Episode 2

 

 

SHE HAD LOST. The devastation of it was tempered only by the agitation of desire swirling in her loins, the wetness between her thighs palpable. Greta looked to the bed where Miss Lily lay, her willowy body relaxed and satiated, her fair and youthful countenance bathed in serenity and bliss. With her long, flaxen hair spread over the pillows, Miss Lily looked a lovely nymph and had all the form and manners of the woman who had stolen away Master Damien. Greta was certain she would never again come across a woman who bore such a striking resemblance to her former rival. Envy stabbed at her. She resented that Miss Lily had achieved her release while the tension of lust still coiled within her and would require some time to dissipate. But most of all, she lamented that she had lost the perfect submissive prospect.

To Master Gallant.

A man she had never seen before—or noticed, rather. According to Madame Devereux, the proprietress of the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, where members engaged in forbidden wantonness and indulged the darkest desires of their flesh, Master Gallant had been a longtime member and simply taken a leave of absence in recent years. If he had not chosen to make an appearance this fateful night, she, Mistress Scarlet, with the greater seniority of the members present, would have been able to claim Miss Lily for her own without interference.

Instead, Madame Devereux had to acknowledge that she had no precedent for how she was to award Miss Lily when two members of arguably equal standing wished to claim the same. To resolve the quandary for her, Master Gallant had proposed a duel, of sorts, to determine who could claim the maiden of their choice. Madame Devereux’s agreement had rankled Greta, and she could not help but feel a little betrayed and suspected that the Madame, often partial to handsome men, had been swayed by Master Gallant’s golden locks, rugged form, and charming smile. Greta would have declined the proposal; but she had been without a submissive one for some time, and none of the other members interested her. Nor did she wish to concede to Master Gallant.

Squaring her shoulders, Greta turned to the man. By his fine attire, which he had not changed prior to arriving at the Red Chrysanthemum, she had determined him to be a gentleman of means. His trousers encased long, lean legs, and his coat fit over his square shoulders in tight embrace. Lest his appearance proved a façade, he had wealth and countenance in his favor, and, Greta admitted begrudgingly, skill. Though she had brought Miss Lily to spend first, the cries of the latter at his hands had been louder, more desperate, her spasm more violent. They had agreed that Miss Lily would select the winner at the end of the challenge, but Greta knew the victor before Miss Lily, still recovering from her orgasm, spoke.

“Congratulations, Master Gallant,” Greta said.

He removed the remaining ropes from Miss Lily and turned to her in surprise.

“I am sure if the child could speak, she would name you the winner,” Greta allowed.

He bowed at her acknowledgment. He said nothing and simply looked at her, his eyes of greyish-blue crystals still glowing with lust.

Unnerved by his stare, and not yet free of her own libidinous agitation, she bid him good evening and started for the door. If he intended to frequent the Inn, she might have to halt her own visits until she had more command of her senses around him.

“Where are you headed, Mistress Scarlet?” he asked with a faint edge, as if he were speaking to Miss Lily.

Greta turned around, a little perturbed at his tone. “Your pardon?”

“I have not yet claimed my prize.”

Perplexed, she looked over to the bed where Miss Lily continued to lie, perhaps in slumber.

“We agreed that the winner would be awarded the maiden of his choice,” he reminded her.

“She is yours,” Greta responded.

“Ah, but I have not chosen her.”

Greta let out a sigh of irritation. What the deuce did he want? To lord over her with his victory? She met his hard stare with one of her own that he might understand she had no intention of flattering him or indulging him.

“I would have you, Miss Greta.”

The floor fell from beneath her feet. Her breath stalled. For several moments, she did nothing but blink and stare at him. He, too, seemed to cease breathing as he awaited her response. And for the first time that evening, he appeared a little uncertain.

When time resumed, her pulse was thrice what it had been before. A part of her thrilled at the prospect of spending a sennight with Master Gallant. In her observation of him, his skills at dominance were exceptional, nearly equal to that of Master Damien, but, at times, possessing a more tender quality. Could she thrill to the touch of a man when she had not done so in what felt like an eternity? She had to admit to being a little flattered that he desired her instead of the younger, prettier Miss Lily. But she, Mistress Scarlet, had not been the arrangement.

We could each of us have a turn with Miss Lily, Master Gallant had said. Whomever Miss Lily chooses may then claim their heart’s desire for the appointed sennight.

