LITTLE VIRGIN

Jade

I have always been romantic since I was sixteen years old. I read a lot of romance, but I'm particularly interested in the darker end of the spectrum, where pleasure and suffering collide in a stream of subtleties that is both serene and chaotic. a location where good and innocence coexist with sin and evil, leaving their marks on each other.

They won't let me push my curiosities down any longer because they have fully surfaced. Sitting at my computer, I look through the vast Internet for someone who can assist me. I need assistance in comprehending the reality of BDSM, which is something I can't stop thinking about.

The books I've read are excellent, delightful, and pleasurable. However, I believe they have little to do with the reality of that way of life and are entirely fictional. And I'm interested in learning more about the how, where, and why of it all. What makes people do it? Where can they find people who share their desires? How do they respond to the sidelong glances from society that inform them that everyone is aware of what they're doing and that the majority find it repulsive?

Since ancient times, when women wore nightgowns that covered them from neck to foot and men did the same, what constitutes immoral behavior has been modified. For sexual activity, which was done solely for procreation and not for pleasure, tiny slits were made in the front.

If one was caught masturbating, it was not just frowned upon; it was a terrible crime. It resulted in punishment, and severe punishment. These days, people are considered immoral when they receive punishment-as they requested, mind you. It's widely assumed that if someone engages in BDSM or any variation of it, they must have experienced a traumatic event or a poor upbringing. Most people believe that there was sexual abuse.

I must confess that I have preferred that way of thinking. I've recently had different opinions about those who follow the lifestyle for reasons I can't explain. As an adult, I simply cannot fathom why anyone would wish to administer or receive punishment. But in the back of my mind, I wish I could comprehend. I firmly believe that not everyone who pursues this kind of attention has experienced some form of brokenness.

My passion and dream is to become an erotic author. I just enjoy losing myself in fantasy worlds where anything is possible. There are worlds where a regular woman can meet a man who is unusually attractive, viral, and, of course, very muscular. In the bedroom-or any room, really-he would be incredibly wealthy and utterly filthy.

I spend a lot of time in my head in the realm of erotic romance. Heroines are no longer acceptable damsels in distress. The heroines of today, on the other hand, are strong in every way, intelligent, witty, and take-no-shit. Most of these fictional women seem to find love by accident rather than actively seeking it out. And after making that small mistake, they end up in a man's arms.

In today's erotic romances, no man will do. He must have a clean, alpha personality. For whatever reason, our hero enjoys hitting women in many of these books. And they enjoy being struck by him. And that's where my writer's mind has run into trouble.

A big, strong, attractive man could make me fall in love. Who is unable to?

I can't see myself falling for someone who wants to beat you and tie you up while you make his dinner and iron his clothes, though. I'm trying to understand BDSM because I don't understand it. For my job!

Before anything else, I was a writer. Before I could read, I told stories. I imagined why things were happening the way they were after looking at scenes. I've always been naturally good at making up stories.

I'm just a year away from earning a Master's degree in Creative Arts from Bangor University in North Wales, UK, and I'm getting very close to the point in my life where I'll have to support myself. I have to concentrate now that I'm going to be disconnected from my father's money, which means I have to believe in what I'm writing about or I'll never be able to realize my dreams.

I don't have big dreams. I would like to see my name on book covers. Oh! And, of course, lists of the best sellers. Being a mediocre writer is not what I want. Like a reporter, I want to be one of those writers who goes above and beyond to get to the heart of the matter, but I want to be more inventive with my truths. Despite leading fantastical lives, I want my characters and the setting they inhabit to seem realistic.

Furthermore, it is hardly realistic for regular women to come across men who have a voracious appetite for sex and a tendency to beat them. I'm currently browsing the web in the hopes that nobody will ever see my browser's history and believe I'm a bad woman. I am not at all like that.

I am twenty-three years old and still haven't found Mr. Right. By that, I mean that my cherry hasn't fallen off. Contrary to what one might assume, I'm not a prude. Most of the time, I'm just very preoccupied with myself. My professors tell me it's a writer's thing. For a writer, I've been told I'm normal.

