Rough Erotica

by Lexi Lovelost

  The next morning, Laura went straight to the conductor's office and handed the assistant her clearance letter. Pablo the great was nowhere to be seen, but his assistant assured her everything was in order; she could join the others for the rehearsals. Laura skipped outside the orchestra building and into the café where Selina was waiting. After their usual niceties complete with the kisses, they focused on the coffee. Selina sipped the coffee and washed down the delicious looking cookie. “How was the medical check? Are you all good now?” She asked.”

  “I don't even feel the swell in my knee anymore. I got a great doctor who rubbed this magic medicine and poof, it went away." Laura said.

  "Wow, that is great, at least you can wear your heels for the big performance." Selina said.

  “I’ll be the most gorgeous cello player in the whole stage" Laura joked. They laughed in unison.

  “The doctor also popped my cherry" Laura said as a matter of fact.

  Selina looked at her in disbelief." Get out of here. You're joking” she said looking for signs of a joke in her friends face. When it sank in Selina let out a shocked scream. Everybody in the small cafe looked at them like they were crazy. Laura went on to narrate the most erotic experience of her life.

  The performance had gone well the previous night. Everybody had been brilliant. The musical magazines and websites were already calling it the "performance of the year." Laura negotiated her bug around the corner and held her breath. It was Saturday afternoon and ahead was her destination. She was going back to the hospital. She had not called Doctor Mathew in advance. She just didn't know what to say. The hospital was not as busy as the last time she was there. She ignored the reception and headed straight to room 51. The waiting area was empty, Nurse Agnes was nowhere to be seen. She knocked on the white door suddenly feeling stupid. What was she doing here?

  "Come on in" a deep bass said.

  She slowly got in.

  "Laura, you came!" doctor Mathew said standing up from his desk. He was wearing blue denim trousers today, with the same white coat he had the last time. She didn't whether to hug, shake his hand or kiss him. He on the other hand knew exactly what to do with the stunning beauty standing in front of him. He drew her to him, closing his mouth on hers. He wanted to feel her tongue on his. Pushed her backwards, pinning her tight dress to the door. With one hand he locked the door, while the other caressed her waist. Laura was already burning up and she struggled to remove his pants. The denim fell to the ground, revealing the huge bulge in his shorts. She touched the erect cock and it hardened in her hand.

  Doctor Mathew went crazy when she touched him. He pulled the dress up to her waist and started caressing her pussy through the panties. His mind remembered how she felt, a sense of urgency engulfed him. He ripped the panties to one side and to his surprise they came off. She was now bare, waiting for him. He parted her thighs and inserted his finger inside the warmness. She cried out in pleasure when he rubbed her clit. She couldn't wait anymore; directing the stiff cock Laura saddled him. He pounded her pussy there on the door, her legs swinging wildly behind him.

  When he exploded into her, Laura clung tightly to him. All unresolved complications were now settled.

  Story 11

  Chapter One

  The advert read:

  MATCHMAKERS

  HANDSOME WOMEN 16-22

  FOR MARRIAGE TO WEALTHY BACHELOR’S –

  INTERVIEW WITHIN.

  It was painted on a wooden board outside an old shop front with blinds firmly closed against the dim London light.

  Anne Baker walked past this sign twice everyday between the small apartment her family kept on Kirk Street to her job in the factory on Grope St.

  In the stink of steam, sweat, and hot metal she worked packaging musket balls with gunpowder in their little twists of oil paper. It was monotonous work. The balls came through in crates, still hot and stinking from the foundry next door, and were slammed down at her station. The girl two down from her measured out the powder and placed passed the measure to the girl between her and Anna. This girl poured the powder and folded the paper into a neat cartridge and gave it to Anna who slotted the warm lead shot into the paper and twisted it shut passing it on to the next girl to stack for packaging.

  She was one of fifty girls doing this one job, and they did it non-stop for eight hours every day except Sunday. Her fingers were calloused, her skin felt gritty with the powder, her hands stank of the oil used on the paper and balls, her nails were nearly black from the London smog.

  Every morning she would rise in the cold of the shared house her family lived in, roll out of the bed she shared with her four sisters and her mother and in the sight of God and all men (there were no doors on the bedrooms) she would wash herself in the single bucket of icy water used for the purpose. If she rose after her sisters the water would have a scum of dirt on its surface even before she dipped her own naked arms into the water.

  Then she would dress and walk to the factory where, each day she would pass the sign that read MATCHMAKERS, and dream of what might be if she answered the call of that sign.

  She hadn’t always lived in the city, her family moved to London from the Midlands, country to capital – chasing work for her father. He had found work, but the rent was higher in the city and they had found themselves in the tidy slum that backed onto the industrial estates of the Eastside.

  When rents rose again the children began to working as well. Mother was looking after little Rudi and Clement until they were old enough to help make ends meet, while the girls and father had got work in the factories that were springing up all over the country at the time.

  At nineteen, Anna felt her life had been decided for her from start to finish. There were few opportunities to meet men for a working girl like her, certainly not men of substance. And she retained a romantic notion of only marrying the one when he came along.