“You tricked me!” she blurted upon realizing that he had, indeed, never specified Miss Lily was to be the prize.

“I own it was you I always intended,” he admitted with insufficient shame.

Greta supposed she ought be grateful her anger now overwhelmed all other agitation. She was upset with herself that she had welcomed, in the slightest, the prospect of being with Master Gallant, though it had been years since last she had allowed a man to touch her. But being hoodwinked by this man infuriated her more.

“I wonder how Madame will receive such duplicity from one of her members?” she replied.

He did not relent. “The rules of engagement were simple and straightforward.”

“Hardly! You think I would have agreed to your devious proposition if you had been completely forthcoming?”

Miss Lily began to stir and sat up to inquire, “Have we finished, Master?”

“I intend to take this matter to Madame Devereux and wonder that she would not revoke your membership for your pretty little charade!”

Whirling on her heels, Greta stormed away in search of the proprietress, whom she found in the dining hall partaking of wine, sweetmeats and chocolate. At five and forty, Madame Devereux was Greta’s senior by twenty years but enjoyed wearing the fashion of her own youth because she found the gowns favored by women of the current era too flimsy and consisting of “virtually nothing—one might as well be en negligée.” Greta found such a perspective on clothing to be at odds for a woman who supported bold and wanton debauchery.

Looking up from her repast, Madame Devereux assumed an expression of sympathy. “My dear Greta, I would have happily bestowed Miss Lily to you, but I could not say for certain whose tenure here prevailed, and Master Gallant was such a good member in his time.”

“And I am not?” Greta fumed. “Have I not taken Miss Primrose under my wing and mentored her into an exalted Mistress?”

“You had done admirably, and your efforts are much appreciated.”

“Her two submissive ones must provide you a tidy income.”

“Their perquisites have been beyond generous,” Madame Devereux acknowledged as she bit into a large chocolate confection.

“And Master Gallant? Is he as well-endowed and liberal?”

Madame Devereux gave Greta a stern look. “Take care, ma cherie, if you mean to suggest that I am one to flout the rules in favor of the heavier coin purse.”

Chastened, Greta replied, “Your pardon, Madame, but what Master Gallant has proposed must surely be unacceptable.”

“I approved his proposition.”

“But he means to claim me! He admitted that he had no intention of winning Miss Lily for her sake.”

With unconcern, Madame Devereux sipped her wine. Her nonchalance made Greta wonder if the proprietress had been a party to the charade from the beginning.

“So you will spend a week with Master Gallant,” Madame Devereux pronounced after selecting another confection. “Poor Miss Lily will, no doubt, be disappointed.”

“Poor Miss Lily?” Greta cried, aghast.

“You will be the envy of many a member.”

Greta could hardly believe her ears. “You sanction this trickery of his?”

“It was very naughty of him but quite clever as well.”

Greta felt her jaw drop. “I protest! I will not acquiesce to his deception.”

“You agreed to the terms.”

“But that was because I thought he sought to have Miss Lily—not me. And will he expect that I shall take the role of a submissive? I vow I will not!”

Madame Devereux sighed. “I know not his intentions, but I would you not give me grief on this. The terms had been set, and if you shirk, it will set a very bad precedent here. As a member, you took an oath to follow rules.”

“But—”

“I must have order preserved.”

Greta looked away in anguish, feeling all the dismay of a child who had learnt she was not preferred by her parents. Madame Devereux clearly favored Master Gallant. Greta was almost tempted to quit her membership, but where would she turn? There was no place like the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum. Even if there were another establishment of its kind, would she feel as comfortable there? She would have to start anew...

“I am not without compassion, ma cherie. If Master Gallant has no interest in Miss Lily, I will grant her to you at the end of your sennight with Charles.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Greta muttered.

With a heavy heart, she took her leave. She supposed she ought not be surprised that Madame Devereux would cast her support for Master Gallant, but Greta had thought his tactic so outlandish that even Madame would be unable to condone it. Her discontent with the proprietress turned into greater resentment toward Master Gallant. Mister Gallant. She would not defer to him. No matter how capable he might be. While it was true that watching him with Miss Lily, his performance not unlike that of an accomplished musician plying his instrument to produce the most inspired effects, had aroused her, and her interest had been momentarily pricked, she had not been with a man, in any capacity, in years. Nor had she any intention of taking on a partner of the opposite sex. But he and Madame Devereux had consorted to force her hand.

