Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  She passed on the other side of the road to the inn. It was noisy, filled with loud voices and raucous laughter and it frightened her. She recalled Tilly pointing down the street and went that way, coming to a narrow alley with a lop-sided sign that she could just about read in the flickering streetlamp. Friggle Lane. This was it. There was no turning back. She straightened her spine and set off into the gloom.

  The smell was disgusting, that of damp and bad drains. She lifted her skirt, trying to keep the hem out of the mud. There were several doors on either side and she finally came to a dead end, facing another door which, when pulled open, gave access to a shadowy hallway that led to a staircase. She mounted it, thankful for the pallid gaslight. On reaching the top she was faced with more doors. From inside one of them came the strains of a popular song.

  She knocked and, ‘’Oo the bloody ’ell’s that?’ came a voice recognisable as Doreen’s. ‘You expectin’ anyone, Tilly?’

  ‘Nah! Open up, you lazy mare,’ was Tilly’s instant response. ‘An’ put that bloody phonogram off! Gets on my nerves, it does.’

  ‘Oh, fuck you!’ Doreen growled, and there was a sickening scrape as the needle was dragged across the record, followed by silence. The door was yanked back on its hinges and Doreen was framed there. She stared at Angela and Angela stared back. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ Doreen exclaimed. ‘If it ain’t Lady Muck ’erself!’

  Tilly appeared at her elbow, shoved her aside and held out a hand to Angela. ‘You in trouble, miss? Come on in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angela said, filled with trepidation, and relief, too. The room was squalid. It was obvious that they lived, ate and slept in it and – she shuddered – probably carried out their illegal profession there as well.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Tilly enquired, dressed in long drawers with frills above the knee and a pink satin corset from which her breasts rose, beautifully sculpted half-moons of pleasure and sustenance.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angela murmured again, resting her bag on a rickety chair.

  Doreen planted herself in front of her, demanding, ‘What you doin’ ’ere?’

  ‘I had nowhere else to go,’ Angela explained. ‘I had to get away from Mr Taylor, that’s Jacob’s uncle. He wouldn’t leave me alone and Jacob’s away, and I shouldn’t be staying there without a chaperone, and tonight he tried to take advantage of me.’

  Doreen grinned, relinquished her role of interrogator and slumped on the battered old couch. ‘Worth a bob or two, ain’t ’ee? You missed your chance there, gal.’

  ‘I can’t bear him anywhere near me,’ Angela declared. ‘He’s a horrible, slimy little man.’

  ‘“Beggars can’t be choosers”,’ Doreen opined sagely, shrugging her shoulders. Her grubby dressing gown fell open over her olive-skinned breasts, crowned with prominent brown nipples. ‘You should see some of the scum I ’as to wank off. Men are plonkers. That’s why we gals like to make love to one another.’

  Angela listened and absorbed this information, remembering Valerie and her close companions – Maude, Trisha and Viola, and the way they had caressed and toyed with each other’s genitals. Her own feelings, too, had been ambiguous – her breasts had tingled and her cleft ached and she had wanted to touch Valerie and be touched in return. Was this what Doreen referred to? Did women really enjoy sexual congress together?

  Tilly poured tea from an earthenware pot placed on the trivet in front of the meagre coal fire. She added milk from a chipped jug and sugar from a grocer’s dark blue packet, gave it a twirl with a dented spoon and handed the chipped china mug to Angela.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating the tumbled, unmade double bed. ‘Take your ’at off, an’ your coat an’ make yourself at ’ome. Tell us all about it and why you’ve come ’ere.’

  ‘As I’ve said, I can’t bear to be anywhere near Mr Taylor. I have a little money and will pay for my lodgings, if you can suggest anywhere decent where I might stay.’

  ‘You a virgin?’ Doreen interrupted, sprawling on the mattress, drinking gin, not tea.

  ‘No,’ Angela replied. ‘But I’m not married, haven’t left a husband or anything like that.’

  ‘Then ’ow come you’re ’ere, in this dump?’

  ‘I’ve run away from the man who wanted to dominate me. He made me call him “master”.’

