Episode 8
“I WILL HAVE a word with you, my dear,” Madame Devereux said to Greta after she had arrived at the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum for her sixth night with Master Gallant. That she had but two nights remaining with the man saddened her but did nothing to dampen the eagerness with which she greeted her evening with him.
“I noticed that Master Gallant escorted you home again last night,” Devereux said after Greta had followed the proprietress to the anteroom of her boudoir.
“He did,” Greta acknowledged. “I do not think I have met a more chivalrous man.”
“I do not dispute you, my dear, but your experience with his sex is rather limited.”
Greta furrowed her brow. “Have I offended? Should I not have allowed a patron to accompany me home?”
“Worry not, you have not erred. I commend Mister Gallant for employing a range of stratagems in his seduction. And I commend you, Mistress Scarlet. He has not had to resort to walking maidens home before.”
Greta said nothing. She had thought that her well-being concerned Charles—Master Gallant—and that was why he wished to see her safely home. Madame Devereux’s perspective of his gallantry was not one that Greta had considered. She could not help but feel disappointed if Madame Devereux’s view was nearer the truth.
“What young woman would not be flattered by such attention?” Devereux continued as she eased herself onto the settee and stretched her legs over the seat. “Would you care for a glass of port, my dear?”
Greta shook her head. The proprietress gestured to the waiting maid, who poured a glass for Madame Devereux.
“Do not be ashamed if you, too, have fallen under his charms,” Devereux said between sips of the wine. “As I have said before, he is very skilled. In many ways.”
Looking down in thought, Greta tried to recall all his actions in light of what Madame Devereux said. Had she mistaken artifice for sincerity?
“Nonetheless, I think he has met his match in you,” said Devereux, “though he does not know it. Such is his confidence that he did boast to me that he would vanquish Mistress Scarlet for good.”
Greta looked up sharply. Could this be true? Gallant did not appear to be a man given to conceit or self-aggrandizement.
“Come sit by me, my dear.”
Devereux gestured to a chair beside her settee. Greta took a seat beside her.
Devereux leaned toward her and said in a light but conspiratorial tone, “I think it would be jolly fun to put him in his place.”
“I thought you liked the man.”
“I do! Absolutely, I do! But his sex has all the advantages in society. Their vanities need no further stroking. And in truth, I have too few Mistresses here at the Red Chrysanthemum. I could not bear to see Mistress Scarlet defeated.”
“She would not be,” Greta replied but was suddenly aware that she herself needed reassurance on the matter.
“I do hope so, my dear! Mistress Scarlet has been a wonderful addition to the Red Chrysanthemum.”
“My time with Master Gallant is nearly at an end. You will have Mistress Scarlet back in two days’ time.”
“Will I?”
“You doubt my commitment as Mistress Scarlet?”
“Master Gallant can be quite persuasive, can he not?”
The weight of her own uncertainty made her look down. Madame Devereux said nothing, then patted Greta’s hands.
“Perhaps I can provide Mistress Scarlet some encouragement,” the proprietress said. “If Mistress Scarlet can rule the day at the end of your sennight with Master Gallant, I shall grant you permanent and lifelong membership to the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum. Gratis.”
Greta looked up and stared at Devereux in disbelief.
“I know your family to have limited means,” Devereux continued. “Have I not already been charitable to you in exchange for your services to Miss Primrose?”
“Permanent and lifelong?” Greta echoed.
“Gratis. Such is the value of Mistress Scarlet to me.”
Greta was allowed time and silence for the significance of such generosity to sink in. The clock above the fireplace mantle struck the hour.
“I must prepare for his arrival,” Greta said, rising to her feet.
“Of course. He would expect no less than your complete obedience. He knew you as Miss Greta from years ago, and as he has no affinity for Damien, he would be more than gratified to know that he could command from you as good a submission as, if not better than, Damien.”
Had that been Master Gallant’s intent all along, why he had sought her out instead of claiming Miss Lily, as a normal man would have?
“He shall not have it,” Greta replied of her submission.
“I pray Mistress Scarlet will not fail me.”
* * * * *
Charles looked over the small dinner he had requested be set for him and Miss Greta in their chamber. There was beefsteak, potatoes, beans, bread with butter, and the pears she had liked. He had written instructions that she need not disrobe or alter her attire but come straightway to their chamber. Thus, there was no reason for her to be late. Instead, she was a good twelve minutes past their appointed time. He removed his coat and hung it over one of the chairs at the small dining table.
“Come in,” he responded to the knock at the door.
Miss Greta entered, looking lovely in a floral muslin, her hair piled softly atop her head. Seeing the dinner, she looked at him with large, inquiring eyes.
“I mean to put more flesh about your bones, Miss Greta.”
He pulled a chair out for her. She sat down and immediately espied the pears.
“It is a lovely repast,” she murmured.
He thought he caught a strange tremor to her tone but attributed it to the pleasant surprise of the dinner. He poured wine into her glass.
“You will have to enjoy the supper somewhat tepid for you are late.”
“My apologies. Madame Devereux required a word with me.”
“She did?”
She kept her gaze at her plate, which he filled with ample servings of all the food. “She wished to reconcile my membership dues.”
