Episode 3

 

 

AS GRETA ENTERED the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, she had not yet determined the demeanor she would assume for her second night with Master Gallant. Her first night, she had been deliberately defiant, her posture full of as much condescension and umbrage as she could muster, daring him to punish her for her insubordination. And he had done so, tossing her into one of those dreadful, cramped cages and leaving her to stew over her conduct. Upon reflection, it had been rather foolish, perhaps childish, to have behaved as she did, but she wanted to impress upon him that she took no pleasure in serving as his submissive counterpart for a sennight. She had not filled the role of the submissive in years. Mistress Scarlet, as she was now known, bowed to no one.

She had thought, too, that the gentleness he had shown toward Miss Lily signified a weakness in his character as a Master. Though he had asserted his dominance in stronger fashion than she had anticipated, she was not yet wholly convinced that he possessed the firm hand required of a dominant one. Like a child testing the authority of an elder, she intended to ascertain those limits and exploit any shortcomings. Damien had never displayed a moment of weakness. Many deemed him too severe, but there was never any doubt with Damien as to who was the Master.

“Evenin’, Mistress,” Tippy greeted. She was one of the young dressing maids employed by Madame Devereux to attend the members of the Red Chrysanthemum.

Greta looked about the boudoir where the members of the fair sex prepared their toilette for the evening. Two new members occupied the chambers. One was a plump young woman who looked quite ill at ease and was dressed in colors far too somber for her years. The other flitted about her friend with much animation, attempting to coax the reluctant one into a more amenable disposition. The former reminded Greta of her first time at the Red Chrysanthemum. She, too, had felt awkward, but Damien had swept away her disquiet soon enough. Rather, he would not permit any unease.

“My scarlet corset and robe,” Greta instructed Tippy, though she wondered that she needed to say anything for she never deviated from her customary costume. She watched the skittish woman squirm and scratch at her décolletage.

“Master Gallant has chosen a different attire for the evening.”

Greta snapped her attention to the petite chambermaid. “What?”

“Master Gallant says I am to bathe you, then dress you in the garments he has selected. I’ve drawn the bath, Mistress.”

Greta’s nostrils flared. After the prior evening, she had thought he would prove accommodating. He had not forced the leash and collar upon her and had allowed her to sit beside him in the dining room. No one would have discerned that she had been stripped of her status as Mistress Scarlet.

“And what has Mister Gallant selected?” she asked.

“A lovely but most wanton gown, Mistress,” Tippy replied, her large brown eyes twinkling. “I’ve not seen its like before.”

“You may inform him that I prefer my own attire.”

Tippy’s eyes widened. “Master Gallant is not here but anticipates arriving at the top of the hour.”

“Then I shall await him in my scarlet corset and robe.”

“Oh, no, Mistress! He was most insistent that you be ready as he instructed.”

“Then I fear he shall be disappointed.”

While Greta remembered well her own directive from him, that she should receive him with a more appropriate deportment, and she had contemplated a less insolent stance to demonstrate her gratitude that he had not demeaned her before her peers, her clothing provided more than coverage. Her attire infused her with confidence and command.

“Please, Mistress,” Tippy pleaded. “He warned that you might resist but said that I was not to fail in my duty all the same.”

“Did he threaten you?” Greta inquired, already incensed that he might have intimidated Tippy, one of the newer maids.

“Not in words, but Madame Devereux said I was to do just as Master Gallant wished. I ought not cross him, I should think. Please, Mistress, I’ve no wish to be reprimanded.”

Greta took in a long breath. She did not wish Tippy to pay the price of her disobedience. “Very well, but I shall have a word with Mister Gallant on this matter.”

Tippy sighed in relief and nodded. She led Greta behind a folding screen where a tub filled with steaming water awaited. On the small table beside the tub, a few candles had been lit. Greta breathed in the aroma of flowers and fruit.

“Lovely, eh?” Tippy remarked. “Master Gallant provided the bathing scents. Said he purchased a bottle of it during his time in the Orient.”

Was that why he had not patronized the Red Chrysanthemum in two years? But Greta’s tension ebbed as the pleasant fragrance filled her.

“I believe he said the oil was made from Japanese cherry blossoms,” Tippy added, inhaling deeply before she assisted Greta from her gown.