  ‘Oh, one of them. I knows the kind. Uses the whip an’ that. Wants slaves. ’Ow d’you get mixed up with ’im?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘An’ you don’t want to tell it?’ Tilly cut in, giving Doreen a warning glare. ‘Jacob’s told me some of it. That’s all right. We’ve all got our secret’s ’ere. You can kip with us, till you find somethin’ better.’

  ‘Thank you for the offer,’ Angela said, and sipped the strong tea and wondered what would happen next. There was no knowing which way the girls would turn, particularly the volatile Doreen who now leaned against Angela’s shoulder and started to unfasten the buttons at the front of her black bodice, exposing her lace chemise.

  ‘You’re pretty,’ she murmured. ‘I could fancy you. Ever tried it with a gal?’

  ‘No,’ Angela said, sitting stock-still, wanting her to stop, longing for her to continue, gasping as Doreen traced a line down between her breasts and, bending forward, brushed aside the lacy undergarment and opened her mouth to a nipple, not touching it, simply warming it with her gin-sweet breath.

  ‘Time you did. You’re ripe for it. Ain’t she, Tilly? Let’s show ’er what she’s bin missin’, eh?’

  Tilly came to the bed and stood there spread-legged, with her knuckles resting on her hipbones. She spoke directly to Angela, asking, ‘Would you like that, miss?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angela said, her voice breaking. ‘I’m so weary that my thoughts are jumbled.’

  ‘Lie back an’ stop frettin’,’ Tilly coaxed. ‘I’ll be with you, an’ so will Doreen.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Doreen agreed, kissing Angela’s earlobe. ‘Let yourself go. Learn from us, and besides enjoyin’ it you’ll find out about what the men likes, too – yes, deary, one of their pet dreams is to see gals bringin’ each other off. Two or more pairs of tits an’ arses rubbin’ together an’ their cocks will be spurtin’ like geysers.’

  Her coarse words were as nothing compared to the pleasure tingling through Angela, that tongue-tip dipping inside her ear, causing tingles down her neck to her spine and fanning out at her lower back. She sighed and trembled and lay limp and the women undressed her, just as if she was a wax doll without life-blood or animation. Still shy, though her nudity had been seen and enjoyed by many people now, she wanted to place a hand over her pussy and an arm over her breasts, but Doreen would have none of this.

  ‘No,’ she said bossily. ‘I wants to see everythin’… teats… muff… arse’ole… the lot.’ She looked down, mouth loose, eyes hot as she examined Angela visually. Then she turned her over onto her front, and her tone changed immediately. ‘Blimey, you poor bitch! Look at the state of you! Was it ’im what done it to you? Arthur Taylor?’

  ‘It was my master,’ Angela replied, her body blossoming under Tilly’s gentle handling.

  ‘The one you ran away from?’ Tilly asked, cuddling against Angela, one leg thrown over her thighs, cambric knickers rubbing against that sensitive, curly-haired triangle crowning Angel’s naked fork.

  ‘Knows ’is stuff,’ Doreen commented, peering closely at the bruises then, as if inspired by such skill, bringing her own hand down, palm braced, against Angela’s bare bum.

  ‘Watch out,’ warned Tilly. ‘You nearly ’it me then. What you tryin’ to prove?’

  ‘That we gals knows better than those cock-happy males, an’ can bring a sister off far quicker than the lot of ’em glued together,’ Doreen challenged and, swooping over Angela, wrested her free from Tilly. Holding her flat on her back, arms twisted above her head with steely fingers around each of her wrists, she lowered her raven-hued head and worked her tongue between the thickened pink
line of Angela’s labia.

  Angela jerked at the shock of so much pleasure all at one time, and bucked her hips against that wonderful mouth and agile, knowing tongue. She was aware that Tilly was pulling at her nipples, making them stand up stiffly and communicate pleasure signals to her rock-hard clitoris. Doreen let her go for an instant and stripped. So did Tilly. The sight of so much female flesh, the fragrance of their body odours, the delightful touch of their fingers on and in her most sensitive places, roused Angela as never before. She forgot the vows she had made to be good, truthful, modest and blameless. What did any of this matter now?

