Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her close to him between his spread thighs. ‘If she does, then she won’t give a tinker’s cuss. She has her lovers, too. We have a free and open marriage.’

  If this was intended to mollify her, then it had the opposite effect. ‘That’s all very well, Max, but it puts me in an impossible position. I’m trying to rid myself of scandalous relationships. I want to earn an honest living, not be shunted from pillar to post at the whim of some man.’

  He chuckled and pulled her closer to his crotch. ‘That’s what is so endearing about you, darling. Forthright and honest and I love it. You are my star, and I’ll not let you go. My wife is ambitious. Once plain Charlotte Smith she has taken the name of Carlotta Guido. She is a soprano and sings with a touring opera company. She’ll not be bothered if she finds out I’ve found solace in your arms during her absence.’

  ‘And when she returns?’

  ‘Don’t worry. She may never appear, and if she does no doubt she’ll be bringing along a train of boyish admirers. She likes her men to be young.’

  His words soothed her wounded feelings. His body was so familiar by now, so warm and dear and he smelt so good. Her hand, that had been reluctant to play with Sir Gerald’s penis, could hardly wait to touch Max’s. He bared it for her and it was long and hard and swarthy-skinned, the shaft knotted with bluish veins, the foreskin rolled back round the base of the helm, which was darkly infused, mushroom shaped, and with a pearly dewdrop at its slit.

  Angela submitted, holding the bobbing length of him and then covering the head with her mouth, beginning to suck. Her clitoris was throbbing, the gusset of her knickers drawn close into her crack. She rocked her hips in time to the slurping motions of her mouth, and the wet cotton fabric chafed her bud. He slumped low on his spine, pubis raised to extract every morsel of sensation from the feel of her lips on his cock.

  Her jaw worked eagerly and her fingers teased his scrotum, cupping his balls and rolling them in her hand. She longed for him to touch her clitoris that was hard and throbbing with energy. Strange thoughts floated feverishly in her brain. She wished Max would tie her wrists, yet leave her with enough freedom to masturbate him. She wished, as often before, that he would thrash her, bruise her, and teach her to be his slave. But he was gentle though determined, passionate and manly, yet concerned about being a tender lover. He never dominated her, and she missed it. Whatever Aidan had taught her refused to be forgotten. There was a yearning inside her that could only be eased by violence.

  Though Max was jerking in her stretched mouth she sensed that he wanted her vagina in which to reach his climax, but unable to hold out any longer he spent himself over her face. The opaque liquid ran down her lips and chin, lodged in her hair and dripped onto her breasts. She swallowed some of it, accustomed to the strange taste, and wriggled to let him know of her own need. He was a sensitive person and lay down beside her on the hearthrug.

  His hand explored beneath her dress and lighted on the sliver of flesh that swelled between her labial lips. He clutched her mound in his palm and rocked it, while she thrashed and sighed and encouraged him to poke and probe her and stroke her clitoris. He knew exactly what she wanted and sucked her heated cleft while she squirmed. He rubbed her juices over her folds, wet and sticky and divine, ignoring nothing, running his fingers from the dark maiden curls of her mons to the puckered rosebud moue of her anal opening.

  She cried out as she came, shaken with spasms. Max held her and, when she had ceased trembling, lifted and carried her to the bed. There he undressed her as if she was a baby, removed his own clothing and lay beside her, pulling the quilt over them and cradling her in his arms.

  Aidan, she thought sleepily, who was he?

  ‘Gerald is going on about a new singer he has discovered. He’s throwing a party and she is entertaining,’ Valerie said in a bored voice.

  She lay on a massage couch in her bathroom while Julian, wearing a barber’s apron and nothing else, plied a cutthroat razor to her pubic hair, removing every trace of stubble. There was a silver basin containing water on the table and a shaving brush covered in foam. He dabbed at her pink mound and applied a little more soap, then stretched the skin taut so that her clit stood like a tiny cock while he deftly tackled the area on each side and removed any stray hairs.

  ‘Are you invited?’ Aidan asked from behind a copy of The Times he was reading, sunk in the depth of a chair.

