The Doms Virgin_ A Dark Billio - Penelope Bloom

Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
Prologue
Epilogue
Brianne
Jackson
Punished Sneak peak
Logan
Emmaline
Bonus Content
Dark
Julia
Leo
Ted
Angelo
Thank you!
THE DOM’S VIRGIN
PENELOPE BLOOM
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Brianne
2. Jackson
3. Brianne
4. Jackson
5. Brianne
6. Jackson
7. Brianne
8. Jackson
9. Brianne
10. Jackson
11. Brianne
12. Jackson
13. Brianne
14. Jackson
15. Brianne
16. Jackson
17. Brianne
18. Jackson
Epilogue
Punished Sneak peak
Prologue
19. Logan
20. Emmaline
21. Logan
22. Emmaline
23. Logan
24. Emmaline
25. Logan
Bonus Content
26. Dark
27. Julia
28. Leo
29. Julia
30. Leo
31. Julia
32. Leo
33. Julia
34. Leo
35. Julia
36. Leo
37. Julia
38. Leo
39. Julia
40. Ted
41. Leo
42. Julia
43. Leo
44. Julia
45. Leo
46. Julia
47. Leo
48. Julia
49. Leo
50. Julia
51. Leo
52. Julia
53. Angelo
54. Leo
55. Julia
56. Leo
57. Julia
58. Leo
59. Julia
60. Leo
61. Julia
62. Leo
Epilogue
Thank you!
PROLOGUE
“Do you trust me, Princess?” I ask, gripping the
bundle of rope tightly.
“Yes,” she breathes.
“Good. Close your eyes and put your hands on
the wall.”
I pace behind her, loving how she obeys,
drinking in the soft lines of her naked body from
the swell of her hips to the full curve of her breasts
and her pert nipples. She’s perfect. Down to the
last hair on her head, she’s completely and totally
perfect. And she’s all mine.
She does exactly as she’s told, and she waits,
knowing better than to ask questions or talk. She
just waits until I’m ready for her. I haven’t had
long to train her yet, but she’s already blossoming
into the perfect submissive.
I tie her wrists together first and weave the
rope through a hook in the ceiling of my playroom.
I bind her ankles to fasteners in the ground, too.
Once she’s securely in place, I tie a black silk
blindfold around her eyes.
“I told you once that I could make you climax
with nothing more than my voice. Do you
remember?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“It’s time I made good on my promise.”
I
1
BRIANNE
Two Weeks Earlier
glare at my laptop, fingers hovering over the
keys. The word document in front of me is
forty eight pages of emotional and lust-filled
buildup to the first time Joanne and Marcus are
going to have sex. It’s the product of months of
work. I’ve agonized over every paragraph,
sentence, and word, trying to make it all feel real.
And there’s the kicker. I can make the
conversations and emotions feel real since I’ve
experienced most of them. The one part I have
definitely not experienced though is the sex. And
that’s why I keep getting stuck at the same spot; it’s
the moment my hero is about to claim his heroine
in the most basic of ways and the words won’t
come. I try to think of a way to continue the scene
for the thousandth time. My fingers hover over the
keys and I punch out one, sometimes two words,
and delete them, knowing they aren’t right. The
longer I stare at the page, the more hopeless it
feels.
I massage my temples, trying to push back the
growing pulse of pain there.
I read what I have so far:
He grips her with powerful hands, pressing
her into the wall. She hears the jingle of his belt
and his zipper being lowered. She feels something
hard between her legs.
“You’re going to feel this all week,” he
whispers in her ear before thrusting deep inside
her.
She cries out. His cock feels--
That’s it. His cock feels… What? I don’t know
what his cock feels like inside her because I’m a
virgin. Probably the only virgin on the entire
college campus. I’m sure I could guess what sex
feels like. I mean, it probably feels good, or else
people wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. But
it’s not just about what it feels like physically that
I’m lacking. I don’t know what kind of emotions
are involved in giving that piece of yourself to a
man. I’m petrified that readers will call me out on
it, that I’ll get some fundamental detail wrong and
out myself to the whole world as a virgin.
Worse, I’m worried I’ll write something
worthless and forgettable.
Lacey leans over my shoulder and sighs.
“Stuck here again, Bri?”
I close my laptop quickly, turning to give her
the evil eye. “Can you please not read over my
shoulder? It freaks me out.”
She grins. “Reading over your shoulder freaks
me out too.” Lacey leans close to my ear,
whispering, “It’s going to creep me out all week,
you sexy, dirty girl.”
I laugh. “This is exactly why I don’t want you
reading my stuff. You just make fun of it.”