When she had disrobed completely, Greta settled into the hot bath. It must have taken Tippy quite the number of pots or kettles to fill the large cast-iron tub. Greta had never experienced a bath of such luxury and sank into the perfumed water with relish. Closing her eyes, she allowed the heat to caress and relax her body. She opened her eyes when she heard Tippy dip her hand into the water.

“I’m to wash you,” Tippy said, holding a sponge and soap.

“I can bathe myself,” Greta answered.

“Master Gallant insisted.”

Greta stiffened. She did not often have a woman touch her. Certainly she had never had a woman bathe her. At two and twenty years of age, she was no child. She decided, however, that she would indulge this once. Resting her head upon the edge of the tub, she allowed Tippy to glide the sponge over her arms, across her chest, down her belly, and along her legs. Tippy scrubbed till Greta thought every inch of skin had come to life. When the maid was done, Greta was reluctant to leave the warm embrace of the bathwater.

After drying her, Tippy removed the diaphanous linen hanging upon the screen. Greta had not thought the fabric to comprise a gown till Tippy attempted to slip it over her head. Indeed, it was not a gown for the piece that fell from the shoulders barely covered her bosom and laid bare her torso. The second garment was like a slender petticoat and tied at the waist. Long thin strips of the sheer fabric hung from gold bands affixed to her upper arms. A pair of golden sandals completed the ensemble. Standing before a mirror, Greta gazed at her exposed midriff. It was a most wanton outfit. The drape and sheerness of the linen reminded her of ancient Greece, but she doubted that women then truly wore such revealing garb.

Tippy reached for the pins in her hair, but Greta balked, preferring her tight bun. “If Master Gallant did not specify a coiffure, I prefer my hair unaltered.”

With a nod, Tippy said, “It is almost the top of the hour, Mistress.”

She dabbed a light perfume to the wrists and neck. As with the bath scents, the perfume had a simple and sweet aroma, pleasing but not overwhelming. Tippy kept the application of cosmetics to a minimum, favoring only a modest rouge to the lips and cheeks. Greta wondered if this was at the direction of Master Gallant as well for Tippy more often delighted in using fancy lotions, powders and even black coloring for the eyes.

“As lovely as a virgin worthy of sacrifice to the gods.”

Tippy had just finished applying Rigge’s Liquid Bloom to the lips for gloss when the statement made both women turn their heads toward the door. Charles Gallant stood at the threshold, his golden locks falling softly across his wide brow. Despite the late hour, he appeared freshly shaven and his eyes held their customary sparkle. Greta knew she ought to consider herself fortunate to be in the company of a member with such handsome features and build. His silk banyan, worn atop his linen and trousers, covered his form, but he required only his stately posture to convey him a fine figure of a man.

Greta smirked for he knew well that she did not qualify to be dubbed a virgin. She remained seated before the vanity as Tippy curtsied and withdrew.

“Your sex is not allowed in these chambers,” she informed him when he approached her. “What privileges you may have as a result of your special relation to Madame Devereux surely does not extend to trespassing in the ladies’ boudoir.”

“I have no special relation to Madame Devereux,” he replied without hurry, his gaze continuing to take in her appearance.

“Indeed?” Greta replied, doubtful. “I wonder that any other member would have been allowed to succeed with the trickery you managed to employ. It is clear to me that you are a gentleman of means, and Madame is not impervious to the coin.”

“That is a harsh judgment of our proprietress. Has she not treated you well?”

Greta bit her lip, feeling contrite for accusing Madame Devereux of greed, though it was not without truth. Nevertheless, she had no need for him to make her repent.

“As for your situation,” he continued, “I understand you believe yourself coerced, very much against your will, into spending a sennight with me, but I promise you will not rue your fate when we are done, and the less you resist, the more pleasure may come your way.”

She lifted her chin, childishly refusing to surrender to reason. She had no desire to gratify his arrogance. He had deprived her of Miss Lily and compelled her to play a role she had not occupied in years. She would rather see him receive a set-down, deliver a blow to his confidence, and make him miserable than welcome any pleasure he might provide her. Thus far, he had done nothing that pleased her. She had watched him bring another woman to spend, but he had barely touched her. If not for the smolder in his gaze the few times she caught him looking at her, she would have thought he held little interest in her.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm. “Our room awaits.”

