She laughed. “Gin’s what they drank, where I came from. And gin’s what they still drink. Only thing that makes life bearable.”
“And these days you’ve got a prince waiting for you at home. Done quite well for yourself, all in all.”
“As have you.”
He’d drunk too much wine. Or perhaps it was the unaccustomed cigarette that was making him dizzy. He told himself to calm down, let her cuddle him a bit between the sheets, allow the mild stirring between his legs to gather some energy. After which time she could revive him completely.
She could accommodate anybody. Advertised as such, in all the finest gentlemen’s clubs in London.
And she had a prince in her bed at home.
He didn’t know which information he found more irksome.
“How’s Monsieur Soulard’s health?”
“Thank you, I believe he’s a bit better.”
“Good, I’m happy to hear it.”
And do you love him?
But he hadn’t really asked her that. He’d simply, for the briefest of moments, imagined he might.
As though – he felt his jaw tighten – he hadn’t heard enough about her and her blasted prince for one day. After all, she was the only one to have a personal connection, outside of the confines of this house.
Rolling onto his side to face her, he waved a hand in the direction of the scars.
“Well, anyway,” he heard himself say, “it’s a relief to hear you don’t think it looks so bad. Because I’m courting a young lady, and…”
Her eyes glittered above a reassuring smile. “It’ll go fine, Mr. Merion. When you marry the young lady, I mean.”
“Of course it will,” he said as he reached for her.
And if this time she made rather quick work of bringing him off – well, really, what had he expected?
“And tomorrow?” she asked brightly. Her attention appeared to be concentrated on her image in the mirror, while she cleared the black stuff from the rims of her eyes.
Tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow he should avail himself of the house’s amenities, shouldn’t he? Do something different, exotic, a little less mundane than sitting around in bed trading stories of their childhoods.
Tomorrow he’d would satisfy his curiosity – since he’d never have an opportunity like this again.
“Tomorrow, why don’t you show me what they’d do in that red room? The one with the… the gargoyles, and…”
“I know the room you mean. By all means, Mr. Merion. Whatever you want, luv.”
Friday: The Red Punishment Room
“You’re sure now?” she asked him.
“Quite sure.”
“And have I explained it all quite clearly?”
“Perfectly clearly. Thank you.”
“And if, at any time or for any reason, you wish me to stop, what will you say?”
“I shall say ‘rhinoceros.’”
“Be sure to remember it, because if you say ‘stop,’ I shan’t pay it the least bit of attention.”
It seemed absurd, but she’d assured him that it was always done that way. The more ridiculous the special “escape” word, the more likely the customer was to remember it. And the less likely to say it in the ordinary course of events.
Whatever “ordinary” might prove itself to be.
She wasn’t wearing a peignoir today. Nor even a shift. Just a very tightly laced corset, piped in black velvet.
Black stockings and tall boots of russet leather. Riding boots, he supposed.
Her breasts were bare, nipples dark and erect. Lips painted a red so dark they seemed black under the skylights.
It’s a bit like the theater, she’d explained. Not like real life at all. A girl who’s good at it takes you to a place that’s safe and dangerous at the same time.
Are you good at it? he’d asked.
What do you think? she’d asked in return.
“Well then,” she said. “Take off those clothes, boy. And be quick about it.”
He stared at her, surprised. Somehow he’d expected her to undress him.
“Boy?” Her voice was like ice.
“Oh, yes, sorry.” He unknotted his cravat.
“Yes, Miss Myles.”
“All right, yes, Miss Myles. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry, Miss Myles.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Myles.”
“How sorry, boy?”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Myles. Please forgive me, Miss Myles.”
She nodded, barely countenancing his apology, and far more interested, it seemed, in how expeditiously he’d be able to peel his clothes off.
Which wouldn’t be easy with his hands so sweaty. Amazing what a fuss he’d made yesterday, about revealing his scars to her. “You can sit on the floor,” she told him, “to remove your boots.”
This time he formulated his thanks so as not to require correction. He was quite sincere, too; if she hadn’t allowed him to sit on the floor, his knee wouldn’t have allowed him to maintain his balance.
How stately she looked; she seemed to tower over him while he grubbed about on the floor. It would be easy, he thought, to forget how small she really was.
But one wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. Finally disencumbered of the boots, he scrambled to his feet to tear off his trousers, drawers, and stockings. And now to stand quite naked – he felt graceless, and ridiculously, gratuitously tall – endeavoring to maintain an air of calm as he awaited her pleasure.
He could hide the feelings of vulnerability. What he couldn’t hide was how arousing he found it all.
Her lip curled. “Well, at least part of you knows how to show some respect for what we’re about.”
“Beg pardon, Miss Myles, but what are we about?”
“We’re going to auction you off, boy. This is an Arabian bazaar, and you’re about to be sold into servitude.”
She reached a slender finger to touch him, where the base of his cock met his scrotum. Only a finger, and a bit carelessly, as one might diddle a cat at the bottom of its ear.
He felt himself growing harder.
