilish smile.  She pressed it to her clad sex.  Savouring my total surprise, it felt so hot and damp.

“Have you ever touched a cunt, slave?”

I reeled hearing ‘that’ word and shook my head in a tight motion.

“Rub it then, slave, slowly.”

Whilst I did not need a map, it took me a while to work it out.  Grateful for my studiousness with the letters in those porno mags, I found it, that hard button.  I watched her eyelids flutter and a deep purr echoed off the bathroom tiles.  I lingered on it, toyed with it, and watched her intently.  How long for, I could not remember, long enough to watch her face soften with pleasure.

“Mmm, enough, slave.”

She removed my hand, “Now, it’s time to take your virginity.  Any time you want to stop, you say so, understand slave?”

I gulped, “I… I want you... Grace, erm, Mistress.”

Softly, she kissed my cheek, “Perfect.”

“Now, slave, down the stairs, we haven’t finished our meal.”

Naked, I took each step gingerly.  Holding the bannister, my fine motor skills abandoned me when she rubbed that foamy sponge around my cock and balls.

Pulling out a chair, Grace compelled me to sit.  It felt uncomfortable, my aching balls between my legs.  On her haunches, she pulled my knees open and positioned my limbs.  At my ankles and wrists, the silken constraints did not make me flinch.

“Good, slave; I like how you accept your fate.”

I just wanted to fuck; I could not care less how she got off on this.  Reduced to a quivering wreck, the look on her face revelled in how I looked before her.

Rising before me, she bent forwards and stepped out of the flimsy fabric masquerading as underwear.  Reaching behind her back, she threw her bra on the table and revealed her breasts.  They looked bigger than they did clothed.  Broad on her petite frame, she enjoyed showing them to me.

“You want to touch these don’t you, slave?”

“Y… yes,” my breathing was shot.

“Please me and you might.”

My arousal complained and throbbed through my perineum.  Watching intently, she sat on the edge of the table and splayed her slender thighs.

“You can’t take your eyes off it can you, slave?”

I shook my head; the bare plump cushion of her vulva had a little tuft of hair on her pubic bone.  Her fine, glossy labial lips looked so inviting.  Looking up, an expression of guilt on my face, she nodded her head for me to look again.

“You want it don’t you slave?”

“Yes, yes, Mistress.”

“Time for your dessert.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Eat.”

Her legs draped over my shoulders gave her all the leverage she needed.  Her hand at the back of my head pressed me close and held me firm.  Steering with her hips, she directed her sex to my mouth.  The blunt tip of my tongue opened her up and the tang of her copious juices tasted sublime.  She gasped, not delicate airy ones but hard, deep moans.  Referring to my porno mags again, I knew enough to be dangerous. 

Flicking at her rapidly, she yelped, “Fuck, not yet, slave!”

My naivety exposed, she held me tightly and rubbed her sex over my mouth.  Sliding my tongue inside her, I felt her grasp weaken.

“Mmm… big cock, long tongue… more slave…”

Directing me with more sharp and curt words, I obeyed every command.  This was not a game anymore; my defiance came from giving that beautiful cunt the best I could muster.  Keen to please her, she slowly melted into soft writhing motions and delicate gasps.  Those slender hips rose and fell, her thighs squeezed my head so hard, it deadened the sounds she made. 

“Yes,” she gasped, “don’t stop.”

Feeling her weaken, I struck.  Pursing my lips, I sucked on her clit and gave it a tongue-lashing that made her reel.  I thought she would sprain my neck as she clung to me.

“Huh, uh, uh…”

Unperturbed, I would not stop; the magnificent noises she made only spurred me on.  Pressed to her, there was no further recourse and none of her admonishment.

“Oh fuck… oh, fuck!”

She stuttered and a cascade of juices ran freely.  Pressing my tongue inside, she twitched and flexed until her hips fell and broke our contact.

Dissolved into breathless moans, I watched her torso rise and fall.  Staring at her sex, wet and swollen, her creamy white thighs trembled.  I would not tear my eyes from it.  The air heavy with musk, I felt proud of myself.  Enjoying the moment, I licked her juices from my lips.