If she behaved with too much impudence, he might throw her into a cage once more. Shuddering at the thought, she rose to her feet and accepted his arm, once again relieved that he did not treat her as she would have done to Miss Lily. She would have made Miss Lily crawl after her. Instead, Master Gallant was as gracious as if she were a lady of the ton and they were proceeding to the dance floor at Almack’s. His arm felt strong and sturdy against her own. Suddenly, she was a little wistful for she had not felt the touch of a man since Damien.

She had no need for it, she reminded herself.

At a gentle pace, he led her from the boudoir and down the hall to the room they had occupied the previous night, but he stopped at each open room. Many members refrained from closing their doors, inviting onlookers. In the first one, an older man whose stout belly indicated a lifetime of rich dining, pommelled his cock into a naked negro woman bent over the edge of a bed.

“Mr. Worthington,” Charles remarked, almost to himself.

Greta was well acquainted with the negress, Miss Terrell, a beautiful woman who once served as a courtesan to a member of Parliament, but barely recognized the man. “I think he has been absent longer than you.”

“Worthington is recently returned from the West Indies, where he owns several plantations and over a hundred slaves, but he cannot bring his slave women to England for they should be free persons once they set foot here.”

They stood in the doorway and observed the pale and portly man as he strained to spend inside the lithe body of Miss Terrell. His flesh wobbled as he thrust, and Greta turned her attention to the more agreeable form of Miss Terrell, who acted as if she enjoyed the penetration and ground her backside into him. With a strange and vulgar groan and much shaking of the body, Worthington attained his goal. He collapsed atop her, but Miss Terrell pushed him aside and sought her own finale by rubbing herself vigorously between the thighs. After several minutes, she achieved her paroxysm while Worthington lay in a stupor beside her.

That was why she did not trouble herself with men, Greta reminded herself. While Damien possessed greater stamina than Worthington exhibited, she had seen enough of the male sex to know that most could not last long enough to see a woman to her climax.

“A shame Mr. Worthington could not keep apace with Miss Terrell,” Greta said, half speaking to Master Gallant.

They turned away from the room and proceeded down the hall.

“He avails himself often enough of his slaves that one would think he could improve his endurance,” Gallant replied grimly.

Greta frowned to think of the poor slave women who had to suffer Worthington’s attentions. “I suppose his satisfaction is all that matters to him. In that, he differs little from most of his sex.”

Gallant stopped and looked at her. “Only a man shallow of mind and small of heart would not concern himself with satisfying a woman.”

She recalled how he had brought Miss Lily to spend without having sought his own fulfillment at all. Though his action had surprised her, she had deduced that the time allotted to him in their challenge had ended and he could address his own desires well enough after he had claimed his victory.

“It hardly seems worth the effort,” she replied, thinking of the times that Damien had left her tense and wanting, unfinished.

“It is always worth the effort. If done properly, the exertion is nothing.”

The conviction in his tone unsettled her. Madame Devereux had said that if nature had intended an orgasm to be meaningless for women, they should not experience it all. And Greta could not deny that the few moments when she had spent with Damien were what she had lived for.

“But the anatomy of a woman requires much tending to, and most men do not have the patience and the wherewithal required,” she persisted.

“Then you’ve not been with the right sort of men, Miss Greta.”

He let her ponder his statement as he led her to the next room, occupied by a man with two women. The man, naked, stood observing the two women, both kneeling upon the bed, as they undressed one another.

“Good Sir,” Master Gallant hailed, “would you permit an audience?”

The man waved them in.

Gallant led Greta into the room and to a pair of chairs facing the bed. She sat down and briefly studied the man, whom she knew as Master Troy. An infrequent patron, Master Troy might not have been known to her at all if he had not provided her a few lessons in her early days as Mistress Scarlet. Stouter and darker than Master Gallant, Master Troy had muscular arms and legs. Greta had heard rumors that he was a free-trader, and his rough hands indicated he was not unfamiliar with manual labor.

The two women Greta recognized. One was a baroness, whose husband had passed several years ago, leaving her a widow with two children, grown and married, and freedom to pursue the urges that she had kept locked away for over two decades. The other woman, Isabella, was a Spaniard with long black hair and an olive complexion. Isabella attended the baroness first, planting soft kisses along her collar as she unlaced the woman’s short stays. When she had the stays removed, she pulled the baroness’s shift down to reveal her breasts. Cupping an orb, Isabella lowered her head to the upraised nipple and suckled. Like the wing of a butterfly, her tongue flitted over the hardened bud. Moaning, the baroness threw back her head. Isabella gave equal attention to the other breast then smothered the bosom with kisses and sucking.