  As if to prove their words the two women lavished pleasure on her. Tilly gently kissed her mouth, then penetrated it, her tongue coiling round Angela’s that responded in a dance of desire. At the same time her nimble fingers flicked and pinched and rolled Angela’s nipples. Doreen was prone between her spread thighs, concentrating on her slick wet labial wings and the eager clitoris that swelled at the top of them. Angela threw back her head, her face contorted like that of a saint undergoing martyrdom. The sensation was almost too great to be borne. And it did not stop, rising in wave upon wave till she finally peaked, screaming and mindless and plunging into unconsciousness for a split second.

  When she regained her senses it was to find Tilly on her knees on the floor, arms resting on the bed and Doreen bending over her. Angela propped herself up on her elbow, staring bemused at the erect and lifelike mock phallus that jutted from Doreen’s pubis, fastened there by a harness that clinched her hips and ran between her legs and up her bottom crack. She reached round and manipulated Tilly’s love-bud, and then anointed the dildo with juice scooped from her vulva.

  Holding her close, she inserted the skilfully moulded cock into her partner’s pouting hole and worked it in and out, using the force of her pelvis just as a man would do.

  At the same time she kept up the friction on Tilly’s clit and appeared to be reaching a climax herself, stimulated by the mighty rubber cock.

  Wailing like banshees they came almost simultaneously. Doreen unbuckled the godemiche that glistened with Tilly’s dew. She threw it to one side and drew her paramour down on the fusty mattress, wrapping them both in the quilt, Angela, too.

  ‘What is that thing?’ Angela asked.

  ‘It’s a strap-a-dick-to-me,’ Doreen answered with a throaty laugh. ‘A toy, one of many. Want to try it?’

  ‘Not now,’ Angela said, snuggling down among the pillows, too tired to notice how dirty they were.

  She slept for a while and was awakened by Tilly and Doreen getting ready to go out. ‘Work to do,’ Tilly said, smiling at her in the flyblown mirror as she stuck hatpins into her elaborate feathered headgear. ‘You’ll be safe enough ’ere. Don’t let no one in. We’ll talk later. Bye,’ and both of them rustled out in a cloud of cheap perfume.

  Aidan hoped that the entertainment organised by Valerie would relieve his continued ennui. He had never felt so lacking in drive, passion or ambition. He laid the blame at Angela’s doorstep, frustrated at being unable to forget her, furious because she had defied him.

  The party was being held at the home of a renowned brothel house madame, Mrs Priscilla Wallace. She resided in a large mansion on the outskirts of Mayfair and her clients were mostly gentlemen of standing, politicians, ministers of the church, and revered advisors to Queen Victoria. Priscilla was the soul of discretion, and such a policy paid off. She was reputed to be enormously rich. Valerie had hired her staff and services for the night. Invitations had been sent out, mostly by word of mouth in the Whitehall clubs.

  It was not Aidan’s first visit, and he walked across the opulent hall and into a reception room that contained billiard tables, around which stood several men in evening suits, chalking cues and eyeing up the balls. There were girls with them, Priscilla’s votaries of love, wearing jewelled g-strings and high-heeled shoes and stockings upheld by garters. Some were watching play, others distracting the players. One was massaging the long member of a gentleman who was trying to line up for his next strike. She ignored this, rubbing his cock till it stiffened.

  Aidan was aware of noise coming from the conservatory. The glass was steamy and it was not until he walked into this place redolent of palms and fig trees and other imported blooms that he could see what was taking place. A shallow tank had been set up in the centre. It was surrounded by sweating men, all eagerly betting on their favourites as two strapping ladies, naked as the day they were born, mud-wrestled in the container. Aidan was fascinated. The splendidly formed contestants were covered in the gluey substance, slipping and sliding, giving no quarter, hitting, scratching, biting and pinching. It was difficult for them to get a purchase and they were constantly falling down, adding another layer to their skins. They grabbed at each other’s matted hair, screeching invective and insults. Blood started to flow and one girl’s right eye was partly closed. The other’s lips were swollen to twice their normal size.

