by Louisa Trent
“Take care, Miss Malone. You may like what I offer too much.”
I made him no denial.
“Miss Malone – see that the cape remains undone.”
No, I was the one undone.
“But I have some misgivings about this new fashion you have created. Anyone who happens to glance my way will see my pubic curls,” I said forthrightly, no stammer to be heard on my vocal cords.
“How very remiss of me. I shall remedy that situation this very instant.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” I said in breathless relief to his back as he went off into the pantry.
He returned with a small paring knife. “Hold still. The blade is sharp.”
So saying, he proceeded to cut my pubic curls away, a thorough shearing that scraped across my skin. Lest he nick me, I dared not move a muscle.
Upon finishing, he said, “Fetching. Anyone stealing a peep at you now will be duly rewarded for their efforts. Although – you may not favor such public scrutiny. Do you?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps. I suppose it would depend upon my audience. ” I had discovered a wicked and impulsive seed within me. Should I unearth it or let it grow?
“This area is brimming with scoundrels,” he continued. “If you wish to keep your virtue intact en route home, you will avoid any attempts at seduction on the street. And visits from other lovers you may have scheduled prior to our engagement must, by necessity, be curtailed for a while. At the transfixing sight of your smooth cunt, the men will be full of pertinent questions, questions you may not wish to answer. Do you agree?”
In a subdued manner, I replied, “Yes, sir,” while thinking what a devil he was to think up this devious ploy at such short notice.
But perhaps not. Perhaps his was not such short notice. Perhaps I was not the first to receive such roguish treatment at his hands. Perhaps shaving his partners was the usual routine with him. He may have come up with idea from prostitutes. Ladies of the evening always sheared the hair on their privates.
As the not knowing galled me, I asked, “Do you frequent brothels, sir?”
“No. Never. Too fastidious. Brothels are breeding grounds for all manner of disease. Never mind theft. For the most part, widows satisfy my manly appetites.”
“But you thought me a prostitute that first night, sir. And you wore no condom. What of that?” Aha! I had caught him in a lie!
“You were exceptional, and so I made an exception for you. In both areas.”
“Do you keep all your women – your widows – thus?” I waved a hand at my denuded genitals.
“None before you. Plan on me keeping you this way as long as you are with me. Better than having you wear a chastity belt, eh? This way, you will turn away visits from your gentlemen callers. And I approve of the look on you. I can see everything at a glance.” Reaching toward me, he delicately moved aside my private folds as I spread myself open for him. No attempt at resistance. I would lean over the scrubbed wooden work table if he told me to…even at this late juncture…despite my unrequited attraction for Mr. Osborn.
“Your slit is naughtily provocative,” the conman murmured. “Swollen as you are, I can still easily see your clitoris. And know that you are ready for more. You are ready for more now, my sweet clit, are you not?”
A nod should suffice. Any more would increase his hat size beyond its present enormousness.
“Then best leave now if you intend to go or I shan’t be held accountable for my actions. And, by the way – when you reach the end of my property at the fence, the boundary of my jurisdiction over you, you may do as you please. Close up the cloak then if you wish.”
He pushed me through the door he hastily opened and then closed after me with a resounding thud of the lock falling in place. I was all alone on the stoop, sore and damaged and shaven and, God help me, missing him already.
Chapter Fifteen
No time to see to washing my hair or the rest of me, I raced to dress in the ‘artistic’ mode, a more natural style that loosely followed a women’s unrestrained contours and reflected my new free-spirit approach to life. The gown was one of the French modiste’s creations, a lovely thing I found in my front parlor upon my return from the Red-light District. No grappling with corset laces – I was going without this evening – shaved whole minutes from my toilette. After pulling my pale mussed strands into some semblance of order, I took a few deep breaths and the reporter was there.
For the second time, I greeted him after just being with another man.
I offered him my hand. “So very pleasant to see you, Mr. Osborne. Does this visit to Jamaica Plain find you well?”
He took my hand lightly in his, remembering to return it to me immediately following a gentle shake. No embrace. Too forward for this very correct man. Not even an air kiss hovered above my knuckles. This left me disenchanted. Perhaps, the conman had ruined me for a gentleman?
No! I refused to believe that. Mr. Osborn respected me, treated me as a lady ought to be treated. That he would ever spank my bare bottom while I hung panting over his knees was too much to expect. Perhaps, he would loosen up later…
“Something I said, Miss Malone?”
“Pardon?”
“You were grinning.”
Goodness! Had it been a dirty grin?
I straightened my lips. Then, like a good hostess, I showed him into the drawing room.
He looked at me as if I had two heads. “No chaperone?”
“We had none before during the interviews,” I said, acquitting myself of the faux pas.
“You visited me at my office. We were surrounded by newspaper employees. This is a social call,” he said, obviously aghast. “Think of your reputation, Miss Malone.”
“I trust you, sir.” Perhaps too much. My carnal appetites demanded something of him he seemed unprepared to deliver.
“I meant this visit as a prelude to courtship,” he continued. “Is there an adult male relative I could ask permission of to see you regularly with an honorable intent in mind?”
