Episode 9

 

 

CHARLES GALLANT COULD HARDLY believe his eyes. Standing in the private room Madame Devereux used as her study was a tall, dark-haired gentleman, finely clothed to merit him a pink of the ton.

Master Damien.

“Ah, Charles,” Madame Devereux greeted him after he had entered the room. “Allow me to introduce to you Damien Norrington. You may not remember him from the days prior to your time in the Orient.”

Charles gave a curt and stiff bow. His every nerve was on end. He could see why the female sex—why Greta—gravitated to Master Damien. The man had a tall, lean form and all the qualities of a handsome countenance. Not one feature in his physiognomy was marred, disproportionate or unsatisfactory. The eyes, brows, nose, and mouth all collaborated in harmonious beauty.

“Master Damien was hoping to renew his acquaintance with a certain young woman whom he has not seen in years,” Devereux said.

Charles had to temper his breath so as not to betray his emotions. He waited in silence for her to continue.

“But Miss Greta is engaged with you at present.”

“She is committed to me for a final night,” he acknowledged.

“As his time in London is constrained, he would like to avail himself of Miss Greta sooner rather than later.”

“You mean Mistress Scarlet?”

He saw Damien raise his brows.

“I think you have made good on your declaration to vanquish Mistress Scarlet.”

“It was not my intention to vanquish Mistress Scarlet but to recall her partiality for Miss Greta.”

“And I think you have done so.” Madame Devereux smiled but her commendation rang a little hollow. “I am certain Damien will appreciate your efforts.”

Charles turned to Damien for the first time. “I understand you quit the Red Chrysanthemum after your nuptials. My belated felicitations to you. Is your wife in town as well?”

Damien partook of snuff from his jeweled snuffbox, then replied, “My wife is expecting and has too delicate a constitution to spend much time in town. She is in the country in the good company of her sister and mother.”

How convenient, Charles wanted to utter. Instead, he said, “Further felicitations to you and your wife then. Does Miss Greta know you are returned?”

“No,” Devereux replied. “Certainly she will be surprised and doubtless greet his return with cheer. I have apprised Damien of her situation, and he had hoped she would be free this evening.”

Upon my bloody death. But he said nothing aloud.

“I understand you are owed one last evening with Miss Greta,” said Damien, “and will compensate you for your loss. I think an amount of fifty guineas will be ample enough.”

“I am not in need of money,” Charles said.

This surprised Damien, who had appeared almost bored throughout most of the dialogue. “Perhaps you did not hear the amount I was offering—”

“I heard fifty guineas and acknowledge this to be a generous sum, but I will decline it all the same.”

Damien’s features darkened. The man liked having his way. Charles had always sensed this and found the man selfish for it. The two men stared hard at one another.

“Perhaps, Damien, you would allow Charles and me a moment alone,” Devereux intervened.

Damien bowed to her and looked at Charles one last time before taking his leave.

“Why is the man back?” Charles demanded, unable to restrain the scale of his anger. “His wife may be unavailable to him but surely he has not the scruples to refrain from bedding one of his female servants.”

“You comprehend the qualities that make the Red Chrysanthemum unlike any other experience. You, too, know the craving that must arise from a long absence. And Damien had a special bond with Miss Greta.”

“He has ignored her all these years. Why wish for her company now?”

Devereux shrugged. “The ways of human nature are often a mystery. Perhaps he has pined for her all these years.”

“I have little sympathy. If he wished to keep Miss Greta, I am certain he could have done so. He chose his loss.”

“And did not realize the extent of it till now.”

“You take a heavy interest in his sorrow.”

“Like you, he was one of my very first members.”

“You know I have never liked him.”

She nodded. “Nevertheless, his loyalty to me has been unwavering. I merely wish to grant an old friend a favor. After all, I did facilitate your desires concerning Miss Greta.”

“For which I am grateful, but I mean to see the sennight with Miss Greta through.”

“Are you so keen on winning our wager?”

“Not at all. If you wish the wager withdrawn, I will acquiesce.”

“But then I lose the prospect of claiming you for myself, and you are far too grand a prize to relinquish.”

He started. Was it not clear to the proprietress that, after last night’s performance, he had as good won?

“I own you are close to victory,” she acknowledged, “but you cannot claim it yet. Miss Greta may still prefer Mistress Scarlet when all is said and done.”

“Which makes this final night with her all the more valuable. Even were it not, I would not yield it to Damien.”

“Tell me, when and if you won the wager between us, what would you have named as your prize?”

He had not come to a final conclusion. He would have liked to simply name Miss Greta as the prize but wanted her acquiescence in the matter.

“I would ask that you banish Norrington from ever setting foot in the Red Chrysanthemum,” he answered.

“That is a harsh sentence.” She was silent in thought for a moment. “That I would even consider such a thing demonstrates my loyalty to you. If you desire me to render such a long lasting fate upon Damien, you ought to at least grant his one wish.”

