DEFLOWERED VOL. 1 of EIGHT TASKS FOR THE BLUSHING VIRGIN By Aphrodite Hunt

51 Pages·2013·0.23 MB·English

DEFLOWERED
VOL. 1 of EIGHT TASKS FOR THE BLUSHING VIRGIN
By Aphrodite Hunt
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living
or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2013 by Aphrodite Hunt
Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt
Published by Aphrodite Hunt at Smashwords
Please go to http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ to join my mailing list, or email me at
[email protected] . I will endeavor to update you whenever a romance is released.
NEW ADULT ROMANCES BY DAWN STEELE
Burn
Burn 2
Forbidden
Wrecked! (as Aphrodite Hunt)
EROTICA and EROTIC ROMANCES BY APHRODITE HUNT
The ‘Eight Tasks for the Blushing Virgin’ series
Deflowered
Debauched
Deceived
Desired
The ‘Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire’ series
Damaged Beauties
Seduced by his Two Personalities
The ‘Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire’ series
His Indecent Proposition
His Indecent Demands
His Indecent Desires
His Indecent Secrets
His Indecent Revelations
‘The Billionaire Marriage’ series
His Indecent Proposal
The ‘Initiation’ series
Open Your Legs for Me
Blindfolded and Spread-eagled
Thighs Wide Apart
Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy
The Final Initiation
The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories
The ‘Initiation 2’ series
Open Your Legs for my Family
Bend Over for my Family
Publicly Display Yourself for Me
Sex Slave at Sea
Paraded before the Billionaires
Sex Slave at the Auction
The ‘Initiation 3’ series
Sex Slave to the Dictator
Shackled by the Dictator
Punished by the Dictator’s Daughter
The Sex Slave’s Final Punishment
The ‘Alice BDSM’ series
Alice: Opening my Legs at Your Wedding
‘The Royal Captive’ series
Prince Miro’s Capture
Prince Miro’s Submission
Prince Miro’s Enslavement
Prince Miro’s Punishment
Prince Miro’s Escape
Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation
The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3
The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6
The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series
I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac
Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me
Gang Banged by the Chain Gang
Tempting the Hot Navy SEAL
The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series
Her First Clit Ring
Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage
Her First Clit Ring 3: Desensitization
Her First Clit Ring 4: The Final Party
The ‘Undercover’ series
Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor
Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO
The ‘Alien’ series
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2
Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)
When He’s Inside You
My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
A Xmas Gift: The Sperm Donor
WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT
EROTIC ROMANCES
The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male’ series
A Virgin Enslaved
A Virgin Enslaved 2
The Pretend Boyfriend
The Pretend Boyfriend 2
The Pretend Boyfriend 3
The Pretend Boyfriend 4
The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’ series
Mysterious Desire
Forbidden Desire
Infamous Desire
Royal Desire
Maid for the Billionaire Prince
Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this
point in publishing, please visit

http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/
http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/
and
http://dawnsteele.blogspot.com/
for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic romances with a more romance feel
and Aphrodite Hunt for pure erotica and erotic romances which are slightly kinkier. So please be aware
of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read one of my stories. Thank you so much for your
support.
DEFLOWERED
SOFIA
I wonder if I have dressed right.
Here I am, eighteen years old. Fully of legal consent. Clad in something I consider sexy with my
limited budget and staple of Target and JC Penney clothes. I have put on a fresh white lacy bra and
knickers today. Over it, I have layered a pretty pink dress embroidered with tiny pink flowers.
It’s very pretty. Very girly. My coat is a red shoal over my shoulders and my red hair curls prettily
down my back.
I’m not sure of the effect I’m trying to achieve. But I know it’s the only way to see Papa out of this
hole he is in.
The meeting place is in an old, seemingly abandoned warehouse by the docks. I am told this is
Greco territory, and no other crime family members would step into its bounds unless they wish to be
gunned down by an AK-47. The sea washes against the rotting wooden planks that hold this place up.