  Fat chance of finding him here, she thought to herself.

  And whenever she did, she’d think of the matchmakers sign. If there were wealthy bachelors to be wed, they would be elsewhere, far away. Perhaps in the airy open streets of Bloomsbury, perhaps even back out in the countryside. Either was better than the factory and Kirk Street.

  But something stopped her, some sense of fear.

  Better to suffer what you know at home, than risk suffering worse abroad. Besides, there was no way to be sure that a matchmakers like that would find her a man she could love. After asking around a little at the factory she had found out that the women had no say at all in the matter. A fee was paid to the parents, with the Matchmaker taking a cut. Then the girl was packed off with suitcase and a cab fee or train ticket to be met by the man who would own her for the rest of her life.

  That did not sit well with Anna.

  So she decided she would keep her head down, work away at the factory, and help to keep her family’s head above the rising tide in that way.

  That decision was changed by the change of foreman at the factory. Old Devlin was given foremanship of the more prestigious forge, where the huge furnaces and steam driven moulds pumped and hissed away.

  The new man in charge of what had become known as Devlin’s girls was called Frances Breton, a nasty little man with a lazy eye who treated the workers with a kind of childish sadism. He raised quotas, fired girls at random, and would stand leeringly over the prettiest girls inspecting their ‘handiwork’ with a bulge in his trousers which showed prominently whenever he stopped to see one of his favourites.

  A few days after Breton took charge he pulled Anna away from the production line and into the small office in the corner of the warehouse space.

  ‘Take a seat, Miss Baker.’ She did and he moved to stand close in front of her, leering down at her in a stance with legs akimbo and hands thrust into his trouser pockets moving in sinister ways about his crotch.

  ‘You are are young woman of nineteen. Living in this–’ He looked to the window with his good eye and wrinkled his nos
e in contempt.

  ‘Living in this rat-heap. You have no doubt learned many of the ways of the world.’

  ‘I like to think I pay attention, Sir.’

  ‘So you are aware then, of what this is for?’ He unbuttoned his trousers and with obvious pride pulled a soft pale white mass of flesh out. Exposed now, his penis began slowly to swell, though this did little to improve it’s size Anna noted.

  Shocked beyond words, Anna was simply able to say, ‘I am aware of the male member, from hearsay.’

  ‘This beautiful specimen is an organ of pleasure. For me, Miss Baker, and if you choose, for you. Why don’t you give it a kiss.’

  She was of course fired immediately.

  It was not that she laughed out loud at the idea of allowing Mister Breton’s filthy little member near her, nor was it that she couldn’t keep her disgust at the prospect of touching his fleshy protrusion from contorting her face into a grimace of disgust. She was not fired even for the embarrassment she knew she had caused him by her refusal to go on bended knee and kiss his tyranical sceptre.

  All this Mister Breton could have borne, and had borne similar scorn from many a previous girl in his employ. Only one in ten were so fearful for their jobs that they would sink to compromise themselves with the man who employed them without further coercion on his part.

  No, what Mister Baker could not bear, and why Anna was fired that day, was that she had stood on her feet, hitched her skirts up in a most seductive way, bared the ankles of her worn and scuffed boots to him, and – just as the leering grin of anticipation was spreading across his face she swung that boot up hard and kicked Mister Breton square in the crotch.

  With him so exposed the tip of her boot rang true and Breton doubled up with a strangled scream barely making its way out of his body. He seemed to Anna to have shrunk in on itself as if the site of the pain were some gravitational point to which the rest of him was pulled.

  Anna felt she had done right by herself, and by Mister Breton, and by the other girls in the factory; but now her worry was for her family.

  So, with her pride now overcome by necessity, she made her decision. This time she did not pass the sign marked MATCHMAKERS, but stopped below it and stepped into the shadowy hall of the building.

  Chapter Two

  The gentleman in the small office bid Anna sit and had his serving boy take her hat from her. Aware of the filth in her hair from the factory she felt suddenly very exposed and plain with her bonnet gone.

  The man asked a few key details about her age, measurements, and health before he had even asked her name. Then he checked her ears, pulled her lips back to check her teeth like a horse and combed carefully through her hair for lice.

  As he did all this he continued to add to the notes he was taking, carefully keeping the sheet of paper behind a small oil lamp so that although he did not appear to be hiding it, it was none the less obscured from Anna’s view.

  A few more checks and some questions regarding her monthly bleeding and the man showed her to the door fussily saying that he would send out some telegrams and confirm for her his deal just as soon as she brought her father in to sign on her behalf.

  Then the door slammed behind her and she realised he had put her out the back door onto the wrong street. She headed in the direction of Kirk Street down this unfamiliar path hoping to reach a recognisable intersection when something caught her eye. In front of a small public house boldly called The Pope’s Penny she saw a most incongruous sight. Two fine looking horses and a private handsome cab, adorned with a coat of arms and topped by a driver in bright red livery.

