Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  Aidan smiled darkly and replied in answer to her question, ‘Cat and mouse, my dear. My favourite game. I know where Angela is and can strike at any time. Let her sweat for a while, never knowing when this may happen.’

  She put down the opera glasses and stared at him instead. His profile was just too attractive, as was the whole man. It was not fair that he could be so handsome and yet so devilish in his dealings with women. She shivered inside and felt her womb contract with lust. No matter what he did or how cruel he was, she could never resist him.

  ‘So I amused that odious oath, Sir Gerald, for nothing,’ she complained sulkily, flicking open her fan and waving it. ‘Dear God, he dressed up in one of his mother’s gowns and had me cane him like a naughty schoolboy! His cock was tiny, even after I’d thrashed him, and then he had the bad grace to spurt all over me. The things I do for you, Aidan.’

  ‘And you earn my undying gratitude,’ he said, with a sincerity she knew to be false.

  The conductor entered amidst polite applause, he raised his baton, the lights dimmed and the opening bars of Mozart’s Don Giovanni stole across the auditorium. A magical moment, heralding a work of great beauty despite its theme of a licentious Spanish nobleman who tries to seduce every woman that swims into his ken, until he is dragged to hell by supernatural forces.

  Valerie was distracted by Aidan’s close proximity. They had the box to themselves, and the intimate atmosphere inspired her with thoughts of love. It was the kind of love portrayed in the opera – the violent destruction of innocence; similar to the sexual games she shared with Aidan. She wanted action, her blood racing as she willed the opera to be over so she might spend the night with Aidan, though not even sure if he wanted her.

  As she sat there, eyes fixed on the stage, she was aware of his hand on her knee, though he, too, was concentrating on the singers and the unfolding plot. Valerie drew in a sharp breath as his fingers slowly lifted her skirt, encountered her silk-stockinged leg and went higher, his action hidden by her frilly petticoats. As usual Valerie wore no knickers, liking the freedom this afforded for a quick coupling with whoever she fancied at the moment, be it Julian, Aidan, Viola, Martha or any of her numerous sexual partners. She was a woman of fiery passions that refused to be quenched by anything less than the satisfaction of the senses.

  The box was dimly lit and the spectators glued to the action on stage. Even so, the fact that they were in a public place excited her. She sat still, her fan in one hand, her programme open on the crimson velvet edge of the box. Aidan, apparently, was as absorbed in the plot as the rest, but his busy fingers reached her apex and gently stroked over her bald pubis, tugging at the jewels dangling from her folds. Not simple rings tonight, but diamonds, small, sparkling and perfect. She had worn them in anticipation of showing Aidan this latest addition to her very personal adornment.

  She parted her legs slightly, giving him easier access to her treasures, and his silent exploration roused her to the point where she had to cling to her upholstered chair in the effort to control herself. The stage whirled. Aidan slipped into the motion she knew so well, then he suddenly pinched her clit and she came sharply, only just succeeding in restraining a yelp.

  She felt him shaking with repressed laughter; hated and adored him in the same breath. Damned him, too. He was far worse than the reprehensible Don Giovanni and deserved the same fate, that of being condemned by the Devil to a fiery pit for all eternity.

  Angela’s life changed, but in a subtle way more than anything else. It obviously puzzled the rest of the cast to see Carlotta treating her affectionately. They couldn’t make head or tail of it and there were mutterings.

  The two singers rehearsed together, and Angela was taught several duets where their voices blended perfectly: hers lighter, that of a soubrette, while Carlotta had a heavier, more dramatic approach. But after a few performances Max shook his head and maintained that they were losing some of their audience; those who preferred naughtier shows, complaining that Carlotta had too serious an approach. They preferred the Cornish Nightingale on her own, able to weave fantasies about her, the charming young woman with whom they dreamed of fornicating. Carlotta took offence, labelled them Philistines and stamped about on her high heels.