  ‘Gentlemen only, I understand,’ she replied, then gave a yelp and hit Julian. ‘Watch out, you bastard. You nicked me. Look, it’s bleeding. Lick it at once, soap, blood and all! I demand to come! You owe me that for being careless.’

  Aidan lowered his newspaper and watched as Julian leaned over her and applied himself to his task. He could feel his cock hardening in response to the lewd sight of the boy nuzzling Valerie’s snatch and the sound of her blows on his shoulders and her voice exhorting him to, ‘Go on! Go on! Faster, faster! Oh, God!’

  Julian’s prick reared upward beneath his apron, and his bare arse was neatly criss-crossed with red stripes. Valerie had been busy. Aidan wanted him as well as her. Anything would have done at that fraught moment – a hand, a mouth, a backside, in fact any object that vaguely resembled an orifice into which he could thrust his virile member. But Valerie reached her zenith speedily and pushed Julian away, demanding that he finish shaving her.

  ‘Tell me more about Sir Gerald’s latest piece,’ Aidan said coolly, controlling his cock and willing it to lie down.

  ‘That’s all I know,’ she answered, almost purring under Julian’s ministrations, lust sated for the moment. ‘Saturday night at his Hampstead mansion. Can you get an invitation?’

  Aidan shrugged disinterestedly. ‘I don’t see how. He and I have never seen eye to eye. He’s a pompous ass, and fancies himself to be a connoisseur of beautiful women. A load of tosh, actually; he picks up some real old dogs.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ she said smoothly, looking at him from under her long lashes.

  ‘Exactly. Didn’t I choose you, my dear?’

  ‘And that little runaway, Angela,’ she reminded. ‘Any news of her, by the by?’

  ‘No, she’s disappeared off the face of the globe,’ he said tetchily, and his mouth closed like a rattrap.

  ‘Might be worth investigating Sir Gerald’s soirée,’ she suggested, while Julian patted her dry. Her rosy mound looked sweet and fresh, the gold rings in her outer labia glinting invitingly.

  ‘I’m not going to beg,’ he snarled. ‘But I’ll send in a spy. Several of his cronies owe me a favour, but I doubt very much that she’ll be present. More likely to have headed back to the country.’

  ‘But you’ve tried there, haven’t you?’ Holding a silverback hand-mirror Valerie was admiring her denuded cleft, knees bent and her thighs spread.

  ‘Of course I’ve tried!’ he snapped impatiently, throwing the paper aside and pacing the tiled floor like a caged tiger.

  ‘Dear me, she did get to you, didn’t she?’ Valerie murmured.

  ‘No woman “gets to me”, as you so vulgarly put it,’ he raged and leapt forward, unfastening as he did so and pushing her down.

  Within a second he was on her and in her while she shrieked with delight, drummed on his back with her heels and encouraged, ‘That’s it, master. Use me, use me!’

  ‘Damn right I will,’ he muttered. ‘And every bloody female who annoys me.’ He started to come, pumping hard, and the more he used her the more Valerie enjoyed it, writhing beneath him like a demon woman.

  Saturday night and the public show was over. The dancers were twittering with excitement at the thought of a private performance, but Angela had serious doubts. She retained her costume, stage make-up and wig, but added a long warm cloak. Max came to collect them and outside the Pelican stood two coaches, each with the Hastings crest on the doors. The drivers were seated on their boxes up front and liveried footman helped the ladies in and then took their places standing on ledges at
the rear. The whips cracked and the vehicles rumbled forward.

  ‘Ain’t this a carry on?’ commented one of the girls. ‘Is that right you don’t want us to wear any drawers, Mr Devere?’

  He was sitting next to Angela, and gave a sardonic smile as he replied, ‘Quite right. Sir Gerald wants a Parisian version of the can-can.’

  ‘Lor’, the dirty old sod,’ she answered, and the rest chorused their disapproval, yet a thrill of excitement rippled through the plush lined interior.

  ‘Don’t come all girlish with me,’ Max grunted, knowing his dancers and their outrageous views on such delicate matters. None of them were virgins. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve bared all. You’ll get paid more for tonight than a week spent in kicking up your legs at the Pelican.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ they trilled, rustling their silk skirts and flaunting fur wraps or ostrich feather boas.