Greta pressed her lips into a grim, determined line. She would fulfill her obligation and spend the sennight with Mister Gallant, but she would make him rue his decision to claim her.

 

* * * * *

 

Sitting with her arms crossed, one slender leg thrown unladylike over the knee of the other, in purposeful defiance, she gave him her most imposing stare. Despite her petite stature, Miss Greta, in her time as Mistress Scarlet, had acquired a comportment that seemed to lend more height and breadth to her trim frame. Charles Gallant inhaled deeply as he placed his hat and walking stick on a chest of drawers nearby. He could see she had no intention of submitting easily to him. As if to subdue any doubt he might have about that, she had worn the costuming of her prior role: a rose red corset from the previous century. Miss Greta had smaller breasts than most women, but the garment pressed the orbs so tightly that they swelled quite nicely toward her elegant collarbone. Her chemise, stockings, a shawl, and pair of red slippers completed her attire. She seemed quite at ease with her state of dress, or lack thereof.

She could have charmed Charles in a peasant blouse and buckskin breeches. He liked her natural beauty and that she did not paint her face as the more fashionable women of society did. The daughter of an apothecary, Miss Greta did not hail from polite society, nor did she seem to aspire to a higher station for herself, though her father had seen to her education in the hopes that she would attract a husband of superior breeding. She had her hair, its hue a cross between red and brown, in a simple, tight coiffure, but he remembered when she used to let her locks cascade down her shoulders. He would see her hair free and flowing before their time was done.

From her chair, she watched in silence as he removed his great coat. Having come from Brooks’s, his toilette was more formal than the Red Chrysanthemum required. Not wanting to keep Miss Greta, he had bypassed Madame Devereux’s butler in his haste to reach the room where she waited. It was the same room that had served as the stage for his victory, where he had won the right to claim her for a sennight. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, causing the unique furnishings to cast strange shadows. Amidst the chest of drawers, four-post bed, and sideboard, were a wooden cross, stocks, a low and narrow bench, and iron hooks that dangled from the rafters. On the bare walls hung various crops, paddles, whips and canes. The chamber differed greatly from the halls of silk wallpaper and golden candelabras that he had come from, but, despite his hiatus from the Red Chrysanthemum, he felt at home here. His disquiet did not stem from his whereabouts but with Mistress Scarlet.

Miss Greta, he corrected himself, as he removed his gloves. Hell and damnation. If he could not keep her appellation in order, he might as well quit now, his efforts in vain before he had even started. From the corner of his eye, he beheld her uncross her legs and assume her previous position with the opposite leg. Though she continued to stare at him, the language of her body indicated no small amount of boredom. No woman had ever found his company dull or wearisome. He moved to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. Remembering that she enjoyed ratafia, he was tempted to pour her a glass. A part of him wished they were strolling through a park or partaking of sorbet at Gunter’s instead of occupying a dim room adorned with implements of pain. He would have enjoyed seeing her smile and hearing the lyrical laughter that had captivated his attention several years ago.

Before Master Damien had ruined her.

Finishing his brandy, he opted not to pour her a glass. She had not merited the courtesy yet. What she merited was a sound punishment for her blatant impudence. And though he would have liked nothing better than to ease her into his company with food, drink and polite conversation, he knew such an approach might present him as too lenient and indulgent, even weak. Traits that did not become one in the dominant role. The lines of distinction had to be clear, and while one could soften from strict to temperate, the reverse was suspect.

He went to stand before her. “I will overlook your display of disrespect this one time for you are unacquainted with my habits, but hereafter, you will show me proper regard. When next we meet, I will find you waiting on your knees, your eyes downcast, till I have given you permission to rise.”

Her nostrils flared and her frown deepened. She was ready to hate him. Perhaps she did already. He had to tread carefully. For the better part of two years, Miss Greta had not existed. Only Mistress Scarlet. And, according to Madame Devereux, Mistress Scarlet had limited herself to the fair sex, refusing to take men even as submissive ones. The proprietress had wagered he could not persuade Mistress Scarlet to resume her prior identity of Miss Greta beyond the sennight he had won.

“Fifty guineas that she will return to Mistress Scarlet within days of concluding her time with you,” Devereux had said. “As skilled a Master as you are, Charles, I fail to see how you can make a convert of her.”

“She would not be the first, nor the only, to switch roles,” he had replied. “You have members who oscillate from dominant to submissive with constancy.”

“Yes, but I have witnessed Mistress Scarlet for some time now. I have seen how intensely she immerses herself in her role.”

