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The Billionaire’s Wayward Virgin by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Something completely new—or maybe something that had existed inside me forever but had only just emerged into the light—came into my mind.

“What happens… what happens to me… to my… my pussy,” I whispered, barely managing to say the naughty word. “If you have to rip the romper?”

With his hands around my waist, nearly encircling the bottom of my ribcage, Christian bent over me and put his lips next to my ear. I could feel the warmth of his breath there as he spoke softly but with such gravity that the sound sent a chill and then a wave of heat through my whole body, even before I understood the terrible meaning of his words.

“There’s a new kind of disciplinary measure for naughty girls,” he told me, letting that sink in—letting the fear build in my mind even as my pussy also responded down below. “I think it would be a very helpful lesson for you, Leah.”

“Wh-what is it?” I stammered, trying to turn my head to get a glimpse of him.

Christian’s right hand moved downward over my hip. He slid it inside the seat of my romper yet again, then boldly took hold of me from behind, forcing my thighs apart so that he could seize my whole pussy in his hand. I moaned piteously at the wave of wanton need that swept through me.

For a long moment he just held me that way, his left hand controllingly at my waist, and his right hand possessively between my legs, as if to teach me that he would touch his fuck toy exactly as he pleased. His thumb went almost casually between my bottom-cheeks, and I let out a whimper as I felt him rub gently along the narrow strip of the thong that covered my most intimate, most shameful place.

“Tell me!” I burst out, my hips bucking upward, treasonously seeking more stimulation. “Please…”

“Please what?” Christian asked, his mouth almost touching my ear. The thumb went up and down. His fingers gave a tiny squeeze, through the strange-feeling lace of my naughty panties, right where I needed much more pressure, applied much more directly.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, understanding and realizing I had no choice at all… that this man knew how to get his way, where a disobedient bed girl was concerned. “Sir… please, sir… please tell me.”

I could feel myself spinning off into outer space again, my words becoming delirious as my body yielded to Christian’s knowing touch and his dominant words.

“If you make me rip your romper,” he said at last, raising his voice just a little so that I could hear the steel edge, “I’m going to close up your pussy and keep it that way until you learn to obey me.”

My body responded so wildly to his insane threat that Christian had to hold me in place. He moved his left hand to my back to keep me down while his right moved on my backside, spreading his grip to immobilize me. I hadn’t tried to twist away, though; rather, my back had arched, and my hips had moved violently back, trying to press my private places further into Christian’s hand.

My mind reeled in two directions—first at the horrific meaning of what he had just said, second and much worse, at the way my pussy had reacted with a clench so hard it made me dizzy. He had to be making it up, right? It couldn’t be real.

If he did that… how could he… how could he fuck me?

The answer, as if revealed by the gentle movement of Christian’s thumb between my ass-cheeks just a moment before, came into my mind so swiftly and so helplessly that the idea alone drew a whimper from me. His hands seemed to hold me still for a second, as if assuring me once again of his control, and then to my surprise they moved again and quickly stripped the romper the rest of the way down my legs.

“Good girl,” he said, standing up to loom over me.

My back arched as I realized what had happened, and I saw it in the inward-reflecting picture window: a well-dressed man standing over a girl in her underwear, bent over the back of her couch. That helpless thrust of my hips when I had heard Christian’s terrible threat had moved my lower body back far enough to free the romper from between my belly and the couch.

I had the instant thought—half hopeful and half, to my horror, disappointed—that what Christian had said must have represented only a wicked fantasy, told only in order to make my body react, so that he could finish stripping me. For a split second I considered asking, but my brain recoiled, my rationality declaring loudly that of course the awful thing he had said couldn’t have any relation to the real world—that it could only be the product of a dark, twisted imagination.

Good girl? Had he actually just called me that? Lay aside how my ‘compliance’ with the removal of my clothing having come about not because I meant to obey this dangerous, arrogant billionaire but because my body had succumbed to his bizarre, lewd threat. The dismaying way I had reacted, down there, in the hot, needy, aching place in question, seemed to indicate that the word good shouldn’t be applied.

“I’m going to spank your bottom now,” he said. “Then I’m going to spank your pussy. After that, Leah, I’m going to fuck you.”

I gasped, my eyes closing tightly as if I could shut out the sight of myself in the reflection, bent over, controlled, mastered by the impossibly handsome man who stood over me—as if I might be able to keep the knowledge of the simple plan he had just so casually stated out of my mind. If I didn’t have to think about it… didn’t even have to understand it… if it could just happen

It started to. It began to just happen: I felt Christian’s left hand come back to my waist and press down more firmly than ever. My eyes flew open, though. My mind—the defiant, independent part of me—refused to allow me to yield. I saw the billionaire’s right hand rising up behind me, and I cried out in protest, beginning to resist his grasp yet again.