“I’m just teasing, Bri. I know your stuff is
good, and I know it’s important to you. I just don’t
get why you keep getting stuck at the same spot.
I’ve been watching you all semester. You start from
the beginning, you read through every page, make
some changes, and then you get here. Rinse and
repeat. The sex scenes should be the easy part,
right? Just dim the lights, kick on the music, bow
chicka bow wow. Scene finished.”
“If only,” I say, sighing. “I’m just having
trouble getting inside their heads. It’s like I hit a
wall, you know?”
Lacey hoists her bookbag and shrugs, turning
toward the door. “Just write about the last time you
had sex or something,” she says over her shoulder
as she leaves for class. “I mean, because you
totally had sex with that foreign exchange student
in high school. Right?” she asks with more than a
touch of sarcasm.
I lean back and sigh, talking to myself. “And
Brianne Hartley sat back, dejected, because no one
knew she was just a sad, pathetic, twenty-year-old
virgin. Except maybe her roommate. Addendum:
her roommate has definitely seen through Brianne’s
thin veil of lies. Now Brianne has to think of a way
to dispose of her before the truth gets out.”
Well, at least if the writing thing doesn’t pan
out I can just start narrating my own life out loud.
That way I can at least protect my virginity
indefinitely.
I seriously need to do something about this,
though. I always felt like I had plenty of time to
find the right guy. He’d show up and the certainty
of it would strike me directly in the chest, like
electricity. Like one of the characters in the
Harlequins I read as a kid. That’s what I thought, at
least. Now I’m not so sure. I’m not even sure there
is a right guy out there.
I grab my notebook for class and get up
lethargically, looking at my reflection in the full
length mirror by the door. I see a woman--no, a
girl--as unremarkable as the book she’s writing.
My dirty blonde hair is damaged from lack of care.
My skin is a little too pale from all the time I spend
indoors on my laptop, writing a book that will
never be. Basically, if I was writing my story, it
would be a very boring and depressing tale. A tale
of love not lost, but never found. Of passion not
dimmed, but never ignited. Yeah. That’s me.
I take one last, angry look at my laptop and
head across campus for creative writing class with
Professor Barlow. It’s a workshop style class,
each student has to write two pieces per semester,
and then the class is assigned to read and critique
them on a rotating schedule. This week, a chapter
from my story is up for critiques. To say I’m on
edge would be an understatement.
We have to read an excerpt from our piece, and
then sit quietly while the class has a round table
discussion about our work. If someone says they
didn’t get why the hero gave up so easily, it
doesn’t matter that you could tell them to be a
better reader because you totally explained that. If
they say you never explained what happened to the
mom, you can’t point them to page fourteen where
it clearly says she went into remission. Nope. You
still have to sit and listen respectfully because, as
Professor Barlow says, once we’ve published our
stories, we won’t be there to explain ourselves to
readers. The writing has to speak for itself.
I’m a little late, and take my seat near the back
while Professor Barlow discusses plotting and
how to build tension in a scene. I barely listen,
because I know soon he’ll be asking everyone to
take out their copy of my chapter and share their
thoughts.
“Okay,” says Professor Barlow, “let’s go
ahead and get to our critiques for today. Brianne
Hartley, if you would, start us off with an excerpt
from your work so we can hear it in your voice.”
“Okay,” I say sheepishly, holding up my copy
and finding the highlighted section I spent forever
picking out. My hands tremble, making the words
on the page jump and jitter. My throat is tight with
the knowledge that the passage isn’t ready.
Sometimes it feels like it’ll never be ready.
“She’s like no woman he has ever seen. Her
hair is gold spun thread, every strand a precious
treasure. Her eyes are sapphires, bright, full of
promise and hope. And her hands… of all her
features, none grip at his attention more than her
soft, delicate hands. In his world of hard lines and
edges sharp enough to cut, her hands are like a
beacon. A promise. An escape.”
I clear my throat, setting down the pages and
carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. My cheeks are
burning hot with embarrassment.
“I liked it,” says James. “It moved a little slow,
maybe, but the chapter as a whole seems heartfelt.”
“Was it though?” asks Professor Barlow.
“Would a man think like this? Just look at the
excerpt Miss Hartley read for us. Does a man
compare a woman’s hair to threads of gold? Does
he compare her eyes to precious stones? I mean,
let’s be realistic folks. If you’re writing dialogue,
maybe. Maybe the character wants to impress the
woman. But if we’re supposed to buy these as real
thoughts, frankly, I don’t.”
I hastily write down as much of what is said as
I can, trying to fight back tears of embarrassment.