“Then how are we to ascertain the winner of our wager?”

“Perhaps Solomon’s baby need not be split but can have the luxury of two mothers. You and Damien may both claim Miss Greta, as you and she had done with Miss Lily. If, at the end of the evening, Miss Greta prefers you, Damien will be forever exiled. If she does not, if she prefers Damien or remains indifferent, then I have won the wager between you and me.”

“If ‘indifferent’? Do these terms not favor your position?”

“Consider what I am prepared to do if I lose. I am uncertain my conscience could weather imposing such punitive conditions upon a man who has been both a devoted patron and a constant friend.”

“Constant? He has been gone all these years.”

“I lose many a member to marriage. You would be no different.”

“I could only marry a woman who accepted my disposition in carnal matters. Not betray my wife’s trust by seeking to fulfill my lust in another’s arms.”

“He has not your freedom, Charles. His family has greater expectations.”

“And I understand he satisfied their expectations tenfold marrying the heiress.”

“He needed to. His family has a grave amount of debt. You see that, despite his superior background, he is not as well situated as yourself. If you did not allow your animosity to color your reasoning, you would easily have some compassion.”

Somewhat abashed, he said nothing, though he still felt Norrington deserving of most any misfortune that befell him.

“You can see that I prefer you over Damien,” Devereux said, “or I would not entertain the reward you seek, but I cannot, in good conscience, send the man away with nothing. Let him have his final chance with Miss Greta. It is not even wholly his, as he will have to share it with you. And as you are confident of Miss Greta’s reception to your skills, I should think this opportunity more than easy to accept, lest you fear Damien’s abilities to exceed your own.”

He inhaled sharply. “I am confident Miss Greta will prefer the pleasure I provide.”

“Then we are agreed?”

His jaw tensed. “We are agreed.”

* * * * *

 

Greta took the glass of port offered to her with a trembling hand. Since last night, she had dreaded this meeting with Madame Devereux. On her way to the Red Chrysanthemum, she had reviewed all that she could possibly say to the proprietress and settled on nothing. She wanted to promise that, in her last and final night with Master Gallant, she would reverse the defeat of last night, but she doubted her own ability to fulfill such a promise.

“Come, sit beside me,” Devereux said, patting the place beside her on the settee.

The tone in her voice being kinder than Greta expected, she complied, but she could not yet feel at ease.

“I am sorry to have disappointed you, Madame,” she said.

“Do not distress yourself overmuch. I wonder that any woman can resist Master Gallant, even the most stalwart of Mistresses.”

“I have proved I am in less possession of fortitude than I had thought.”

“You must not berate yourself so. It was perhaps unfair of me to expect one to contend against Master Gallant, but not all is lost.”

Feeling better, Greta said, “I will pay my dues as soon as I am able.”

“You may yet win a lifetime membership.”

“I fear Mistress Scarlet too weakened to do battle against Master Gallant again.”

“But I have secured an ally for you.”

Greta looked up sharply from her wine. Jealousy clutched at her. Truth be told, she had no wish to share Gallant.

Devereux’s eyes gleamed. “I think you will find your ally as irresistible, if not more than, Gallant.”

“Indeed?”

Greta wondered if the proprietress was referring to Miss Lily. Though she had fought to claim the pretty submissive one and was enraged at the prospect of losing her, she had lost all interest in Miss Lily. No one could prove as desirable as Gallant. Devereux must have seen her look of doubt for the proprietress patted her hand.

“Master Damien.”

The glass of port fell from Greta’s hands. Though the glass did not break, the contents poured out onto the rug below. Greta was too stunned to beg Devereux’s pardon.

It could not be.

Devereux continued, “He is returned to London for a short duration, and is quite eager to see you.”

It occurred to Greta, seeing the soiled rug, that she ought to address her accident. She bent toward the floor and picked up the wine glass with hands that trembled worse than before.

“Leave it be. I will ring for the maid to tend to it,” said Devereux.

“I-I’m sorry,” Greta mumbled, barely able to speak for it seemed her mind was but half present. Master Damien was here? He had been to the Red Chrysanthemum? He had expressed an eagerness to see her?

Devereux took the wine glass from her and set it upon a nearby table stand. “My dear, I thought you would welcome the appearance of your first Master. I remember you were quite devoted to him.”

Greta clasped her hands together so that they would not shake quite so violently. When she spoke, her voice sounded meek. “I...I had put him from my mind ever since...I thought him married?”

“He is, but his wife is in the country. And I think it quite apparent that he has not forgotten you.”

The thought made her heart throb painfully. She had accepted his indifference to her, that any tender feelings he had had for her had found a new recipient in that other submissive.

“I think he attempted to live an ordinary life,” Devereux went on, “and put the Red Chrysanthemum and you fully in the past, but he could not.”

“Wh-When was he here?”

“He is here now.”

Greta felt her stomach fall from her, and she could not breathe without difficulty. “And—and he wants me?”

