VirginsforSale.com

By Sky Corgan

Althea
There's no way a handsome billionaire would pay money for me.
I'm mousey and look like I stepped right out of the nerd brigade. It's not like the guys were beating down my door, so I figured I'd sell my virginity for some extra cash.

At first, I thought the website was a scam. But when a handsome stranger shows up at my work in a limo and demands that I come with him, I'm swept off my feet…and not in the way I expected.

Gavin
There's a rare innocence about her I haven't seen before.
When I buy her virginity from the website, I think it's going to be cut and dry. But she's more than a business transaction, and she's damn sure letting me know it.
Now I find myself chasing a girl who was supposed to be my subservient little housewife.
I'll make her bend to my will, though. All it should take is exposing her to pleasures she never knew existed.
Let the games begin…

Heat level: Smokin' Hot

VirginsforSale.com is a 35,000 word romance about a girl who bit off more than she could chew when she tried to sell her virginity on a website. It features a dominant billionaire, a bratty virgin, and some intense between the sheets action. Happily ever after guaranteed. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky Corgan
• Release date: Dec 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386694250

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ALTHEA

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One would wonder why a girl like me would do something like this—willingly give herself away to a man she's never met before, promising her complete subservience. Not give herself away. Sell herself. It's hard for me to be real with myself about it, especially when it makes me feel like a prostitute. But that's what I'm doing, selling myself to some rich sexual deviant. Equivalent to a mail order bride, but something much much darker.

He will own me for life, be able to do whatever he wants to me. I just hope that it's everything I've ever fantasized about.

I've watched my mother work hard and scrimp and save every penny to provide a decent life for us. I've witnessed the sleepless nights and tears and been left alone for her double shifts at the diner. I don't ever want to work as hard as she does to make ends meet. And now I won't have to.

This will be a blessing for both of us. I'll give her half of the money, and then as soon as my new owner comes to retrieve me, I'll move out so that she won't have to work so hard. I know she won't understand, and I'm honestly not sure I want to explain. In hindsight, this is probably partially her fault.

My real father bailed the second he heard he'd knocked my mother up. Every time I ask about him, she gives me a different name, so I'm not even sure she remembers who he was. A nameless face in a handful of possible sperm donors. My mom never tried to hide or make an apology for the fact that she was a bit of a skank before I came into the world. She's retained her beauty throughout all these years, something that, unfortunately, didn't get passed down to me, but she's never really been good at finding decent men.

When I look at my mom, I realize that I got almost none of her features, and it makes me sad. She has this gorgeous long straight auburn hair, while mine is the color of mud. It also curls into an unruly mess once it grows past my shoulders, so I make sure to keep it cut just above them. Her face is almond shaped while mine is round. Her nose is long and slender while mine is short and snubbed. She's modelesque tall with an hourglass figure and double D tits. I'm flat chested and barely 5'2. If you stood us side by side, you'd never be able to tell we're related. The only thing I inherited from her is her pale blue eyes, but even those are cursed. While she has 20/20 vision, I wear glasses. I've always wanted contacts, but she says that glasses last longer for the price. Maybe now that I'll have my own money, I can get some.

I sometimes wonder who my real father is, not that I suppose it matters in the grand scheme of things. The only father figures I had growing up, besides my uncles, were the occasional flavor of the month that flitted in and out of my mother's life. Men came and went for her throughout most of my childhood, though never more than one at a time. The only one who ever stood out was this guy named Jason who was a gas station manager. I was ten when my mom started dating him, and for a while, I thought they would get married, as he was the only one who lasted for more than a few weeks. He was the most handsome man I'd ever seen, and I was determined that if she didn't marry him, I would. Kind, and always with a smile on his face, I thought the world of him. But five months into their relationship, he disappeared. Mom later told me it was because he liked men, too, and she couldn't deal with that. Whether that's true or not, I'll never know because I never saw him again. I can't help but think it wasn't, though—that she fucked up in some way and scared him off. I was resentful about that for a while. He was my first real crush, and I quickly realized once I started becoming interested in boys, that I wanted to find someone just like him.

Not very lofty ambitions. Find an older, handsome gas station manager to settle down with. My standards got raised a bit as time progressed. I still like older men, but as my teen years hit, I really began to understand the meaning and power of money.

