Lex Talionis

by Keira Michelle Telford

  “Brother?” Carmen sounds intrigued.

  Argo ignores the question, turning back to Ria, his eyes almost imperceptibly softer when he looks at her. “You can show them to the hen house, yeah?”

  “But …” Ria looks nervous and uncertain, glancing briefly at Oliver. “He’s a boy.”

  “The hens will love him.” Argo winks. “And I’m sure he won’t have any objections to being surrounded by a gaggle of half naked tarts.” He pats her arm. “Off you go now, old girl.”

  Nodding submissively, accepting her fate, Ria tugs Carmen’s sleeve, encouraging her to follow, and takes Oliver by the hand, pulling him along with them. All she wants is to get inside her old bedroom and cry into her pillow, but when she steps into the hallway and finds Cutler waiting for them, his fingers hooked over his belt buckle, her heart sinks. If Luther’s away, that means …

  “I’ll walk you there,” he offers.

  “I know the way.”

  She tries to move past him, but he forces himself into the space beside her.

  “Maybe so”—he adjusts his trousers—“but what kind of upright gent would I be if I didn’t escort you?”

  “You’re not a gent.” Ria pushes him away from her. “You’re a nasty brute.”

  Incensed by her audacity, he grabs her elbow and wrenches her toward him, then wraps his hand around her throat, holding her firmly, but not choking her.

  “Did you come back brave, Myshka?” He clamps down on her neck, putting pressure on her carotid arteries. “Did my precious little Russian mouse forget her place?”

  Ria tries to shake her head, feeling faint from the force he’s exerting on her.

  “Good.” He releases her. “Hen house. Now.”

  The hen house, Carmen soon learns, is a covey of bangtails: a harem of sorts. It takes up one full wing of the house, where Luther’s hens—a collection of handpicked prostitutes—are kept in luxury, wanting for nothing. Their only obligation is to open their legs on command, and to do so cheerfully, always being at the sexual beck and call of Luther’s men.

  Red-ribboned and tethered, they turn to look at the new arrivals being shoved into the hen house by Cutler. Laughter and giggles die, curiosity piquing.

  All are wearing petticoats, corset dresses, negligees, or undies—no outwear here. Silk and lace abounds, and intimates fresh from the laundry are left to air dry, draped over clothing racks in the den: a massive room filled with couches, enormous beanbags, and a variety of sex chairs.

  Designed to enhance the stimulation of certain sexual positions, these chairs, cushions and pillows—ranging from firm triangular wedges and ramps to full chaises—are made to hug and cradle your body, no matter what angle you’re being fucked from. Their undulating curves raise the woman hips, making sure all her entry points are easily accessible, enhancing deep penetration.

  Some are shaped so that they rock back and forth with the motion of sex, while others contain pockets for the attachment of dildos, so that the tarts might enjoy themselves while they wait for their services to be requested.

  Atop the mantle is an array of dildos, lubricants, and a small dish full of different cock rings and mini vibrators. The glass dildos are kept in a cabinet, lest they should get accidentally damaged. A rack on the wall holds various whips and paddles, and an assortment of spreader bars are bundled together in an umbrella stand in the corner of the room.

  So far so normal for Carmen; she’s used to the whorehouse environment. The stench of female arousal and perfumed lubricants reminds her of adolescence, and of her lover.

  “Clean yourself up,” Cutler instructs Ria. “The Arch Rogue won’t want you looking like this, and he’ll be back soon enough.” He gives her a shove toward the hallway. “You’ll find your room exactly how you left it.”

  As if her return was inevitable.

  The other hens natter and scowl when she walks past, jealousy seething among them. One hen in particular grunts, snatches a silk chemise off a clothes hanger, and locks herself in her bedroom down one of the long hallways, the door slamming behind her.

  “What’s her issue?” Carmen keeps to the edge of the room, hesitant to penetrate the flock of tarts.

  One of the younger whores—petite, with ruffled blonde hair, wearing a white negligee and stockings—approaches her, hugging a bowl of strawberries.