His open hand came down on my right bottom cheek, the ringing sound much louder and sharper than the spanks over the seat of the romper had been. At the same time, I flailed my hands awkwardly outward and kicked my legs. The movement of my body probably would have landed me on the floor in an ungainly heap—might even have injured me—if Christian hadn’t simply pinned me down over the back of the couch and spanked me again.

He gave me three very hard slaps on the backs of my thighs. I cried out at each one, the pain startling and fierce, both from the quick succession of the blows and, I realized, from the lack of the padding that my bottom had. I felt my face go hot as I understood why girls like me got spanked on their bare bottoms: that padding ensured that the men who mastered and guided us could punish us properly without harming us. A dominant man like Christian could strip a girl to her underwear, or naked, and then take his time teaching her the old-fashioned lesson she had earned, spanking her disobedient backside until he felt satisfied she had learned to respect his authority.

I managed to get my hands around far enough to try to dislodge Christian’s grasp. His forceful response took only a moment: he grabbed my wrists and expertly twisted my arms behind me yet again. He locked them there, and then he spanked my thighs three more times when I kicked out again.

Those spanks burned like fire, and I gave a full-throated wail of pain at the third one, tears springing from my eyes. I had a moment’s wild thought that of course someone would hear, and call the police, and why hadn’t I thought of just screaming before—and then I remembered where I was, and who owned this building and its security system. My thrill of hope became a new wave of humiliation as I wondered whether the young women in the adjoining apartments, hearing a girl crying out as her sponsor punished her, would fear for their own bottoms, and learn from my example to obey their own keepers.

“I know this is hard, Leah,” I heard Christian say from above me, “so I’m not going to consider it disobedience that you’re having trouble holding still. But your real spanking won’t start until you show me you’re trying to take your punishment like a good girl.”

The wave of gratitude that swelled through my chest made me feel once again like I had started to lose my mind. Christian had set it up perfectly, a logical part of my brain understood: he had told me the insane consequence he intended to impose… the idea that seemed to send an electric shock of mingled terror and arousal through every nerve ending of my body… the image of my virgin pussy, newly waxed for his enjoyment, closed… sealed… to teach me the lesson I couldn’t learn any other, less severe way.

But knowing that Christian had manufactured that fear somehow didn’t stop me from feeling grateful when he relieved it—or maybe, I thought with a little jolt of terror, only postponed it. Even knowing that he would soon, if he carried out his stated intention, spank me there, on the most sensitive part of my anatomy, didn’t stop the warmth I felt toward my would-be billionaire sponsor.

Something about the terrible threat of closing me, down there… about the dismaying way it had called up in me not only fear but also a helpless fascination, an unwelcome need… seemed to have altered my thoughts and feelings very deeply. It hadn’t changed me, really, but it had brought sharply into focus just how wayward and dark an imagination lurked in my head.

I had to fight it, didn’t I? I kicked again with my right leg, trying fruitlessly to use the momentum as a way to twist out of Christian’s grasp. He gave me three more hard slaps on the thighs, and I heard myself cry out, again the chastised puppy with her pitiful submissive noises, despite all the rebellion I felt inside.

“Get both feet on the floor,” he said grimly. “Present your bottom.”

The pain made me obey. With a sob, I returned my right foot to the carpet.

Christian put his hand on my ass and held it firmly. I felt how my naughty panties made my bottom available to him even while I still had them on. I had been twisting my head side to side as I struggled, but I couldn’t help looking once again at the reflection in the picture window, of the girl in her lacy lingerie with the billionaire standing over her. I watched Christian gaze down at my bottom as he fondled it, and with a rush of strangely mixed embarrassment and vanity I saw how the sight pleased him… how it made his dark eyes go even darker with hunger to do precisely what he had told his new fuck toy he would do.

“Bend your knees,” he instructed. “Arch your back and push this out. You earned this lesson, and it’s time for you to get it.”

Another sob burst from my throat. Something about the simple phrase get it had struck into my mind and heart.

You’re getting it… you’re getting what you deserve, at last.

Whimpering, I obeyed his orders. I felt how the humiliating posture presented my backside for discipline… for firm-handed guidance.

For much more, too, I couldn’t help thinking.

