by Anna Edwards
My father drags the first girl forward to the front of the stage.
“As first declared in eighteen hundred and eight, during the reign of the mad King George III — all girls born to members of the society, in the eighth year after the birth of the son of the incumbent Duke of Oakfield, are to be handed over to the society. This tradition has continued, in perpetuity, down the family lines since that date. My son, Nicholas, has reached the required age, and thus, all girls born in nineteen ninety-seven must be given to us. It’s in our ruling documentation and to deny this clause will lead to dire consequences.”
I brand another two girls while he speaks. Both sit on the stage, crying tears of pain from the imprint of the society’s crest.
“We have five girls here today — five virgins from which my son will choose his wife.”
I cringe at that bit of my father’s speech. I don’t want to marry even if all five of the girls before me are fuckable. I’m a playboy and would rather continue in that vein than be tied to one woman for the rest of my life. A woman who'd most probably hate my guts anyway. Mind you, if my own mother is an example to go by, then my wife is unlikely to be around for long. She died when I was five. They say she slipped while walking on the battlements at the top of the house. I’m not stupid, though. Presuming she’d gone through what I’m about to subject these women to, then it is more likely that she ended up insane and took her own life. My father didn’t really care about her death. There was no grief — he couldn’t remarry as per the rules of the society, but he could fuck every bit of skirt willing to open her legs for a Duke. The best-case scenario might even be that the woman I marry kills herself before I get her pregnant, and I don’t have to subject my children to this ritual crap.
“If any person here doesn’t hand over their daughter, then they’ll be cast out of the society and all their assets taken away. These are the rules we live by.”
The room falls silent. No man will dare go against the society. Nobody of rank within it ever has, and nobody ever will. Money, it’s the one thing we all crave, and we’d even sell our daughters just to get it or, in this case, to keep it. The silence is broken when the next girl is called up.
“No fucking way.” Her sultry swear has me turning my head toward the commotion. Several of my father’s bodyguards, or as I prefer to call them ‘hired goons’, surround the girl, so I can’t see her. “If you think I’m going to let him do that, then you're fucking insane.”
Damn, she needs to stop swearing — it’s turning me on with the raspy melody of her tone. The guards part when a punch comes flying through the air. I see the vibrant red tresses that follow it, and I know this is the girl who was looking at the paintings. She is exquisite to the eye. All curves and breasts even in the most unflattering dress. Her big eyes are almost emerald in color. I’d immediately wanted to savor her flesh, knowing that it would taste like perfection. But as she’s dragged toward me, I see the hatred in her eyes and know that she'll never willingly give herself to me, and I don’t take what isn’t offered. I don’t need to.
“You're all mad. The lot of you. I don't consent to this. My father may have, but I never will. Let me go, or I'll scream so loudly that someone will call the police.”
My father laughs before addressing the assembled crowd.
“There's always one who thinks that she’s bigger and better than her fate. I don’t know why they bother to fight it.”
“Fuck you, you freak.” She swears again, and my cock lengthens.
“Enough time wasting, we've a long evening ahead of us, and we need to get on with it. Hold her down. Nicholas, the iron. Brand her,” my father orders. The men descend on the poor girl, and they grab her hands and legs to pin her to the floor. She has no decorum or grace, at this moment. She’s a wild animal fighting for her life. She's a scared antelope to my savage predator. I stalk her like the ferocious animal I am — a lion hungry for its dinner, and the smell of her fear entices me. Panic overrides modesty, and her sex is bared to me. Fuck, I want her. I’ll have her. No, I need to concentrate. I can't allow her femininity to cloud my judgment. I need to succeed. I’m the next Duke of Oakfield. I'll rule this society as soon as I choose a wife. She needs to be shown she's nothing now — a pawn in a fight she can't win. I take the poker and place it hard into the flesh of her thigh. The gossamer skin burns with an acrid smell, and she screams and screams. It's not a cry of ecstasy but one of agony. My throat clenches, and the guilt I feel wraps me tightly in a blanket of disgust. I throw it off, though. She's the one at fault and should just accept her fate. There's no point in fighting what’s happening here — it will happen even if we say we don’t want it to. Nothing can change what’s about to occur — least of all the screams of a girl too young to know better. I look down at her as tears stream from her eyes.