  Angela could see that they would soon come to the parting of the ways. Max promised to arrange a meeting with D’Oyly Carte, but the entrepreneur was a very busy man and had to be handled diplomatically. By now she had been banished to a single room on the top floor of the inn, and she was lonely, upset, and the future looked bleak. So one morning, free from rehearsals as Carlotta had commandeered the pianist, she boarded a bus to Soho.

  She was tempted to wear a veil when going abroad, but refrained from doing so, afraid of drawing attention to herself. She had on a skirt and blouse of sprigged georgette, flounced and frothy and summery, with a lace scarf draping her shoulders. Her hat was a mere trifle, round as a pork pie and decorated with artificial roses. Her hair was piled up and she wore this example of the milliner’s art tipped forward archly.

  The weather was warmer now, trees blossoming under the blue sky where drifting clouds reminded her of woolly sheep. She felt a pang of homesickness. It seemed incredible that this time last year she was the cherished daughter of a titled noble without a care in the world, and soon to be married to the man she loved. Fate had an unkind way of having tricks up its sleeve and she had never ever dreamed that she would be in this predicament.

  She thought of Lairdland even more as she reached the grocery shop with its impressive sign, bearing Arthur Taylor’s name. For an instant she almost took flight, remembering that nasty man, but at that moment Jacob appeared at the shop door. He wore a smart dark suit, with a high-buttoned waistcoat, a gold watch-chain spanning the pockets, a striped shirt with a stiffly starched collar, and a bowtie.

  ‘Lady Angela!’ he exclaimed, blushing to the roots of his brown hair. ‘What are you doing here? Without a chaperone, too.’

  ‘Those days are long gone, Jacob,’ she said with a wry laugh. ‘I came to see you, needing a friend, if only to talk over the old days. Is your uncle in?’

  Jacob frowned. ‘He is, but he won’t bother you. He’ll have me to deal with if he does. Come in.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ she said.

  ‘All right, I’ll get someone to hold the fort here. Shan’t be a moment,’ and he went back inside, appearing again very shortly wearing a bowler hat.

  She took his arm and they strolled towards the park, where sitting on a bench she recounted her adventures. Jacob had matured, now given the responsibility of managing the shop, and she found him attractive with his wholesome clean features, honest eyes and infectious laugh. He had not lost his countrified accent and even this brought it all back to her – the village, the manor house, the time when everything seemed so enduring and secure.

  ‘I went to see Lord Driscol after you scarpered. Thought perhaps you’d gone back to him,’ he said quietly, and dared to take her gloved hand in his.

  ‘What did he say?’ The mention of Aidan made the fine down rise on her limbs.

  ‘He’s a cool customer, but was very angry that you’d run away. He asked me to help him find you, so I played along with it, hoping that if he heard anything he’d keep me informed.’

  ‘And did he?’ Angela leaned her shoulder against his, comforted to be able to speak with someone so normal. Actors and the like were all very well, but they did tend to exaggerate.

  ‘I heard never a word,’ Jacob said, his firm lips setting angrily. ‘Of course I made enquiries, but didn’t really trust Tilly or Doreen. It was her that led him to you. I kept my weather eye open, though, having the feeling that you’d turn up some time. Are you well? What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m well enough, and love being on the stage, but Max’s wife thinks I’m stealing her limelight and I know she wants to be rid of me. He’s going to introduce me to one of the big theatrical managers, and I’m waiting for this to happen.’
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  ‘Does Lord Driscol know that you’re appearing at the Pelican and Garter?’

  ‘I’ve an uneasy feeling that he does, but I’ve not heard from him. It’s unnerving, and I’m wondering where he’ll strike next… and when.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t,’ Jacob said, without conviction.

  ‘I don’t believe that and neither do you,’ she said emphatically. ‘I’m not sure what to do next. I can stay with Max’s company till I get fixed up elsewhere, and it will be exciting if I’m taken on at the Savoy Theatre, but I admit to being nervous. I shan’t know anyone there, and Carlotta won’t encourage me to visit him or her. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve come looking for you. I need a friend.’

