Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  She was dressed like Cleopatra, in a very revealing white pleated skirt, slit up the front to her fork. Her waist was emphasised by a scintillating girdle with red sequins, and it had a panel that hung down between her thighs. Every time she moved it swung to one side, giving a flash of her hairless mons. Her fine breasts with their puckered tips and dark aureoles were bare beneath a wide, lavishly ornamented collar. Her hair had been crimped and adorned with a bejewelled headdress. Gold sandals encased her feet and drew the eye to her bare, beautiful legs. Angela envied her, and wished she had her insouciance, poise and exceptional looks.

  In spite of her reservations about the coming event, a quiver of excitement gripped her as Valerie and Maude helped her on with her outfit. The long pier-glass threw back her reflection and as each piece was added so her former self seemed to slip away, replaced by an odalisque… a harem slave whose only task was to pleasure her master, bow to his every wish and submit to the lash if he thought she needed correction. Somehow Angela no longer found this idea repulsive. Valerie’s views were brushing off on her. But how would she feel when she actually faced Aidan?

  She looked every inch the houri. Her legs gleamed through the pale pink chiffon pantaloons embroidered with gold thread. The garment hung low on her hips and her navel was bare. ‘Hmm, that needs piercing, then you can wear a ring in it, or a gemstone,’ commented Valerie. ‘I shall speak to Aidan about it.’

  ‘But I don’t want it done, neither do I want my nipples pierced like Julian’s,’ Angela protested. ‘I think it is barbaric.’

  ‘And you really believe that your opinion is worth spit?’ Valerie replied unkindly. ‘It will be better for you if you cooperate, although, come to think of it, Aidan does like a rebellious victim. Says this affords him more enjoyment than a weak and willing one.’

  ‘I’ve never met such a decadent crew,’ Angela snapped, and then yelped as Valerie slapped her hard on her bottom, the thin trousers offering no protection.

  ‘Keep still,’ ordered Maude, a threatening figure in a black burnous that opened over tight trousers. She was naked to the waist, her full breasts crowned with prominent nipples, and she wore several chains round her neck that dangled down to her waist.

  Angela stood like a waxen image as they dressed her in a flimsy chemise and a tiny velvet bolero that did not conceal her assets. She gasped and could not control the stab of desire as Valerie pinched and rolled her nipples, making them stand out.

  ‘Oh you’re ready for it, my dear,’ she murmured with a vulpine smile. ‘I was right to keep you waiting. Don’t you agree?’ And she dipped a hand between Angela’s legs, cupping her mound and pressing a finger into her damp cleft through the thin material.

  Angela did not stir, passion rising hot within her. Valerie gave a knowing smile and withdrew her caresses. Then Angela slipped her feet into slippers with turned-up toes and let them fasten a necklace of semi-precious stones round her neck with earrings and bracelets to match. A veil was fixed to a circlet on her hair, and arranged so that it drifted over to part cover her face.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ Valerie said, standing back to view her handiwork. ‘What do you think, Julian? Do you want to roger her?’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ he answered, bowing low before her, ‘but you are my goddess. I need no one but you.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool,’ Valerie retorted crisply. ‘Tonight you won’t get the choice. Aidan will have planned what he wants you to do. I should imagine that you will be in demand. A pretty young man like you is sure to appeal to the more adventurous among his guests.’

  Angela was given a velvet cloak to drape over her and the party moved towards the door, down the staircase and out to where a coach waited.

  It was full dark by now, though gaslights illumined the thoroughfare that was wide and tree-lined, a far cry from the slums. It was busy, a constant stream of vehicles conveying their occupants to dinner parties or restaurants or theatrical performances. It was a world to which Angela was accustomed and made her momentarily forget her misfortune.

  They skirted St James’s Park and turned into an avenue flanked by impressive houses set in spacious gardens. The coach swung through the gates of one, its wheels crunching on gravel as it circumnavigated a short drive and halted before the front door. There were footmen waiting to assist the ladies out, and each one was handsome and well blessed, wearing breeches and tailcoats.