“Then I will overlook your tardiness this once.” He sat down and raised his glass. “To our final two nights.”
She took up her glass and joined his toast, but an odd air of hesitation surrounded her.
“Does the repast not agree with you?” he asked.
“I seldom eat at this hour,” she replied, “but I will partake a little. I seldom have beefsteak.”
He felt more encouraged to see her take up her fork and knife. Taking a knife, he sliced a pear for her.
“How is your father?”
“Better. I did give him the root you had provided me. I ground it and mixed it in with some tea and much honey. The flavor of it is quite strong and unpleasant.”
He nodded. “Yes, though I prefer it to snake wine.”
“Pardon?”
“The Chinese believe the essence of snake, particularly the venomous species, to promote health and virility.”
Her mouth dropped. “And you have dared to drink of snake?”
“The sight of a snake and scorpion steeped in a jar is far more daunting than the actual beverage.”
She shuddered. “I am grateful to savor beefsteak and not snake. Are the benefits indeed true?”
“I have not consumed enough of snake wine to render judgement.”
He placed the slices of pear on her plate. She went for the fruit.
“What a contrast,” she remarked, “that a people can produce such sweet fruit as this alongside the ghastly notion of snake wine.”
“We have all of us the divine and the wretched.”
“You speak of more than food.”
“I do, but I will not make somber your supper with talk of humanity’s darkness.”
“You have spoken on solemn matters before, but they have not dampened your cheerful disposition.”
He raised interested brows. “Do you find me cheerful, Miss Greta?”
“More than I.”
“You are modest. I know the circumstances of your life to weigh upon you, but the capacity for joy is there. When your eyes are lit with delight, your whole person has the radiance of sunshine. I find it easy to be of good cheer in proper company.”
She smiled and blushed a little. He adored that blush in her cheeks. She seemed embarrassed, but he did not regret his words. They had fallen from his lips before thought, but he wanted her to know that she was beautiful when she was happy.
“Did your father question where you obtained the ginseng?” he asked, turning the conversation away from her person.
“He did and was most concerned that I should have purchased something unfamiliar to us, but I explained that a man who had come from China provided me a sample. So confident was he of its properties that he required no money for it, but he would be happy to sell us more if we desired it.”
“You are welcome to more, but I will take no money for it.”
“That is kind of you, but if you hope to curry favor beyond the sennight that has been agreed upon—”
“No. No money, no favors, no expectations of any kind.”
She appeared pensive.
“I hope you will not hesitate to request of me anything you believe would benefit from my attention,” he said. It was more than he had intended to offer, but he wanted her to see him as a friend.
“You are truly kind, Mr. Gallant—Master Gallant.”
“You have not eaten much. Perhaps I ought to command it of you, lest you wish to be punished.”
“I may wish it,” she replied with a demure smile, but her coyness soon retreated. She had retreated a number of times in this evening, as if she did not wish to become too familiar with him.
“Do you have the Ben Wa balls in place, as I directed?”
She looked down and took a breath as if to fortify herself. “I do not.”
He waited for her to explain herself, but she did not.
“Why not?” he prompted. “Have you misplaced them?”
“No. I chose not to.”
She looked across the table at him, and he thought he sensed Mistress Scarlet staring at him. It was not what he expected given their progression of the past two nights.
“Then you have been naughty, Miss Greta. You purposefully seek punishment?”
“No.”
“Then what occasions this disobedience?”
“I feel it more true to myself, to Mistress Scarlet.”
He frowned. “You agreed to be my submissive for a sennight.”
“I did not say I would be a good one.”
“No, you promised me more. You promised perfect submission.”
Her brow furrowed and she seemed ill at ease. “They were words spoken in the heat of the moment.”
“You make oaths lightly.”
This angered her for she glared at him. “If you sought a perfect submissive one, why do you take me? Why Mistress Scarlet? Was it to inflate your opinion of yourself? Would it serve as quite the accomplishment to vanquish Mistress Scarlet?”
Her accusation surprised him. He could not disavow that his pride would be served by the seduction of Mistress Scarlet, but it was not from hubris that he acted.
“Because I have seen you as Miss Greta. I have seen the eagerness with which you satisfied such a role.”
“That was years ago.”
“And why can it not be done today?”
“Because it is different. I am different. I have discovered Mistress Scarlet, and she is more to my liking than Miss Greta.”
He narrowed his eyes and tried to temper the agitation rising in him. He did not understand what caused this change in her.
“You cannot deceive me into thinking you did not enjoy submitting to me, that you did not desire my touch.”
His statement ruffled her. He pushed further.
“I have no complaints with Mistress Scarlet, but your true self is Miss Greta.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “You are pompous to think you know me better than myself. You presume—”
“I do not presume. I know.”
“Ha! Then I suppose I am more accomplished an actor than I give myself credit for.”
He stared at her. Impossible. It could not all have been an illusion. She could not be capable of such deception.
Seeing that she now could take the offensive, she said, “Perhaps I complied to make the evening pass faster!”
Her words were like a cannonball to his groin. When he had regained his composure, he said evenly, “Then why unmask yourself now? When we have two more nights together?”