The air is rife with the smell of salt and fish, and I know it will take a long time to get it out of my hair,
which is already stiffening in the unwelcome ‘spa’ atmosphere.
Thank God it is summer, and the breezes are at least warm. I would have otherwise shivered in my
thin garb.
The message given tersely on my cellphone says: ‘LOT 457’.
I walk with trepidation down the corridors of this dock, counting the lots as I go. The place is
lighted with streetlamps, but the light circles are dim and wan. They bleach the warehouses into skeletal
caricatures that remind me of disturbing graphic novels.
Lot 451.
452.
453.
Why do I get the feeling I’m being watched from all angles? As if there are shadows lurking
behind the shadows that are thrown by the streetlamps, on the dark flat roofs of the warehouses and the
murky darkness beyond?
454.
455.
456.
I stop.
LOT 457 stands before me like a forbidden temple, dark and foreboding. It is made of concrete and
aluminum slats, and painted a hideous red. That’s how I think of it. A Red Temple. A temple whose
altar upon which I am to be sacrificed.
The double doors are shut, but light spills from underneath the cracks. I can hear soft sounds in
there. Men’s voices, speaking in the language of my childhood. The tap of boots and soles against a
floor’s hard surface.
Do I knock? I do, after all, have an appointment. There is no doorbell (as if!), and so I raise my fist
to rap my knuckles on the right metal door. But it whines open before any contact can be made with my
flesh, as if someone in there has been looking out for my arrival.
A middle-aged man stands on the other side of the doorway. He is short, squat, and he has a mesh
of healed scars running all over both his cheeks. I know this cannot be the man I am seeking, so perhaps
he is an aide. Do they even call them ‘aides’ in this profession?
Hesitantly, I say, “I am looking for Nicholas Greco.”
Even as I say the name, I shudder. This name has been the cause of so many sleepless nights in my
home . . . and in many other homes, I can imagine. I can well remember my mother crying in bed every
night when she thinks of my father. My poor father. She was crying very softly so as not to wake up the
twins, who turn nine this summer.
In the space behind the short man, I glimpse several other men in dark suits. They smoke and
speak in low voices. Every one of them gives me the once over. I’m aware of how ridiculous I look – all
decked up like a plastic pink Barbie doll. So incongruous in this backwater of a place, like a splash of
paint mixed with seawater.
The man eyes me up and down. His nose twitches, as if he is allergic to what he sees. Then he
nods.
“Come in.” His voice is craggy, as if he had throat surgery.
With trepidation, I step into the lion’s den.
SOFIA
The scarred man says, “I’m Abe, by the way.”
“Hi, Abe.” It doesn’t sound like a name I’d expect in this place. But then, I don’t know what to
expect. “I’m Sofia.”
“That’s a lovely name . . . Sofia.” He rolls it on his tongue as if it’s a spot of melting butter.
He leads me down a winding set of corridors, each darker than the next. From the outside, I never
would have guessed that this warehouse holds a veritable maze. The tangle of corridors holds closed
doors, behind which lurk secrets I doubt I will ever be privy to. The Greco family has a reputation far
exceeding their expanse. I’ve heard so many whispered things – things that send chills to my bones.
Sometimes we pass someone, and he is usually a dark-suited man who gives me a curious glance
but doesn’t stop to engage me in conversation. This is just not that sort of place. But most other times,
the corridors are bare. Watchful, waiting. Always that. The very walls seem to have eyes.
Finally, we come to double oak doors set at the end of one long corridor. The polished finish of the
sleek wood juxtaposes strangely with the minimalist surroundings. Butterflies flutter in my stomach,
throat and every cavity I have.
Abe respectfully knocks on the door.
“Come in,” says a disembodied voice from inside.
Abe turns one of the doorknobs and bids me to step in. I take a deep breath, lift my ankles, and try
not to trip over my pink heels as I teeter in.