  The pub was drab, the houses and shops around it were cheap and run down, the street smelled of horse dung and human urine. But here was the carriage of a magnificently wealthy man parked as if its owner owned the street.

  Intrigued Anna crossed the road, nodded at the driver and slipped into the pub. She was the youngest person by twenty years, though most of the patrons had the well worn faces of those who had lived hard and aged long before their time.

  At the bar two men in expensive great coats were throwing back gin served to them in grubby pewter pint pots. As she approached the bar curiously, Anna saw a tall thin man with almost no teeth in his mouth sidle up to the men and ask, ‘But the guv’nor a drink?’

  ‘We are well served, my good man, but thank you for your hospitality.’

  The tone carried natural authority but none of the contempt she imagined from a man dressed as expensively as that, with his top hat lightly resting by his hand on the bar.

  The old man, nodded his head, ‘Bless you, sirs.’ Then with extraordinary skill his slipped his hand into the taller of the two men’s coats pockets and removed a pair of bank notes.

  Anna rushed forwards arm outstretched to catch the man’s wrist when with extraordinary speed the man in the top hat spun around and seized her own. The old man, with his back turn continued to the door and disappeared.

  Her wrist hurt. ‘What did you do that for?’ asked Anna.

  ‘I won’t have a man hanged over a matter of five pounds young lady. If I didn’t half expect to be robbed in a place like this then I’d deserve to be robbed, since I was expecting it and was still robbed I deserve it even more.’

  The other man turned. ‘Clairborne, I am done,’ he said to the man whose hand still held Anna’s wrist firmly. ‘I will walk home tonight, we can conclude this business on Sunday.’

  Without taking he eyes of Anna, Clairborne turned and bid his friend farewell. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘With my business partner gone, I will need some company. What do you charge?’

  ‘How dare you! I am a pure woman,’ snarled Anna indignantly.

  ‘Indeed? I meant no harm by it. A pretty young thing in a place like this and no man on her arm. What am I too think?’

  ‘The truth, sir. I came in to have a glass of gin, because I have lost my employment today, and must fill my hours till I can return home.’

  ‘Will you not tell your parents the bad news?’

  ‘Not until I am sure I have a remedy for it.’

  ‘And what remedy is that? The horses perhaps.’

  ‘That remedy is a lady’s business and none of yours, sir.’

  He let go of her wrist. ‘Very well, allow me to buy you your gin by way of an apology for my previous assumptions as to your virtue.’

  He smiled and Anna suddenly felt less angry with him. He seemed so good natured, had allowed a man to steal from him out of compassion for the poor, and seemed eminently wealthy. Perhaps fate has found me a match already, she thought.

  ‘Very well, sir. I will allow you to buy me my first drink, but no more. Gin is a wicked drink and I may only be so wicked in one go.’

  The publican who had been listening poured her a tot of gin and splashed a little water in it before passing it to her. ‘To being wicked,’ the Clairborne said and raised his glass.

  ‘To being redeemed,’ she replied raising hers.

  He was quite handsome she thought, looking over his long black hair. The gin was warm in her throat and made her feel rather reckless. ‘Having rebuffed you on questions of my business, I feel compelled to give you the chance to do the same to me, Sir. What brings you to this part of town?’

  ‘My words regarding the horses were not idle. I am here to buy a race horse. The gentleman who left when you arrived has one to sell, but it is terribly bad tempered. Unridable he claims. But I take great pleasure in the mastery of horses. Most you can break with little more than careful management.’

  ‘How to you go about taming a wilful horse.’

  The Lord looked her up and down. ‘Much the way one teaches a wilful woman, like yourself. It is no good to make demands, they must submit of their own will.’

  ‘Tell me how one does that with a horse, then perhaps you can tell me how you’d go about taming me.’ The gin was strong even watered down and she was feeling bold.

  ‘With a horse you let it have the run of a field on
the end of a very long rope. It can do as it pleases, but if it goes too far, it finds itself held by the rope. Most horses will look at the vast realm within bounds of the rope and enjoy their freedom within that. So you take the rope in a little and the horse grows comfortable trotting in circles at the end of its new leash. Then you take the rope in again.’

  ‘I see, and by the time the rope is little more than a halter in your hand it doesn’t realise that it has submitted.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And with a woman.’

  ‘A woman knows the length of the rope, you can’t trick her. A woman will only submit if you make defiance unpalatable.’

  ‘You speak of women, do you have many conquests on whom you have worked this magic?’

  This man spoke with great confidence of matters of the heart in terms of livestock. She had never met a man more plain speaking, nor more attractive with it.

  ‘A few. Do you know the word harem?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In the orient,’ he began.

  ‘Have you travelled to the orient?’ she asked excited. Travel seemed very romantic to her.

  ‘I have, and in my travels I met many rulers who have not just one but many wives. These are noble women who he presents to society, and who raise the heirs to his fortune. But the great men also have harems. In these are women who are like wives to the ruler but remain in the role of servants. The wives must work as diplomatic courtiers. The women of his harem live in luxury and have no demands on them but that they are available for their Lord’s pleasure.’