“I made the situation between you and Gallant known to him, and he seemed quite devastated. He offered to pay fifty guineas to Gallant to free you from the last night of your obligation.”

“Fifty guineas?!”

“You see how much he desires you still.”

Greta comprehended that Damien was now in possession of greater wealth than most men knew what to do with, but fifty guineas was an extraordinary sum. But was Gallant aware of such an offer?

“You are perhaps wondering how Gallant responded?” Devereux asked.

Greta stared at the woman. She could not guess but that he would. What man would refuse such a sum?

“Gallant refused the offer in no uncertain terms.”

Greta inhaled deeply. Was it relief that she felt? In some ways, yes. She was pleased to know that Gallant valued his final night with her more than fifty guineas, and she was ill prepared to face Master Damien. Without doubt, Master Gallant was the safer dominant.

“Did you ever imagine you should be the object of desire between two accomplished men?”

Greta blushed. “Gallant is not in want of funds.”

“True. And while he did decline the fifty guineas, he was willing to share you with Master Damien.”

“What?!”

“I admit I encouraged the arrangement. It will afford you another opportunity to win yourself an eternal membership to the Red Chrysanthemum. Master Gallant is confident his skills are the superior to Master Damien’s, but if you deem Master Damien the winner, there is hope yet for Mistress Scarlet.”

The trembling in her hands now extended to the whole of her body. She was to be shared by the two men? By Master Damien?

“You recall your duel over Miss Lily,” Devereux continued. “This is a reprise, only this time you will emerge the victor.”

Greta hopped to her feet and began pacing. The thought of a second chance to prevail over Master Gallant was not without allure, but she could not face Master Damien, not after all these years. Now she could not but feel angry with Gallant. Perhaps it would have been better for him to take the fifty guineas. She understood the appeal of money, but why would Master Gallant wish to share her with Master Damien? Was it to prove his superiority?

“I should like to see you emerge the ultimate victor. And when Master Damien is gone, Mistress Scarlet will be returned to me.”

“I cannot,” Greta said, shaking her head. “It is too much.”

“It is simple, my dear. You will be pleasured by two handsome and skilled gentlemen. When they are done, you will name Master Damien the winner and never have to worry about paying dues ever again.”

“You would not consider granting me a reprieve from the dues if I promised you that I would assume the mantle of Mistress Scarlet for as long as you required?”

“Will you? With Master Gallant here, and if he is intent upon having you, I wonder that you can resist. Your resistance was quite feeble last night.”

Greta winced at the cut. “What if Master Damien is not the better between the two?”

“I will not regard you less if you selected Master Damien nonetheless.”

Head whirling, Greta ceased her pacing and sat down once more. She was to be pleasured by both men, then choose between them? It was too difficult to contemplate. She was unsure how she would respond to the touch of Master Damien, not having felt it in all these years, though she had yearned for it, so very desperately at one time. How could she choose between them? Fresh from the ecstasy Gallant had brought her last evening, she would have to lay the odds in his favor. If he did prevail, could she bring herself to lie and name Master Damien the winner?

She shook her head. She did not understand why Master Gallant would agree to such a scheme. He had been so attentive to her after the performance had finished, had insisted on being her chambermaid and assisting with her dress when they had returned to the privacy of their room.

“I pray you are not angered with me,” he had said as he pinned her gown in place. “Your submission is not the same as a concession.”

Still glowing from the bliss, she had agreed. “It was what I wanted. You persuaded me to want it.”

“Persuade is a kind word. I did all in my power to compel your submission.”

“But the choice was ultimately mine.”

That had seemed to please him. He had walked her home once again and was very much the proper gentleman all the way. They had talked in an easy way, and when he had bid her adieu, the kiss he placed upon her hand had made her heart leap. She knew then she was very much in danger of falling in love with the man.

If she had not already.

But her happiness had not extended into the morning, though she eagerly greeted the prospect of another evening with Master Gallant. She had been certain Madame Devereux did not see the prior night’s performance as anything but a complete capitulation. Madame’s current cheerful disposition quite surprised her, but that was because she believed they could still upset Master Gallant now that Master Damien was available. Was it not the strangest coincidence that he should return to the Red Chrysanthemum at this moment?

“What troubles you, my dear?” Devereux inquired with the gentleness of a mother to her young child.

“I have never been with two masters at once,” Greta said, knowing her answer did not provide the truth of her uneasiness.

“I think you will enjoy it immensely. Two is twice the fun.”

Greta contemplated the possibility, but she was still uncertain. “Did Master Damien truly ask for me?”

“Why would I say such a thing if it were untrue?”

Why could Master Damien not have voiced his desire for her years ago?

As if reading her mind, Devereux said, “Time and distance often provide clarity. I myself have missed his presence and would afford him the chance to revisit the joy he once experienced here. He was a devoted patron and loyal friend. I will not, of course, force you to take his company, but I would appreciate your participation in satisfying his wish. I could try to placate him with Miss Lily, but I know she could not rival you.”