  Jacob was seated with his knees apart, his hat dangling between them and his head down. He appeared to be uneasy, and she felt a coolness emanating from him that she’d never been aware of in the past. He had been shy, but unable to hide his admiration. In fact she had worried because she could not reciprocate as he desired. Now she would have welcomed an advance on his part.

  ‘I’ll be your friend, milady,’ he vouchsafed at last, and looked at her, his eyes shaded by thick lashes. ‘But things have changed. You see, I went back to the village not long ago and who should I bump into but Bertha Marten. You know, the girl who used to be your maid. I told her all about you and where you were and that, and we got on like a house on fire, and well, to cut a long story short, we kind of fell in love. We’re going to get engaged soon and she’s coming up here to live and then we’re getting married. She’ll help run the shop, and it’ll be mine when uncle pops his clogs.’

  Angela felt as if a door had slammed in her face. It wasn’t that she wanted Jacob as a lover, but had contemplated sleeping with him if he would protect her. Now she had missed the boat and he was Bertha’s. She truly was on her own now. ‘Congratulations,’ she said, and meant it. Whatever life had in store for her she would face it by herself. At least she didn’t have to see Arthur Taylor again. ‘Has Bertha met your uncle?’ she added.

  Jacob seemed not in the least perturbed. ‘Not yet, but she’ll have him eating out of her hand, and he’ll have to behave himself. She may look as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she has a razor-sharp tongue when she gets going.’

  They parted at the park gate, and she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Jacob,’ she whispered.

  ‘Goodbye, milady,’ he responded warmly, but with a touch of regret, maybe for his lost dreams of what might have been. ‘I’ll invite you to the wedding. Is that all right?’

  ‘I’d love to come,’ and she turned and walked away. A door was closing but another would open soon, she was sure.

  She turned off the main road into a quiet alley, a shortcut to the bus stop. Her mind was preoccupied. In one way she was glad for Jacob, but on the other hand felt the loss of such a devoted swain. She had clung to the notion that he might wait for her indefinitely, always there, somewhere in the background, ready to do battle as her chivalrous knight. Now she was forced to see him as he really was – a normal man who wanted to marry, settle down and raise children If only Aidan had been like him, or even Max. Men! They were put on earth to plague women!

  The alley was deserted, surrounded on two sides by high brick walls. A slice of sky could be seen way up above the rooftops. She was very nearly at the end, anticipating walking out into broad daylight, when her ears caught a sound. Her heart started to pound and she hurried along. It had been foolish to come this way. The place abounded in pickpockets and she was carrying a handbag, an open invitation to have it snatched. She stopped for an instant. So did the footsteps behind her. She dared not turn round but broke into a run.

  The stranger kept pace with her and then she felt a hand on her shoulder, sluing her to a stop. She was jerked round so that she faced her assailant. ‘Aidan!’ she gasped.

  His smile was grim, his eyes bright and ferocious. ‘You can’t get away from me, Angela,’ he ground out. ‘No matter where you go or what you do, I’ll find you and have my way with you.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she pleaded, though breathless with running and being suddenly faced with him.

  He shook his head, his hair falling to his coat collar from under a black hat, wide-brimmed and rakish looking. He smelt good, his personal aroma and that of expensive shaving soap entrancing her. She felt as if she was sinking into him, longing to be absorbed and lose her own personality, even her soul, in the exquisite, agonising union that she dreaded yet hungered for.

  He laughed, a low mocking sound, and pushed open a door to the right that led to a stairwell. He propelled Angela through. Steps wound down into darkness and others corkscrewed up into a pale streak of light entering from a narrow window above.

  ‘Where are we?’ she whimpered, while he lifted her skirt, yanked down her knickers and grabbed her bottom cheek, digging in his nails.

  ‘In one of my warehouses,’ he replied, and explored her flesh, remarking, ‘You’ve not been flogged lately. Dear me, and you want it, don’t you? Have you been fucking Max again? And what about his wife? Word has it that it’s a ménage à trois.’