The room beyond is luxurious. Leather and chrome cover the top of the gargantuan desk before
me, and the walls are done in some sort of damask that glistens with a golden sheen. Tasseled lamps sit
on side tables which are decorated with curios. Everything gleams and smells of cherry wood polish.
“Mr. Greco,” Abe says in that hoarse timber. “This is Sofia Moreno. Vic Moreno’s daughter.”
I can’t see anyone else in the room, and then I realize I’m looking at the back of a padded
executive chair. It swivels, and a pair of relentless green gold eyes suddenly bore into me.
I am taken aback by the ferocity of that gaze. It’s as though someone has speared me in the
forehead.
Nicholas Greco is seated in his black executive chair. I have never seen him before, and nor have
many people, from what I have heard. Men like him aren’t usually seen or photographed in the light of
day – unless he is caught, of course. And Nicholas Greco has never been arrested by the city watch.
He’s in his early forties. Dark-haired. Extremely and ruggedly handsome. The faint lines on his
face only seem to enhance that certain animal quality he possesses. I can feel the power of a caged lion
radiating off him in waves. He is certainly someone whose very presence and largesse would fill an
entire ballroom.
My knees buckle, and it has nothing to do with my shoes being so high.
“Come in, Sofia,” Nicholas Greco says in a deep voice.
He can be my father, I realize. Our ages are that far apart. Only my father is marginally younger,
even though he seems much older than Nicholas Greco. I try to remember what I’ve heard about this
man. Papa doesn’t talk much about him to me, but I’ve heard enough from his covert conversations with
my mother.
“ . . . the son of Donnie Greco. Took over when his father was assassinated by the DeGrassis.”
“ . . . couldn’t help it. I had to take out that loan, Debbie. The bank would have repossessed our
house.”
“ . . . they sent an enforcer today. If I didn’t pay by Sunday, he’d break my legs . . . ”
Mama doesn’t tell me out loud either. It’s as though they are trying to shield me and the twins
from knowing too much about Papa’s gambling debts. Papa has an addiction. He’s trying to seek help
for it, but whatever he did to repay his debts in the near past still haunts us to this day. The fact I’m here
is the living proof.
Nicholas Greco – the man who has threatened, through one of his enforcers, to break my father’s
legs if he doesn’t pay up – is still staring at me out of those tiger eyes. He has large eyes – so piercing
that my stomach flips at their intensity.
He says, “Why have you come to see me, Sofia Moreno?”
I swallow. My heart is banging against the drum of my rib cartilage. I can do this. I know I can.
“It’s a-about my father, Mr. Greco.”
He doesn’t say anything but listens to me patiently. I find myself studying the curvature of his
sensuous mouth. He must have been a very pretty boy when he was younger. Very pretty indeed. I
wonder how he managed to survive in such a brutal landscape. But then, his father was Donnie Greco.
No one would have dared to give him grief.
I continue, the pulse in my throat rapping a staccato beat, “He can’t repay what he owes you. He
doesn’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
Nor do I. Nor does anyone I know.
He nods, but still doesn’t say anything. Not that he’s motionless. Nicholas Greco is one of those
restless beings. Even when his entire body is not in motion, his irises are constantly roaming in the
whites of his orbs.
“So I-I’ve come in his place. To repay you.”
“How?”
This is the way it is to be. I dart a glance at Abe, who does not move. His face is impassive. I
suppose that when I decided to begin this, I should have known that my privacy would be taken away.
My life is now forfeit to those who would partake of it.
I pull in a deep breath. I straighten my back and stand tall and proud. Well, as tall as I can measure
up. I’m five foot four. My heels add another two inches. My pink sundress is something someone would
wear to church – demure, chaste and girly. I know I am a very pretty girl. Everyone has told me so. My
curly hair is a deep red. My violet eyes are wide and innocent. My complexion is porcelain, like a doll’s.