  “Carla’s been taking Luther in Myshka’s absence.” She munches casually on a strawberry, her lips moist with juice. “He won’t want her no more.”

  “And she’s maggoty about that?”

  “Course!” The tart picks a seed out of her teeth. “Myshka’s so lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Carmen almost snorts with disbelief. “To be taken away from her family and forced to shag Luther?”

  “Umm, yeah.” Those words come out with all the attitude of ‘duh, obviously’. “We’d all kill to give ourselves to the Arch Rogue, but he only wants the Russian. He worships her.” The tart picks another strawberry out of the bowl, then offers them to Carmen. “Want some num-nums?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Silver speeds out of Trefaldwyn in the ugly blue car, following Aiden’s directions. A mile out, she passes a wonky metal sign that reads ‘Mercia’. It’s small, nondescript, and has a blackberry bush growing over it. In her rearview mirror, she sees the sign into Delta Territory is equally understated: the Delta symbol in black on a white background, the signpost bent where something heavy slammed into it and caused it to buckle.

  In addition to these signs, the same slur has been painted all over the road surface, and scrawled on various handmade placards: Taints Keep Out. The gibbeting found in the Angau is also present here, but in a much simpler form: severed heads impaled on spikes and left to rot. It reminds Silver of the bridge to the Fringe District in Amaranthe, where the banished will often display the heads of the Police Division Agents they’ve killed.

  Different country, same rebellion.

  After a long soak in the tub, and many minutes spent twirling a razorblade between her fingers, Ria chickens out. She tosses the blade in the trash, dresses and preens, and returns to the den wearing a black and red sweetheart bodice—black lace over red satin—cinched up at the back with silk ribbon, and fastened at the front with hook-and-eye closures. Her breasts are pushed together and upwards, offering maximum cleavage, and her layered, lace ruffle skirt ends where her stockings begin, showing off her thighs.

  Admiring the bodice, Carmen feels a flutter of homesickness. Her girlfriend wears corsets and bodices just like it, her full, soft breasts tightly bound within. She can still remember the thrill of unlacing her bodice for the first time, releasing her pale mounds, sucking on her sensitive pink nipples …

  Aware that she’s staring, and that her cheeks are flushed from having such erotic thoughts, Carmen looks away. She wants to go home. She needs to go home. Being surrounded by a room full of tarts only brings that more firmly to the forefront of her mind.

  Oliver doesn’t seem in such a hurry to leave, though. The hens are fussing over him like fruit flies on a sandwich. Lounging with him on an enormous beanbag, two are rubbing his chest, one is massaging his crotch, and yet another is whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

  These women are nothing like Ria.

  In Carmen’s experience, there are two types of whore: those who were driven to the work by circumstance—be it rent arrears or drug addiction—and those who simply enjoy earning money on their backs, or on their knees.

  The latter can spot a virgin from a mile away, and take great pride in the act of defloration.

  These tarts are sexual predators who would be labeled rampant nymphomaniacs if they weren’t given a legitimate outlet for their carnal proclivities, and Carmen highly doubts that Oliver’s going to make it through the night with his innocence intact.

  Ria sits beside her on the chaise, sharing the same thought. “I think our young Oliver is about to be made a man.”

  “Yup.” Carmen picks at the black r
ibbon around her wrist, thinking of home. “At least one of us gets to experience a little bit of happiness.”

  “You’ll get back home.” Ria identifies her melancholy thoughts perfectly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “How?”

  “Luther can be quite generous when he’s content.” She fiddles with her freshly painted fingernails. “I’ll make sure he’s content.”

  Silence.

  Carmen isn’t sure how to respond. Does one say ‘thank you’ when another woman offers to put in extra efforts to please the man who’s raping her so that you can get home to see your girlfriend? Feeling the need to say something—anything—to break the silence, she changes the subject completely.

  “Why do they keep calling you Myshka?”

  If it’s possible to get Ria to sink into a more miserable mood, that does it.