She faltered upon realizing she might have spoken in haste.
His head was pounding as he rose to his feet. “I will have your submission, Miss Greta, your true and honest submission. I dare you to resist me.”
* * * * *
I dare you to resist me.
Heartbeat quickening, Greta could only stare at her plate. She did not want to meet his gaze for fear that he might glimpse any hesitancy on her part. She had not intended to cast her interactions with him as an act, pretense, or sham. It was, quite frankly, a lie. As was her insinuation that she had falsified her reactions to bring the evening to a speedier conclusion. Nothing could be further from the truth.
But his arrogance had infuriated her. Why had he not denied that his objective in taking her over Miss Lily was to subjugate Mistress Scarlet? When Madame Devereux had stated his goal as such, Greta had not been completely at ease with the proprietress’s characterization. She had allowed herself to fancy Master Gallant partial to her, but that was a romantic delusion not to be encouraged. After all, Devereux was far better acquainted with the man.
Greta could not retract her words without admitting them to be falsehoods. The battle lines had been drawn before she knew she had entered a war, a war she could not lose. The promise of a lifetime membership at the Red Chrysanthemum without dues was an attractive prize, but more than that was at stake. She had known no one but Mistress Scarlet the past two years. Mistress Scarlet gave her glory and standing. Miss Greta had been buried along with her broken heart. Now Master Gallant would resurrect Miss Greta to threaten Mistress Scarlet.
She would not let Mistress Scarlet fall. If Master Gallant thought he could assume the position Master Damien once held, he was wrong. The both of them be damned.
“Miss Greta, I know not what has given you the impression—”
His tone had softened, but she barely noted the change. Meeting his gaze, she responded, “I will allow you to call me ‘Miss Greta’ for the remainder of our term together, but thereafter, I expect to be addressed as ‘Mistress Scarlet.’”
He stared at her, the muscle along his jaw rippled.
“I will address you as ‘Mistress Scarlet’ now, if you wish it. It does not change the fact that you will submit to me willingly.”
“I will submit to you only because I will not shirk my obligation, and though I was tricked into it, but you cannot command my disposition.”
“No?”
His arrogance only fueled her resolve. She squared her shoulders as he went to pull the cord for the servant’s bell.
“Have you finished with the supper?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Would you care for another glass of port?”
She shook her head. She would require all her faculties against him.
“Then let us commence your submission.”
A maid knocked upon the door. Greta sat where she was as Gallant addressed the maid.
“Mistress Scarlet and I will take the stage in the gathering room. All are welcome to attend.”
“I will inform Madame and the others,” the maid replied before departing.
Greta inhaled deeply. So that was his strategy. Well, it would not play into his favor to attempt her humiliation in public. Having witnesses would only aid in her steadfastness, for pride would not allow her to surrender before others.
“What is your safety word, Mistress Scarlet?”
She bristled at her name, though she had as much asked it of him. “I shall not require my safety word.”
“Nevertheless, I insist you know it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Red.”
“Good. Proceed to the gathering room and await me there upon the stage.”
She did not wish to follow his orders. He had dared her to resist him. But he would see his own humiliation before the other members, and that would gratify her. She rose to her feet.
“I hope you will not take long, Mister Gallant.”
Perhaps she ought not have taunted him, but she could not resist. He stood looking at her impassively, and she took her leave. She took her time as she headed downstairs to the drawing room.
“Mistress Scarlet,” greeted Miss Terrell, the only negress of the Red Chrysanthemum. “It is a rare and special occasion to have you on stage. I understand your time with Master Gallant is of limited duration. Do you suppose he would take to darker flesh?”
“Have you done with Mr. Worthington then?” Greta asked as the two women walked together to the drawing room.
“He returns to the West Indies soon, and I shall not pine for his person.”
“I wonder that you pine for any man.”
“Affection is a dangerous emotion. No good comes of it.”
Greta was in full agreement. She recalled how she had felt when Gallant had escorted her home, when he had presented her the ginseng for her father. These feelings must not be allowed further manifestation.
“Not that I could hold any affection for Mr. Worthington even if my heart were capable of doing so,” Miss Terrell continued. “He is not a man worthy of warmer regard, and his abilities in the venereal realm are even less worthy of mention. But I am intrigued by Master Gallant. I suspect his aptitude far exceeds the likes of Mr. Worthington?”
Greta said nothing at first, then replied, “I am not one who can properly judge the skills of his sex.”
“Yes, the two of you are an odd pairing. A Master and a Mistress. I confess I am curious to know what transpires between you two?”
Greta affected a bored tone. “Mister Gallant has shown me tricks he has learned from his travels to the Orient. In that, he is novel.”
“Indeed? He is a handsome fellow to boot. Will you be done with him? I’ve no wish to tread upon your interests if otherwise.”
“Most certainly I will be done with him,” Greta snapped.
Surprised, Miss Terrell said nothing further. They entered the drawing room, and Miss Terrell took a seat beside another female member.
The stage was no more than a platform the length of the room and a few inches high. At one end of the stage was a wooden pole. At the other end was a cross. A table at the back held familiar implements, among them, whips, canes, and crops.