  As if getting ready for action he took off his hat and hung it on a rusty hook. ‘Keep yours on,’ he instructed. ‘It will make you look even more of a slut when I fuck you, like a sixpenny drab who sells herself against a wall.’

  ‘That’s not my style, you should know that as you seem so well informed about the rest of my life,’ she retorted, stung by his mockery.

  ‘Let us say that I’m keeping an eye on my property.’ He chuckled and reached between her legs, squeezing her clitoris. She gasped, seeing him sneering at her, an intent look on his handsome face.

  He pulled off her silk scarf and used it to tether her hands behind her, then turned her sharply and pushed her so that her knees hit a lower stone step and her torso rested on the one above. Her skirts were thrown back over her shoulders and she gave a smothered cry as she felt the burning impact of his hand on her buttocks, first one then the other in quick succession.

  ‘There you are, dirty little bitch,’ he grated, and smacked her again, harder this time till she writhed and wriggled but could not escape his mastery. ‘That feels better, doesn’t it? Don’t try to pretend that this hasn’t haunted your dreams and filled your mind while you played with yourself?’

  As he spoke so his palm landed on her behind, harder still. She gave up struggling, tears running down her face and dripping onto the dirty stairs, despairing because every word he said was true and that she could never escape him, no matter how she tried. Her rear was burning and this heat penetrated her loins, making her vagina clench and her love-bud twitch.

  ‘More,’ she sobbed, losing every iota of self-respect. ‘Punish me, master. I fornicated with another woman’s husband.’

  ‘And what else?’ he asked, stern as a confessor, his stinging blows raining down.

  ‘And slept in the same bed with them, while they copulated and I excited her breasts and cunny and brought her off.’

  ‘You have been wicked, my child,’ he said severely, and slapped her over and over again. By now Angela was mad with desire for him, her body and mind open to anything he intended to do. He paused in his chastisement long enough to unbutton his fly, then he parted her arse and wetted his cock with her juices and grasped her hair like a halter to give him better purchase. His member rammed into her so hard that she shrieked. ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Unless you want my workers to find us like this.’

  His hand was beneath her, rubbing her clitoris as his propulsion in and out became quicker and more brutal. He was treating her like some streetwalker he’d just picked up. This sense of degradation, the pain in her hinds, the friction on her clit, and the pounding of his cock in her love-channel was preparing her to come.

  The squalor of their surroundings, the smell of urine on the stairs, the damp walls and general neglect seemed right, reminding her that she was as noth
ing. His thing. His toy. Aidan was her master and could do what he willed with her. Her heart ached with love for him and her body was obsessed with the need to climax, blanking out her mind that stormed angrily at this treatment. How dare he? But as he drove his erection faster and faster so her orgasm was upon her, not in waves but in one mighty crescendo, like a volcano erupting.

  She clenched around him, expecting his final surge, but he pulled out of her quickly, spun her round and, while she sat on the step, thrust his cock into her mouth.

  It tasted of herself, with the addition of pre-come. It was huge and meaty, on the brink of exploding, and he held her steady with his hands on her cheeks, working her head up and down on that burgeoning tool. She heard him groan and felt that extra stiffness that heralds ejaculation. Then her mouth was filled to overflowing by the eruptions his penis gave forth, viscous fluid that got everywhere, on her lips, dribbling down her chin, wetting her hair. She had nothing on which to wipe her face.

  Aidan withdrew and passed her a monogrammed handkerchief, then he released her hands and replaced the scarf round her throat. Just for a moment she imagined he was about to strangle her with it, but this passed as he freed her, rearranged his trousers, reclaimed his hat from the hook, opened the door and went to go out.

  ‘Don’t leave me here,’ she begged, trying to tidy herself, scared of this dark, alien place.

  ‘Why not? You obviously know your way about,’ he said coldly.

  ‘But…’ words failed her, yet she wondered why she had expected anything from him.

  He shot her a final glance, then said, ‘I’m sure you’ll find your way home, wherever that may be. The Pelican and Garter, so I understand. Goodbye, Angela, till next time.’ And with that he disappeared from view.