Rising onto her elbows, her cheeks rosy, she smiled, “Wow, slave, you kept that talent quiet.”

“Not something you bring up in polite conversation is it… Mistress?”

She snorted clearly amused, “No, but you are doing that again soon.”

Sliding forward, I expected a repeat performance now.  Instead, her legs straddled my body, sat on my lap mid-thigh, and her grasp of my erection took me by surprise.

“Now,” she purred, “time for my dessert.”

I nodded.

“Look into my eyes, slave.”

I felt the heat of her sex of my cock and my loins surged.  Senses vivid, time slowed, this was the moment.  Expecting the act of penetration, she manhandled my girth and rubbed the length of it up and down her slit.  I groaned in frustration so much, it stole my breath.

She sniggered and pushed me against the back of the chair. 

“Keep looking at me slave.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Paying for sex, I’m very naughty aren’t I slave?”

“Huh…”

Then she did it, she sank down onto me and took half of it inside her.  I felt light-headed in an instant.  Taking my virginity, I struggled to maintain eye contact as the alien sensation completely overwhelmed me.  Stiffening in the chair, my bonds would not yield.

“Whoops,” she purred, “Now, I have your virgin cock inside me.”

As she scrutinised me, I croaked and groaned heavily, the novelty felt too much to comprehend.  It felt so good, the most important thing in the world kind of good.

“Mmm, it’s not a virgin cock anymore.”

Rising and then falling again, she had it all and inhaled sharply, “Jesus!  You’re hard!”

Her legs open, Grace bucked and ground her pubic bone against mine.  Clasping the table, she leant back on her arms and the look on her face said it all.  In exchange for letting me ogle her beautiful figure, she toyed with me. 

“Keep looking at me, slave.”

With subtle movements of her hips, my eyes locked on hers.  Taunting me, she used my whole length slowly.  Enveloped in a broiling heat, she revelled in my response. 

“You like that slave?”

I nodded my head frantically.

“You like me taking your virginity like this?”

“Yes, yes, Mistress.”

She purred again and pressed herself fully on me with a deep moan, “Fuck, you are a good size, slave.  Watch how I take it.”

Her slow measured pace taunted me and I struggled against my bonds; my restless body itched with energy.  Her confidence and this leisurely seduction left me helpless, the ache, so deep, swelled hard in my loins.

Relentlessly, she took her pleasure.  Clearly, she knew what she was doing, right now, deflowering me.  She fucked eighty-quid’s worth of slave with an immensely hard erection.  Leaning in, her hands cupped my face and directed me to suckle on her nipples.  Hardwired to her hips, they clattered faster against me, the draft of my erection agitated by the hot, firm friction.

“Oh fuck, you feel good.”

Pressing my head to her bosom, the quick grinding movement of her hips erased the words I had ready for her.  Instead, I groaned hard, deep booming moans as her tight heat massaged my whole length.  The swell of my erection grew and she gasped.  Clattering into me, pile-driving up and down my whole length, it felt tighter around me.  The inescapable friction started to loosen the tension in my loins.

“I…I…” she quietened my protest with the relentless pace of her hips.

“Hush.”

“Mistress… I’m…”

I existed on a hair trigger, a countdown to the inevitable explosion. 

“I know,” her hurried words carried on a hiss of air, “give it to me, slave.”

“In… inside you?”

“Inside me what?”

“Mis… Mistress!”

“Yes, fill me u,p slave.”

Grinding harder, the skid of her sex tightened its grasp.  The short, tight spasms grew around me; the maximum swell of my length grazed everything she had.

“Yes, do it, slave…” Grace croaked, “do it… give me… give me your virgin seed.”

Her determination pulled the trigger and the explosion of muscular pulses shocked me with their intensity.  Thrashing hard, I felt it release as an intense ball of heat.  Deep spasms followed and a tight throbbing around my erection aggravated the galloping ejaculation.  She felt it, I was sure, and everything blurred, sight, sound, smell.  God knows what noises I made, I exhaled hard over and over again. 

Everything snapped back into focus, how she clung to me, writhed on me, her yelps fused with mine. 