Greta stepped onto the stage as other members filed into the room. Madame Devereux arrived and took her place in the back of the room. The proprietress raised her brows upon meeting Greta’s gaze, and Greta raised her chin as if to assure the woman that she need not worry.
But Greta could not refrain from worry. She knew not what Master Gallant planned, and she was not immune to his touch. Her defiance in the first few days with him now seemed a long time ago. She hoped she could rally her earlier boldness. She recalled she had wanted him to rue the day he claimed her.
Nearly a dozen patrons of the Red Chrysanthemum had filled the room by the time Master Gallant arrived. He had removed his neckcloth and waistcoat, but appeared no less debonair in only his shirt and braces above his trousers.
He stepped onto the stage. “I require the assistance of two women to undress Mistress Scarlet.”
Miss Isabella quickly volunteered. Gallant nodded to her.
“Will we be rewarded for our assistance?” asked Miss Terrell.
“What manner of reward do you seek?”
She grinned broadly. “Your cock would do.”
Greta wondered if she might not dislike Miss Terrell a little.
Gallant raised his brows. “You must accomplish far more than audacity to earn such a prize.”
“I will do whatever it takes, sir.”
“Then begin by serving as a dressing maid.”
Miss Terrell happily took to the stage. She and Miss Isabella began by removing the pins from Greta’s gown while Gallant tied a rope about the midsection of the pole. When he was done, he pulled his braces down and removed his shirt. Greta tried not to admire the fine chiseled chest he revealed nor mind that her own garments were being shed. She had no qualms of sharing a dressing chamber with other women, but being undressed before the watchful eye of an audience was an entirely different matter.
Her gown and petticoats removed, she stood in her shift, stays, stockings, and shoes. She assumed a demeanor that she hoped suggested that she desired the undressing. Among the audience, only Madame Devereux knew of Miss Greta. All the others had only known her as Mistress Scarlet. They would be shocked to see her as a submissive.
“Continue with the stays,” Gallant directed.
Miss Isabella untied the ribbon in the back, and the undergarment soon fell to the ground.
“Now the shift. And you may caress any part you deem worthy of your admiration.”
Greta inhaled sharply. She told herself it was not as if she had not been fondled by soft hands before. Only then she had commanded the attention. She saw one man cock a quizzical brow. The man had approached her once, hoping that she did not always identify herself as Mistress Scarlet, but she had crushed his hopes in no uncertain terms.
Miss Isabella pulled the shift down Greta’s shoulders till the linen swept down her chest. In an instant, Miss Terrell was at her breast, licking and sucking upon a nipple. Greta swallowed a gasp. She did not want Miss Terrell’s mouth upon the most sensitive bud, but she forced herself not to flinch. Behind her, Miss Isabella yanked the shift down, knelt down and palmed her buttocks. Soon she felt Miss Isabella’s mouth, too, planting light kisses before sucking the flesh in earnest. Greta closed her eyes to diminish the awareness that her nakedness was on display for all to see. Her stockings and shoes, laughable remnants now, somehow exaggerated the bareness everywhere else. Not only was she naked, she was being fondled by two women.
Her eyes flew open when she felt Miss Isabella’s hand between her legs, cupping her mound, rubbing her. Her cheeks burned in indignation. She had not allowed or commanded Miss Isabella to touch her there, but, alas, she did not give the commands. Master Gallant did. She only looked in his direction from the corners of her eyes. Lust grew in Miss Isabella and Miss Terrell, for their mouths became more demanding. Their hands roamed her body, grasping breasts, hips, and arse.
“Are you enjoying the attention of these two lovely women, Mistress Scarlet?” Gallant asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
Miss Isabella began stroking her folds. Miss Terrell kissed her below her navel. Greta prayed they would be done soon but had to endure them for several minutes longer.
“May I taste her, Master Gallant?” Miss Isabella asked.
“Mistress Scarlet, would you like Miss Isabella to taste you?”
Greta said nothing at first. If she declined, she might reveal her earlier lie.
“I would.”
“Miss Isabella, you may proceed.”
Settling herself in front of Greta, Miss Isabella pried apart the thighs and wiggled her tongue up into the folds. Miss Terrell, exchanging positions, went to stand behind Greta. Reaching around, Miss Terrell palmed Greta’s breasts, pushing the orbs together and pulling them apart, stopping occasionally to toy with the nipples.
“You should see yourself,” Gallant said, moving to stand in front of her, “a tongue at your cunnie and two pairs of hands upon your lovely bosom.”
The caresses of the two women annoyed more than they aroused, but the tiny flames in Gallant’s eyes made her reconsider her situation. In his words, she saw herself, stripped of everything but her stockings and garters, her most private parts concealed from the audience by Miss Isabella and Miss Terrell’s hands. She felt a simmer take hold, and though she did not like Miss Isabella’s tongue upon her, she could not prevent the licking from awakening the flesh there.
Gallant’s gaze bore into hers. “Are two pairs enough, I wonder?”
Her eyes widened. Madame Devereux shifted in her seat. The movement caught her attention, and she lifted her chin. “You may invite as many as you wish to worship me, Mister Gallant.”