“Stupid girl. You'd be better to accept your fate rather than fight it.”
“Go to hell,” she whimpers.
I laugh.
“Don’t you realize? You just entered hell, and there’s no chance of leaving.”
CHAPTER FIVE
VICTORIA
The four men holding me let go, and I scramble to my feet. However, not before kicking the freak with the branding iron in the kneecap. The mark inflicted on my skin might only be small, but it hurts so much. It feels as though they’ve ripped the skin from my body and carved the inside with knives. I tried to cook dinner for my mother once, when I was fifteen, and I burned my hand on the oven. It had barely touched the flesh, but at the time, I thought that had hurt badly. Now, I know a lot differently. I move as far away from the staging and all the men as I can. I refuse to let tears fall from my eyes, even though several of the other girls are crying. I won’t let them have the honor of seeing my tears. I glare at them instead with an evil stare. If only I had magical powers, they would drop dead in an instant. Has the world I’m living in gone insane? Have I fallen asleep on my sun lounger, and this is a terrible nightmare? Please, let me wake up. I know this isn’t a dream when I look at my father. There isn’t an ounce of guilt written on his face. He steps forward, signs a document, and shakes the hand of the man who now owns me. I gulp and try to swallow back down the bile forming in the pit of my stomach. The other men handing over their daughters do the same. None of them show remorse. They're clearly happy to commit crimes against the fundamental human right to freedom.
“Nicholas.”
The prick who branded me steps forward with a limp. He bends down and rubs his knee where I kicked him. I wish I could have got him in the balls before he can do any worse damage.
“Your Grace,” He addresses his father with a formal title, in a stuck up tone. Ok, it’s a deep masculine voice of the type that I might have once dreamed of, but now, I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole. A man’s the last thing on my mind. Getting the hell out of this place and as far away as possible from these nutcases, is all I want to do. I survey my surroundings while the men continue to procrastinate and congratulate themselves on being chauvinist pigs. There’s the door I came in, but I can’t get to it from the stage with the crowd of people surrounding me. There are no windows in this room. What the hell? What kind of place has no windows? Oh yeah, secret society, a room that a bunch of freaks want to keep hidden. I shake my head. I never thought I’d use the language that’s running through my head, but I’m pissed off. How could my father do this to me? He’s always been strict, but I didn’t realize why. I, at least, thought he loved me. He can’t if he’s willing to put me through this. Does my mother know what’s happening? Is she a part of this? She'll be so distraught if she doesn’t. Theo, oh god. I don’t think I can do this. Despite trying my hardest to keep it in, a tear escapes and tumbles down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I can't allow them to see weakness in me. I tell myself to bide my time. I'll escape this.
The Duke’s penetrating voice refocuses my thoughts onto what’s happening in the room.
“Welcome, ladies,
the next few weeks will decide your future, but before all that, let me introduce you to my son, Nicholas, Earl Lullington. To one of you, he'll be a future husband. To the rest, a nightmare that will haunt your dreams for whatever time you have left.” The smile adorning the Duke’s face, as he speaks, sends shivers down my spine. How can a man be so evil?
Nicholas stands proudly next to his father with an equally arrogant expression on his face.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m glad to meet you all. Over the next few weeks, you’ll be living here at Oakfield Hall and perform tasks to determine which one of you is suitable to be my wife. I have high expectations and will demand complete acquiescence. Any defiance will be dealt with severely. Your mine, to do whatever I wish with. That’s the power of my succession. I hope that you'll be able to relax and enjoy yourselves, though.”
What, before or after the brand on my leg stops hurting and heals? I think but keep my mouth shut. Now isn’t the time to insult my wonderfully hospitable hosts.
“Thank you, Nicholas, we have five girls here. The rules state only three are allowed to enter the final stages of marriage choice. I need you to, now, choose two girls who'll not go any further.” My heart starts to beat faster. I have a way out of this nightmare. I can hope he doesn't choose me, and I can leave this place and London. I’m not going back home with my father. I’ll go to Oxford and find Tammy. She'll look after me until I can figure something else out.
“Ladies on your feet and form a line for inspection,” the Duke orders, and one of the men who held me down comes my way. I’m not going to be manhandled again. I get to my feet and form a line with the other girls. I’m standing next to Lady Joanna Nethercutt. She stands with her weight balanced on the leg not branded. Her eyes are red from crying, but she tries her hardest, now, to suppress the tears.