If the earth moved, I could not less if the house collapsed around us.  My body saturated with relief convulsed in small tremors, and Grace slowed to a stop.  She squeezed my face in her hands, rasps of much-needed air whistled through our nostrils as she kissed me fully on the lips.  Deep, passionate, her hips slowly coaxed me, I could not resist.  The slippery lack of friction aggravated the sensations that fed pressure back into my loins.

“A… again, Mistress?”

Kissing my neck, nibbling on my ear, she slid up and down on my strengthening erection.

“My name is Grace, Jack.  You’re getting hard again aren’t you?”

“Yes… yes, I am.”

She gasped, “Mmm, you are!  Once more here to prove it was not a fluke, then upstairs to fuck me all night long.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Two goals are two goals.

Eighty quid is eighty quid.

The game tied and the minutes ticking by; I ran towards the ball in flight on a hopeless chase.  It bounced and reared up.  Lucky backspin brought it up short, and a swell of confidence filled my tired legs.  Controlling it first touch, the goalkeeper came out to smother the ball.  We were on for a terrific collision; I chipped the ball, brought my legs in, and leapt.

Traversing the keeper intact, I made good contact with the ground.  Still wayward of goal, my tormentor, that ball, needed just one more touch, nothing too rash, just a tap.

Pulling up to stop, it bobbled over the line: three-two.  I savoured my first hat trick in silence huffing for air, fifteenth goal of the season, and finally in contention for the title.

Our opponents groaned as the referee ended the match.  I stood there as my teammates approached; I let them have their celebration.  My thoughts turned to Grace by the touchline amidst the small crowd.  A wispy cloud of exhaled air above them in the bitter cold, she punched the air and clapped.  Adorned with a very thick black scarf and gloves, black of course, that leather jacket still had too many zips.

“Fuck me, Jack, talk about making a meal of it.”

I shook my head, Keith, always the wanker.  I ignored him and made my way towards Grace.

“What?  Too good for the team now?”

I could hear a few words from my teammates, ‘lay off’ and ‘shut up’.

In my face, peddling backward, I could see he had his gander up.

“I’ve carried you for ages, I make you look good.”

Walking past him, he kept pace briskly alongside me.

With a shove in my back, my teammates told him to ‘fuck off’.

“Go on!  Go off to your living corpse!  Give her a fuck from me.”

Loud enough for Grace to hear it, he crossed the line.  I turned, Keith froze, and for the first time, he looked afraid.  I shoved back, harder, and with purpose.  The skinny gobshite went flying into the quagmire of the churned up centre-circle.  The cold liquid mud splashed hard as he hit the deck.

“That’s it, Llewellyn, roll around in the mud where you belong!  Fucking apologise now, you shit!”

“Sorry, sorry…” he blustered.

“Not to me!  To Grace, you thick twat!”

“Sorry, Grace!”

Keith hollered it loud enough and Grace surely heard it.  As the ripple of laughter faded away, I left them to extract the dirty cold Welshman.

“Hello.”

Hands behind her back, her shoulders and hips swayed with a faux coyness, “My hero.”

Looping her arms around my neck, she pulled me in for a kiss.

“Ugh, God.  Can’t you two get a room or something?” asked Charlotte.

“Yeah, you two, really,” added Dave and laughed.

“See you later, guys,” as Grace took my hand.

Dave gave me a wink, “Laters, fella.”

Grace and I walked off away from the small crowd.

“You need a hot bath Jack, you are filthy.  Get those boots off and get your bag from the clubhouse, we’ll walk to my place.”

“Really?  You’re offering to wash my back?  All sorts of naughty things happened that time.”

She gave me that purr that I loved, “We have the place to ourselves, you are getting a different kind of filthy tonight.  Twenty quid says you can’t do that again.”

I laughed, “Only twenty quid!  What happened to being worth eighty?”

“Twenty quid is twenty quid, Jack.  Come on, I’ll jump in the bath with you, that has to be worth at least sixty.”

“Ten.”

She pouted, “Okay, how about if I…”

She stopped me and whispered in my ear.

Squeezing her hand tight, I sniggered, “Oh, that’s definitely worth the other fifty.”