I'm a little awkward around people. Yes, I speak easily with people; I guess that's just part of my reporter's instinct. However, I don't share much about myself because I would rather guide others in ways that will help me understand them better.

I click my mouse, and a clumsy image appears on my computer screen. An enormous penis being deep-throated by a woman!

I see the tiny writing at the bottom of the page as I quickly remove the image from my screen. It has to do with a forthcoming auction. It is only after seeing that I realize that the link I clicked to get to this erotic location is owned by the BDSM club in Portland, Oregon, in the United States.

After a few clicks, I discover that there are a lot of clubs in that city and that this location is a haven for those kinds of people. When it comes to finding such things, it's the best city in America. Furthermore, it appears to be the ideal starting point for my quest for those who could be sufficiently helpful to be honest with me and provide me with additional understanding of the mysterious and dark world.

Another click takes me to a photo of a sultry young lady dressed in leather, looking surprised and holding her hand to her mouth. I guess she didn't see the man behind her coming. It's hard to believe, considering that he is holding a whip that is pointed at her firm, round ass. He has somehow taken her by surprise with what he is going to do.

She has no fear in her eyes. No sobs of agony. Her lovely face is only covered by a shocked expression. The man's ruggedly attractive exterior belies a firm expression. In my mind, I can hear him say, "Gertie, you're going to get this. Once more, you neglected to add salt to my soup.

That line actually appeared in one of the novels I recently read, so I laugh to myself. I still thought it was dumb and silly. I would probably laugh and turn away if a man threatened to beat me with a real whip for something so trivial that could be resolved with a salt shaker's jiggle. He would clearly be a moron and not worthy of my time or attention.

My will and mind are too strong to ever get involved in any of that. But it's worth looking into because it's such a fantasy for many women. There should be more than a grain of truth in my first erotic novel. I want my fairy tale of a story to have some real grit mixed in. Not a bit of that fake nonsense!

I wonder if I'll be able to ask questions of a real Dom or Master. I question whether any of them would even want to take a break from slapping asses to discuss topics she knows very little about with a lowly, vanilla virgin.

As I sit back and look at the next thing that appears on my screen, doubt obscures my vision. Two women, dressed only in black underwear, are facing away from a man with a whip and a black mask who appears to be threatening to rain on them both.

I yell, "Run, you idiots," as I spot an open door to their right.

When you're just a few steps away from freedom, is it humanly possible to remain motionless and endure the agony of a whip?

Is it possible that some people, like drug addicts who detest the side effects of a particular drug but are unable to quit using it, have an overwhelming need to feel pain?

I'm haunted by the women's piercing gazes as they hold hands and glance over their shoulders as they wait for one of their bodies to be struck by the whip. How can they have such vivid vision while in pain?

I avoid touching the stove if I see a hot burner. I would hide if I saw a man frantically running down the street while brandishing his belt and aiming at people. So why do some people look for this?

And how likely is it that I will come across even one BDSM practitioner who is willing to explain them to me? Why would they want to, anyway?

I'm not going to pay them for their time. I have nothing to offer. I want nothing more than to satiate my own curiosity. Actually, I want to use what I'm given to earn money.

No, I doubt I'll find anyone in the BDSM scene who can respond to my inquiries. Maybe I should stop this nonsense. Perhaps I should set this thought aside and concentrate on romantic comedies instead. Wouldn't that make things so much easier?

Pierce

As she exits the room, her ass sways. It is covered in leather strands, and the areas where the straps are absent are marked in red. Tasha, my evening sub, feels secure enough to leave my presence in the private room I rented at The Dungeon of Decorum after we cuddle for an hour. She only desired punishment, not sex. And like any decent Dom, I gave her what she requested.

I can't help but think of my first visit as I lie on the tiny bed in the room designed for torturing the flesh of submissives. Even though it was only three years ago, it seems like a hundred years.

I was burning out quickly because I was so caught up in business. I was busting my ass much more than I needed to in an attempt to prove myself to the board as the new CEO of Portland, Oregon-based Waterson Mutual, a business finance company. And I was being caught up by it.

My friend and eventual hero was Grant Jamison. He took me under his wing and taught me that while work is important, one should always make time for play. He was five years older than me.