“Ah, Isabella, you are a delight,” the baroness panted and lifted the chin of the younger woman to her.

Their lips met.

In her time at the Red Chrysanthemum, Greta had seen many members of the same sex engage in amorous congress. The baroness no longer had the beauty of youth but was by no means homely. Isabella had an exotic quality to her. At times, Greta preferred viewing the curves of the fair sex to the less voluptuous bodies of men and knew that the vision of two women together titillated the male sex greatly. But while she enjoyed watching two women, she found the reality of being with another woman less engaging than she would have thought.

Gallant leaned toward her chair. “Have you kissed a great many women?”

“I have,” she replied curtly. She rather hoped Gallant did not expect her to lie with another woman.

“And do you prefer the soft, supple lips of the fair sex?”

She was indifferent, truth be told, but she felt such an admittance would bolster Gallant’s belief that she could be partial to the likes of him.

“I prefer my sex, yes,” she replied, keeping her gaze upon Isabella and the baroness.

The baroness, her shift still hanging down her arms, began to undress Isabella. She untied the stays of the latter in hurried fashion and groped her breasts through the shift. Isabella wiggled from her shift and lay down. The baroness lay atop her and kissed her hungrily. Her hands went everywhere upon Isabella, caressing arms, squeezing firm, dense breasts, and grasping hips. Finally, one hand settled between the thighs and stroked the flesh there, making Isabella purr.

Master Troy moved to the side of the bed to better observe the two women kissing and caressing one another. Isabella threaded her fingers through the hair of the baroness, pulling her deeper into the kiss. Their legs slid against each other. Isabella groaned with greater intensity as the baroness agitated her hand faster and faster. Already provoked by the earlier site of Miss Terrell’s lovely body, Greta felt the heat in her loins grow as she watched Isabella writhe beneath the baroness. Greta had never before allowed a woman to bring her to spend. That had never been her aim, but for a fleeting moment, she pondered the possibility. When her time with Master Gallant was done, would she consider allowing a submissive one to touch her as the baroness touched Isabella?

“How do you enjoy spending?” Master Gallant asked her in a low voice so as not to disrupt the scene before them. “Do you prefer the hand or the tongue of a woman? Or, perhaps, you favor a dildo?”

Greta shifted in her seat, not wanting to admit to him that she had only spent with Damien or at her own hand. “None of them have earned the privilege to attend to me.”

Gallant paused. “What, none?”

Greta shrugged.

“Not a one? In all your years as Mistress Scarlet?”

“I have exacting standards.” She could not resist turning to him and saying, “Miss Lily was perhaps my best prospect.”

“How discourteous of me to have taken a promising candidate from you. Perhaps I can atone for my wrong by bringing you to spend as often as you wish.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she turned form his steady gaze. “That will not be necessary.”

“Why not? Have you not earned the privilege of that divine paroxysm?”

Greta inhaled sharply. What an insufferable man. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you reward your submissive ones so easily?”

“I do not necessarily grant them cock, but I believe it of paramount importance that pleasure is had by both parties. Pleasure is the purpose of the Red Chrysanthemum.”

“Do you think me a dunce that I know not the aim of my own membership here?”

“Then why not allow me to pleasure you?”

“Are you so certain you can? If my pleasure was your objective yesterday, then, forgive my honesty, you failed.”

She felt a small sense of triumph at his silence and added, “I hardly call spending an hour cramped in a cage pleasurable.”

“No? You will think differently in a few days’ time.”

“Ha! If you think that, Mr. Gallant, I suggest you lock yourself in a cage if you think it agreeable.”

His features hardened. “You know better than any other member how to properly address a dominant one.”

 

* * * * *

 

Charles had sensed her resistance from the beginning, but the depth of her opposition surprised him. He had thought the time she had spent in the cage, the courtesy he had shown her in not forcing her to wear a collar and leash, would have merited him more respect. She had committed the error of a neophyte, and he might have readily forgiven her were she less versed, but she was a seasoned Mistress, one who prided herself on being au fait. He suspected he had aggravated her with his questioning, but her sin had been a deliberate one. He was certain of it, and he could not acquit her, not when he had yet to fully establish his dominance.