Courtship. He meant to woo me.
Stunned, I pressed my hand to my bosom…my uncorsetted bosom. My dominant partner had ordered me to go without, and so I had. But now my breasts were unfettered, a fact Mr. Osborn noted.
A gentleman, first and foremost, he dropped his sights and examined his boots.
My lovely new gown was a pretty shade of lavender. The fabric, however, was thin, and suddenly I was conscious of my nipples, peaked from thoughts of my lover.
Would that Mr. Osborn took my arousal in stride and not condemn me for it. Would that he view my elongated nipples as a reaction to him!
I took the bull by its horns. “Mr. Osborn, I am a mature woman of progressive outlook. Surely, you realize I am attracted to you. Or, if not before, you must now. Also, I am not a virgin, sir. And I would like to get started on making a family. Sooner rather than later, in other words. Specifically, before the vows are said. There is no time for shilly-shallying. I am over thirty years of age…”
“Your candor, Miss Malone! Astonishing! Not even a brief period of acquaintance first, then?”
“May I speak even more plainly, sir?”
“By all means, Miss Malone. I support suffrage and women in the workplace, and all the rest.”
“Wonderful! Compatibility is all-important to me, both in and out of bed. I believe we would have no problem with the latter.”
His face reddened. Was he apoplectic?
No. Just a gentleman.
I carried on. “I should like to test our carnal compatibility at your earliest possible convenience.”
Now all color drained from his face. He went so pale, I thought he might faint.
I sought to set him at ease. “No intercourse tonight, sir.”
Not until my pubic curls grew back and the heavy bruising on my breasts and buttocks disappeared. Frightening him away was not my objective here. “No relations straight away. But we could perhaps kiss?”
“C
ertainly, Miss Malone.” He took several steps toward me. “If I may be so bold?”
“Be as bold as you like. I give you full leave.”
He took me by the shoulders and pressed his firm lips to my slightly swollen ones. I doubted he noticed their fullness as he perused my lips with mastery and finesse. After a bit, he inserted his tongue in my mouth, politely and expertly done.
For my part, I warmly received his exploration, even going so far as to openly tangle my tongue with his, a dance of respectable passion.
Always the gentleman, he broke it off after cupping my breast, and I made no protest. Rather, I pressed the taut nipple into his palm and moved against his eager erection, my belly cradling the reassuring hardness I discovered there.
“Not tonight, correct, Miss Malone?”
“Correct, Mr. Osborn. Give it a couple of weeks, shall we, before we dive in?”
“I shall count the days,” he replied.
I nodded my approval at his earnestness. He was such a dear man. “As will I, sir.”
“Afterwards, we shall talk arrangements.”
“Only if we both find the relations acceptable.”
He grinned down at his tented trousers. “I have no qualms there.”
“How very reassuring.”
“My, but you are a modern woman.”
“A regular Gibson Girl, that would be me.”
He frowned. “You seem different somehow. More at ease. More…sophisticated about such matters.”
“I suppose I am, sir. I have been…reading quite a bit, educating myself. Now I have had an exhausting day. Shall we say our goodnights now, before things get out of hand?”
“Sound idea.” Like a gentleman should, he immediately backed away, applying no pressure for more.
His courtesy greatly relieved my mind, as did his acceptance of my carnal experience. He did not look at me as if I were ruined goods.
I walked him to the door. “So – shall I see you two weeks?”
“Oh. No additional contact until we test our compatibility?”
I liked that he sounded crestfallen. “I think it wise, sir. Why test our carnal endurance?”
Now he blushed, even his ears turning rosy. “Yes. Of course. I will arrive prepared.”
An enlightened male, he meant to carry condoms. “Yes, do arrive prepared. But only for that first occasion. As I say, I would like to start a family.”
He backed out the door, nearly falling over the threshold on his trip to the front porch.
With a carefree wave, I sent him on his way.
I had the conman to return to, and he would never tolerate my keeping him waiting…as I was keeping the reporter waiting. Fortunately, Mr. Osborn was too much the gentleman to complain about my putting him off.
I chuckled to myself. Mr. Osborn was such a nice man.
Unlike the conman. Now he would not only complain – he would act upon his grievance. Not with words, either. My bottom would smart from the force of his silent reproaches.
How many times and how many ways would he make his dissatisfaction known?
More than five, I wagered. I wagered my flesh would sting and blister when he finished disciplining me. After he impressed me with his displeasure, I wagered not being able to sit for a fortnight. That would not stop him. The conman was not the forgiving sort. To teach me a more lasting lesson, he would most likely turn me to my belly, and go at me another way, an unspeakable revenge for my misbehavior.
I shivered uncontrollably at what form that unspeakable revenge would take.
* * * *
In a dark corner of my Jamaica Plain estate, I saw him.
I was rushing over the lawn in my new silk slippers, about to hail a Hansom cab at the street – having my driver bring the carriage around at this hour would lead to strange looks from my household staff the next time I was home – and there he was, blending into the pitch blackness as only a phantom…or a thief…can manage. He must have been waiting for me to leave the well-lit drive before making his approach. At any rate, he materialized from out of the deep shadows as I neared the front gate.