  “It’s a nickname Cutler gave me.” She picks at the hem of her dress, feeling self-conscious about its length—or lack thereof. “I hate it. He thinks he’s clever because he knows a few Russian words, but they’re all derogatory.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whore, slut, bitch, cunt—all the words he likes to use in bed. He doesn’t know how to say anything nice. It’s all ‘Suck my cock’, or ‘Get on your knees’. Basic, vulgar language that most Russians wouldn’t ever use with their bedmate. It’s a tender language, and he brutalizes it.”

  “What does Myshka mean?”

  “Little mouse.”

  Carmen shrugs one shoulder halfheartedly. “That’s not so bad.”

  “Isn’t it?” Ria stares off into nowhere. “The timid little mouse who won’t ever tell you to stop; won’t scream when it hurts; won’t complain when you demean her; and always remembers her worthlessness. The quiet little mouse who won’t ever forget how lucky she is to be shown any attention at all, and how grateful she should be for it. Because, in the end, she’s just a poor little Russian girl who won’t ever be loved by anyone but Luther.”

  Carmen is speechless.

  After a long pause, “You don’t actually believe any of that shit, do you?”

  Ria’s hesitation to answer speaks volumes about her fragile state of mind.

  Then, “Do you think Silver loved me?”

  Carmen knows better than to answer a question like that bluntly, so she keeps the cynicism locked up inside her head. Instead of saying ‘I don’t know’, which would be truthful, or ‘You’d known each other less than a week’, which would be factual, she says precisely what Ria needs to hear.

  “She died trying to help you.” Carmen pats Ria’s knee comfortingly, but awkwardly. “I don’t know too many people who’d give their lives for someone they don’t love.”

  Ria doesn’t get a moment to reflect on that. Cutler returns to the hen house, eyeing her from the edge of the room. Like a doll on a wire, she rises from the chaise.

  Carmen tries to hold her back. “What’re you playing at? Don’t go to him.”

  “I have to.” Ria pulls herself free. “This is my life.”

  As she approaches him, he rubs his chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm, there’s something missing … oh, yes!” He plucks a red ribbon out of his pocket and ties it in a bow around her neck. “That’s better.”

  Without saying a word, she leads him down the hallway to a bedroom with her nickname, Myshka, on the door, and they disappear inside.

  Silver makes herself comfortable on top of the unsightly blue car, now parked less than a hundred feet from the front entrance of Aston Hall, almost at the mouth of the horseshoe. She’s certain she tripped an alarm on her way up the driveway, and that Luther’s men are arming themselves at this very moment.

  In preparation, she lays out her only weapons on the roof of the car: a selection of multiple and single shot tranquilizer guns, loaded with darts full of lethal doses of heroin.

  “Come on, boys and girls.” She checks an invisible watch on her wrist, impatient to get the carnage underway. “I haven’t got all day.”

  At that moment, she spots movement behind the ornate window panes that look in on the grand foyer, framing the massive front doors. Bodies shuffle from left to right, eventually coordinating their simultaneous emergence from two smaller doorways in the inner arms of the horseshoe: one to Silver’s left, and one to her right.

  It’s a good job she’s ambidextrous.

  Everything is pink. Ria’s bedroom is decked out like a typical tart’s boudoir: pink walls, pink carpet, pink bed sheets, and pictures of hearts on the walls—all different shades of pinkness, from baby to fuchsia. Even the lightbulbs are pink.

  Cutler takes off his jacket and flings it over a pink dresser, setting his weapons down on top of it. He never takes his eyes off her, his lustful gaze pinned to her heaving chest. Next, he removes his waistcoat and untucks his shirt, getting ready to hit the sheets.

  “You have the nicest tits I’ve ever seen.” He moves her hair out of the way so that it doesn’t obscure the view of her cleavage, then he starts to fondle her breasts over the bodice, his sliced palm already clotted and healing. “Better than any of the other hens.”

  Ria clenches her jaw, determined not to bawl. He’s too rough with her, and the bodice pokes and pinches her breasts with every clumsy grab and squish. Thankfully, it’s over soon enough.