He frowned, and her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps provoking him, especially in front of an audience, was unwise.
“You know better than that, Mistress Scarlet,” he replied in a low voice. Louder, he asked of Miss Isabella, “How does she taste?”
“Mmmm,” Miss Isabella murmured.
“I will allow you to resume your repast shortly, but first I have to attend to her insubordination. Miss Terrell, fetch me that cord of rope.”
Standing behind Greta, he pulled both her wrists behind her head and bound them together with the rope Miss Terrell passed to him. He then wound the rope around her neck and crossed it above and below her breasts. She heard murmurs of appreciation from the audience and saw the look of envy upon Miss Terrell.
“It is beautiful,” Isabella said.
“You must teach this art to me,” said a man seated in the front.
“Have you any more rope?” Miss Terrell asked, the suggestion in her question obvious.
He looked at her but gave her no answer. Instead, he directed her and Miss Isabella to stand aside. Reaching into Greta’s coiffure, he yanked her hair down. Pins scattered to the floor. She gasped at the sharp tug to her scalp but was more alarmed that her hair now fell to her shoulders. She had never allowed her hair free reign, not since her days with Damien.
Gallant fisted his hand into her hair and pulled her head back. He growled into her ear, “You will behave yourself, Mistress Scarlet, or I will have you beg. You will implore me to stop, or you will beseech me to continue. Either way, you will beg for me.”
* * * * *
With her red hair tumbled down, she looked every bit as lovely as he imagined she would be. The coiffure had not come undone completely, but the awkward disarray of her hair made her no less alluring. He would have preferred her to acquiesce to the undoing of her hair, but she had forced his hand with her provoking. Grabbing her by the arm, he dragged her over to the pole and placed her in front of it with her feet straddled on either side of the rope he had tied to the pole earlier. He took up the rope till it fit tight to the folds between her legs. She yelped. Ignoring her, he went to tie the other end of the rope to the midsection of the cross. She stood upon her toes to keep the rope from digging into her flesh.
“Now walk across the length of the rope, Mistress Scarlet,” he instructed, taking up a flogger.
She looked mortified. Even on her toes, she could not escape the rope completely. She did not want to comply or show submission before the others, but she would soon see she had no choice.
“Now, Mistress Scarlet,” he said and landed the tips of the tails upon her.
She gasped at the sting but did not move. He saw the wheels turning in her mind, trying to discern a way out. He provided her no more time to think and lashed the flogger at her breast. She cried out as the tails struck her nipple.
Stubborn wench, he cursed to himself when she remained where she was. Collecting himself, he walked over to her calmly and pinched her nipple. She suppressed her cry. He pinched harder till her brow furrowed in pain and her body attempted to bend from him. He pulled the nipple.
“Stop,” she said through gritted teeth.
He released her and stood back, waiting. She took a careful step forward, sliding her cunnie slowly along the rope.
“Faster, Mistress Scarlet,” he urged.
She took another step, still trying to stay on her toes. He watched her progress across the stage, graceful in her nudity, the rope grazing her intimately. He knew not if Miss Isabella had been able to arouse any moisture in Miss Greta. If she had not challenged him as she had, he might have seen to it that she had some lubrication against the friction of the rope.
Whenever she slowed, he lashed the tails at her. At one point, wanting relief for her toes, she sank onto her heels, causing the rope to dig into her. When she reached the end of the rope, a few of the members applauded. Charles untied the rope and let it fall away from her. She glared at him.
“Well done,” he praised. “I will now reward you with the worship of as many hands as you desire. You will lie upon the table and present yourself for inspection.”
She frowned at his wording but went to the table and hopped upon it. He untied the other end of the rope and handed it to Miss Terrell.
“Tie her ankles to the legs of the table.”
Miss Terrell did as he bid. He told Miss Greta to lie down, and, producing a handkerchief, wound it about her eyes.
“You will guess how many pairs of hands have touched you,” he explained, not wanting her to ignore what was to happen. “Guess correctly, and your punishment is at an end. Incorrectly, and your punishment worsens.”
He slid a hand over her body, cupping her mound and gently stroking the folds the rope had rubbed. Spreading her labia with his fingers, he inspected her to affirm the rope had not caused any abrasions. He then turned to the audience. “Mistress Scarlet invites all of you to attend to her fine body.”
“This is most rare,” one man said to another. “I have never known Mistress Scarlet to allow any but her submissives to touch her.”
Miss Greta stiffened as Miss Isabella resumed her place between her thighs. Others came and caressed her ribs, the length of her legs, the patch of hair at her mound. A few played with her nipples. He could see her concentration, trying to keep track of the many different hands upon her, touching, groping, palming. He imagined what it would be like to be in her place, deprived of sight, hands all over her body. He hoped she would enjoy it all.
“I must have a taste of these delectable little rosebuds,” an older woman said and bent down to suckle a nipple.
Miss Greta groaned. Occasionally her thigh twitched. Miss Isabella’s tongue must be having an effect.
“Let me have a go,” Miss Terrell said to Miss Isabella.