My conception of play differed greatly from Grant's. I assumed he was suggesting that he and the friends he mentioned play racquetball. He took me to something far more serious than a baseball game.

In just one month, I was accepted into the Dominants' fraternity at a nearby BDSM club called The Dungeon of Decorum, which I now frequently visit.

I'm a Dom by nature; I feel like I was made to guide, instruct, and control women. I've been told that, at thirty-five, I ought to be getting married and starting a family. I've been told that I can hide my sinister pastime and live a typical life in all other respects, but I find that to be dull.

I am prohibited from disclosing any information about myself or any other members of the club to which I belong. All of the men in our diverse group are also very wealthy. We all have to conceal our secret lives because of that. Who would want a statesman, mayor, or banker interested in such gloomy matters, after all?

When I first arrived at the club, I was astounded by the faces I saw. The club attracts men from all over the United States. Because women who are up for auction also come from all over, auctions are particularly busy.

I have never purchased a woman myself. I have never maintained a relationship with any of the subs. One-time scenes are what I like. After a week or so of following up with the women I've played with, I move on to other things. Things like other women who have different wants, needs, and fetishes.

I have a reputation as one of the best Doms if you want a great bondage experience because I have studied techniques a lot. I am especially skilled at bondage, suspension, cupping, impact play, and power exchange, which are my kinks.

I've been referred to as driven on numerous occasions, whether in professional or personal contexts. If it piques my interest, I dive right in and don't come up until I've learned everything there is to know.

In my life, I've been in three committed relationships. My constant drive caused two of them to end. When I was a college student, Janet said I was too focused on my studies and not enough on her. She left me, then.

My second daughter, Leah, lived with me when I first began working in finance. The majority of my time had to be spent at work. I was eager to advance. Another woman who claimed I didn't spend enough time with her ended our relationship after a year.

Tracy was a gold digger who tricked me into falling into what she believed to be a trap. It was the first year that my annual income exceeded one billion dollars. Tracy, a grocery store janitor's daughter, desired a better life. I invited her to join me in my brand-new mansion. I made every effort to find time for her and lavished her with gifts.

Tracy was a stunning woman. Her golden-streaked long blond hair reached her small waist. I had found an angel, according to the bright blue eyes that spoke to my heart. Instead, she proved to be a demon.

I was a big condom user at the time and didn't want to start a family. She told me she was pregnant when she presented me with a pregnancy test stick that had a few lines on it. With my kid!

Although I am aware that condoms aren't always effective, she had also informed me that she was getting a birth control shot. I was both shocked and incredulous, as anyone can imagine.

When I took Tracy to the doctor and stayed with her while she took the pregnancy test at the doctor's office, she was enraged. I immediately realized that the woman was attempting to coerce me into marriage when the test result was negative. I dumped her because I had no other option.

Additionally, I haven't wanted to interact with women for a long time after her. I'm not damaged. Simply put, I'm too busy to handle the responsibilities that come with being in a relationship.

I can find women at the club who want anything I do at the moment, from expressing aggression to cuddling and satisfying that need. And ever since I joined the club, no woman I've dated has asked for more from me than I can provide. What it is is a relief.

There are no games. We use innuendos, cat and mouse games, and outright lies to enter into turbulent relationships, and we communicate far more in our world than in the real one.

Society has taught women things that are contrary to their nature. It wasn't until I discovered the BDSM world that I realized that. They have been forced to think things like fighting hard to be superior to men, which is crazy.

Men and women are not the same. We have different reasons for being here. No one among us is superior to the others. Furthermore, one is not possible without the other. The natural order of things has been disrupted by society. For my part, I'm sick of putting up with women who oppose nature.

Not long after I started this lifestyle, I felt at ease. Arguments, manipulations, and flirting to get into a woman's underwear are all out of the question now. That is the past. As long as she doesn't belong to a man who wants her to be with him exclusively, I'm free to approach any woman in the club and be honest with her. She can choose whether or not to accept what I want to do with and to her.

If she is interested, we plan out our scene and go over every last detail of what we want to exchange. The preparation resembles foreplay. While talking about the specifics, one becomes lustful and hot. It can be difficult to keep our hands to ourselves while we express our desires. However, I would rather not make any physical contact until we enter our scene. It improves the session and creates anticipation.