Jealousy flared once more for Greta, an older jealousy but no less potent. She could not bear seeing Master Damien with Miss Lily. It would reprise for her all the pain of years past.

“That will not be necessary,” Greta said. “I will see Master Damien.”

“Very good,” said Devereux. “The gentlemen have been awaiting your response. I should not be surprised if all the membership envied you this night.”

 

* * * * *

 

“This is most unorthodox. Are you certain you will not accept the fifty guineas instead?”

Charles watched his opponent divest his finely tailored coat and place it gently over a chair as if he risked breaking the garment. Damien then proceeded to remove the rings from his fingers and place them on the sideboard. They occupied the same chambers that he and Greta always used, and he hoped that the familiar surroundings would be to his favor.

“You do not care for the challenge?” Charles returned with more amiability than he felt. This was the last man he wished to touch Greta, and he would have to suffer its witness.

“Oh, I am quite up to the task. I only offer a recourse if you’ve no inclination.”

Charles removed his own coat and began untying his cravat. He felt as if they were preparing to enter the boxing ring.

“I fear I have the advantage, having spent the last six nights with Miss Greta,” he could not resist saying.

Damien paused as he undid his cravat. “My time with Miss Greta is considerably older but lasted significantly longer. And she never had cause to complain.”

Because she knew no better, Charles silently replied. They both removed cravats, collars, and waistcoats.

“Shall we flip a coin to see who goes first?” Damien asked.

“I feel you are the guest and, as such, should receive the first privilege.”

Damien raised his sculpted brows. “But perhaps the second privilege provides more of an advantage?”

“If you are uncertain, I will take the first privilege.”

“Uncertain? I feel no uncertainty. It hardly seems a day since I left the Red Chrysanthemum.”

They had nothing more to say to each other. Damien took a seat, crossing one long leg over the other, and slowly folded his sleeves. Charles considered pouring himself a drink when a knock sounded at the door. He half hoped it was the maid coming to report that Miss Greta had declined to participate in the challenge. Alas, it was not the maid but Miss Greta, looking more tentative than she had ever appeared before. She wore a muslin of faded canary, but he thought the hue a lovely compliment to the color of her hair. He had instructed Tippy not to undress Miss Greta for he had desired to do it himself. He had intended to take his time and worship every part of her with his kisses and caresses. Now his plans were shunted.

Miss Greta looked at him first, and when her gaze found Damien, she became quite pale. This did not bode well, for Charles found this to be evidence that she still harbored feelings for Damien.

“Are you unwell, Miss Greta?” he inquired, advancing toward her. He wanted to add, though Damien would surely assume that he wanted an escape from the challenge, that she need not proceed if she were ill, but she responded first.

“I am well, Master Gallant.”

But he could see she was not. She looked once more at Damien. Charles thought her hand to quiver, but she seemed determined to quell her unease.

“Master Damien, welcome back,” she greeted.

“My dear, you are as lovely as ever,” Damien replied with genuine appreciation as his gaze took her in. He looked her over from head to toe. “But you would be far lovelier sans the gown. How is that you even dare enter dressed?”

She looked at Charles. “Tippy received no instruction.”

Damien said, “I know not this Tippy, but let us have her remedy the error.”

He went to ring for the servant.

Charles approached Greta. “Has Madame Devereux explained the situation to you?”

“Yes.”

He noted her voice trembled. “You will receive no compulsions from me. Are you certain you wish to participate?”

She nodded. He wondered how much of her willingness rose from a desire to be reunited with Damien.

“I hope the maid is not much delayed,” said Damien, “or I shall be compelled to rip the gown from you.”

“And send her home with nothing to wear?” Charles asked.

Damien smiled. “You do not fully understand their sex. It is their secret desire to be ravished in such a fashion. The rougher, the better. Is that not true, my pet?”

He gave Greta, who had kept her gaze lowered throughout his speech, a playful slap across the cheek.

“Answer me,” he demanded, slapping her harder.

Charles fisted his hand, ready to drill it into Damien’s sneer, but Miss Greta replied quickly, “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“We have established a safety word,” Charles said through clenched teeth. “’Red.’ When she utters the word, all activity is to cease. Immediately.”

“I know the use of the bloody safety word,” Damien said. “Miss Greta here is quite the stalwart submissive and rarely needs make use of the safety word. But ‘red’ it is.”

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Tippy. Charles let the maid in.

“Undress her,” Damien commanded. He went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of Madeira. Sitting down, he added, “And be quick about it.”

The two men watched as Tippy unpinned the gown, untied petticoats, and unlaced the stays. Charles admired the shape of Greta’s body as each article of clothing was removed. At last came the shift, and Miss Greta stood naked but for her stockings and garters. These last items were removed within seconds.