  The observers were in a high state of excitement, fired by the sight of such nudity and violence. Aidan felt his own prick responding, but unable to get through the crowd for a closer view, wandered into another room where the walls were lined with mirrors. There was a bar with waiters serving a variety of alcoholic beverages, and several couches, including one covered in white leather that looked like a massage bench, apart from the straps dangling from it, along with chains and handcuffs. Aidan imagined Angela stretched out there, could almost feel the plaited handle of his whip clenched in his palm, and see her writhing in her bonds, pleading, whimpering, begging him to release her from her agony and take her to heaven.

  He needed relief for his throbbing cock that kept reminding him of the thrill that would be obtained by entering one of the muddy Amazons. He looked around for further diversion and sat on one of the deeply cushioned settees, then beckoned over a nervous looking girl. With any luck she would be a genuine newcomer, not an experienced whore pretending to be unschooled. It would cost him more, of course, but what did that matter compared to the joy of corrupting innocence?

  He signalled to one of the older women who was prowling around, making sure no punter got away without paying for his jollies. She came over, tall and magnificent, in control, wearing a black leather corset sparkling with sequins, and split crotch bloomers. Her stilt-heeled boots increased her height.

  ‘My lord, what do you need?’ she questioned, using his title sarcastically, without the slightest deference to his rank. To her he was nothing but a man with an urge that needed fulfilling without delay.

  ‘Send her to me,’ he commanded, pointing to the girl. ‘Is she a virgin?’

  ‘Yes, sir, no more than sixteen,’ she averred. ‘She’ll cost you.’

  ‘I don’t want full intercourse, only her mouth.’

  ‘In that case you can have it for a guinea.’

  ‘Daylight robbery,’ he grumbled, yet thrilling at this transaction that reduced every contact between the sexes to the most basic, low-grade lust – sans tenderness – sans respect – sans love.

  ‘Night time robbery, my lord,’ she reminded, and her eyes flashed, betraying her dislike of men, the game and the whole degrading business.

  She gestured to the shrinking girl who tiptoed across to where Aidan lounged with his trousers unbuttoned. His large organ protruded through the gap and he was proud of it, so stiff and ready, a proof of his virility. He felt strong waves of excitement as she stared down at it, her eyes wide with fear and disgust. She was a dainty blonde, wearing a simple white cotton dress that added to her naïve appearance.

  ‘Do as the gentleman requires, Bethany,’ ordered the senior whore. ‘And you, my lord, will pay.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said impatiently. ‘Tell Mrs Wallace to add it to my bill.’

  She flounced off, flinty eyed as she sought other clients, determined they should get nothing without it costing them deep in the purse. Bethany stood there with her eyes cast down and her shoulders drooping. Aidan gave a tight
smile and caressed his thickened tool. ‘I want you to kiss it,’ he said.

  Bethany blushed and gasped, ‘Sir… I’ve never… I can’t…’

  The thought of this being her first excursion into fellatio almost made him come. He gritted his teeth and pressed hard on the base of his penis, preventing the disaster of a too early explosion. ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ he pronounced thickly. ‘Thank your lucky stars that I showered before I came out. You might have been doing it to someone who wasn’t so fastidious. Don’t you like me, Bethany?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’m not here to like or dislike customers,’ she said shyly.

  He did not doubt that she was speaking the truth and lay back against the cushions and smiled up at her, saying, ‘Come along, dear. It’s time you learned your trade.’

  She knelt between his legs and her dress slithered up, giving him a quick flash of a bare and scarlet bottom. Someone had been chastising her. He wished he’d had the privilege. She glanced up at him once and the pleading in her blue eyes would have moved stone, but Aidan’s heart was harder than the toughest granite. ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered on a sob.

  ‘Get on with it. Suck it. Lick it. Bring me off. If you don’t I’ll flay you alive. The beating you have already had will be as nothing compared to what I shall do.’

  Her tears fell and mingled with his wiry pubic hair as she leaned closer. He could feel her warm breath on his helm, and the fact that she was trembling and afraid made the sensation even more acute. He had rarely been so aroused. His prick rose like a serpent before her terrified gaze, the foreskin stretched back, the slit in the dome shining with jism.