She laughed softly and pinched him. Not so softly now. “Wise of you not to inquire what sort of servitude. Or perhaps you’ve already guessed.”
The room had a different look to it than when he’d first encountered it – had it only been three days ago? The light from the glass panes in the roof was livid, almost green; there was a storm imminent outside. She’d made a nice, crackling fire in the grate; he could see flames reflected in the polished surface of her boots. She held a black riding crop in her hand.
Pacing in front of the fire, she weighed the slender black rod in her palm. Frowning now, testing its balance: something about it didn’t satisfy her.
She stopped her pacing to open the ebony cabinet. She looked to be considering alternatives to the riding crop. Her concentration was intense; to all appearances it was as though she’d quite lost interest in him.
He studied the apparatus on the wall opposite to where he stood. A pair of chains – wrists cuffs attached to the ends – dangled down to… well, to approximately the level of his wrists, in point of fact. Three days ago he hadn’t fully grasped the mechanics of the contraption, but in fact it was quite simple. She’d be able to adjust the length of the chains with a pulley, loop it over a hook, and lock it – lock him – smartly into place.
A certain hinged mechanism had particularly confused him when he’d first looked at it. But the design was clear enough now: the chains could be adjusted to hang at various distances out from the wall. Some customers might be immobilized with their bums or bellies pressed up against the stained red surface; he, however, would not. He wouldn’t have that protection; she’d be able to get at him from all sides.
“Ah yes, much better.” She closed the cabinet, grinned, and held up a slender branch of rattan. She swung it once or twice so that he could hear it whistle. He felt a bit dizzy: the fire was too hot. Or the scent
of myrrh – perhaps it lay too heavy on the air.
It’s not really a matter of pain, she’d told him. Although for a certain type of gentlemen the pain makes it real; sometimes one has to swat at them until one’s arm is ruddy exhausted.
But a man like you, who’s been flogged in the way of naval discipline… No, I don’t think so.
What you want is a certain quality of attention. Well, you’ll understand soon enough. Just don’t think I won’t take a swipe at you now and again.
Feigning more calm than he felt, he stared into her black-rimmed eyes. He wouldn’t look frightened or ask for mercy.
She stared back at him. “Turn around.”
“Just to make things clear.” She whispered it in his ear, as though someone might overhear. She took a step backward then, and gave him smart taste of the rattan, right across his bottom.
Clear enough.
“Turn around again, to thank me,” she said; he complied quite correctly – even rather elegantly, he thought.
“Now keep your eyes down. Head up though, and back straight… Yes, that’s right… That’s very pretty. We like a modest boy here, one who keeps his eyes lowered.
“There will be no looking at my face, do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Myles. I understand, Miss Myles.” Obediently, he directed his gaze at her boots, her slender thighs, skin very white above the lace tops of her black stockings.
Hard not to be permitted to look at her face, but in truth he was grateful for the limitations she’d imposed upon his gaze.
Better to focus on her commands, concentrate on her low, icy, precisely pitched voice.
It’s the voice, she’d told him earlier. You’d be surprised how much of it depends upon the voice.
He hadn’t believed it at the time.
“Over there now.” She pointed the switch toward a spot on the floor, near the shadow cast by the dangling chains.
“Open your mouth,” she told him after he’d situated himself correctly.
“Here.” She placed the rattan between his lips, crosswise – he must look like a dog, he thought, with a bone. “Hold this for me, boy, until I need it again. And mind you don’t get it all nasty with drooling. Nor put any tooth marks on it.”
Fascinating – astonishing, in fact, how important it seemed to be, to follow her instructions. To hold the switch tightly between his lips and keep it perfectly dry. No teeth marks – well, he’d always wondered how a woman… All a matter of concentration, he expected.
He concentrated mightily on the task, while she grasped his right wrist and proceeded to shackle him.
His left wrist now. She was amazingly deft with the buckles and obviously familiar with the machinery; his arms were hoisted overhead and his body secured into place before he quite realized it had happened. He was glad to discover that the restraints helped him steady himself; he’d worried about being on his feet for so long without his cane.
She took the switch from beneath his lips and inspected it. No spit or teeth marks on it, none that he could see, anyway. He found himself hoping for a word of commendation, but none seemed to be forthcoming.
“What’s your name, boy? The ladies want to know.”
“Jack, Miss Myles, my name’s Jack. And the ladies? Beg pardon, Miss Myles, but who are the ladies?”
“Curious, are you, Jack?” She lifted his cock with the tip of the reed.
He wouldn’t gasp or moan, he told himself. Not yet, anyway.
Not until she forced it out of him.
“Good boy, showing a little control.”
More difficult, though, if she were to continue to diddle him in that humiliating way. He’d rather have another swat across the bottom.
He got one.
And decided he might prefer to be diddled.
“The ladies,” she said, “well, they’re fantasy ladies, in a fantasy harem, bored with waiting for the fantasy sultan’s attention. The sultan doesn’t officially ratify this practice, of course; you won’t find it in any of the literature. But from time to time he looks the other way and allows them a diversion. And so they need a likely boy, a ready, demanding sort of boy…”
She chuckled.