Damien waved Tippy away. “Thank you. You may go.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and closed the door behind her. Even with Damien in the room, Charles could not help but take a moment to admire Miss Greta in glorious nakedness. Her slender form had not the supple curves of Miss Terrell, but he found her form elegant and pleasing in every way. The blush in her cheeks tugged at his heart as well as his groin.

“Why are you standing?” Damien demanded.

Miss Greta was upon her knees in an instant.

“For that transgression, I will have you crawl about the room on all fours, Miss Greta.”

As Damien sat taking his time with his Madeira, Miss Greta did as he bid. Charles could discern the plump lips of her cunnie beneath her arse. Though she did not belong to him, was not his to claim, he could not stem the jealousy. Exhibiting her bared body upon the stage for the viewing pleasure of the members of the Red Chrysanthemum was one matter; sharing her beauty with Damien was entirely different. In the former, he had hoped the public display would shock and unsettle her into unleashing the wantonness she had suppressed all these years. He had wanted it to titillate her, and it had served his purpose.

Being with Damien might titillate her more, and he should want this for her if she desired it. Nonetheless, he could not tame his selfishness where Damien was concerned. The man did not deserve her submission. She kept her face lowered, but Charles searched her countenance to see if she was aroused or not. He would find her indifferent but sensed she was not unaffected by Damien. For her sake, he hoped she would be roused. For his own interests, he would rather she was as moved as a dead codfish.

“Come. Heel,” Damien directed as if to a dog.

Miss Greta crawled over to him and sat up upon her heels. Setting one foot over his knee, he looked her over.

“Your breasts are as small as ever, I see,” he said.

“I am sorry they do not please you, Master Damien,” she murmured.

“I did not say they displeased me. I prefer them more ample, yes, but breasts, in any size, are better than none.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I understand you have been six nights with Master Gallant. I hope you have been a good pet for him?”

Her gaze looked briefly in Charles’ direction before it was lowered to the ground once more.

“In honesty, I have not always been well behaved.”

Damien looked at Charles. “Is this true?”

“I have addressed the situation,” Charles replied with the intimation that Damien should stay away from matters not his own.

“But it reflects poorly on me. One might think I had not been a resolute dominant, that my hand was weak.”

“I assure you no such thoughts were entertained.”

“As the one who introduced Miss Greta to the Red Chrysanthemum, I take great responsibility.”

“Perhaps if you had treated her differently...” Charles could not resist.

Damien narrowed his eyes.

“The role of the dominant is not merely to mete out punishment but also to reward good behavior. Even the punishment is intended to pleasure.”

“Do you lecture me, Gallant?”

“I merely meant to provide a reminder since you had been away from the Red Chrysanthemum for so long.”

“But you suggest that Miss Greta did not take pleasure in what I did. You will see proof that she readily does everything I ask of her.”

To prove his point, he said to her, “I have dust upon my shoe. Pray, clean it for me, my pet.”

Miss Greta hesitated, then leaning forward, she licked at his shoe. Charles looked away, the invisible grip about his chest tightening.

“A little more,” Damien urged. “Good. What do you say, my pet?”

“Thank you, Master.”

“You may rise, my pet, and refill my glass.”

Charles watched as Miss Greta went to the sideboard near where he stood. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the wine into the glass. He should have spoken to her himself instead of relying upon Madame Devereux to present the circumstances. Miss Greta might not have felt enough comfort to voice any reluctance to the proprietress. He wished he could speak to Miss Greta in private now, but she did not look him in the eye. Done, she withdrew and went to present Master Damien his glass.

“Did you enjoy your time with Master Gallant?”

The question startled her for some of the wine splashed from the glass onto the floor, missing Damien’s pants by a thread.

“You will pay a price for such carelessness,” Damien growled. “Clean that up and pour me a new glass.”

“I can attend the spill,” Charles offered.

Damien narrowed his eyes. “If you’ll not interfere when it is my turn, I’ll extend the same courtesy to you.”

Charles handed the linen he held to Miss Greta. After wiping the spill, she poured another glass of wine, which she handed to Damien without incident.

“I am curious to know of your time with Master Gallant,” said Damien when Miss Greta knelt before him once more. “Is he a good Master?”

“Yes,” Miss Greta replied.

“Did you enjoy him?”

She paused before answering, “I did.”

“Perhaps you are displeased that I trespass upon your last evening with him?”

“No, Master Damien.”

Charles felt the muscle along his jaw ripple.

“Then you are pleased to see me?”

“Yes, Master Damien.”

“We did have a damned good romp, did we not?”

“Yes, Master Damien.”

“Do you miss those days?”

Again, she paused before answering, “Yes, Master Damien.”

Charles hoped she merely spoke that which Damien wished to hear.

“What would you have me do to you, my pet?”

“Anything you wish.”