“Master Troy,” Charles beckoned after the efforts of the baroness had come to a climax, producing a delighted cry from Isabella. “I am in need of your assistance.”

“Master Gallant, I am your humble servant.”

Miss Greta raised her brows. She was unaware that Master Troy once had to serve a steep sentence at Newgate for his activities. His mother had come to the office of Justice of the Peace, a friend of Charles’, begging for leniency for her only son. Charles had listened to her heartbroken pleas and persuaded the magistrate to lower the prison term.

Charles rose from his chair. “Mistress Scarlet has indicated she merits a spanking.”

He had almost said Miss Greta, but he would spare her that affront. What he had in store would be galling enough for her. Even now he could see her eyes widen in alarm and the color rise to her cheeks in indignation.

Master Troy raised his brows in surprise but dared not question the man to whom he owed his current freedom. “I should be honored to assist you both.”

Charles waited for Miss Greta to protest, but perhaps she had been struck dumb by his audacity. “Whom would you wish to administer your spanking? Master Troy or one of the women?”

Apparently too angry to look at him, she only clutched the arms of her chair. Her knuckles had turned white.

“I think Mistress Scarlet is loath to disappoint anyone,” Charles said when she did not answer. “Perhaps you could all have a turn.”

The two women sat up to attend what was happening.

“My pets are at your service, Master Gallant and Mistress Scarlet,” said Master Troy with a bow.

Charles knew Miss Greta seethed inside, but he needed to see to it that she never again addressed him as Mr. Gallant. He walked behind her chair and leaned toward her ear, whispering, “I warrant you’ll enjoy the spanking more than another spell in the cages.”

He gave her a moment to contemplate the options and realize that he could do far worse than the cages or a spanking. After several silent seconds, she pushed herself out of the chair. He led her to the foot of the bed and bent her over the edge. He pulled her arms out in front of her and held her wrists to the bed. The two other women slid off the bed. The Spanish woman looked quite eager for what was to come.

Charles nodded to her. “Por favor, señiorita.”

“Soy Isabella, Señor,” she provided, her thick, dark lashes fluttering at him.

His gaze took in her supple form and dark complexion. Her hips were more rounded than those of Miss Greta, her breasts much larger, but he appreciated the slim lines of the latter. In his time in the Orient, he had become accustomed to seeing women with trim figures. The women there were surprisingly petite and slender with barely a corpulent one to be found.

Isabella went to stand behind Miss Greta. She caressed the arc of Greta’s rump, then withdrew her hand and slapped a buttock. Miss Greta stared ahead at the headboard, a frown etched deep into her physiognomy. Isabella delivered a sharper blow to one side, then the other. Charles gathered the slaps to sting but barely hurt. With a mischievous sparkle in her eye, Isabella reached beneath the hem of Greta’s skirt and caressed the length of one leg. This made Miss Greta jump.

“Is there to be more than a spanking?” she hissed.

“No,” Charles replied.

Isabella pouted her lips and returned to raining her hands down upon Miss Greta’s derriere. Charles wished he could see her arse, naked, quiver beneath the blows, but he wanted to keep an eye upon Miss Greta’s countenance to assess when she had had enough.

“Master Troy, if you please,” he directed.

Taking Isabella’s place, Master Troy stood behind Miss Greta’s backside and administered a smack that jolted Miss Greta forward.

“Does that please you, Mistress Scarlet?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

Master Troy spanked her again. Charles knew these blows did more than sting, but he had seen Miss Greta handle far worse. When Master Troy was done, Charles nodded to the baroness. She gave a tentative slap.

“Perhaps she would benefit from a paddle,” Charles suggested.

Master Troy retrieved one and handed it to the woman. She swung it against Miss Greta, who made a small grunt.

“Swing with your arms, not your wrists,” Charles advised.

The woman made another attempt. This time the paddle connected with the buttocks with a cracking sound. Miss Greta gasped. The paddle descended once more. Each successive blow grew in strength as the wielder gained comfort with the implement. Charles could see tears glisten in Miss Greta’s eyes and was certain her arse blushed red beneath the delicate fabric.

“Are you satisfied, Mistress Scarlet?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak.

He released her wrists, and she scurried to stand. He gave her a hard stare. She knew what she was supposed to do next.