Reluctantly, the latter conceded her much desired spot to the blackamoor. Charles noted the frown upon Miss Greta and wondered if she might not disfavor Miss Terrell, who set to burying her face in the cunnie before her. When she emerged, the entire area about her mouth glistened.
Miss Greta was aroused. Her whole body flushed.
Miss Terrell rose to her feet and approached him. “Would you wish to taste your mistress upon my lips, Master Gallant?”
He stared at her mouth, never having seen such plump lips before. He took in the whole of her. Like Miss Greta, she was slender in body but with larger breasts that swelled above her décolletage. The whites of her eye stood in stark contrast to her dark skin, beckoning him with their brightness. Curious to know how such supple lips might feel beneath his own, and desirous of tasting Miss Greta, he took Miss Terrell by the jaw and lowered his mouth to hers. His tongue dipped into her hot, wet orifice, tasting of both her and Miss Greta. Slowly, he closed her lips with his before pulling away. Her lips were quite extraordinary and nearly overwhelmed his own. Hers would not be lost in the crush of passion, but it was still Miss Greta who commanded his desires.
Releasing Miss Terrell, he walked to the table where Miss Greta lay and drank in the sight of her beautiful body being manhandled by no fewer than half a dozen hands. An odd mix of jealousy and arousal made the blood course forcefully through him. Gripping her jaw, he pressed two of his fingers into her mouth. She closed her lips about his digits. Miss Isabella had resumed her earlier position and lapped at Miss Greta with her talented tongue. Miss Greta sucked his fingers for relief as Miss Isabella added her deft fingers.
“May she spend, Master Gallant?” Miss Isabella asked.
“No,” he replied. “She must beg for it, and I will grant it only to Miss Greta.”
Withdrawing, he stepped back to take in the scene. It was possible she still fought her arousal. Certain reactions, even the moisture in her cunnie, were like reflexes and could not be avoided. The engagement of the mind was crucial in achieving true pleasure, and he was wagering his reputation that Miss Greta was of the proper mind.
“Would you wish for some relief yourself?”
Miss Terrell had approached him once more, her gaze at the telling tenting at his crotch. She reached to touch him, but he grasped her wrist.
“I did not give you leave to touch me,” he warned, his voice necessarily stern, like that of a headmaster to a wayward student. “I’ve a mind to bend you over Miss Greta and take your arse to task—if it were not precisely what you sought.”
Her lips curled impishly. “It is a tempting prospect. Are you certain you would not wish it?”
She inched toward him till her skirts grazed his leg. Someone needed to teach the brazen little chit a lesson, but it would not be him. Throwing away her hand, he walked back to Miss Greta.
“How many pairs of hands?” he demanded of her.
“Five,” she replied. “No. Six. Six.”
“Eight, Mistress Scarlet. You had eight pairs of hands upon you. Your punishment continues.”
She flushed. He thanked the others, who reluctantly returned to their seats in the audience. Miss Isabella pouted when he nodded for her to take her leave as well.
“These belong to you, Mistress Scarlet,” he said next, producing the silver balls he had brought with him from their chambers. He rubbed one of them along her slit. Recognizing the object, she made a little moan. He slid the ball along the plump little rosebud protruding from her folds, then inserted it inside of her. She groaned. He slid the second ball inside of her.
Retrieving the flogger, he warmed her body, already stimulated from the many hands upon her earlier, letting the tails fall in circles upon her breasts, her ribs, and her thighs. He whipped the tips at her belly, which drew a gasp from her, and then her genitals, which drew a cry. The flogger marked her skin crimson, and in the Red Chrysanthemum, these were marks of beauty. With the flogger, he alternated between slow thuds and quick stings. She took them both without complaint and stayed remarkably still though her reflexes must have wanted her body to jerk upon the table.
Careful not to overdo the flogging since she had not been in receipt of much flogging in the past few years, he stood between her parted thighs and stared at the lovely folds between them. With his thumb, he tousled the triangle of hair atop her mound, then dipped a finger down to her clitoris. He rubbed her slow and languid. She seemed to fight her reaction, but if she had responded to Miss Isabella, she would respond to him. He continued to fondle the little nub. From the corners of his eyes, he saw that some of the patrons had ceased paying attention and were drawn into their own engagements of pleasure. Miss Isabella and Miss Terrell occupied a corner of the stage and had begun to caress each other. Miss Terrell would often look in his direction, however, her gaze leaving no question as to who she truly wished to be with. In the back of the room, Madame Devereux fanned herself. Charles could not tell if she enjoyed the presentation or not.
He slid his fingers into Miss Greta. He felt the walls of her cunnie clench about him, then relax when she realized she had disturbed the Ben Wa balls. With his forefinger and middle finger upturned, he grazed the front wall of her vagina as if it were the backside of her clitoris. She shivered when his fingers caressed a raised spot inside of her. He continued to stroke it and saw that she struggled to keep her responses in check. She drew in long, ragged breaths, and her body trembled. Her excitation palpable, he felt his own desire lengthen and harden. His cock wanted to be where his fingers were.
“Ohhhh,” she moaned when he increased his caresses.