Nicholas struts over to us with a confident swagger. I want to dig my nails into his eyes and rip the balls from his body. He walks up and down the line, taking in everything about us. When he gets to me, I face him down. I'll not be shown to be weak in his eyes. I’m not a feeble woman as these men clearly think. If he chooses me to stay, I’ll make his life hell and not the other way round. He'd do better to get rid of me, now, if he wants the meek and mild little wife, who’ll go to his bed willingly, because I never well. Even when hell freezes over. He shakes his head and laughs.
“There are five girls: Amelia, Daphne, Elizabeth, Joanne and Victoria. Which three do you choose to take forward?” the Duke asks of his son.
“Elizabeth,” he names the first one, and it figures, she's the bitch who ignored me at the start. They'd make a good couple. Why doesn’t he just choose her now, and the rest of us can go home?
“Amelia.” A small girl with blonde hair whimpers when her name is spoken. I feel sorry for her but not that sorry, since it means there’s only a one in three chance of me having to stay here any longer. I can find somewhere with a rose garden and lose myself in the scent. Maybe, I could get a rose tattoo over this thing on my thigh.
“Daphne is free to go.” Nicholas states, and the girl screams with delight. Her father curses out loudly — the language coming out of his mouth a complete contrast from the religious ropes he wears.
“So I’m down to two.” Nicholas stands in front of Joanna and myself. I think I can hear my heart beating out of my chest. I’m praying my name isn’t spoken.
“Victoria you may…” He pauses. Go, say go, I’m pleading within my head.
“Not go anywhere. Joanna’s free to go.”
I groan long and low with frustration and fear for what comes next. The women named are pushed to the side, and the two not named are grabbed. I try to jostle the guys off Joanna.
“Leave her alone. She wasn’t chosen — she's free to go.” I ball my fist and punch one of the men. He goes to slap me back, but Nicholas catches his hand and sends him flying off the stage.
“Stop!” the Duke commands, and everyone freezes. He comes up to me and, in a smooth movement, throws me to the floor. I land on my burn, and agony cascades through me. I scream.
“You had to pick the one who’s going to cause trouble, didn’t you?” he addresses his son with a scowl.
“Why would I want a meek and mild wife when I can have one who puts up a fight?” Nicholas responds, and I try to kick out at him, again. Bastard.
“You…” the Duke addresses me. “Unless you want to spend the rest of the evening locked in the dungeon, I suggest you keep quiet and let me finish this part of the ceremony.”
I go to tell him to fuck off, but I think better of it and silence myself with a no-nonsense pout.
“Thank you.”
Lady Joanna, Miss Daphne. I’m afraid my son was wrong with his words that you are free to go. You belong to the society now. You may not be in the running to be his wife, but we still own you, and as such, you’ll be taken from this place to rooms for rest. Tomorrow evening, you'll be sold to the highest bidder to do with as they please. Take them away.”
I gasp, and both girls start to cry. He's going to sell them like slaves. I look to the man who was complaining about Joanna earlier. He's expressionless. This is his daughter — he's going to allow her to be sold to god knows who. I want to scream at him to help her, but when he turns away and leaves the room, I know that it’ll make no difference. The men in this room have no respect for women. We're back in centuries of old when women were chattels: bought and sold for gain. I’m pulled to my feet by one of the guards. I don't fight him — I’m tired and weak. I look over my shoulder to Nicholas. He's watching me be dragged away. He wears the mask of many others in this room. I’ve died and gone to hell.
CHAPTER SIX
NICHOLAS
“Here is your drink, Sir.” Reggie places the fine brandy next to me. I need this, after the events of the day. I want nothing more than to jump in my Ferrari and find a warm pussy to pound away my worries. I know that if I leave the house, my father will have his guards find me and drag me back. These women think they have it hard. I’m just as confined by the damn founding documentation of the society as they are. My head is in my hands, and I rub at my temples. I’m shaking.