Charles had seen Mistress Scarlet’s intensity as well in their duel for the hand of Miss Lily but was unconvinced her motivation stemmed from pleasure alone.

“She came to see me when the two of you were finished with Miss Lily and was quite furious at you. I think she wanted me to throw you out.”

“I am not particularly proud of the stratagem I employed, but, given what you had told me of her, I saw no other way of convincing her.”

“Alas, I think your efforts will be for naught.”

“If you are convinced of that, why not make it a hundred guineas?”

Charles was not one to wager such amounts. His income was sufficient to sustain him but not large enough for him to bandy money about on idle causes. But he did not believe Mistress Scarlet was as she appeared to Madame Devereux. His observation lent him to believe that Miss Greta still persisted beneath the domination of the Mistress. And he meant to unearth her.

“Let us enrich the wager,” Madame Devereux had returned, and she eyed him as if he were some succulent repast she was to devour. “If I win, I wish for you to become mine, mine to command, to submit to my wishes for a sixmonth.”

“An indentured servant?”

“If you will.”

“And if I win?”

He fancied Madame Devereux, were she an animal, to be licking her chops in anticipation of feasting.

“Name your prize.”

Finished with the reverie of his dialogue with Madame Devereux, Charles placed the full weight of his attention upon the woman before him. Miss Greta might prove more challenging than he had anticipated, but he had every intention of claiming all of her: mind, body, and soul.

 

* * * * *

 

Greta did not flinch beneath his impassive stare. Waiting for him to speak, she uncrossed her arms and draped one over the back of the chair. Master Damien had often sat in this fashion, sometimes while stroking his cock as he watched her undress before him. Seeing that her deportment displeased Master—Mister—Gallant, she almost smirked. Little fires had come to life in his eyes. They turned from blue to grey.

Leisurely, he undid the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them to his elbows before remarking, “If it is punishment you seek, Miss Greta, I am happy to oblige.”

She bristled at the name. No man had dared address her as Miss Greta in some time, and that he of all people should have the privilege of doing so irked her beyond measure.

“You will require a safety word,” he said as he began untying his cravat. “What do you desire?”

She had not needed one for her own sake since her days with Master Damien. Her mind drew a blank.

“Perhaps ‘Spain,’” he suggested.

She sucked in her breath. That was the safety word she had used with Master Damien.

“No.”

He seemed relieved. When she said nothing, he looked her over from head to toe. After removing his collar, he provided, “‘Red.’ Your safety word is ‘red.’”

“How dull,” she replied with a faint roll of the eyes.

He frowned. His hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. In an instant, she was sitting upright, her back arched, legs uncrossed. She could feel his thumb and fingers pressed into her. Her hands grasped his, though she doubted she could pull his hand away. Her strength was no match for his. She had had submissive ones who enjoyed being choked, and though she was not above wrapping her slender fingers about a woman’s throat, she herself found the deprivation of air frightening.

Seeing the panic in her eyes, Gallant released her. “You are amassing quite the punishment, my dear.”

Relaxing back into the chair, Greta smoothed her neck. She knew not which she detested more: his use of “Miss Greta” or “my dear.”

“I would ask of you your prohibitions,” he continued, “but I trust they are the same as before: no pissing, enemas, or fisting in the anus.”

His knowledge of her limitations surprised her. She estimated, given his tenure at the Red Chrysanthemum, that he must have been a member at the time she was with Master Damien, who had not renewed his membership after marrying an heiress. Greta eyed Gallant, wondering if he was a man who regarded proscriptions or if he was tempted to flout them. His scheme to entrap her did not bode well.

“But, of course, you will use the safety word whenever you wish,” he said. “Do you recall it?”

She could not bring herself to comply with any of his directives. He shook his head a little, as if she were a wayward child.

“‘Red,’” he supplied. “Hereafter, the responsibility to apply the word is yours. Do you understand?”

She met his gaze and wondered if she could communicate her contempt for him through her eyes.

“I asked of you a question, Miss Greta. I will not repeat myself.”

She pursed her lips. “Yesss, Mister Gallant, I understand.”

He seemed to expect her insolence this time. Without anger, he scooped her into his arms.

She struggled against him. “Unhand me!”

