Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he said huskily.

  ‘And you, Max, belong to someone else,’ she reminded.

  ‘Not at this moment,’ he replied ironically. ‘No one exists for me but you.’

  He kissed her again, not her lips but her brow, her ears, her throat, and this drove her mad. His hands were at the front fastening of her dress, undoing the buttons and pushing it aside, then bending to fasten his lips on her nipples, sucking them through the thin silk of her chemise. Angela became limp in his arms, incapable of logical thought.

  Oh yes, he belonged to Carlotta, but she had subjected Angela to embarrassing moments, always trying to humiliate her. She owed her nothing. And then there was Aidan, who imagined that he owned her. Angela closed her mind to memories of them. She wanted Max, inspired by being in the basement beneath the grand theatre, wanting to have him make love to her there, in this holy of holies.

  He rucked up her skirt and petticoats, untied the tape bow that held up her drawers and eased them down, then combed his fingers through her pubic bush and tantalised that sensitive spot between her labia. Standing in his embrace with his wonderful fingers playing havoc with her clitoris, she unbuttoned him and took his stiff shaft in her hand, breathing deeply of the intoxicating odour of his arousal. He lifted his hips towards her touch, pushing his cock into her hand and she shivered with delight, the response echoing deeply in her sexual regions.

  ‘I want you… now,’ he whispered, keeping up that rapid friction on her hungry little organ.

  ‘We can’t, can we? Not here. Supposing someone comes down?’ she protested, though feeling she might die if he stopped.

  ‘Doesn’t this make it more exciting?’ he murmured, his breath caressing her ear, giving her goose bumps. ‘What a performance we should give, you and I. Better than anything we might offer on stage.’

  ‘You’re wicked,’ she chided half-heartedly, keeping up that frottage on his helplessly addicted penis. ‘Where can we make love anyway? Leaning on the wall? I don’t think so.’

  He chuckled, and releasing his cock from her hand for a moment, guided her across to where a carved throne stood against a whitewashed wall. It had an oriental look about it, covered in Chinese silk. Max kissed her again, his tongue wooing her into submission, then he turned her gently and had her stretch across the throne. He lifted her skirts and completed the removal of her knickers. Angela was only too eager to comply, and he reached between her legs and kept up that steady rubbing motion on her hard nubbin. When she started to peak he lowered himself and guided his cock into her. Delight flooded her as she came, and he moved silently within her while her muscles tightened round his prick. Her heart was thudding furiously and she was glad he had taken her from behind, his lower body bumping against her welts, reminding her of her master’s chastisement.

  He was in no hurry, rocking to and fro, plunging in and then withdrawing so that only his tip remained. ‘Oh, Max… Max,’ she moaned.

  He was superb, poising above her like an eagle over its prey, then thrusting into her again so that she almost yelled with the force of it. This excited him beyond endurance and he took her fast, his cock like some powerful piece of machinery, pumping and pumping until he threw back his head and barked his climax. She could feel every second of it, that solid spear piercing her very core as his libation jetted, bathing her in seed.

  Even in that moment of ecstasy he did not forget to cup her mound and pay attention to her love-bud, bringing her down slowly, as an experienced lover should. She collapsed beneath him, prone across the Mikado’s throne, willing herself to imagine that this might go on forever. But paradise is short-lived, as she had discovered, and Max kissed her cheek and removed his weight from her.

  ‘I shall miss you, darling girl,’ he said, in that beautifully modulated voice of his, one that could whisper intimacies or reach the very back of an auditorium full of people.

  ‘But I can come back with you now, can’t I?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Just until I find lodgings, that is.’

  ‘I shan’t turn you out, but it will be wise to get addresses from Helen and start looking straight away,’ he said, tidying his attire. He didn’t have to say more. Angela knew he was thinking of Carlotta and, as he was inexorably tied to her and wanted to save his marriage, so she must get out of his life as quickly as possible. What they had just done, enjoyable though it was, did not signify any permanency in their relationship.