Before I can lose my nerve, my words tumble out in a rush, “I have come to give you . . . myself in
place of my father’s debt. I am a virgin. I have come to offer you my virginity . . . and m-my body . . . to
do with as you please.”
There, I have said it. I swallow the multiple lumps which have bolted to my throat. Now that my
proposition is out, a flush of embarrassment courses through my cheeks. My face must be as inflamed as
my hair. What was I thinking of when I came up with this? What would a man like Nicholas Greco want
with me when he probably has dozens of virgins at his beck and call?
I remember my father mentioning to my mother that Nicholas Greco is a widower. Something
about his wife being killed. Perhaps he would be merciful to our plight. If a man such as he could ever
be merciful at all to anyone else’s plight.
I wonder what Abe is thinking of all this. What he is thinking of me. This former Catholic
schoolgirl, raised under the banner of the church, now offering herself like a hussy to his boss. Abe must
probably have daughters of his own. He must be cringing in shame.
I cower, wondering what insults Nicholas Greco would hurl at me. Would he throw back his head
and laugh? Would he think that I am a paltry substitute for fifty thousand greenbacks in cold, hard cash?
But Nicholas Greco does not laugh. Bravely, I tip my chin up and force myself to look upon his
countenance. His handsome face is smiling, but it is not a smile of derision or scorn. He steeples his
hands, putting both his elbows on either side of his armrests. He wears a dark blue and grey pinstriped
suit made of the finest wool.
I expect him to say: What makes you think I would want your body?
Instead, he says, “That’s a very interesting proposition, Ms. Moreno.” He leans back into his chair
and scrutinizes me.
I am unnerved. “Does it mean a y-yes, Mr. Greco?”
“We shall see,” he says. “I’ll have to take it under advisement. So you are offering me your
body . . . as you say . . . for me to do as I see fit? Does that include anything and everything, Sofia?”
The way he says my name is like a feather. Sofia. His enunciation is gentle, and yet there are
undertones. Dangerous undertones.
I lick my lips. “Yes, sir. I would hope . . . if you see fit to accept my offer, sir, that I would not be
permanently scarred once you are through with me.”
This time he laughs. “What do you take me for? A monster?”
My hands are trembling. I bunch them into fists and clasp them behind my back so that he would
not see them. But I’m certain he knows how terrified I am of him. As does Abe, who is immobile behind
me.
Nicholas says softly, “Why would anyone want to harm a beautiful young woman like you if they
didn’t have the need to, Sofia?”
If they didn’t have the need to.
I shiver.
I say, trying to get through one sentence without stammering or feeling like I have to bolt, “Does
this mean you’ll accept my offer, Mr. Greco?”
I’m still oscillating between Mr. Greco and Sir. I don’t know what to call him. He doesn’t give me
any indication that he prefers one over the other.
“I’m still thinking about it. What do you say, Abe? Should I at least consider her very generous
offer?”
Abe merely grunts behind me.
Nicholas says, “Do you think you are worth fifty thousand dollars, Sofia?”
I freeze. Of course, that is the question I have been asking myself. Is my virginity worth fifty
thousand dollars?
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Are you even a virgin in the first place?” Nicholas leans forward.
“I am.”
“So I will just have to take your word for it?”
“I am not lying, sir. Once you . . . have . . . lain with me, you will know it to be the truth.”
“Lain with you.” He laughs. “What an antiquated word.”
He appears to be very bemused by the whole thing. I’m glad that at least he hasn’t thrown me out
yet. But I still do not get a vibe from him. Is he interested in me sexually or not? He’s amused by me,
that is certain. But I’m not trying to solicit amusement.
Any time now he’s going to say it. The words I dread.
Why the fuck would you think someone like me would be interested in you?
But he still doesn’t say it. Perhaps he’s giving me face. The way he stares at me is extremely
discomfiting. It’s as if he can see right through me – read me for the timid, scared, little, quivering girl
that I am.