Wanting the man to proceed such that the finish could be reached quicker, Charles crossed his arms in impatience. He recalled how his own line of questioning with Miss Lily had once exasperated Miss Greta—Mistress Scarlet, then. He wondered if Damien understood that he was to blame for the birth of Mistress Scarlet.

Damien finished his Madeira. “Then let us begin. First, I will punish you for spilling the wine.”

Walking over to the far wall where various crops, floggers, canes, and other such implements hung, he selected a wooden paddle with holes. The holes allowed the paddle to pass through the air faster. He smacked the paddle into his palm.

“Bend over,” he instructed Miss Greta.

She did as told, placing her forearms upon the floor. With his foot, he nudged her arse higher then delivered a blow that nearly sent her heels over head. She cried out and trembled as she resumed her position.

“Th-Thank you, M-Master.”

He whacked her again with the same amount of force. Her derriere was already bright red.

“Thank you, Master,” she mumbled. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Your safety word remains the same as it has been,” Charles reminded her.

“Master Gallant perceives you to be some weakling,” Damien remarked, then delivered her a harsher blow.

The air knocked from her, she had to take several moments to compose herself before saying, “Thank you...Master.”

Damien looked to Charles in triumph. He struck her three more times, and she thanked him after each. Her arse glowed scarlet. Her tears made wet trails down her cheeks. The tears were perhaps the hardest for Charles to witness, and yet, she had not employed the safety word. He had never spanked a woman with such force. Did she truly exalt in the pain or was her desire to please Master Damien the overriding consideration? Charles was tempted to offer an ointment that would soothe her burning skin, but Damien was as like to toss it in her face. Setting aside the paddle, Damien looked upon some other paraphernalia. He selected two small clamps joined together by a length of chain links.

“Affix these to your nipples,” he said, tossing the clamps to Miss Greta.

She picked them up and clipped the clamps to her hardened buds. Damien had unbuttoned his fall and now presented her with his long, hard cock. She knew what was expected and opened her mouth to receive his shaft. He thrust himself into her without preamble. Damien groaned his pleasure.

Charles fisted his hand, at once disgusted and drawn to the scene before him. Despite his jealousy, he could not ignore his own rising ardor.

Damien took the chain between the clamps and wrapped it over his cock. Miss Greta grunted as her nipples were pulled upward. He continued to rock his hips at her, shoving his member deeper. Charles hoped the man was close to spending, but Damien kept his rhythm for several long minutes before he pumped himself in short, rapid bursts. The veins on his neck were visible as a roaring grunt rolled from his mouth. His cock popped from her mouth, and his seed burst onto her face. Drops of it coated her eyelashes and clung in her hair while some of it dripped down onto her chest. Damien had stumbled back. He shuddered. He collected the remaining seed from his cock and wiped it upon her breast.

“I hand her now to you improved,” Damien chortled as he replaced his fall.

Charles tempered his desire to pommel the man. He looked upon Miss Greta, covered in another man’s mettle. But at last, it was his turn.

 

* * * * *

 

Though her derriere still smarted, Greta was glad for the forceful paddling because it distracted her from the disquiet quaking inside of her. Having to face Master Damien once more, after all these years, was difficult enough, but to submit to him before Master Gallant was almost more than she could bear. She wondered what he thought of her. Would he be jealous? Indifferent? Titillated? It was he who had agreed to this arrangement, though, from the few times she had managed to glimpse him, he looked none too happy about it. She had heard the tension in his voice when he spoke to Master Damien.

She tried to blink away the fluid from her eyes. Master Damien liked to see her wearing nothing but his semen, and she knew better than to wipe it away till he permitted it. She knew not why Master Damien’s treatment of her excited her so. Her loins, warm and agitated, wanted tending to. And she was relieved that it would be Master Gallant who would see to her satisfaction. He stood before her, and she imagined he would cleanse her with the tenderness he almost always possessed.

With his thumb, he did gently wipe the viscous fluid from her eyes, but asked, “Do you favor wearing a man’s seed?”

In silence she groaned. Why did he ask such a question? Was he testing her? What did he wish her to answer?

“You may add yours, Master Gallant,” she said.

“Do you wish to retain your current adornment?”

She glanced at Master Damien. Her habit was pleasing him. “If Master Damien wishes it.”

Damien smirked. “I have trained her well, have I not, Gallant?”

“What do you wish, Miss Greta?” Master Gallant asked in a lowered voice.

Exasperated at being pushed to answer, she simply nodded.

“Very well. I act for the benefit of your pleasure.”

But this was not pleasure. This was misery. She watched as Master Gallant pulled his braces down and removed his shirt. Leaving her as she was, he found his cords of rope. She brightened at the prospect of being bound once more. When he returned to her, he removed the clamps from her nipples. He wrapped the rope several times above her breasts and several times below. He wound another cord vertically about the lengths of rope already encasing her, palming her breasts when she was done. She purred, wanting to melt into his hands. Pulling her leg to one side, he bound her ankle to her upper thigh. He tied a long length of rope to these bindings as well.