“Thank you,” she murmured to Master Troy and the two women. To Charles she said, “Thank you for fulfilling my request, Master Gallant.”

He bowed. “Your servant, madam.”

“You are welcome to stay, Master Gallant, Mistress Scarlet,” Master Troy said.

“Thank you, I believe we shall.”

He offered his arm to Miss Greta to lead her back to the chair. She stared at his arm coldly and swept past him. After gazing down at her chair with doubt, she decided to stand behind it instead. Charles returned to his seat. He had not intended to provide her a set-down this evening, but she had forced his hand. He sighed to himself. If only Miss Greta would not insist upon being so difficult.

They watched as Isabella, perhaps aroused from the spanking, grabbed the baroness and kissed her, thrusting her tongue deep into the mouth of the other. The baroness returned the kiss with equal passion, and the two women fell back onto the bed. With their hands, they grasped and stroked each other’s bodies. Charles could think of nothing that could rival the sight of two women pleasuring one another. The naked body of a woman alone was divine. Who would not wish to double the delight?

He glanced to see if Miss Greta was equally stirred, but perhaps she still fumed over her spanking. He recalled his anticipation of seeing Miss Greta lying with Miss Lily, but that had not come to pass in the manner he had hoped. Miss Lily had not the opportunity to pleasure Miss Greta. It was almost as if Miss Greta disdained being touched. But how could that be? Charles understood that Damien had left Miss Greta brokenhearted, and perhaps she had renounced all men because of it, but surely she enjoyed women else she would not confine herself to the fair sex.

Isabella slid down the length of the baroness and positioned herself between the woman’s thighs. Her head bobbed up and down. The baroness groaned in pleasure. She grabbed her own breasts and pinched the nipples as Isabella’s tongue worked her magic. Master Troy settled himself behind Isabella. He slapped her derriere several times before plunging his erection into her. The three produced a chorus of delighted grunts and moans as their bodies bumped and ground against each other. Isabella reached a hand between her own thighs to fondle herself. Charles wondered if it would ever come to pass that Miss Greta would assert herself with as much abandon as Isabella. The prospect of coaxing Miss Greta into such unabashed boldness was more than alluring, but he would require more than a sennight to accomplish such a feat.

Isabella spent first, followed by Master Troy, then the baroness. They lay in bed, all three satiated, the moisture of the baroness glistening all over Isabella’s lower face, Master Troy’s cock wet and limp upon his thigh. Isabella nestled against the baroness, their legs entwined. This time, when Charles looked to Miss Greta, he noted her features had softened and a new blush occupied her cheeks. He allowed himself a breath of relief. He had begun to wonder if he had ensnared himself an ice queen.

Rising to his feet, he said to Master Troy, “We are much obliged, good sir.”

Master Troy gave a drowsy nod.

Charles turned to Miss Greta, considered offering her his arm as a gentleman would but thought better of it. He did not wish to provide her an opportunity to spurn him. Instead, he said to her, “Come. Let us to our own chambers.”

He headed toward the door, then paused when he realized she had not moved. Without turning around, he waited till he heard her footsteps behind him. He proceeded to the room they had occupied the night before. At the threshold, he stopped. Born and bred a gentleman, even as a dominant one at the Red Chrysanthemum, he could not bring himself to forsake all of his breeding. He opened the door and held it for her. She surveyed him from head to toe and pursed her lips with hauteur, giving him a clear indication of what she thought of his gentle manners.

Shove them up your arse, he imagined her saying before she swept past him and into the room.

Undaunted, he closed the door behind him. Perhaps Miss Greta preferred her dominants to possess a superior demeanor, as Damien did. Charles found the man overbearing, though he understood how women fell under his spell. Blessed by the angels of beauty, his tall and athletic build the envy of many men, Damien had a confidence, stemming from self-conceit and narcissism, that made others believe he was as grand as he presented himself to be. He enjoyed belittling his submissive mates and carried himself in similar manner within and without the Red Chrysanthemum. The son of a baronet, Damien had married a handsome heiress.

Charles had no desire to aspire to be Damien, even if Miss Greta was partial to the forceful ways of her former lover. Rather, Charles hoped to enlighten her to the possibility of experiencing pleasure with a different dominant male.