High school wasn't particularly kind to me. My mom wouldn't waste money on new clothes, so my entire wardrobe came from thrift stores, and she set a price limit per item, so I rarely walked away with anything trendy. With my large discount round-framed glasses that made me look like an owl and my faded tops and jeans, I was not very popular. It was easy to resent those who had more money than us, to be jealous over all the things they took for granted. It's said that money can't buy happiness, but it damn sure looked like it could from my vantage point.

Maybe that's another reason why I gravitated towards older men—why I had no interest in boys my own age. Older men had jobs. Older men had money. Perhaps thinking that way makes me a gold digger, but I don't really care. I want security from a man. If I was half as pretty as my mom, I might have had a chance of becoming someone's trophy wife. But that's not the case...so I chose this method instead.

When I read the ad on the fetish website at the library, I couldn't believe my eyes. I read it in chunks, bits and pieces, constantly glancing over my shoulder to make sure that no one else was looking at the screen. Public computers aren't meant for pornography, but I've already read every BDSM book in the sex section, and I figured that if there was a handsome, older, rich dominant man somewhere out in the world for me, I'd find him by looking online.

A quick Google search led me to DaddyDoms.com, a website that connects willing submissives to older men in the lifestyle. The profiles I went through weren't very impressive. Most of the men either weren't attractive or had fetishes that were major turn-offs for me, like skat play or making me wear diapers. The few guys that I did message were either catfish or not interested. The handful of guys that messaged me first, I definitely wasn't interested in. It wasn't long before I began to get discouraged.

And then the ad popped up.

On any website dealing with sex, there will be a ton of ads in the sidebar. Usually, they're targeted at men. Images and videos of women with perfect tits overlaid with text talking about how they're ready to get fucked. Just click here, and you can have pussy galore. This unrealistically attractive women is waiting for YOU. Sometimes, they even have a made up distance so that the guy will think she's nearby. It's designed to draw them away from the dating site they're on and onto another. I've seen them so many times I practically have automatic blinders at this point.

But that's not what catches my eye. There's a solid brown bar at the bottom of the screen with simple white text that says, Virgins for sale. Buy her once. Own her forever. It's an ad meant to lure men, but I click on it anyway.

The screen that pops up is no more tasteful than the ads in the sidebar of the website I was on previously, but I find myself scrolling down to the footer where there are links to navigate to other less flashy parts of the site, specifically looking for a link to apply as one of the virgins. I find it, click it, and am taken to a black screen with a wall of text and another link at the bottom for the application. Reading through it as quickly as I can, dollar signs flash across my eyes when I realize how much my virginity might be worth, up to $100,000.

Interested girls must send in several photos, both nude and fully clothed, a list of their measurements and shoe size, and a photo ID that clearly displays their date of birth. They must also fill out the application in its entirety. The people who work at the site will assess all the information and decide on a fair asking price. They will submit the amount to the girl, and she can accept or decline to continue with the process. Once that's done, the girl just sits back and waits until an offer comes in.

Even though I couldn't help but feel like it was some kind of scam to trick girls into giving them nudes, I still printed out the application and took it home.

Now here I am, filling it out, which is kind of fun. There's a section of questions on what I will and won't do, and what type of man I want to be with. Instantly, an image of Jason flashes through my mind, his large blue eyes and curly blonde hair.

Reading the long disclaimer page is less fun. Chills run down my spine from some of the things they require once you're sold off—things that would make most girls click away from the website. I will not see my buyer until after I accept the contract, nor be given any information on him. That means I'd be selling myself to a complete stranger. If I decline the first offer that comes in, I will be disqualified from future offers. This is a one chance opportunity. Also, once I'm sold, I give up all consent. The man can do whatever he wants to do with me inside legal boundaries. I must obey his every command, or I'll be forced to return the money. If I let him deflower me, I'll only have to return half of the money.

At least there's that, I think with a sardonic smirk.

My chest feels heavy as I sit back on my bed and think about if I really want to do this. For something that I can easily walk away from, the contract seems to carry a lot of weight.

Brushing my concerns away, I sneak my mom's phone from her purse in the middle of the night and take a bunch of naughty pictures of myself, sending them to my email account before deleting them from her phone and putting it back in her purse.

The next day, I submit my application with all the required information. When a nosy woman standing next to me at the fax machine asks if I'm applying for a job, I simply smile and nod, though I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my neck. No, I'm being an idiot and giving all my