  Angela said nothing. She had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, helpless to do other than follow Max’s instructions. At the moment she was decently clad in the underwear department, but no doubt would have to remove this bastion of respectability when they arrived at Hastings House. Fortunately her act did not include high kicks; she merely drifted round the stage with ballet steps and lovely arm movements. If this was all she was required to do things wouldn’t be too bad.

  Hampstead Heath was a fair distance, but they finally arrived, the coaches sweeping between wrought iron gates and up a long drive, finally halting outside a fine mansion with a stone façade and wings on either side containing pavilions. They were ushered up the wide, shallow steps and greeted by Sir Gerald, then taken through the hall with its high ceiling, oaken beams and massive fireplaces.

  ‘This was once a priory,’ he explained as they descended into the depths of the house. ‘And I have been careful to preserve the chapel and crypt and cloisters.’

  ‘Ooh… creepy, ain’t it?’ squeaked the leading dancer, and Angela felt its oppressive atmosphere, too.

  A strange place for a party, surely? It was the sort of venue that would appeal to Aidan and she hoped against all hope that he would not be there. It brought the dungeons of Compton Hall vividly to mind, but was even more sinister, having oppressive religious undertones.

  The light was subdued, with sconces holding candles set at intervals along the stone walls. Braziers full of smouldering coals threw out heat, and there were sumptuous drapes and tapestries, divans and deep chairs, and a stage erected at the far end where once there had been an altar. A curtain was drawn across it and a piano stood on the floor to one side. Max had brought along his own pianist who was familiar with the musical routines. The dancers were shown to a dressing room and Angela detached herself from Sir Gerald and joined them.

  He had been more than generous and there were sandwiches and coffee and wine in readiness for them. Angela peeped through a chink in the curtain and saw that his guests were starting to arrive. Aidan was not among them – not yet, at any rate. The pianist provided background music. Male voices rumbled and guffawed and footmen handed round trays of drinks. It was so convivial that Angela lost some of her apprehension. What could be more sensible, after all, than to turn this obsolete chapel into a small theatre? Sir Gerald was probably a patron of the arts, and maybe he would ask Max to put on a Shakespeare play.

  More people came, and there was not a woman among them. Now the gentlemen were taking their seats before the stage and there was that buzz which always heralds an entertainment. The dancers were ready in the wings and, as the chords of their first number rang out the curtains parted and they pranced onto the stage.

  ‘Have you removed your knickers?’ Max whispered, standing close behind Angela as she watched. His fingers were exploring her bottom through her white lawn dress.

  ‘Yes,’ she hissed, none too pleased with this turn of events. She felt very vulnerable appearing in public sans drawers.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said softly, finding her ear and caressing the rim with his wet tongue. His hands slipped round and cupped her breasts, thumbs revolving on her nipples.

  She could feel herself melting, the love-dew dampening her cleft and spreading to her inner thighs. The sight of the dancers added to her arousal. Their frilly skirts were whipped up and they brazenly displayed their hairy or shaven mounds, whirling to Offenbach’s music, finishing with their backs to the audience, bending from the waist and flaunting their pudendum and arses. This caused a riot among the gentlemen.

  If only this was all over, Angela thought. Then she and Max could slip off and return to the Pelican and their bed. Yet the budding star within her was keyed up and excited at the prospect of giving another performance. She loved the life and wanted to go on acting and singing forever. She had found her vocation, nobly born or not. With any luck and the right coaching she might soon be travelling the world, famous and sought after, Rose Trelawney, the Cornish Nightingale.

  She heard the words being announced and was aware that Max was addressing the crowd and that the girls had retired to the dressing room amidst thunderous applause. Max held out a hand in her direction and she walked towards him under the blaze of spotlights. The cheering rose again and Max went off. The music started and she launched into her first song. This went well, at the start, and she was sweet and provocative, as she had been taught. She sang another sentimental ditty, and danced this time. Then suddenly two of her fellow performers rushed onto the stage and grabbed her by the arms. They were no longer dressed in their dance costumes, but wore black leather basques with suspenders meeting the tops of stockings, no knickers and laced ankle boots with stilt heels.