No one is saying it explicitly, but each comment
that follows the Professor seems dangerously close
to the point that I have no idea how guys think,
which is painfully clear. I’ve been on exactly two
dates in my life and had exactly one and a half
boyfriends--it’s a long story.
When the critiques have finished thirty minutes
later, I just want to go back to my room and take a
sledgehammer to my laptop. They’re all right. Of
course they are. My male character does sound like
a woman, because I have almost no experience
with guys, especially romantically. I don’t meet
anyone’s eyes as they hand me their copies of my
chapter before leaving, each one marked in red,
black, or blue ink with corrections and comments.
“Have a good weekend, everyone,” Professor
Barlow calls over the commotion as everyone gets
up to leave. “Don’t forget I need to see your letters
from Pierce Publishing by next week at the latest.
And Donna, remember you need to make copies of
your short for next week.”
His reminder is the last thing I need right now.
I actually still have the letter from the publisher in
my backpack, unopened, waiting. We were
supposed to send in a chapter of our work and his
fancy publisher friend was going to give us the
kind of feedback we’d get if we had submitted it
for real. I never would have gone through with it,
but my grade depends on having the letter.
My grade, and my future. I’m running out of
time to declare a major, and I can only use so many
elective credits for creative writing before I can
commit. I thought I’d be finished with a book by
my freshman year. I thought at worst I’d still be
waiting on acceptance letters from publishers by
this time sophomore year. Instead, I’m still sixty
pages into the book. I’ve lost count of how many
times I re-wrote those first chapters, hoping maybe
a different start would give me the momentum to
tackle the rest. I just don’t have the personal
experience. Forget the sex scenes, I don’t even
know what it feels like to love a guy or be loved. I
might as well be writing fantasy for all I know
about love.
I have to read the letter from Pierce Publishing
sooner or later, because we’re supposed to write a
reflection on how we can use it to improve as an
author. I only had to send in one chapter, so I was
able to pick the chapter I was most confident in.
It’s a small comfort though.
I plop down on a bench outside the building.
The weather is nice enough for sitting outside,
even though winter doesn’t seem ready to make
way for spring, and I really don’t feel like going
back to my dorm right now. I know my laptop is
sitting there, on my desk, waiting for me. While my
spirits are already low, I pluck the letter out of my
backpack and look at the unassuming envelope. All
around me students are leaving their classes,
excitedly talking about their plans for the weekend
or what parties they’re going to go to. Parties
where there will probably be lots and lots of sex.
I mean, I’ve never exactly been the type of
person who gets invited to them, but that’s what I
imagine. I’ve seen the movies too. Every door you
open at a party leads to a bedroom where people
are humping like rabbits. Every stairwell is
littered with naked couples going at it. Something
like that, at least. I’m not saying I want to get
humped like a rabbit or anything, I’m just tired of
being on the outside looking in.
I’ve spent my whole life finding reasons not to
talk to the guy, to go to the party, to accept the
invitation. I’ve made an art of saying no, and I can
hardly be surprised where it has left me. My only
friend is Lacey, and I can’t help wondering if it’s
too late. Too late for my writing, my social life,
maybe even my career--whatever that ends up
being.
The letter in my hands looks innocent and
harmless. There’s a single, folded sheet of paper
inside and when I hold it up to the light, I can see
there is barely any ink printed on the page. What
could the editor say about my sample in so few
words?
Best thing I’ve ever read. Let’s sign a
contract tomorrow!
Probably not.
Amazing! I can tell you are an individual with
extensive life experience, especially in the
romantic sense.
Definitely not.
I decide to stop being a baby. I run my thumb
under the crease and crack open the envelope,
carefully pulling the paper free. I unfold it and let
it rest on my thighs as I read the contents.
Author,
Your work was prudish and unmemorable.
Consider another career.
Chief and Executive Officer of Pierce
Publishing,
Jackson Pierce
I
2
JACKSON
open the drawer of my desk and pull the
delicate necklace free. I run my thumb over
the sapphire pendant slowly, watching the
light catch and bounce from the seemingly endless
edges of the stone. Touching it re-ignites the icy pit
in my stomach. It’s an old ache, and I never let it
grow numb. I keep the pain fresh because I deserve
the fucking pain, every ounce of it.
The old question rises up. The familiar,
maddening question. What if I hadn’t left her?
Maybe none of it would have happened to her.
Maybe she would’ve been okay. Maybe. But I’ll
never know now, because I was a selfish asshole,
and I put my needs before hers, like so many
before her.