I'm distracted from my thoughts by a knock on the darkly stained oak door leading to the private room. "Enter now."

Grant opens the door with a push. A tall, lithe brunette wearing a lot of makeup has his arm around her. This one here needs someone to keep an eye on us, Pierce. Are you game?

After getting out of bed, I put on my black lounge pants. Yes. Am I a quiet creeper or a boisterous audience member?

She says, "Loud," as I walk over to them. She looks into my eyes and pats my cheek. You are a looker, my dear. that body, too. Mmm.

I tell her, removing her hand from my face because I don't let her touch me until we're acting, "Baby, if you like what you see, we can discuss what you need soon."

My groin thuds as she whispers, "I need you."

"Before you and I discuss what you need, we'll see how well you handle what my friend dishes out." I move aside to let Grant guide the group to his intended destination.

Grant gives me a wink. If she's okay with it, maybe you could demonstrate your flogging technique on her. According to what I've heard, you've improved it over most Doms'.

I can tell that the woman would like that by the way she looks at me over her shoulder while wearing only a thin, white, silk robe.

"I can show you, of course."

"I am so excited," she purrs.

My throat tightens as I consider how she will soon feel. "We're going to take you to the Amber Zone, baby."

Jade

It's a long night. Most of it I toss and turn. The hours are filled with dreams about whips and chains, as well as men in shadowy darkness yelling at me to stop running.

I get out of bed, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and head to the bathroom. I'm sick of staring at the same walls every day, and my apartment is tiny. The summer is almost here, and I want to take a vacation, travel abroad for a few months, and experience new things.

The small water closet is filled with steam due to the hot water. The hot water hits my body, causing it to jerk as I steal into the standup shower. "Aw!" I lower the heat and adjust the water's temperature so that it is more comfortable for my skin.

My mind is filled with flashbacks to the nightmares that tormented me. I was different in them. I wasn't scared, but I also didn't let the men's deep, husky voices captivate me.

The plum shampoo helps me wake up and smells amazing. I should be fine after taking a shot of something that contains caffeine. I have nothing better to do this weekend than study for my finals. I'll be free after another week of classes.

I'm not the type of person who gets anxious about finals. I pay attention in class and genuinely care about the material, so I know my stuff. That's always beneficial.

I step outside, turn off the water, and remove my towel. I wrap the towel around my hair like a turban, put on a fluffy pink robe, and head back to my bedroom. For my day of studying and relaxing, a pair of sweatpants will suffice.

I walk out to the kitchen to make coffee and put a bagel in the toaster after getting dressed. I see my laptop, which I left on the kitchen counter last night, as I take the cream cheese out of the refrigerator.

I promised myself before I went to bed that I would not bother looking for someone to respond to my BDSM inquiries. I came to the conclusion that no one would waste his time with me.

My insatiable curiosity has been rekindled by the dreams, and I'm drawn to the silver laptop. I turn it on and open it. When it comes to life, it whirrs and buzzes.

When the toaster pops up my bagel, I take my focus off the device and start preparing my small breakfast, including pouring a cup of coffee. I take my first bite while seated at the table and glance at my laptop once more.

"What the devil?" I pick it up, set it down on the tabletop, and type in the search engine I prefer to use for my research.

Entering a straightforward "BDSM society," I relax and allow the engine to find a book for me to read as I consume half of my bagel and drink a strong cup of black coffee. I tap the first site in the directory that appears on the screen. At the top of the page is a list. It is clear from the title that they are toys. The spreader bar is the first item. The image appears harmless enough. However, according to the description, the bar is used to maintain the submissive spread open and can be made of wood or metal. It can be worn on the ankles or wrists, and it can even be suspended from the ceiling.

"Oh, my!"

How could anyone voluntarily be placed in that situation?

Well, whatever. Medical restraints are the next topic. A person is held to the bed by a set of four tiny leather belts. I must ask myself: why must one be confined to the bed if everything is so wonderful?