  ‘Aidan likes to surround himself with beauty,’ Valerie explained, wrapped in a cloak identical to Angela’s. ‘You won’t find anyone remotely plain in his entourage.’ And she familiarised herself with one of the servants’ genitals while he stood there, impassive, as if well used to this intimate treatment.

  Angela was led through the hall and out by way of a conservatory filled with exotic plants, palms and banana trees, and jungle orchids that emitted a strong perfume.

  Valerie was on one side of her and Maude on the other. Julian had been sent ahead. The house was quiet and this surprised her as she had expected it to be filled with people and noise, but now she was taken through French doors and along a colonnade. Ahead of her she saw the dazzle of light streaming from a rotunda with many windows and a domed roof.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘This is Aidan’s playground, where he loves to entertain. It was added to the original house by one of his ancestors a hundred years ago,’ Valerie replied.

  As they drew closer the circular building loomed over them, eclipsing the stars with its brightness. Music came from within, and the sound of voices and laughter. Angela’s cloak had been removed and she shivered in her thin garments and took one reluctant step after another. Valerie and Maude were uncloaked too, their costumes or lack of them suitably shocking, their attitude bold.

  They stopped at a pair of doors that opened as Valerie knocked on them. A crimson curtain separated them from the interior, but this was pulled back with a jangle of rings on brass poles. With her heart pounding like a drum, Angela entered the room beyond, lit by electrified chandeliers with sparkling crystal drops that radiated light on the crowd below. She had eyes for only one, however. Aidan occupied a divan in full view of his guests. It resembled the throne of a potentate. He was wearing a brocade robe with a sable collar, and holding a goblet between his hands and staring straight at her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ he said, while all conversation ceased. He held out a hand and beckoned her closer, addressing the throng as he did so. ‘This is Angela. She is a virgin, gentlemen, but don’t let this excite you, for I shall be the one to deflower her.’

  Good-natured cries of ‘Shame!’ greeted this, and Angela felt herself to be the cynosure of all eyes.

  The invited gentry reclined on cushions on the benches surrounding the central space dominated by the divan. Some were dressed as pashas or sultans, while others were in evening suits, with a flash of diamond cufflinks and jewelled orders. Several wandered around, fingering the girls who wore black stockings, satin stays and high-heeled shoes or outrageously brief harem outfits. These were not ladies, but women who offered their services for payment. Wine flowed and champagne corks popped. The girls shrieked and giggled and were coquettish, leading the men on. Some of them were not so young, middle-aged harlots steeped in every vice, their breasts bulging over the tops of their corsets, their large backsides bare and their hairy clefts displayed wantonly.

  Not only female prostitutes obliged. Angela was surprised to see good-looking young men accepting advances, and some who she at first took to be women dressed in fine gowns, but on closer inspection proved to be too tall, too broad-shouldered and too narrow of hip. Men disguised as women? What was this odd world into which Aidan was introducing her?

  There were slaves of both sexes chained to pillars, heads drooping, naked and vulnerable and subjected to the lash, helpless to defend themselves or avoid the hands that made free with their bodies. Murals of a scandalous nature ringed the walls, mythological legends carried out with no t
hought for modesty. Goddesses frolicked with satyrs who had goats’ legs and horns and enormous phalli. Armour-clad warriors raped enemy women. Gods took their pleasure with human females. And there were photographs in another section, enlargements of the kind shown her by Valerie. The air was filled with music, sensual Chopin nocturnes played by a man with a shock of white hair and strong hands who was seated at the grand piano with an admiring group around him.

  Aidan drew Angela down beside him on the divan and gestured to a servant. The man was immediately at his elbow with a silver salver holding a champagne flute. ‘Drink, Angela,’ Aidan said, leaning closer to her. ‘This is a rare vintage and it will relax you.’

  His robe fell open and the sight of his naked body, so muscular and hirsute, with the large cock rising from the black thicket, caused a stab of lust to pass through her. Valerie leaned over the back of the couch, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth pouting as she said, ‘Have I done well, master? Is she all you desire?’

  He scowled and shook off the hand that would have descended to his lower belly, snapping, ‘She looks well enough but it is too early to tell how much pleasure she will give me. If she fails, then you will be punished.’