When he thought her sufficiently agitated, he withdrew his fingers. He slid one into the small puckered hole beneath her quim. He closed his eyes. Damnation, she was tight. He imagined his cock in the tight confines. Would he have the opportunity to enter her there? Pulling his finger out, he went to retrieve an item to take its place. It was a golden tear-shaped plug with a crystal embedded in the circular handle. He inserted the plug into her cunnie to coat it. With the base slick with her nectar, he inserted the plug into her arse. She groaned.
He untied the rope from her ankles and pulled her up by the rope about her breasts all the way to her feet. “Show the members your new bauble, Mistress Scarlet.”
Turning her around, he bent her over by pulling on her bindings.
“Lovely,” a woman in the audience murmured. “I should like one for myself.”
He tapped on the crystal. Miss Greta grunted.
“A charming rump has Mistress Scarlet,” another patron noted.
Charles noticed the blush upon Miss Greta deepened. He made her face the table and pressed her hips over the edge. Fisting his hand in her hair, he pulled her head toward him. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he muttered, “Prepare to beg, Mistress Scarlet.”
* * * * *
Greta could not see, but she could hear the patrons of the Red Chrysanthemum. The moans of one woman suggested that she was absorbed in her own public pursuit. From the far corner of the stage came rustling sounds and the occasional purr. The words of Master Gallant continued to ring in her ears.
Prepare to beg, Mistress Scarlet.
It could have been worse, she consoled herself. Her public humiliation was tame compared to what she would have done to him if their situations had been reversed, but that did little to diminish her agony. For her, the mighty Mistress Scarlet, to be displayed naked before the membership, bound in ropes and flogged like a common submissive was an outrage. She had hoped Madame Devereux would intervene, though the proprietress had never appeared inclined to interfere with any of the members lest one had not paid their dues. Madame Devereux wanted Mistress Scarlet to prevail, did she not? But then Greta recalled that the woman was rather fond of Gallant, and that would explain her reticence to stay him in public. Perhaps Madame Devereux had full faith and confidence that Greta could handle Gallant on her own.
In that, the proprietress benefitted from more conviction than Greta herself. Despite the embarrassment of submitting to Master Gallant before so many people, there was no denying that the dreadful business was having an arousing effect on her because it was awkward and shaming. Though she did not understand the reason, she knew a prurient aspect existed to public humiliation, the titillation of engaging in carnal activities while others watched. She knew herself to possess a wicked and wanton nature or she would not be a dedicated member of the Red Chrysanthemum. That it had been years since she had taken the stage as a submissive only made the present circumstances more potent.
The admiration she had seen in the eyes of the audience when Master Gallant had bound her with rope had made her feel beautiful. She had seen the look of envy in Miss Terrell, and that made her appreciate her own position. She could not resist the hold of jealousy when she heard Miss Terrell ask of him if he wished to taste her lips. Blindfolded, she could not see if he had kissed Miss Terrell. She hoped he had not. Master Gallant was hers. He had chosen her among all the other submissives he could have had. If she pleased him, he might wish to have her beyond the sennight.
No. She could not entertain such a thought. Mistress Scarlet would have to give way to Miss Greta for that to happen.
But her body could not help but respond to the caresses. The sensation of so many hands upon her when she had kept her body enshrined away from all but the most minimal contact, when she wished to see young women paying homage to Mistress Scarlet, proved overwhelming. Soft hands, firm hands, all touching, grasping, groping her naked body. And even the tongue, a woman’s tongue, at her cunnie aroused more than she expected.
The stimulation of those damned silver balls, the flogger that sometimes soothed, sometimes stung, all collaborated to heat her body. The fingers of Master Gallant had done the worst damage. He had a patience Master Damien never had and found her most sensitive spot time and time again. With his strokes, it seemed as if she had a clitoris inside her cunnie for the most marvelous sensations fanned from there. If she had allowed herself, her climax might have been seconds away.
Last but not least, the item in her arse was creating such a fullness in her lower body. The bloody bastard had shown it to everyone. They had seen his article protruding from her derriere. She was the only one who didn’t know what it looked like. It was mortifying. If she had not promised Madame Devereux, she might indeed have begged, begged him to stop the humiliation.
Yet, she did derive a sort of perverse excitement from the distress. What a state of confusion were her emotions! She had to remind herself that she had an objective here. She had told Madame Devereux that Mistress Scarlet would triumph over Master Gallant. She would set her mind to task and ignore the humming in her belly, the wetness between her thighs, the agitation swirling in her loins, the pressure inside her back passage and how the strangeness of having that cavity filled seemed to seep as pleasure into her cunnie.
Master Gallant spread her legs and bent her fully over the table. She was glad not to see the audience and pretended they were not there to witness her body being manhandled, her arse violated. The table pressed into her breasts uncomfortably. And then she felt his fingers return to ply her clitoris, fondling her in circular motions. She attempted to ignore the delightful ministrations, tried to turn her mind to distasteful or mundane subjects: her chores at the apothecary, the weather tomorrow might bring, the promise of not ever having to worry of dues at the Red Chrysanthemum.
But did Master Gallant intend to remain a member? What would it be like to see him often at the Inn? Would he wish to renew their partnership when their sennight was over? Did Madame Devereux wish that they not interact again? Greta wondered why the proprietress should care so much if she was truly fond of Master Gallant. She wished she had asked these questions.