“Good girl,” Christian said, and this time I seemed to feel the full, terribly ambiguous importance of the words.

Then he started to spank my bare bottom.

Christian punished me slowly and steadily, his hand rising and falling in a deliberate cadence, as if each spank represented the period of a wordless, reprimanding sentence. My body shook and my head went back with a yelp at each sharp blow.

I noticed first that it didn’t hurt as much as I had thought it would. Each spank’s sting rose and then fell a little before I felt his open hand return, never at first to the same spot. With a terribly ambiguous surge of emotion, a growing warmth in both my chest and in my cheeks, I understood beyond any doubt that Christian meant to train me with that slow pace; he wanted to teach me how to accept a spanking from a man who knew how to give one.

The glow of that idea spread, too; it seemed to join the heat that Christian’s firm hand on my bare bottom had started to raise down there. When he began gradually to quicken the pace, and to spank me in the same place twice and even three times in a row, it hurt more, yes, but it also made the warmth grow too.

“That’s it,” he said, so quietly I thought he must be speaking to himself. “That’s it, Leah. Take your punishment now.”

He stopped spanking for a moment. I felt him reach over my back and stroke my hair, wild and disheveled from the thrashing back and forth of my head. He smoothed it over my right shoulder, as if he wanted to see my face, and I had a hot flash of embarrassment at that: the man spanking me wanted to see my tears of repentance as they fell.

His left hand had relaxed a little on my wrists, so when my shoulders heaved at his caressing touch down my back, toying gently with my bra strap, I could wriggle a little to ease the tension in my arms.

“Is that better?” Christian asked, his voice soothing—even a little patronizing. Again I felt the twin glow of embarrassment and an affection. “You’re learning, aren’t you?”

“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Please… please…”

It took me long seconds, with his hand moving gradually downward until he held my bottom in it again, before I found any further words. When I uttered them, that possessive touch made them absolutely wrong even as I spoke.

“Please stop,” I whispered, but a sob of need rose, seemingly, all the way from my burning bottom into my lungs and out of my throat.

“Oh, no,” Christian murmured. “I’ve barely even started.”

I felt his fingers hook into the waistband of the lacy thong. I felt him start to pull it down. I cried out in protest, and I squirmed fitfully, but his left hand tightened its hold and bent my arms upward a little more, to keep me obedient. The panties offered no protection, of course, but the idea that Christian had waited until he decided to expose my pussy to his lustful gaze sent a jolt of humiliation through my system.

“Spread your knees,” he commanded.

What I hadn’t even remembered—because of course my mind hadn’t wanted to recall it—was what he had promised to do to the place he had just stripped of its lacy covering.

“Oh, no…” I sobbed, fear filling my chest. “Please… please, sir?”

Christian’s response arrived only an instant later, or not even an instant. The hard spanks, delivered much, much more rapidly than his earlier punishment, seemed to rain down within a nanosecond, as if no gap could exist between my impertinent plea for mercy and its stern reward.

Somewhere in my head I understood that the feeling of instantaneous justice had to come from the mental detachment, the floating that seemed to take hold of me when this man exercised his control over my body. That realization, however, had nothing at all to do with what felt like the important part of the experience: the essence of the frightening, arousing new world into which Christian had taken me worked on a far stronger, far more basic level.

I screamed, and struggled, because I couldn’t help struggling at the fiery pain my would-be keeper brought to my poor bare bottom. I felt my panties around my lower thighs, just above my knees, a useless tangle. I clenched my bottom-cheeks, trying to soothe the pain. I rode the back of the couch with my bucking hips, trying to lessen the force of the spanking. Instead of moving the blows around my backside in a slow, steady rhythm, Christian gave me five at a time in each spot: my right hind cheek, my left, my right upper thigh, my left, and then…

My whole body seemed to explode with sensation and emotion when he began to punish me in the very middle, low down, only a tiny distance from the place he had commanded me to open and to expose. I arched my back and raised my head on my taut neck as his strong fingers seemed to command that humiliation even more arrogantly and urgently.

“Sir… sir,” I cried pitifully.

My legs opened, my knees spreading so that I could feel the stretch of the thong’s elastic waistband, restraining me. My pretty, lacy bra felt like a harness, suddenly: Christian’s mastery had turned the lingerie he had purchased into a delicate kind of bondage for me, the girl he had likewise purchased.