She stood in the center of the room, her arms folded across her chest. He went to stoke the fire that the servants had started earlier at his request. Despite the temperate summer night, she might yet feel a chill, given the thinness of her garments. He could see the hue of her legs through the fine linen, teasing the mind with the prospect behind the sheer curtains. His gaze traveled to the exposed area between her waist and her bodice.

Having brought the fire back to life, he sauntered to her. She narrowed her eyes at him. Ignoring her hostility, he reached for the skirt. She balked. He gave her a hard stare. She forced herself to remain still. He could feel her tenseness. It was as if she thought his touch that of a leper.

“The skirt is meant to sit at the hips,” he explained and made the adjustment, wishing his hands could linger at her hips.

With the skirt lower, he could now admire her belly and navel. This part of a woman’s body was most provocative, more unassuming but perhaps more sensual than the presentation of the breasts. He wondered how Miss Greta might look in the attire worn by Persian dancers. No doubt she would appear as lovely as a desert flower. She only wanted more flesh upon her.

“You look as if you barely eat,” he remarked.

“I eat perfectly well,” she replied.

He gazed at her, waiting.

“Master Gallant,” she grumbled.

“Do you?”

He knew she now assisted her aging father in his apothecary. She had once been a companion to Lady Grace, Damien’s aunt. Charles surmised that was how Miss Greta had first become acquainted with Damien. She was not as thin then as she was now.

“I do not dine on beefsteak every day, if that is what you wonder,” Miss Greta said. “Master Gallant. If you prefer a more voluptuous woman, I am sure Madame Devereux can accommodate you.”

“Forgive me if you think I intended a criticism. I only meant your beauty, already plentiful, could be enhanced with a little more flesh.”

And he appraised her once more with obvious appreciation. She shifted, as if his compliment had made her awkward.

“You need not demonstrate modesty with me,” he said. “Surely you are aware of your loveliness.”

He turned her toward a tall bronze mirror leaning against the wall. Together, they examined her reflection. He watched as her gaze traveled the length of her body, returning to and resting upon her bared waist and belly. Standing behind her, he caressed the side of her arm with a finger and heard her faintly gasp, but she remained still. She stared at the bottom corner of the mirror.

“No. Do not avert your eyes,” he instructed. “Drink in the magnificence of your body.”

She pulled her gaze back to the center of the mirror and watched as his forefinger rounded her shoulder. The fragrance of her bath and an essence unique to her filled his senses, warming his loins. Abruptly, he slid his hand around her waist to her abdomen and pressed her to him. The exquisiteness of his hand upon her, the glory of her derriere pressed to his hardening cock, made his blood pound. Her eyes widened as if in panic. Her breath trembled. Unable to remain still, she tore herself from him.

The sudden deprivation was like a kick to the bollocks. Collecting himself, he straightened. “You understand, Miss Greta, that you have to submit to my touch, or is it necessary for me to review proper submissive etiquette for you?”

Her mouth was open, but no words emerged.

With desire coursing strongly throughout his body, he was tempted to manhandle her till she submitted. Perhaps a healthy dose of fear was what she required. Fear could, in a strange way, serve as an aphrodisiac. But he did not wish to be a brute and overwhelm her lest he was fully confident that a part of her wished to be ravished.

Though Madame Devereux had informed him that Miss Greta had confined herself to the fair sex during the years of his absence, he decided to question Miss Greta herself. Madame Devereux could not know everything.

“How long has it been since you have felt the touch of a man?” he asked more gently.

She lifted her chin and crossed her arms once more. “That is none of your affair. I have already stated my partiality lies not with your kind. Master Gallant.”

He rubbed his chin. “You find women more arousing?”

She made no response.

Wondering if she might be cold, he took a chair and set it near the fireplace. “Have a seat, Miss Greta.”

She eyed the chair warily but seemed to welcome the warmth from the hearth. She sat down but remained near the edge of the chair as if she might need to leap from it at any moment.

“Miss Isabella is a magnificent specimen of volupté,” he said. He walked to the wall adorned with crops, whips and canes and selected a crop for inspection. Miss Greta might feel more at ease if she thought he was distracted. “She has lovely, supple thighs, does she not?”

Receiving no response, he slapped the crop against the sideboard. “Answer, Miss Greta!”

She sat at attention. “Yesss.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Master Gallant.”

“And her full, large breasts, the nipples beautifully extended. Do they beckon you?”