He did, depositing her on her side into an iron cage that barely came above the knees in height. Before she had a chance to right herself, he had closed the top of it upon her. She twisted herself and grabbed at the bars of the door and shook it, but he had slid the bolts into place and secured the padlocks. She managed to get on her knees but, despite her petite stature, had to crouch down to keep her head from hitting the top of the enclosure. The width was hardly better. The contraption was better suited for an animal than a person. She fumed. Not even Master Damien had locked her in a cage before!

“I suggest you tame that unruly petulance of yours, Miss Greta.”

From her position, she had a nice view of his shoes and the legs of his buff-colored trousers. Grasping the bars that faced him, she made another attempt to dislodge the cage somehow. She was too livid to speak.

“I comprehend that you are displeased with the situation,” he said, squatting low so that she could see his face.

If she could reach him, she would wish to claw that pretty face of his.

“And accuse me of deceit most reprehensible,” he continued. “It was always my intention to provide you a sennight of great pleasure and carnal rapture. But I am equally adept at providing pain, if that is what you seek.”

He rose and she had to crane her neck to view him. “I leave you to contemplate your options.”

She watched him depart in disbelief. How long did he propose for her to stay locked in this infernal cage? When the door closed behind him, she let out a howl and shook the bars of the cage in violence. She cursed him, using every vile and vulgar epithet she could think of. How dare he treat her in such fashion! He talked of respect, but he had shown her no regard for her years as Mistress Scarlet. She deserved better than to be treated as if she were a neophyte or truly submissive.

With an anguished cry, she released the bars and sat down but had to bend herself at the waist. As it was too uncomfortable a position to sustain for a long period, she decided to lie down. She could not stretch the full length of her body, but she could bend her knees. As she stared past the bars of the cage, seething, her mind turned toward vengeance. She could sock him in the cods with her knee. That would incur his wrath, and she did not know what forms of punishment he would mete out, but, though she knew it would be a foolhardy endeavor on her part, she delighted in envisioning his body crumpled in pain. If only she could have mastery over him! She would flog him within an inch of his life, clamp a cage about his cock, and shove the handle of a cricket bat up his arse.

Her eyes widened with glee as she realized all these things could come to fruition. Yesterday, still cross with Madame, she had not paid much attention to what the woman was telling her. Master Gallant had had to take himself out of town for a few days, providing her a reprieve before her planned sennight with him. It had irked her to see Miss Lily in the hands of another. The lovely young woman ought to have been hers. That she might receive Miss Lily at the conclusion of her time with Master Gallant provided some, but not complete, consolation. Instead, having no submissive to call her own, Greta had busied herself with watching Mistress Primrose at work. She took pride in her pupil, who directed a similar passion toward her “pets,” two entitled young men in need of sound disciplining. There were no lengths to which Mistress Primrose would not venture.

“I have more honey to sweeten your lot with Master Gallant,” Madame Devereux had said as a footman set a chair beside the sofa upon which Greta reclined.

Lest the proprietress was willing to grant her a lifetime membership at the Red Chrysanthemum for gratis, Greta did not think Madame Devereux could offer much to interest her.

“I have laid a wager with Charles that he cannot convince you to assume your prior identity of Miss Greta at the conclusion of your sennight. He believes he can persuade you to relinquish your role as Mistress Scarlet, and I admit, if any man could do it, Charles is as qualified a candidate as any.”

Greta had said nothing.

“But if he fails, he has agreed to become mine for an entire sixmonth. Master Gallant will belong to me, to do my bidding. And, perhaps, if I am feeling generous, I may let you have him for a spell.”

Madame should have known that Mistress Scarlet had no interest in the male sex. She had employed them only for purposes of instruction with Mistress Primrose.

But now, as Greta shifted within the cage, she appreciated the bounty that Madame Devereux had offered. She would have her chance at revenge.

Master Gallant did not return for nearly an hour, and Greta passed the time by imagining all the punishing paces she would put him through. She could chain him to the cross and affix clamps to his nipples. If he did not enjoy other men, she would make him take cockmeat, in his mouth or his arse, or both. She could make him crawl on hands and knees, naked, for however long he would keep her locked in this cage. The thought of his naked body gave her pause. She had not seen him sans all clothing but suspected he had a nice form. She understood his appeal. She was not blind to his handsomeness for he was in the prime of his manhood. Not a callow gentleman, he had a square jaw and a depth to his features that only time and maturity could lend. If she had been four years younger, if Master Damien had not broken her heart in twain, she might have welcomed Master Gallant’s attentions.