“They’re insatiable, Jack. The one who gets you will keep you busy from morning till night. And they’re rich, they don’t have any real money, of course – well, why would you need money in a harem? But there are the jewels, you see. They’ll pay me a thief’s ransom in jewels, for the right boy. A pretty, well-trained boy…”
To bring it off correctly, she’d explained, a girl would have to know a bit about the customer. Sometimes they might have a drink or two together, so she can ask him a few questions, find out what’s important to him. She looks for ways he’s a bit weak, you see, fearful, or vain. Just enough so she’ll know what to say.
Make it feel real to him – personal, you know – for all that it’s just pretend.
It’s not that difficult, she’d added. Not so much as you might think, anyway.
“We can see how pretty you are, Jack. It’s a scandal, such thick eyelashes on a man – yes, they’re quite lovely, especially when you keep your eyes down so sweetly and modestly. And that smile – that shy, honest English yeoman smile of yours, practiced it hard enough over the years, I reckon – got you out of more than one scrape and lately it’s made you rather a pet of the ton, hasn’t it?
“Smile for the ladies, Jack.”
Absurd to be flashing his teeth at an imaginary audience. But it wasn’t difficult. It didn’t even feel strange to be doing it. It felt to him that he’d been smiling his modest, boyish smile all over London, ever since Lord Crowden had taken him up.
“Now turn, bend. Straighten up now, stand sideways so they can see how nice and tall we’ve got you at attention.”
Still cold and controlled, she raised her voice a bit, as though projecting it outward, to a crowd.
“With a smile and a cock like that, ladies, who could resist him?”
She’d created a perfect illusion. He could almost see the harem ladies’ large, liquid, darkly painted eyes peering from beneath sequined veils, the bangles sparkling at their wrists; almost hear their appreciative murmurs, catch a few whispers and giggles.
And perhaps a few hisses as well, from the gargoyles.
She made a slow circle around him, stopping to display him from different angles, prod him into position with maddening little touches of the switch.
“Lovely shoulders, he’s a strong one. And” – shoving his legs open with the toe of her boot – “may I invite you ladies to turn your attention to the well-developed musculature of the arse and thighs? He can move it, I’ll tell you, and then move it some more – it’s like a fine piece of engineering, a modern improved steam pump, fully operational and not just for show. Wiggle your arse for the ladies, Jack; grind your hips: show ’em how you’ll pump ’em.”
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“What, suddenly shy? Or simply in need of a bit of instruction?”
At which point she used the switch to prove to him that he could – and would – wiggle, grind, and pump as hard and as long as she wanted him to.
And that he would thank her for every stroke of punishment – or instruction, as she’d begun to call it. He would thank her loudly, clearly, and not forgetting to address her with respect and of course as Miss Myles.
He would. And did.
His face and neck were hot. Partly from the pain, though in fact her hand was very controlled; he was sure she hadn’t broken the skin. But mostly it was the embarrassment: the exposure – almost, he thought, like there really was an audience watching. A human audience, and not just the gargoyles, grinning and grimacing at him from their perch on the molding.
And not just her, strutting in front of him so cruelly and deliciously.
It’s like a play, he reminded himself. It’s not real.
Damn if it didn’t feel real, though. Real enough to make him sweat. And keep him ach
ingly erect as well. She gave a low laugh. Her voice was soft. He had to strain to hear it now.
“Well, we can all see how pretty he is, and strong too, but pretty comes cheap, and strong isn’t hard to find either. And I won’t lie to you ladies – he’s not as young as some boys you could buy for a similar price.
“He’s had some experience, life has got to him, for all that he’s still a boy some ways, and sometimes” – a light swat of the rattan here – “in need of correction. But a taste of life mellows a person, don’t you agree, a little life experience could be a good thing, depending on your taste…
“Still, we come to the important thing now, the thing that will make our Jack a prize for some rich, lucky lady. Some very fortunate lady, oh yes, the lady who…
“Well, the fact of the matter is that our Jack is the rare sort of man who enjoys providing a lady with some pleasure for herself.
“Of course, he didn’t know it himself until quite recently, but he takes instruction well, you see, as I shall demonstrate…”
Her voice seemed to falter here.
But perhaps, he thought, it was only a different sort of theatrics. A trap set for him, to make him raise his eyelids after he’d been forbidden it. He waited.
“I… I’ve trained him myself, and he… well, it’ll be a pleasure to hand him over to someone who…”
Her voice was fading.
He stared at her. She looked very small, her painted face pale and almost childlike, framed by tousled black curls.
Frightened.
“Rhinoceros,” he said.
She gaped at him as though stunned.
Stupid word. Ridiculous word. “Rhinoceros!”
For good measure he yelled, “Stop!”
And then, “Damn it, Cléo, get me out of this rig!
“Come on, that’s a good girl, yes, that’s right, now unhook the other one…”
He had his arms around her. She was shivering. “What is it?” he said. “Are you ill?”
A House East of Regent Street Page 7