“Rise,” he instructed her, helping her up for she had but one leg to stand on.

He tied her wrists behind her, then tossed the end of one rope over a beam in the ceiling. He affixed the ends to the rope binding her breasts. Next he tossed the extension of rope about her bent leg to the same beam and tied the loose end back to her bindings. After testing the security of the ropes, he bent her standing leg and tied it in similar fashion to the other. She was now fully suspended in the air. All this took time, and the semen had begun to dry upon her skin.

Taking a full-length standing mirror, he set it before her so that she could she admire herself wrapped in rope, dangling from the rafters. She looked beautiful, and the sensation of hanging in mid-air, at his completely mercy, unable to escape, was exquisite. Her cunnie throbbed.

“You’re an artist, Gallant,” Damien snickered.

Something Damien would never be, Greta thought. Master Gallant ignored Damien and reached between her legs, where she was quite sodden. He began stroking her folds. She shivered. The pressure building in her genitals finally found rest against his fingers. She exalted in the relief provided in his fondling, even as it stoked her yearning to greater heights. She moaned as his thumb, slick with her juices, grazed her clit.

Stepping back, he undid his fall. He spread her thighs, and she could see him standing between her legs in the mirror. Next she felt the head of his cock press against her slit. She was in need of his hardness, and cried in delight when he sank himself halfway into her. In contrast to Master Damien, Master Gallant preferred a gradual, almost teasing approach. He thrust into her wet heat with long, drawn strokes, making her want to clutch at him with her cunnie.

“May I spend, Master Gallant?” she asked while she still had the presence of mind.

“Not yet.”

He shoved his cock deeper and withdrew it slowly. She moaned long and low. He began a steady rhythm, rocking her in her cradle of rope, building her wave of pleasure.

“Please, Master Gallant,” she pleaded.

Holding onto her legs, he drove himself into her in greater earnest. The awkwardness of having Master Damien bear witness to her submission was not overridden by her need for fulfillment, her craving to release the tension in her body, her desire for Master Gallant to send her into the arms of ecstasy.

“Please,” she tried again.

“Do you wish to spend for me, Greta?”

“Yes...Yes!”

“Then spend for me.”

At those words, her paroxysm boiled over. She shuddered in the rigging, her cunnie heaving against his buried cock, as the rapture rolled through her body. She felt it deep within her, and when it eventually finished with her, when her limbs had ceased to strain against the bindings and her blood settled to a mild throbbing, she felt satiated, spent and invigorated at the same time. Through her blissful haze, she felt Master Gallant withdraw, saw his hand wrap about that fine shaft of his, and heard him grunt his release.

“After such a performance, you ought to have marked the wench with your seed,” Damien said.

Master Gallant made no reply and soon began untying the rope from her, setting her down upon her feet first, then the rest of her.

“Thank you, Master Gallant,” she remembered when the last of the ropes fell from her body.

“Well, my pet, who is it to be?”

She could not answer Damien. This was the part she dreaded. How much she would have preferred to bask in the aftermath of her ecstasy in Master Gallant’s arms!

“I confess that I should like nothing more than a reprise of our past,” Damien added, “should you choose me.”

“And I should be pleased to extend our sennight for as long as you wish,” said Gallant.

She should be flattered that both men, both of them handsome and adept dominants, desired her. Instead, their words only further wrenched her dismay. She had thought Damien lost to her forever, and though she knew not what a reprise would entail, deep down, she had once harbored a hope that they would be reunited.

But Master Damien never made her feel as Master Gallant did. Her arousal was intense with both, but Master Gallant cared for her pleasure, nurturing it to blossom in the most beautiful ways.

“Well?” Damien prodded.

“Pray, allow me time,” she said. “I will have an answer when I have attended to my toilette.”

“I will send for Tippy,” Gallant said.

She noted what looked like sadness in his eyes, and it twisted her heart. Though they had agreed upon a sennight, she understood now that he wanted more, and she had no wish to disappoint him. She wanted more of him as well.

But choosing him would disappoint not only Damien but Madame Devereux as well. A lifelong membership was a good prize, and one that she absolutely needed. She feared more what Devereux might do if she were unable to grant the award.

After the two men had left her to her thoughts—not surprisingly, Damien had looked assured while Gallant looked concerned—she went to the basin of water on the sideboard to cleanse herself. How was she to choose? When Tippy arrived to assist her with her toilette, she was no closer to an answer. She had no wish to face whichever man she disappointed. Having cast her aside for another, Damien was perhaps less deserving, but he would never forgive her if she chose another man over him. How was it this man could still compel her after all these years?

And what of Mistress Scarlet? Surely, she would have nothing to do with either man.

“How lucky you are, Mistress, to have to yourself two masters,” Tippy was prattling. “I never saw that tall fellow before, but he is mighty pleasant to the eyes! I should not know which to behold more, him or Master Gallant. Are you partial to one over the other?”