She lay on her back with bent knees and stared through the cage at the rafters above. After Master Damien had cast her aside in favor of a younger, prettier submissive member, she had not paid heed to any other man in a long time. When she did look upon them, they, each of them, fell short by comparison to Master Damien. She had thought she might have to quit the Red Chrysanthemum, until Mistress Scarlet had rescued her from her melancholy. Mistress Scarlet empowered her, strengthened her, and gave her purpose. No man, least of all Master Gallant, would take that from her. When she heard him reenter the room, she willed herself not to move. She did not acknowledge his presence.

She expected him to ask if she had not reconsidered her insolent behavior. The truth was she had not. Instead, she had spent the better part of her time imagining the delicious torment she would impose upon him when he lost his wager to Madame Devereux. But he spoke not a word to her. Instead, he went to the opposite end of the room and began an examination of the implements hanging upon the wall. He took each of the paddles and tested their ease of movement, sometimes smacking his palm with one or another. He seemed to favor the long paddle with several holes. She sucked in her breath, knowing that the holes served to lessen the resistance of air against the tool and amplify the blow. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself another brandy.

Impatient with the silence, she asked, “May I have a drink?”

He stared at her. “I hardly need answer, Miss Greta.”

She tried not to appear nettled. He drank leisurely from his glass and gave no indications that he would speak another word to her. She sighed. She wanted to be released from the cage. She did not like small spaces, and the confines had seemed to shrink in the last half hour. If she wanted her freedom, she supposed she would need to demonstrate penitence, acknowledge her poor behavior, and perhaps ask his forgiveness. When she met his gaze, his countenance seemed to confirm her inner thoughts. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had no desire to capitulate to him, but he might keep her in the cage for hours if she did not.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she mumbled.

“Pardon?”

She kept her eyes averted from him for she did not wish to see his look of triumph. “I’ve learned my lesson...Master Gallant.”

He made no move.

“Pray, forgive my impertinence,” she added, her voice clear and unwavering. She may have yielded to him, but she would not cower.

Sauntering over, he unlocked the padlock and opened the top of the cage. He lent her his hand and assisted her to her feet. She stepped out, relieved, and slid into the slippers that had fallen off her feet during her brief scuffle. His expression was impassive when she glanced his way. She noticed he held a collar and leash in one hand.

“A special course is being presented in the dining hall,” he informed her.

Her eyes widened at the prospect of being paraded before the other members in a collar, a symbol of submission. She could not bear the shame of it.

“Please,” she pleaded, more earnestly than she intended. “The other members know me only as Mistress Scarlet.”

He contemplated her request, and she wondered if she would have to offer him an enticement.

He set the collar and leash aside, and she released the breath she held.

“You will, however, walk behind me,” he said.

She nodded. He raised his brows.

“Yes, Master Gallant,” she corrected.

The words fell from her mouth with more ease than she expected. She realized then that she might not be able to withhold herself from submitting to Master Gallant.

 

* * * * *

 

Though she would have looked beautiful in a collar and leash, Charles understood Miss Greta was far from ready. He would have her remove the garments of Mistress Scarlet, but he knew she derived confidence from the costuming and he would not force the humiliation of nudity upon her. He could coerce much from her, but he wanted some willingness on her part.

They headed to the dining hall, a modest room more brightly lit than other parts of the inn. All the chairs had been pushed to the walls, leaving one long wooden table covered in damask linen in the middle of the room. Upon the table lay a woman, naked but for the sweetmeats and dollops of pudding adorning her from the neck down. Many of the submissive ones knelt beside their masters or mistresses. Miss Greta hesitated upon noticing this. Knowing she would loathe taking such a submissive place upon the floor, Charles pulled a chair for her. He glimpsed gratitude in her eyes as she took her seat and noticed that she no longer adopted her haughty manner of sitting from earlier.

He sat in a chair beside her.

“My friends,” said a man wearing the dress of a Roman gladiator and standing near the head of the woman covered in food. “Tonight, I share with you a feast: my beautiful Persephone. Who among you would like to be the first to taste of such beauty?”

Charles looked to Miss Greta. She saw him from the corner of her eye, paused a second, and rose from her chair.

“I would.”

Her perception had always impressed him. Charles had noticed that her superior intuition often required no words from Master Damien.

“Mistress Scarlet, I am honored,” said Persephone’s Master.

“Thank you, Master Brutus.”