It's a monoglove that I see next. The poor girl is wearing something that looks like a leather glove and has her arms behind her back. She can't move her arms at all. Why, I must ask myself again.

Not only does it appear tight and uncomfortable, but it also seems absurd to me. Is it necessary for the Dom to keep his sub's hands away from him?

Going on, I see that a ring gag, a penis gag, and a muzzle gag all appear to be a little awkward. If the penis gag were strapped into my mouth, I'm left wondering if I would truly choke. Without a doubt, I believe I would!

The next gadget has a medieval appearance. It is used to grasp the nose and pull it back, opening the mouth and pulling the head back. I'm not sure why it would be regarded as a sexual device, but it's called a nose hook. It appears to be a tool used to persuade a child to take medication when they argue about it.

"Oh, I see now!" The thought of having a man's cock inserted into my mouth while forcing me to open it makes my cheeks flush.

However, I wouldn't rely on the object to prevent my submissive from clamping down on my dick even if I were a man. And why is she there in the first place if she must be made to accept it?

I simply can't stop asking questions!

The next item on the list is plastic wrap, which I see is used to wrap the sub like a mummy. How cheap that is, and how strange that anyone would have considered that. "Honey, could you get the plastic wrap from the kitchen?" is what I can hear the odd couple saying now. In order to get what I want from you tonight, I believe I'll wrap it around you.

And without a single thought in her blank mind, the foolish woman would dash off to retrieve the object. No, I simply don't understand!

The next crazy item on this list is a device known as a posture collar. It's comparable to the white collars worn by people with neck injuries. It might be employed to help protect the neck from animal-style beatings. The woman wearing it appears just as uneasy as anyone else I've seen who had to wear one.

I now have more questions than I did before, and my curiosity is hammering away at my brain to find the answers it needs. However, I shut down my laptop and make an effort to concentrate on my final exam preparation.

The wooden chair I'm sitting in has a stiff back and isn't at all comfortable. I close my eyes, visualize myself strapped to the chair with leather medical restraints, and all study goes out the window. I sit up straight when a wide posture collar is fastened around my neck. My arms are pinned behind my back by a monoglove, and my legs are held open by a spreader bar. The fantasy itself is awkward and restrictive. When I consider allowing someone to do such things to me, I laugh and open my eyes.

Furthermore, the whips and chains are far more terrible than those items. My thoughts are back where they were for a few months: brutality, bondage, and why anyone would let that happen to them. What kind of animals would want to harm someone like that?

Women are prone to falling in love with their tormentors in romance novels. Why?

I believe I would kill a man in his sleep and not feel guilty about it if he did even half of the things I've read about him. It is unthinkable for me to fall in love with someone so vicious.

I would swear to kill the motherfucker at the first sting of the whip. Of course I would. I would threaten Dom's life while he tortured me, so he would have to use a muzzle or gag on me. Furthermore, he would be the one fleeing in fear when he finally had to release me. I am sure of that.

As the dominator, I might be more appropriate. However, I could never bring myself to strike someone. I detest hurting people's sentiments. Physically harming someone is something I could never do or support.

Therefore, how can I engage with someone who engages in these behaviors without passing judgment on them?

What will I do if I ask a question like, "How does it feel to hit a woman?" and receive an honest response?

I would hate a man if he admitted to me that he enjoys hitting women. I wouldn't tolerate a man who bound a woman, then struck her and sexually assaulted her.

What on earth am I doing, then? Why am I considering attempting to speak with someone I believe to be evil? Is there something seriously wrong with me? And how would my family feel about me even considering this?

I sit back and try to make sense of what I'm thinking. I don't have to agree with anything in order to gather information, just like a reporter. I can get the answers I need, ask questions, and then get over the monster.

It's not like I'm going to approach a Dom and ask him to show me what goes on in their gloomy world. Never would I do that!

I reach over to the laptop and open it. As I enter "BDSM Clubs" into the search engine, it seems as though my will has taken over. When I see the first link to a club with a real website, my fingers twitch. I click on it and it says "The Dungeon of Decorum."

I look at the message board on the page that appears and type in, "Is there anyone in this club who'd like to help me learn more about the real world of BDSM?"

Let's see who wants to reply now.