“I know not,” replied Greta sullenly.

“But what a delightful thing to ponder, eh?”

Greta said nothing. Her insides still turned as if she had eaten something sour. She could recall no choice more difficult, nor more cruel, than what she currently faced. She did not see how she could decide.

 

* * * * *

 

“Why the devil has she not finished yet?” Damien grumbled. “My wife does not require so long to prepare for a ball.”

Charles shifted in his seat. The two men sat in a parlor, alone but for two women dozing in each other’s arms. He had grabbed his shirt before leaving the room but wanted his other articles. Regardless of whom Miss Greta chose, he wanted to be ready to walk her home, as he had done the night before. He saw Tippy pass by the doors and leaped to his feet.

“Tippy!” he called.

The maid stopped and met him at the threshold.

“Miss Greta—or, Mistress Scarlet—she is dressed by now?” he asked.

“For some time,” Tippy replied. At his raised brows, she added, “I was helping Miss Sarah just now. I finished with Mistress Scarlet near twenty minutes ago.”

Charles felt a strange sensation in his legs. Stepping past Tippy, he made for the stairs and up to the room. His heart sank as he opened the door to find the room empty, with no sign of Miss Greta.

“Where could she have gone off to?” asked Damien, who now stood behind him. “Blasted wench. Are we to seek her out? Where’s the damned maid?”

Charles said nothing. He did not think Tippy would be of use. Miss Greta was not to be found in the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum. He suspected she, unable or unwilling to name a winner, had gone home. He cursed himself for an inconsiderate bastard. Driven by jealousy and arrogance, he had not thought how the challenge might distress Greta. In an instant, he no longer cared whom she chose. It only mattered that she was well and not too distraught. Alas, he would have no assurances soon. He wanted to make straightway to where she lived, but he could not rouse the household to see her. A meeting with his superior and members of the East India Company would occupy his early morning so that he would have to wait until the middle of the day.

The following morning, he did pass by the apothecary, but the hour was early and the shop not yet opened. Not wishing to disturb her family, he forced himself to wait until after his meetings, the second of which proceeded with agonizing torpor as the Company men pressed upon the Foreign Secretary to do more to widen the doors for trade with China. The meeting had barely adjourned before Charles was on his feet.

“Will you not join us at the coffeehouse, Gallant?” asked Sir Arthur, an MP who had decided to sit in on the meeting.

“Alas, I have a personal matter that requires attending,” Charles replied.

“Do not forget we have a meeting with the Prime Minister within the hour,” the Secretary said.

“I’ve not forgotten.”

After excusing himself to the gentlemen, he made his way to the apothecary of Greta’s father, Mr. Barlow. The man had been in poor health according to Greta but showed no indications of ailing as he greeted Charles.

“What ailment do you seek to address?” Mr. Barlow asked.

“None at present,” Charles answered. “Rather, I had given a sample of an herb to a young woman whom I understand is your daughter. I came to inquire if she found it helpful. Is she here?”

“Ah, you are the gentleman she spoke of. If she were here, she would inform you that I am the beneficiary of the root you provided.”

Charles perused the many jars lining the walls. “Does she not assist you here in the apothecary?”

“Yes, but she departed town this morning.”

“Departed town?” Charles echoed, stunned.

“My sister has seven children and is in greater need of assistance than I, now that I am in good health once more. I wonder if it is the root you provided Miss Greta that sped my recovery, sir?”

“The Chinese swear by its restorative qualities, among others,” said Charles as he tried to digest the information about Greta. “You are welcome to more if you desire.”

“And you mean to be my supplier if I wish to sell it? I am curious to understand this plant better, but it has a foul taste, and I wonder that it would be a viable elixir for no amount of sugar or honey can mask its pungent flavor.”

“Will you be without assistance long? It must be difficult to assume all the responsibilities of an apothecary on your own.”

“I expect my daughter will return within the month. I have managed the shop on my own many a time. Are you certain you require nothing? I see that you are a young and fit man, but if you’ve a mother or a wife, I have lately a cream that is most popular with the ladies. It refines the skin and reduces the appearance of wrinkles.”

Charles bought a small container of the cream and promised to bring more of the ginseng on the morrow. After stepping outside the shop, he let fall an oath. It was no coincidence that Greta was gone the morning after her encounter with Damien. She had fled. From whom, Charles could not be certain. Perhaps from the both of them. He doubted he could wait a month for her return. He wanted to see her now.

But the pit in his stomach told him that Greta was lost to him. He did not comprehend why. He had made great strides with her and did not think the fondness she held for him was a mere whim of imagination. He had thought, or hoped, that her time without Damien had atrophied all sentiment for the man, but this was clearly not the case.

With a painful sigh, he made his way back to Whitehall. He would seek her out and discover where her aunt lived. He would not despair till he had exhausted all avenues of hope. The challenge with Mistress Scarlet continued, but he would claim her yet.

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

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