  ‘That’s it!’ Sir Gerald shouted, seated in the middle of the front row of seats. ‘Tie her up, the naughty minx. Virginal Rose, indeed! I hear she’s not as innocent as she pretends. She needs punishing and I want you to make her yelp!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ bellowed his colleagues. ‘Give her a thorough trouncing, and then let us all have a taste of her!’

  ‘Let me go!’ Angela squealed, kicking out and catching one of her captors on the shin. ‘Where’s Max?’

  ‘Shut up you stupid cow!’ the girl cursed, giving her a hard slap. ‘He ain’t here. A messenger came for him and he went off. That’s right, gal, put up a good show of fighting us. It’ll please Sir Gerald.’

  ‘Max! Max!’ Angela screamed, refusing to believe he had deserted her.

  The audience were in uproar, clapping and hallooing, and Sir Gerald, purple in the face, was on his feet, trousers gaping, rubbing his rather insignificant tool, which though erect was hardly formidable. The dancers were going among them, straddling laps, providing relief. Angela was shocked to realise they were little better than Tilly and Doreen, though slightly upmarket, yet still willing to sell themselves if the price was right.

  A curtain at the rear of the stage was drawn back, revealing a wooden structure like a pillory. It was open. Angela was stripped naked and forced to stand close to this object and then bend from the waist. The upper half was closed, holding her captive, unable to move her lower torso, and her arms were drawn outwards and the wrists manacled. Her legs were stretched apart and her ankles tied. Her back was to the spectators, and due to her position her bottom was presented to them in all its rounded glory.

  She stared at the curtain and waited in fear and trepidation, feeling the cold air on her arse and vaginal cleft. It was awful to feel so helpless, so unable to defend herself and not to know which man came up behind her and used her as he fancied, for she was convinced that’s what was intended. Max’s perfidy was appalling. Bile rose in her mouth and she wanted to throw up. She swallowed hard and fought for control.

  Her sense of hearing doubly alert she was aware of someone behind her. The two girls had vanished and she waited in an agony of suspense. Hands stroked her hinds and fingers pushed into her cleft, one working between her labial wings and stroking her clitoris, catching the sensitive little head as it poked forth. Angela could feel it respondi
ng to the moisture this unknown man was spreading from her vulva. It betrayed her aroused state.

  The touch was abruptly removed. She strained her ears but all she could hear was the animal-like hoots and cries of the watchers, all goaded beyond endurance by the sight of her and the ministrations of the dancers.

  Then, out of nowhere, she heard a swish and felt a burning sensation instantly recognisable as that of a leather thong landing on her skin.

  She lost her breath and it landed again, and this time she shrieked. Her assailant whipped her mercilessly, and she sobbed and cried out and writhed in her bonds, but could not escape his wrath.

  Blow followed blow and she was lost, rising above the torment of her flesh, entering a trancelike state, at one with he who was mastering her. It had a familiar ring – the way the lash fell, the pauses in between, the sound of his breathing. At last Angela gave up struggling, hanging in the pillory, the wood cutting into her waist, the manacles chafing her wrists, her head dangling.

  It was then that the chastisement ceased. Cool balm oiled her reddened flash and dripped between her bottom cheeks, followed by fingers that entered her fundament and stretched it.

  She clenched, trying to force them out, but it was useless. The fingers wriggled and penetrated, lubricated and widened the passage, then they were withdrawn and something else took their place.

  She yelped and tried to tighten her sphincter but the object was already inside her by several inches. So big, so forceful, so familiar! There was only one man who had sodomised her. Aidan!

  Her mind rejected it. Her body welcomed it, a wanton thing outside her jurisdiction. It was him. Every nerve and sinew recognised his cock, and the pain he was inflicting on her by forcing it into her deepest, most secret recess.

  Then, as he sank in fully till she could feel his pubic hair brushing her backside and his balls tapping against her slit, her discomfort was transmuted into dark, searing, unnatural pleasure. She lifted her mound, grinding it into the hard wood, finding a knot at just the right height to contact her bud. Aidan, if it was him, pushed in and out and she clung to his length, closing her muscles round it, making him work for his orgasm.