  But he was kind and considerate, nonetheless, helping her find her knickers, tidy her hair and rearrange her hat and cape, and then seeking Helen for addresses before escorting Angela from the Savoy.

  Mrs Morrison was one of that stalwart breed without whom thespians could hardly have survived – the theatrical landlady. She was outspoken, stood no nonsense or avoiding paying rent, though she was tolerant of and extremely kind to those who had fallen on hard times – perhaps going through a period of ‘resting’ that meant they were not employed in their chosen profession at that precise moment.

  Angela was intimidated the first time she met her, taken to her terraced villa in Woodgreen, not too far from the Strand and Leicester Square, by a member of the chorus called Elsie May. This bright, honey-blonde trouper had already done a year at the Savoy and was a mine of information. She lived under Mrs Morrison’s roof.

  Angela’s mind was buzzing. She had joined the company on Monday, been introduction to the cast, the director, chorus master and choreographer. She was given a sheaf of music and the lyrics and told to learn it pronto. Just for a while she was to sit and watch and understudy one of the dancers in case she twisted an ankle or had similar bad luck. It was bewildering and heady and she was thankful to have been introduced to Elsie by Helen, who instructed her to look after the ‘new girl’ and help her find lodgings.

  Mrs Morrison had hennaed hair and an opulent bosom, her figure laced into tight corsets, and she was wearing the latest in fashion, the actually physical work of running her establishment left to several servants. She discussed mundane matters like the cost of laundry, how many meals and when, rules about not bringing men into the house and a strict regime of lights out a certain time of night. Her boarders where given keys, but she wanted to be informed if they intended to be late. Angela was relieved, for she had feared that she might be nothing more than a bawd, expecting her female guests to whore for her. But nothing could have been further from the truth.

  ‘It’s not exactly a nunnery, and we’re not expected to be novices,’ Elsie explained when they sat in a teashop eating sticky buns after Mrs Morrison had said Angela could have a room. The first week’s rent of three and sixpence (including meals, laundry an extra shilling), had to be paid in advance.

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ Angela said, feeling safe for the first time since her father died.

  ‘It doesn’t mean to say we can’t have fun. We are taken out to supper and invited to parties by the nobs, but keep our legs together. Those mashers aren’t to be trusted, so never believe a word they say, just use them to climb the ladder of success,’ and so saying, Elsie poured tea from a pot into china cups with blue rims and helped herself to another cake.

  They were soon in possession of each other’s history – not all, naturally, only what they chose to reveal, and Angela kept quiet about Aidan, but hinted at a broken romance. This seemed to satisfy Elsie’s curiosity and they were soon fast friends. Their rooms at Chez Morrison were next to one another. Angela thought she might have felt lonely once she left Max, but her life was now so full as she learnt her trade. And there was always Elsie and the others to chat with and exchange views and gossip and fashion tips. The days flew by and she enjoyed every moment of it. Then she was deemed ready to start rehearsing.

  The Yeoman of the Guard was playing six nights a week plus two matinees, and also Gilbert was drilling them to learn a new opera, The Gondoliers, due to open in December. Angela was taking part in the chorus of the former, and experiencing her first taste of appearing in public
where the audience was nothing if critical. Any spare time she had was devoted to studying the forthcoming Christmas production.

  She was too busy to dwell on Max, Jacob or even Aidan, though he still came to her in dreams and supplied fantasies for her self-relief. Not that there was much time or privacy for even this. Elsie was giggly about the young men who hung around; the Stage-Door Johnnies in their opera cloaks, silk toppers and silver-headed canes. She seemed to have no notion of lesbian love, and Angela did not enlighten her or recount her own dabbling in that direction. Both of them were as prim and proper as Mr Carte decreed.

  The excitement of chorus work in the Yeoman, its setting that of the Tower of London, the Elizabethan costumes, the music and storyline, occupied her whole attention. She longed to be taking the leading female role, but knew she had a way to go yet. She had never been more content. Everything was wonderful, especially the camaraderie in the dressing rooms.