“Nicholas, drink it.” Reggie urges, and I pick the glass up and drain it in one long gulp. I wonder if the burning in my throat compares to the pain, which I inflicted on the girls’ legs. How can I be so callous? It'll be nothing compared to the agony ripping through their bodies that they have yet to experience. Reggie pours me another drink and hands me a cigarette. I’m not a big smoker, but I like one with my glass in the evening. I’m sure it should be a cigar, but a cigarette suffices for me. I puff on the nicotine, killing stick, and the smoke mixing with the amber nectar of my drink starts to relax my body. I wave Reggie away, and he disappears to do whatever task he has next on his list. The man is sixty and should be slowing down, not having to deal with this shit.
I pick up the remote and turn on the televisions in front of me. There are three of them, one for each girl. I look at the one labeled Amelia, first. The guards throw her into her room. She’s been washed and provided with a long nightgown to sleep in. You know the sort, the ones that your great-grandparents wore in the Victorian ages. Why we have to continue with the awful fashion, I'll never know. Give the girls one of my t-shirts or some pajamas, anything but those lace doilies for god’s sake. I make it my mission, tomorrow, to give them some sensible clothes. Amelia looks around the room, and I notice she's still crying. I wonder whether I should have chosen her or not. She’s pretty with her blonde hair and blue eyes. I don’t lust after her. In fact, I wanted to protect her more, and that’s why I chose her. I knew my father would never let the other two girls go. They know too much, now. The society will own them until the day they die — whether that is sooner or later. I saw strength in them, but in Amelia, I see a terrified little girl who needs someone to watch over her. She climbs onto her bed and pulls the covers over her head. I know she won’t sleep a wink tonight not until she’s exhaus
ted herself with her tears. A strange feeling of guilt sits on my shoulders. I drink it away with another sip of the brandy and turn off that television. I turn to the one labeled Elizabeth, next.
For a girl who’s about to be sold into slavery for the rest of her life, Elizabeth’s surprisingly happy about being here. It’s the reason I chose her. She's been prepared properly. When the girls are born, they’re brought together and christened into the society. Their fathers may raise them telling them of their futures or may keep it a secret. That is their choice, but they must adhere to several rules. The most important being their daughters must remain virgins. If any of them are found not to be, then the girl is disqualified and, from what I’ve heard of previously, killed. The body is then delivered back to the father who has all his assets taken by the society. What gets me is that nobody has ever talked or gone to a higher authority about what happens here. If my daughter were killed, I’d report it. But then again, my father controls most of the criminal courts in London as well as managing the majority of the government. The culture of fear surrounding us prevents any defectors.
I drink a little more and watch Elizabeth. She, too, wears the ridiculous nightgown but, with a wink to the camera hidden in the wooden paneling of her room, strips it off. How does she know I’m watching? I think she's been a little too well prepared by her father, Lord Bishop of Monchelsea. She climbs into the bed but doesn’t get under the covers. Instead, she lays back and parts her legs. I can see everything: her neatly shaved pussy already gleaming with her juices. She runs a finger over her slit from front to back and dips it inside. My cock hardens, but I don’t want to touch it. Instead, I make a mental note to check on the validity of this one being a virgin. I turn the screen off and leave her to her intimate act, despite the fact she obviously wanted an audience. I flick the button for the last screen, and the woman who captured my attention in the initial meeting fills it. She's wearing the gown and, apparently, isn’t happy with it. I stare intently as she finds what must be a loose seam and pulls it so she can shorten it. The material rips and bares her shapely legs. I find myself leaning forward and hoping she tears too far, and I can get sight of her pussy again. I had a glimpse when she was struggling to prevent herself from being branded. It wasn’t bare like Elizabeth’s, but it was neatly trimmed. She stops when the gown reaches thigh high, though. Damn it. She goes over to the dressing table and looks at the bottle placed there. We aren’t horrible — we make sure that the father’s pack a bag of things that’ll make the girls feel at home. Victoria picks up a bottle, and I can just make out that it’s aloe vera gel. She smears some over the burn and wraps the torn material around the brand. I shake my head at the care she takes. None of the other girls even thought about dressing the wound. It was the first thing she thought of. I’m sure it's some false hope that it won’t leave a mark. She finishes treating her leg and takes out the French plait in her hair. Her red waves tumble out, and she sees the brush on the table and uses it to pull her hair back into a neat ponytail. She’s exquisite to watch. Calm but with the slight tremor in her hand, I can see her apprehension. I pick up my brandy glass and noticing it’s empty, I ring the bell for Reggie. He appears almost immediately and tops me up.