These thoughts, however, while they floated through her mind, found no mooring. His touch was too distracting. Against her best efforts to quell the response of her body, he was edging her forward. Remembering the ecstasy of last night, she wanted a reprise. She had suffered too much at his hands not to receive such a reward. Tensing, she stifled the moan that rose to her lips when he rubbed her faster. Her body yearned for the finish, but when he withdrew his fingers, she knew she would receive nothing lest she did as he said and begged. How long did he intend to keep her in this agitated state?
“You have any intention of fucking her, Master Gallant?” a male patron asked.
“Well, Mistress Scarlet, what do you say?” asked Gallant.
She took her time answering. Yes, she wished to be fucked. But would Mistress Scarlet wish for such a thing?
“If it pleases you, as you are newly returned to the Red Chrysanthemum, I will indulge you,” she replied.
“A clever response,” he muttered.
Without warning, he rammed his cock into her, slamming her into the table. She exclaimed, the balls rattling inside her. She had not even known him to undo his fall. A few members in the audience cheered. He pulled back, then shoved himself at her again. Her cunnie, fairly soaked, took in his cock easily. Nonetheless, she came onto her toes for the sensations, of being filled simultaneously in both orifices, of the balls rolling inside her, threatened to overwhelm her. He grabbed the rope encircling the top of her rib cage and pulled her back down onto his shaft. Moving away from the fierce stabs, he began a more rhythmic thrusting. Somehow his cock always managed to find the angle that made her shiver. She grit her teeth as pleasure most wondrous swelled inside of her.
She heard one man remark, “I wish I had known Mistress Scarlet would take cock,” and wondered if her reputation would lay in tatters when all was done. She ought to hate Master Gallant for making her endure this. She did hate him. She hated him for bringing her such carnal bliss, for awakening a hunger she thought she had conquered. But she could have her vengeance, if only she could resist.
The signs, however, did not favor her. The tension mounting inside her was far too great. Perhaps she could feign indifference. If she could withhold any reaction or indication that she was about to spend, he might give up—or even spend first. That would be a nice little strike to his pride. Then she would be left wanting, with no finish for herself, but that was a state she ought to be accustomed to.
Or she might be fortunate and spend before he knew it. Could an orgasm be hidden from him? She was perilously close to spending. Yes, she wanted to spend. The promise of ecstasy was too close to grasp...
Alas, he withdrew, and she could not resist a gasp. Her whole body protested and she thought that a starved man within reach of sustenance could not suffer as much as she. Her cunnie pulsed at the emptiness, finding some relief in the balls but yearning for him. Even her arse seemed to pulse about the plug, which he tapped. She groaned.
“Do you wish to have a go at my cunnie, Master Gallant?”
It was Miss Terrell. Jealousy surged inside Greta with surprising force. She hoped he would decline. She wanted to tell the little vixen that Gallant was hers.
“I am not yet done with Mistress Scarlet.”
Greta breathed in relief. She had to find a way to keep him. His arm wrapped around her hip and his fingers were at her folds and nub, ensuring the fire consuming her body did not weaken.
“You wish to spend, Mistress Scarlet,” he whispered to her. “I know it.”
Her pulse quickened at his words, at his delicious strumming. He inserted his fingers and once more stroked her to a thrilling frenzy. She was losing control of her body. She even feared she might not retain the contents of her bladder. She was going to spend without permission... but it was better than begging.
She cried out. Not from spending. But because he had removed his fingers before she could claim that final summit. The cessation left her mind reeling, her body confused. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
“Beg, Mistress Scarlet.”
Though still blindfolded, she squeezed her eyes shut. There was stillness and surprising quiet. Then his cock filled her once more. She reveled in the glory of having him inside of her. But this time he only moved slightly. Her cunnie grabbed at his member, wanting it to push her over the edge into ecstasy.
“Beg to spend, Mistress Scarlet,” he reminded her.
He pumped his cock languidly a few times. She moaned. Her desperately desired conclusion could not be nearer.
“I will beg for you,” offered Miss Terrell. “I will beg for you often and loud.”
The words were out of her mouth before Greta knew it. “Please, Master Gallant...”
He stopped, and she knew he wanted her to repeat her words.
“I beg of you,” she whispered, hoping no one else heard.
He thrust into her, and she no longer minded the discomfort of being pushed and ground into the table. A greater need prevailed. With his cock, he catapulted her into the heavens of carnal bliss. Spasms rolled through her with no end in sight. She would have collapsed to the ground if she were not splayed against the table. Seeking his own end, his thrusts became quick and deep, his pelvis slapping into her rear.
Her heart was pounding inside her head, her cunnie throbbed and tremors still shook her body when Gallant finally withdrew from her. She lay upon the table in a happy haze as random parts of her body pulsed. There was a gentle applause and Master Gallant’s praise, “Well done, Mistress Scarlet.”
She felt pleased with herself, and the consequence of her capitulation did not sink in until the blindfold was lifted from her eyes and she saw in the audience the unhappy gaze of Madame Devereux.