Miss Greta strode over to the table and looked over the prone woman. Choose the breast, Charles silently willed her. She bent down and licked the pudding off the side of one breast, then sucked in the raspberry that sat atop the nipple. He felt a tug in the area of his groin at the vision.

“She is delicious,” Miss Greta said, wiping a bit of pudding from the corner of her lips with a finger. Charles would have preferred to lick the side of her mouth clean for her.

Her head high, Miss Greta did not look at Charles as she returned to her seat. He was unperturbed, for he had won a small victory already. She had done what he had wanted, though it was possible she would have wanted to partake of Persephone for her own sake, but he rather doubted that to be the case. He observed her often as others took their turn with Persephone. A few submissive ones were permitted by their masters and mistresses to join in the feasting. Men and women licked and sucked at Persephone, who gasped and moaned at the many tongues and lips upon her. One woman suckled a nipple greedily while a man had a toe deep in his mouth.

As if aware that she was the subject of his scrutiny, Miss Greta asked, “Will you not sample the repast before us?”

“Perhaps,” Charles replied. “How did you enjoy her?”

“I told Master Brutus that it was delicious.”

Noting that she had a detached air about her as she gazed upon the bacchanal before her, he ventured, “You were being polite. What did you truly think?”

She made no answer as she continued to watch Persephone become more and more agitated with delight. Charles noticed one Master had begun to stroke his submissive between the legs. Another submissive had taken his master’s cock into his mouth. Arousal was apparent in many a stiff cock or flushed cheeks, but Miss Greta appeared unmoved.

“Perhaps you would rather be in Miss Persephone’s place?” Charles ventured in a lowered voice.

Miss Greta inhaled sharply.

He leaned in toward her, his gaze intent upon Miss Persephone, who had just received a sharp slap to the breast for squirming too much, but his nerves were attuned to Miss Greta for her reactions—a change in breath, a subtle shift in position, perhaps even a warming of her skin.

“Can you imagine yourself upon the table, spread before all to see?” he asked. “A dozen tongues and hands touching your body, often in its most intimate areas.”

“Only a submissive one has ever been displayed and offered in such fashion,” she replied, but her breath had become faintly uneven.

“You are my submissive for a sennight,” he reminded her.

Her nostrils flared, but she continued to watch Miss Persephone as if unperturbed.

“But you will need to earn such a privilege,” he finished.

Her lashes fluttered, and he thought he detected a conflicted look in her eyes.

“You think it a privilege, do you?” she replied. “I think it humiliating and debasing. It is more punishment than reward.”

He looked straight at her. “You did not always think it thus.”

She turned to glare at him. “Whatever you may have been told or think you comprehend of my past, it is no longer relevant to who I now am.”

“But look at Miss Persephone. Does she appear discomfited? See the small smile upon her lips, the manner in which her body undulates, how she arches her bosom into the mouths upon her. Hear her gasps and groans. They tell of pleasure, not pain.”

She looked back at the scene, her countenance less stoic, as Miss Persephone purred with contentment. As her adornments had all been consumed, there was naught but skin between the sucking mouths and groping hands.

“You did not partake much of Miss Persephone,” Charles said. “Does she not please you?”

“I prefer my maidens fair and slim of frame,” she answered.

“Miss Persephone holds no appeal for you?”

She let out an impatient breath to display her obvious lack of interest in their tête-à-tête. “None. But if you find much charm in her, I shall take no offense if you place your attention there.”

Charles smiled to himself at her poor attempt to rebuff him. “I am content with my present situation, but I find all women have their assets. While Miss Persephone may not possess the beauty coveted by most of her sex and admired by the other, with all her attributes upon full display, I discern that she has supple thighs, the kind that would inspire Reuben. Her rounded cheeks have the charm of cherubs. You barely grazed her nipple when taking the raspberry from her, but I would not have passed the chance to take a mouthful of those swollen nipples. Most alluring of all is her arousal, how it brings luminosity to her eyes and a natural blush to the cheeks.”

Miss Greta said nothing for a moment, and her retort to him had lost its earlier edge. “If you are so drawn to her fine qualities, why do you not avail yourself of her?”

“I think I will.”

He rose to his feet. The blood flowed warm through his body, and as he had determined he would not touch Miss Greta yet, he would pleasure the woman upon the table.

He approached Master Roman. “May I?”