Nicholas abruptly gets up from behind his desk. His movement is so sudden that I involuntarily
take a step back. He is tall. Six three at least. I hadn’t expected him to be so tall. I shrink back.
“Don’t be frightened,” he says. “I’m not going to bite.”
I’m not so sure about that. From all accounts, this man packs a lot of ‘bite’.
“If you are going to offer yourself in trade to me, I need to see the merchandise,” he pronounces.
“Take off your clothes, Sofia.”
I gape at him. I steal a look at Abe, who hasn’t moved a muscle since.
“You mean . . . right here? Right now?”
A thunderous image strikes me. Does he mean to take my virginity right here across this desk, with
Abe watching on? My heart quails into a fist inside my chest.
What have I gotten myself into?
“Yes,” Nicholas says. He walks to me, as tall as the ceiling itself – or so it seems. “Take off your
clothes. All of it.”
I swing back to look at Abe again. Then back at Nicholas. My eyes must be mutely pleading,
because Nicholas laughs again.
“You’re shy. You’re offering me your virginity and body to do as I please . . . and yet you’re
ashamed to show yourself to anyone else.”
He is very close to me, so close that his warmth envelops me. He is like a radiator. A furnace. I
want to take another step back, but I don’t want to augur his displeasure.
His hand rises to my chin. His touch is electric. The jolt goes through me like a lightning zap,
running down my throat and dissipating somewhere down my stomach. He strokes my jawline gently.
He has been nothing but gentle, though I sense the predatory instinct in him. His gracefulness is as
natural to him as a shark cleaving through saltwater.
He says, “Abe, leave us alone.”
“You got it, Mr. Greco,” says Abe behind me, always in that respectful tone.
I am mesmerized by Nicholas’s eyes. They are a panacea of multicolored highlights – so brilliant
as to be well-cut emeralds. And they are equally as sharp. I hear the door open and quietly shut behind
me, and I know that Abe has left us alone.
I’m alone with Nicholas Greco.
“Take off your clothes,” he repeats. There’s an edge to his tone, and I’m sure he does not wish to
repeat it once more.
He is so close that I suddenly feel claustrophobic. The room’s walls seem to close in on me, and
the ceiling is too low. A sliver of sweat trickles down my backbone underneath my dress. The dress I’m
about to take off.
He sits on the edge of his desk, giving me the space I badly crave.
I have never undressed in front of a man before. I have never even undressed in front of my
mother. When I was a child, she was always dressing and undressing me. But this is a first.
I’m not even sure I have the guts to go through with this.
Oh, I know I am all mock bravado when I came here, but now – faced with the actual situation –
I’m knock-kneed and scared. I take a deep breath. Why am I doing this again? Oh yes. I close my eyes
and visualize my father – desperate and decrepit and backed into a corner by this very man’s goons.
When I open my eyes again, I am filled with new resolve. I will see this through. For my father.
For my mother. For the twins. For the entire sanctity of the Moreno family.
I start with my red jacket. It’s the best one I’ve got. I shrug it off, and carefully lay it on a velvet
sofa behind me. The room is filled with seating places – sofas, armchairs, chairs – presumably for the
many visitors who grace this place. Then I reach behind my dress for the zipper. I find it, and it tears
with a k-r-a-a-a-c-k.
I self-consciously slip my dress off my arms and torso, revealing my lacy white bra and panties.
My clothes are not meant to be seductive. I have put on my best lingerie, but the cut is what I am used
to. I do not know how to be seductive. I have been brought up amongst nuns and girls who read the
catechism. ‘Seduction’ is a word in the dictionary our teachers revile.
I stand before Nicholas in my underwear, and I realize I am flushing scarlet from head to toe. I
have never blushed so hard in my life. I do not know what to do next. He doesn’t give me any clues, any
pointers to tell me I’m doing the right thing. Does he find my body desirable?