  The greasepaint transformed her into someone else, with wide, blue-lined eyes, long lashes, rouged cheeks and lips. Any exposed parts were dabbed with wet-white (in reality a colour wash that was put on with a small sponge to give her a glow). Her hair was tucked under a demure coif, but the whole effect was charming. She radiated enjoyment and confidence, and this, besides her voice and dancing, singled her out from the rest. People were beginning to recognise her and ask questions as to her identity.

  There was no word from Aidan. It was as if he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Then a new beau appeared, sending flowers that were delivered by Wilfred. The card inside said he was Lord Alfred Codford, and that he would deem it a great honour if she would permit him to take her to Romano’s. She politely refused the first time, but kept the bouquet.

  He was persistent, at the stage door the following night. More flowers, another request that she might at least meet him. She softened and permitted him to come to the dressing room when the other girls had left, and only Elsie remained.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Angela asked, her heart thumping. It was so long since she’d had contact with a man on a personal level. Too long, complained her body.

  ‘Just see what he’s like,’ Elsie advised, skewering her hat in place with long, amber-headed pins. She nodded in the mirror, satisfied with her appearance.

  There was a tap on the door and Wilfred poked his head round, saying, ‘Lord Alfred is here to see you, Miss Trelawney.’

  ‘Let him in,’ Angela said, trying to assume that haughty tone used by the leading ladies.

  In an instant a tall, thin young man with sandy hair and an open expression stepped through the door. He was elegantly turned out, wearing evening dress beneath his cloak and holding a top hat under one arm.

  Elsie was impressed, Angela could tell, positively simpering as he said, ‘Good evening, ladies. May I say how much I have enjoyed the show? Seen it five times, don’t-cher-know? Whistling tunes from it all the time.’

  ‘That’s most gratifying. Thank you for the flowers,’ Angela replied graciously, sizing him up and wondering what he really wanted, though it was not hard to guess.

  He stood there, leaning elegantly on his cane and smiling as if she was a stunning revelation. ‘Beautiful blooms for a beautiful lady,’ he replied gallantly, and looked at her so admiringly that she was reassured. He did not seem like a town rake out for all he could get from a girl. Then he added, ‘Dare I hope that you’ll consent to come to supper with me? I have booked a table and have a cab on standby. I will deliver you safely to your lodgings later. I give you my word.’

  Oh dear, she thought. Now what was she to do? But she knew that she had already made up her mind when she consented to receive him. She looked at Elsie and Elsie looked at her. There was encouragement in her eyes, as if to say: This one seems harmless enough.

  Young, even boyish, Angela refused to listen to the warning bells in her head. It was time she had a break from work. There could be no harm in accepting him, surely?

  ‘Very well,’ she said and stood up, her skirts whispering about her, cape on and hat, too. ‘Elsie,’ she continued, ‘would you be so kind as to tell Mrs Morrison I shall be late? Let her know that I’ve gone to Romano’s with Lord Codford. I’ll pop my head round your door when I return.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Elsie agreed, and gathered up her outdoor things. ‘Take good care of her, your lordship.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ he replied, hand on heart.

  Elsie went off with several of her friends who intended to catch a bus home. Alfred gave Angela his arm and they left the stage door, nodding to Wilfred who was on duty that night. Angela rather wished that Enoch had been there, for he was an experienced judge of character and would have seen through anyone up to sharp tricks. He did not think much of these aristocratic gentlemen who tried to take advantage of the actresses.

  It was a clear night, the lights of theatre land still burning brightly, and the streets were filled with people finding cabs or their own vehicles and going out to supper. Alfred walked down the road a little way, and there was a hackney carriage waiting for him, its cabby seated aloft, a rug around his burly knees and the reins held loosely in his hands. He clambered down and opened the door for his passengers. Angela climbed in first, followed by Alfred. The door closed, the driver climbed back to his box and Alfred rapped on the roof with his cane. They moved off.