Master Roman studied him from head to foot before nodding his permission. Charles positioned himself at the foot of the table. A few of the other members, curious, for they had not often seen him, stopped to observe him. With the back of his hand, he caressed one of the thighs he had extolled to Miss Greta. She felt smooth to the touch. Miss Persephone tilted her head up to behold him. He combed his fingers through the patch of hair at the base of her pelvis. It was soft to the touch. He swirled his fingers leisurely through the down. With his peripheral vision, he ascertained that Miss Greta was watching.

Slowly, he parted the thighs and gazed upon the plump folds hidden there. With his middle and forefinger, he traced the edges of the hair atop her mound to the untouched bud beneath, grazing it with a light touch. Miss Persephone gasped. No one had addressed her there yet. He noted the moisture glistening upon her flesh. Lowering himself over the table, he positioned himself between her legs and inhaled her musk. Every woman had her own scent, and Miss Persephone possessed an oaken musk. He spread her folds to provide himself the full area of the clitoris and drew his tongue languidly upon the wrinkled nub. Miss Persephone released a groan of satisfaction and relief that she might at last be brought to spend.

He dipped his tongue into the nectar below and drew it over her clitoris. She moaned as he coated the rosy, pliant flesh. It swelled for him and grew in redness. With his tongue, he fondled her in earnest, finding the spot that seemed to draw the sharpest reaction from her. Her thighs quivered, and she emitted a variety of sounds that conveyed her delight. Soon she began to writhe. He quickened his strokes, varying his angle, as her Master had not granted her permission to spend.

“May I? May I, Master?” she begged of Master Roman.

Charles nibbled at the pleasure bud, then agitated his tongue hard and fast upon her. She bucked and increased her pleas, her fingers clenched into her palms.

“You may,” Master Roman returned.

At that, she cried and allowed her paroxysm to overtake her. She jerked upon the table, her thighs boxing him against the ears. He continued his caress until she moved from his mouth, her bud too sensitive to further attention. He slid from her and wiped her moisture from his lips. Standing, he looked over to Miss Greta, who sat at attention, her lips slightly parted, her gaze glassy.

With a nod to Master Roman, Charles returned to his seat beside Miss Greta. Inspired by the ecstasy he had had thrown Miss Persephone into, not a single couple remained idle. Two members continued to attend to Miss Persephone, but all others had engaged in their own pursuits of pleasure. All but Charles and Miss Greta.

As if aware of their lack of participation in the orgy around them, Miss Greta shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Not too far from her, a man had thrown up the skirts of the woman sitting atop him and speared his ready cock into her waiting cunnie. Charles allowed Greta to wrestle with her discomfort for a moment. Such scenes of debauchery ought not have unsettled a seasoned member of the Red Chrysanthemum. Rather, the wantonness ought to have titillated her.

“Come,” he said at last, “let us return to our room.”

She looked neither concerned nor relieved, but he sensed her conflict. She followed him back to their room. He went to the sideboard where he had placed his effects and turned to face her. She stood closer to the entry than the center of the room, as if she wished to have access to a retreat but was loath to show she felt any intimidation.

“I suppose you wish for me to service you?” she inquired with uplifted chin. “Perhaps you wish me to take your cock into my mouth upon bended knee?”

Her tone dripped of condescension, as if such a desire of his was as indulgent as a child wishing for biscuits and cake before bedtime.

He withheld the urge to adjust himself before her. His cock had hardened in witness of the carnality in the dining room. Instead, he shrugged into his coat.

“You’ve not earned such a privilege yet, Miss Greta,” he replied coolly.

His response surprised her. Taken aback, she watched him put on his gloves and hat in perplexed silence.

“We are done for the evening,” he confirmed and walked past her toward the door. Before leaving, however, he said, “But I will find you waiting for me tomorrow in, I trust, a more appropriate demeanor. Good evening, Miss Greta.”

Tipping his hat, he left her standing with her mouth agape. Once in the hallway and out of her sight, he took a fortifying breath. He had wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, rip her garments from her and take possession of her. He had dreamt of it for years. Alas, he had to bypass Mistress Scarlet first, and she was no easy obstacle to overcome. If he pressed too quickly, too forcefully, he might fortify her hatred of him forever. But his desire for her had returned as if the years had not existed. Indeed, the passion had grown stronger, oddly enhanced by the presence of Mistress Scarlet.

But would he have the forbearance and the patience to see his plans through, or would he succumb to his lust, his baser instincts to claim the woman of his desires? Was it possible to tame the Mistress in Miss Greta?