I take one look at the pile of manuscripts
stacked on my desk and sigh. Only the upper crust
makes it to my desk, that, and the occasional pile
of garbage I agree to look at for Barlow. My
editors know not to waste my time with shit, so by
the time it reaches me, it had better be worth my
time, or there will be hell to pay.
I skim the first few lines of the top manuscript,
still grasping the necklace in my hand, idly rubbing
the stone with my thumb and savoring the way
touching it burns right through me like black ice.
I grimace. I’m not in the mood for this. I drag
my forearm across my desk and push all the
manuscripts into the wastebasket. Fuck them. My
publishing company is the biggest in the United
States. We contract tens of thousands of authors,
and while other publishing companies are
hemorrhaging money during the rise of e-books,
we’re flourishing because we don’t use the same,
tired old approach to publishing. We’re primarily
an electronic publisher. That cuts the costs of
printing and distribution to nearly nothing, which
dramatically increases our profit margins. The
author sells a book for four dollars, they get a
buck, we get three, end of story.
So if I don’t feel like reading the latest pile of
shit that lands on my desk, I can afford the luxury. I
place the necklace back in the drawer and sigh,
massaging my temples to push back some of the
headache that has been growing behind my eyes all
day.
I get up to draw the blinds to my office so I
have complete privacy.
In the past, when I would get stressed, it was
easy to release the tension through domination--my
less-than-secret guilty pleasure. I pull up
DomsList.com on my computer and look through
the most recent postings. Even though I’ve been
absent from the scene since Karen, I find a small
amount of comfort in checking the listings. I used to
use the site to find willing submissives whenever I
needed them. I found the site through a connection I
had at a BDSM club I used to go to.
The club scene wasn’t really for me, though. I
prefer a more private relationship, and DomsList
offered the opportunity to get exactly that. At first
glance, the site looks like a dating service. It’s not
though. The submissives on the site put themselves
up for auction. A meeting is arranged, and if the
submissive agrees to the dominant’s terms, he pays
an initial sum, and then when the contract has been
fulfilled makes the final payment finishing the
transaction.
I haven’t done more than browse the listings
since I broke things off with Karen nearly a year
ago. I still have needs. My body craves the power
of taking complete control over a woman, of
bringing her to the absolute brink of her limits and
letting her ride the wave back down with me. But
I’ve fought back the urge. I don’t feel like I deserve
the release, so I’ve forced myself to abstain all this
time.
Karen was like all the women before her, but
that was exactly why her death struck me so
powerfully. I had tossed aside women countless
times before, as if they were used up playthings.
Once my interest faded, I removed them from my
life and never looked back. I won’t do that again.
Not ever again. I swore I wouldn’t step back into
the scene until I thought I could be better. I’m still
not sure if I’m ready to rise above my old habits,
but I know the old hunger is getting so strong I can
barely hold it back any longer.
I don’t know why I put myself through the
misery of looking at the site anymore. It just lights
up the fire and makes me crave things I don’t trust
myself to give in to. I read the listings, look at the
profile pictures, and remind myself why it’s still
too soon to place a bid and get back into the life.
After a few minutes, I sigh, turning off the
computer and standing. I need to get out of this
office. It feels like I’m being suffocated by
memories, desires, and old ghosts.
I open the door to my office and find Dina
waiting for me. Her hair is pulled back in a severe
bun and she’s eyeing me from behind thick rimmed
glasses. “Mr. Pierce, do you have a moment?”
“No, actually,” I say, moving to pass her.
“It’s just that I wanted to know what you
thought of the piece by Jerry-Anne Lee. It was one
of the most incredible submissions I’ve ever seen.
I wanted to--”
“I threw it in the trash. Really, Dina. I have to
go.”
She stops short, a look of shock on her face as I
leave her standing outside my office. I don’t enjoy
being a prick, but I have too much on my mind right
now to sugar coat anything. Maybe throwing the
manuscripts away was a rash move, but it’s my
fucking business. If she wants to question how I run
it, she’s barking up the wrong tree.
“Mr. Pierce!” says Taylor, my assistant. “I have
the report you wanted.”
I snatch the papers from Taylor, not slowing my
pace and forcing him to nearly jog to keep up as I
head for the elevator. “Thanks,” I say dryly before
tossing the papers onto a nearby desk.
Taylor slows as I step into the elevator and hit
the button for the garage.
Once the doors close and I’m alone I rake a
hand through my hair. “Fuck,” I growl. This isn’t
me. Yeah, maybe I can be a little bit of an ass when
provoked, but I’m not the kind of guy who treats
his employees like this. I just can’t get my fucking
mind right lately. Maybe it’s just been too long
since I’ve had a w...