  It was then that someone spoke in a deep voice that sent chills down her spine.

  ‘Good evening, Angela,’ said Aidan.

  ‘Dear God! You!’ she cried, and reached for the door handle. ‘Let me out. Driver! Stop! Stop!’

  Aidan gave a deep, ironic laugh, and now she could see him, a dark, satanic shape on the opposite seat. ‘He won’t hear you, and anyway, he has his orders.’

  She turned on Alfred frantically. ‘What is this? You said we were going to Romano’s.’

  Aidan answered for him. ‘Alfred is a friend of mine. I thought I’d play a little game with you. I doubted you would accept my invitation and he acted as a go-between. Don’t be cross with him. You’ll thank him later. Did you really think I would let you escape me?’

  She shrank into herself, as far away as possible from either of these vile deceivers. ‘I don’t care what you thought. I’m happy how, doing what I love best. Leave me alone, please.’

  ‘Ah, you have always been able to tear at my heartstrings, dearest,’ Aidan answered mockingly. ‘Of course I shall let you continue with your career. I’m proud of your efforts.’

  ‘You’ve seen me on stage?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and have every intention of aiding you. It isn’t fitting that my mistress should be in the chorus. I want to see you as the star of the show.’

  ‘That’s up to Mr Carte, surely… and Mr Gilbert,’ she protested.

  ‘I’m not without influence in those quarters. Sullivan would understand. He has an eye for the women.’

  He moved, leaning across and insinuating one hand up her skirt and pushing aside the froth of petticoats. His fingers slid across the taut silk of her stockings and under the lace hem of her knickers to the naked flesh above. Her spine tingled and her nipples ached. She wanted him to go further but was terrified of her own reaction. She felt him moving slowly upward, and knew that as soon as he reached his goal he would know by the wetness there how much his touch was arousing her.

  She tried to tighten her thighs but he would have none of it, finding her pleasure point and stroking it. Angela trembled and could not resist opening her legs. He gave a low laugh and addressed Alfred.

  ‘You see how eager she is, my friend? I told you this would be so when you doubted the wisdom of deceiving her.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do indeed,’ and Alfred, who was seated beside Angela, leaned closer, trying to see her pussy, though the interior of the cab was only lit by a swaying oil-lamp.

  ‘She denies it to the bottom of her soul, but can’t resist me. Can you, slave-slut? You want a sound spanking, don’t you? Can’t wait to be punished. And yo
u shall be. Oh, yes.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she gasped, his words like fire and wine to her.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, and she could tell he was triumphant, amused and in a high state of arousal. She wanted to grasp his cock, feeling its solidity through the black barathea trousers, but before she could do so he slipped manacles around her wrists and snapped them shut.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she protested, denying that the cold metal felt natural, even comforting.

  ‘I think there is, and I give the orders,’ he said sternly. ‘Now, stop talking.’

  He placed a scarf round her eyes and thrust a ball-gag in her mouth. She was trussed and helpless, expectant and thrilled, yet there was the sharp edge of fear that added piquancy to her high-strung state.

  He returned to his exploration of her cleft and she moaned into the gag, saw stars behind the blindfold, was swept aloft as he kept her hovering on the edge of a climax. Then, at the very moment when she strained to achieve release, he took his fingers away and left her suspended between heaven and hell.

  The vehicle stopped. She was lifted, carried down the steps, and then hoisted over a broad shoulder. She guessed it to be Aidan by the smell of him, and the way in which he held her with an arm under her buttocks.

  He was walking and she swayed, her head hanging down, her hair streaming, hat and pins lost in transit. Cold air. Sounds of footsteps and the jingle of harness as the cab retreated. Where was she? What was the bastard about to do to her? It was horrible to be robbed of sight and voice, and unable to struggle or defend herself.

  Would he let her go eventually, or did he intend to keep her prisoner? She heard the squeal of iron hinges and knew by his movements that he was descending. It was colder still, and damp, and Angela was terrified.

  Chapter 13