“I prefer fair women and pale complexions, Master Gallant.”

“Does Miss Isabella not please you? Her body not incite your lust?”

She blinked several times.

“Do you prefer the baroness?” he tried as he opened the drawers to examine their contents. “Despite her age, she is not poorly formed.”

“I do not prefer the baroness, Master Gallant.”

“What of the vision of Miss Isabella pleasing the baroness?”

“Are you always so verbose, Master Gallant?”

He shook his head to himself. A virgin would have been easier to deal with than Miss Greta.

“Would you rather we engage in a different activity?” he returned.

She frowned in silence, her lips pursed in petulance, as if she were a child who had been told she could eat her turnips or forego supper entirely.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed.

“Why?”

“You know that the submissive does not question her master. I have indulged you ere now because you have been out of practice, but I shall not issue warnings twice without punishment.”

Sucking in her breath, she closed her eyes.

He allowed her several breaths before speaking. “I want you to remember the vision of Miss Isabella pleasing the baroness, their bodies flush with desire, the beauty of their nakedness, soft bodies entwined. Were you titillated? Did you become wet between the legs?”

Her eyes flew open.

“I could determine the answer for myself,” he provided.

“A little,” she said.

“Close your eyes.”

She did not resist this time. He leaned against the sideboard and observed her.

“Imagine you have replaced the baroness. Miss Isabella is pleasuring you, caressing you, worshipping your body with her hands and lips.”

By her small facial gestures, he suspected she struggled with the task, but he continued. “She cups your breast in hand. With her tongue, she teases the nipple to attention, then closes her mouth about the bud as if savoring a sweet red cherry. She is delighted with the taste of you.”

He had to pause for himself. He would like nothing more than to sample Miss Greta’s delicious nipples. The image of Isabella’s darker, supple body against the pale, slender body of Miss Greta might fail to fully excite her, but he was not immune to such a lovely daydream.

As he collected himself, he noticed her shoulders had relaxed, and she no longer sat at such stiff attention.

“Miss Isabella is quite skilled with her mouth and hands. Would you have liked to take the place of the baroness and receive all of Miss Isabella’s abilities for yourself?”

She replied with a small shrug.

“If you prefer a blond, perhaps you would rather envision the likes of Miss Lily. What would you have Miss Lily do to you?”

“I would have her kneel before me,” she said after a moment’s consideration.

“And where are you?”

“Sitting in a chair. I would tell her to remove my slippers and lick my toes.”

He nodded. “And then?”

“I would select the nine-tail and flog her while she was on hands and knees. I would tell her to beg for more. Then I would demand she offer me her breasts, which I would attend with the flogger.”

“What would you have her do to you?”

She faltered and opened her eyes.

“How do you prefer Miss Lily to pleasure you?” he rephrased.

She appeared confounded, as if she did not comprehend the question.

“Would you have her lick your cunnie as Miss Isabella had done to the baroness? Or bring you to spend by hand?”

“I...suppose.”

Supposed? It was a strange answer. Crop in hand, he went to stand before her.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he said.

She inhaled, slightly exasperated, and closed her eyes once more.

“Imagine the softness of her touch upon your thigh,” he said, “and her caress upon your breast. Her hand falls to your cunnie. Gently, she fondles you.”

Miss Greta frowned and her brow furrowed. He did not understand her reaction. She had claimed Miss Lily was as near as perfect a submissive as she could desire.

“Can you feel your body warming with desire?” he asked.

“No,” she said, her tone firm and flat.

Confounding woman, he thought to himself. Aloud, he said. “Perhaps, if you sustain good behavior, I will reward you with the company of Miss Lily.”

She opened her eyes.

“I can direct her to properly pleasure you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she demurred.

He raised his brows. Perhaps she had reservations with an audience, though, toward the end of her term with Damien, she had seemed to relish being displayed in public.

“You would prefer Miss Lily to pleasure you in private.”

She sighed with disinterest. He looked at her in disbelief. She considered Miss Lily a prize, enough to have competed with him for her. She ought to have been eager to have the prospect of Miss Lily. Was it possible she had no interest in being pleasured by Miss Lily?

“When did you spend last?”

She rolled her eyes.

He frowned at such insolence and held her gaze several seconds before saying, “If it is punishment you seek, Miss Greta, I will oblige.”