I had to get it over with: the terrible, terrible part that he had promised… the part that would bring my first punishment to a close, so that I could…

Get rid of him? My brain, off in space, started a conversation with itself. You know he’s not going to fuck you without your consent. So, of course, you’re going to tell him to leave. You’re going to let him do the horrible thing, because you have no choice—obviously—and then you’re going to take the allowance and buy time with it. Time to figure out whether there’s any prospect of finding a sane sponsor in this crazy so-called program.

The thoughts flashed through my mind, and I had the feeling they might have gained some traction—might even have snapped me out of the distant realm Christian’s punishment had sent me to—except for what he did next. He didn’t spank my pussy, not immediately anyway. Instead he plunged his hand between my thighs and began to rub my clit firmly and rapidly with his expert fingertips.

His thumb went between my bottom-cheeks, and he touched the tiny opening there boldly, pressing against it so that I cried out at the terrible indignity as much as the jolt of pleasure. I thought of what he had told me about the ultimate form of discipline he intended to use in training me… the horrid but fascinating idea of sealing me, up front.

I knew somehow that Christian absolutely intended that I think of it, and of how he could still enjoy me along another, tighter path even if he closed my pussy… of how that would bring much less pleasure for me, his fuck toy, but provide him with a way to use his property for his own degrading delight nonetheless.

Christian kept playing skillfully with my clit even as his thumb instructed me, wordlessly and yet terribly shamefully, about the rights he meant to claim over my body. He masturbated me so firmly and with such expertise that he had me sobbing, on the brink of orgasm within a second or two.

“Oh, God,” I whispered as my hips desperately rode his knowing hand. “Oh… oh, no…”

Then, showing his dominant wisdom even more clearly, he left me there. He pulled his hand away. I gave a wailing cry of need. My back arched and my bottom squirmed as if I could somehow find his fingers again and steal the climax from them. My face went as hot as an oven, because I had forgotten to close my eyes, to keep myself from seeing what it looked like in the reflection in the huge window, the lewd scene suspended as it seemed in the darkness outside the apartment.

He loomed over me, still impeccably if casually dressed in his white oxford and perfectly worn jeans. I bent over the back of the couch, my naked backside raised for Christian’s every whim. My face had gone as red as a beet, and my eyes sparkled with tears.

“Ask me to spank your pussy,” Christian said, his voice calm but very stern.

“What?” I cried. Emotion seemed to boil up in my chest.

“You heard me, naughty girl. You know you need it. Ask for it.”

Oh, no. He couldn’t. It wasn’t fair.

He knew it wasn’t fair; I didn’t even have to wonder. Christian had no intention of ever showing me fairness; that wasn’t what this was about in the slightest. He had billions of dollars: keeping me as his submissive fuck toy represented no more than a rounding error in his budget. That entitled him to use a sweet, independent young woman like me exactly as he chose, with absolutely no regard for whether she felt he had shown her a shred of ‘fairness’… whatever that idea might mean in this already unfair world.

Sweet, independent young woman. I had thought of myself that way for a long time. My attempt to game the New Modesty had seemed to me not to change that, even when I had sat in my apartment and refused to answer the door for dates I had agreed to go on. I had begun to realize… really, Christian had started to force me to see… that I had an essential willfulness lurking inside me, though.

You know you need it. I felt my face scrunch into a woeful pout; I watched it happen in the window, and I saw to my even greater embarrassment that Christian had his eyes on me, in our reflection. His gaze seemed so cool, his assessment so calm, that it made my own inner turmoil all the greater.

“You don’t have to ask in words, Leah,” he said as a little smile curved the left side of his mouth. “You may put your hands behind you and spread your thighs for me, to show me you accept your punishment.”

He accompanied his words by releasing my wrists at last. The flash of impulse to get up and try once again, in vain of course, to escape, only lasted a split second. But how could I possibly follow his filthy command—or suggestion, or however I was supposed to understand it? If I couldn’t ask in words, how could I possibly ask that way?

My arms had fallen from my back to my sides. My fingers seemed to twitch as my mind processed the terrible dilemma. My thighs trembled, too: for an instant I almost decided to try closing my knees to see what would happen.

But Christian’s left hand returned to the small of my back, pressing down hard. I cried out in alarm, having no idea where his right hand would come down when I saw him raise it, in the reflection. I did press my knees together, then, but he clearly didn’t mean to start the horrible final part of my punishment until I had followed his even more horrible instructions. His hand came down, hard and fast, on my bottom-cheeks: right, left, right, left, right, left.

I screamed at the sudden, sharp renewal of pain. I tried to cover my bottom.

“Take those hands away, Leah,” Christian snapped. “Or use them to spread yourself for your pussy spanking.”

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