  “That loony foreigner loved you, didn’t she?” he asks, unzipping his trousers, making her put her hand inside. “Did you shag her?”

  His cock is limp and clammy, and she winces as she wraps her hand around it. At first, she tickles him, teasing the underside with her fingertips till she feels his shaft start to swell and stiffen.

  “Tell me.” He grunts when she tugs on him. “Did you let her eat your pussy?”

  He doesn’t want the truth, he wants a fantasy.

  “Yes.” Ria closes her eyes and daydreams. “I let her put her mouth all over me.”

  Nine bodies—those of seven men and two women—are scattered around the bowl of the horseshoe, Silver’s hideous blue car at the center of it all.

  Luther’s well-armed militia hit the gravel before they realized they’d been shot at. The tranquilizer guns made little sound, the darts injecting lethal amounts of heroin instantaneously, and directly into the blood stream, bringing on the deadly asphyxia of overdose in seconds.

  Silver waits a minute or two, giving time for any other militia persons to appear, but none do. Taking advantage of being underestimated—the silent slaughter going undetected for the time being—she leaps off the roof of the car and slips into Aston Hall through one of the side entrances, quickly finding herself in the servants’ quarters.

  Navigating her way through dimly lit hallways, her empty gun drawn for show, she treads carefully on the stone floor, trying to limit the squeak of her rubber-soled boots. Upon hearing female voices in the kitchen, she hastens her stealthy advance and swings into the open doorway, catching the women off-guard, her gun raised like she’s ready to shoot.

  Three maids—all three in their early twenties, all three attractive—are sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the black dresses and white aprons of domestic staff. They leap up from their chairs, backing against the far wall, huddling together like cornered mice, and Silver catches sight of whore marks on their left wrists.

  Electronic bracelets are clamped around their right wrists, and Silver can imagine what their purpose is: to contain and control.

  In Amaranthe, whores—or Jades, as they’re called—are made to wear electronic collars so that their Handlers can keep track of them. If they stray too far from their brothel, they receive a warning jolt of electricity. If they try to tamper with them, or remove them, the jolt is deadly. Compared to that, these women have it easy—even with a stranger’s gun aimed at their heads.

  Silver pulls the hammer back on the gun, purely for effect. “Who wants to give me some directions?”

  Fully erect, Cutler is throbbing in Ria’s hand. Thinking she might be able to get away with a hand-job, she st
arts wanking him faster, trying to make him come.

  “Oh, no.” He yanks her hand away, wise to her tricks. “Not like that, missy.” He shoves her toward the bed. “Get on there and turn around.”

  She does as she’s told. Kneeling on the mattress, she reaches for the bedside table to get a condom, but he tears it out of her hand and chucks it across the room.

  “Nyet, suka.”

  No, bitch.

  Silver strides into the hen house den, her useless gun now holstered. At the sight of her, some of the hens dart for their bedrooms. Others stare. On the giant beanbag, Oliver has his second orgasm of the night. He’s whimpering like a kitten while one of the tarts jerks him inside his trousers, causing another little damp patch to appear in his lap.

  They’ll build him up like this all evening, gradually increasing the stimulus, working out one fast orgasm after another until he can control himself better, then they’ll take it in turns to ride him till he’s completely empty.

  “What the shit?!” Carmen leaps up off the chaise. “How did—”

  “Where’s Ria?” Silver cuts her off, no time for explanations.

  Her mouth hanging open, Carmen points to the door marked ‘Myshka’, her hand shaking slightly, not daring to envisage the horror going on inside at this very moment.

  “Myshka?” Silver frowns, recalling that’s what Cutler called Ria in Trefaldwyn.

  “It’s a horrid nickname.” Carmen tries to get in her way, trying to give her some warning of what she’s about to walk in on. “But wait, Ria’s not alone in there, she’s—”

  Too late.

  Silver barges in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Intense discomfort and a blinding light are the only two things Ria’s aware of as she kneels on the bed, her face pushed down into a pillow. Cutler is pounding her from behind, his balls slapping rhythmically against her with every thrust.