He took my elbow. Roughly. “I saw him leave.”
I played the innocent. “What are you talking about? Who leave? And what are you doing here? I already explained I had an errand to run.”
“Your errand,” he sneered, as he violently shook me, “was with the newspaper reporter. Do not think to lie to me.”
I pulled at his hold on me. “My arm, if you please.”
“Releasing you does not fucking please me! Our agreement was for one week’s time, and then you go and sneak off like a goddamned alley cat in heat.”
“You are hurting me, sir.”
“And you like the hurt.”
I looked away. “Mr. Osborn and I did nothing. We only talked.”
He sniffed at my lips, at my jawbone. “You kissed the reporter. I smell his hair lacquer on your face.”
I sighed. “The tonic he uses is rather overpowering at close proximity.”
“Humor will not disarm my anger.”
“I was not trying to be funny, sir. That was the truth.”
“You want that stink on your pillow very night? On your body?”
“I doubt it would be every night, sir. Mr. Osborn is a gentleman.
“Hinting for a compliment is rather a trite move. You are lovely. There. I said it again.”
I was trying to absorb the fact that he could still say such pretty things to me while holding my elbow in a vice-like grip when the conman said, “Now, do not change the subject – the reporter.”
“Yes? What of him?”
“Is he one of your previous partners?”
I looked at him aghast. “You make me sound like a whore. I am not. I told you this already. In your mind, does having carnal relations outside marriage classify a woman as a slut?”
First, I had resisted the nice misrepresentation of me. Now I found myself resisting this characterization just as fiercely.
Who was I, anyway?
A mature woman, for one, who could afford financially to find her sensual self at this late juncture in life – that was how I saw myself. But how did he see me?
And why did I care?
I did not! Still, I could not let it go.
“Narrow-minded, double-standard, hypocrite,” I began. “I deeply resent the implication that experience equals unsavory. A man would not be pigeon-holed this same way.”
He frowned. “That is all in your head, Miss Malone. I never said that. Stop putting words in my mouth. Of course, I believe you have the right to experiment. Let me clarify, so there will be no further misunderstanding – have you bedded the reporter in the past?”
“No. But I am smitten with him.”
His lip curled in distaste. “Smitten. I see.”
I did not. His disdain for Mr. Osborn discomforted me, and I could not understand why his opinion even mattered. But for some reason, it did.
“I thought you had better taste, Miss Malone.”
“The reporter is a decent man. I never thought I stood a chance, but after our first tryst at the charitable soiree I noticed a change in him. Though he denied doing so, he finally saw me as a flesh-and-blood woman, not just as a nice subject for a newspaper interview.” I looked up and over at him. “Must have been your influence on me, eh?”
“The reporter smelled my cum on you,” he vulgarly. “Some men are like that. Going after a female already taken is a sport to them.”
I went stock still. “Taken? Our agreement was of limited duration. Do not overreach here, sir.”
“And do not undervalue my stipulations. I told you seven days. Regardless of your erotic fever for the reporter, a scratch I could easily have seen to, you are to stay clear of him and any other suitor during that time period.”
Any other suitor?
I was lucky to have the one…
Evidently, the conman saw me as a femme fatale.
“After the kiss,
I told Mr. Osborn to return in a week,” I admitted, preening a bit. “A legitimate courtship between us will commence then. During the interim, I am my own woman. No tethers.”
Never before had anyone staked a claim on me or fought over me or done anything that smacked of possessiveness, and I had to say, I rather liked it. Not a steady diet, as I was my own person, but within reason. A little territoriality made me feel quite desirable. Was it my fault, after feeling nothing for so long, especially not anything sensual, that I ate up the attention of two men?
“Something I said, Miss Malone? Your eyes are sparkling in the moonlight.”
“I would like to have children someday, so I must give up my erotic fever in favor of respectability. This I understand. But, for this one week, I intend to revel in carnality. You, sir, will benefit from my overindulgence.”
“I think not. I came here tonight to call it quits with you. I cannot abide a cheater.”
I swallowed my pride. “Neither can I. But it was just one measly, little kiss. I swear.”
“One kiss or a thousand is all the same to me. Same principle applies. And even if you swore on a stack of bibles, the word of a cheater is not to be trusted.”
Sanctimonious charlatan, the nerve of him!
Question:
When does a conman come down with a bad case of principles?
Answer:
When he meets me and spoils everything.
Lord save me from the newly-converted self-righteous.
Just when I was so looking forward to being with someone lacking scruples, he went and showed his boring, moralistic side.
“How can I make my mistake up to you, sir?” I gave him what to mind passed as seductive entreaty, all illicit promise and wily temptation.
Not at all fooled, he narrowed his eyes. “You will have to be chastened. You are not at present.”
“I am certainly chastened!” I argued.
“No. You are merely aggravated that you were caught. Tell you what – gather up your belongings. You are hereby dismissed. Call your reporter and tell him he may begin his courtship of you earlier than expected. Go on.” He pushed me away. “Fuck him all you please. It matters not to me anymore. I avoid untrustworthy women.”