  Valerie looked more excited than frightened by this threat and Angela wondered what lay between the two of them. Was she his mistress? Or was it deeper even than that?

  She sipped the wine. It was red as blood, with a bittersweet aftertaste. It burned her throat and settled like fire in her belly. Within seconds she felt dizzy, Aidan’s smiling face slightly out of focus as she managed to gasp, ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to accept,’ he replied, his voice seeming to come from a distance. ‘Drink up, my love.’

  By now she was less conscious of being watched by dozens of prurient eyes, less conscious of any threat from him, only aware of his attraction. Even the frisson of fear she always experienced in his presence was arousing. So why was she still reluctant to surrender to him? In spite of the drugged drink, there was a stubborn core within her that clung steadfastly to her principles.

  He held her closer to his nude body, enfolding her in his robe. His phallus was like an iron bar pressing into her. He opened her chemise and palmed her breast. She was fuddled by the drink, but in control enough to say, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Enjoy you,’ he answered huskily and his cock jumped in anticipation.

  ‘Not here, not in public…’ she protested, attempting to draw back, but his grip tightened, demonstrating the power of his well-honed muscles.

  ‘And why not? It won’t be the first time they have witnessed my virility,’ he said loudly. ‘And you will comply, willingly or not.’

  ‘Have you no respect for me?’ she cried, all too aware of the solid thigh placed between hers and unable to resist working her pubis up and down on it.

  He chuckled wickedly. Her protests delighted him, it seemed, adding zest to the encounter. He feathered his fingers over her breasts and down her body, past the exposed navel and into the top of her pantaloons. His touch was that of an expert, sliding over the downy mound and finding her wet furrow, then concentrating on the tip of her swollen clitoris.

  ‘Respect, dearest? How can I respect someone who let me down so badly?’ His voice rang in her ear as he tongued the sensitive lobe, sending spasms to her nipples and sex.

  ‘What do you mean? I loved you and thought I was to be your wife. I didn’t mean to harm you,’ she whimpered, angry and tearful at the injustice of it.

  Aidan continued to rub her, and the feeling was mounting uncontrollably. ‘But you did… or rather, your gambler of a father cheated me out of your dowry,’ he muttered, and his fingering grew harsh and dry, causing her more discomfort than pleasure. ‘This left me somewhat embarrassed,’ he continued. ‘My creditors were none too pleased, and now I have to go to all the boring trouble of wooing another insipid virgin with a wealthy father… really wealthy this time. I shall have my accountant go into his affairs with a fine toothcomb before I commit myself.’

  His words pierced her heart like a dagger, and his harsh handling of her most sensitive organ made her writhe away, trying to avoid him. ‘So this is what it’s all about; revenge,’ she hissed, making the onlookers concentrate on the drama taking place between their host and his latest victim.

  ‘You could say that,’ he agreed, and hauled her against him again. ‘But you’ll make it up to me.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, beating against his chest with closed fists.

  ‘Like this,’ he laughed, seizing her wrists in one hand. ‘Fight me, vixen. Don’t make it easy. I want you to hate and despise me and, by God, you shall!’

  He snapped his fingers and a curtain whipped aside. A cheer went up from those who recognised the purpose of the small, neat man with a waxed moustache who was adjusting a machine that stood on a tripod. Horrified, Angela knew what it was, and guessed Aidan’s diabolical purpose. His fingers fastened vicelike round her upper arm and he propelled her forward. They stopped close to the photographer.

  ‘Undress,’ Aidan commanded. ‘Unless you want me to do it for you.’

  ‘No!’ And she started to move. Her fingers flew to take off the bolero and find the chemise buttons. Now she was naked to the waist, apart from jewellery.

  ‘Stop,’ Aidan ordered and she paused, turning gracefully to look at him. There was a pop and a flash.

  ‘Beautiful!’ exclaimed the photographer. ‘What a lovely model. Collectors will be clamouring for copies of this, my lord.’

  ‘Better ones to come,’ Aidan promised, and loosened the drawstring at the top of her harem trousers. They slid down to her feet and she shook them off, along with her slippers. She was naked, apart from the veil attached to her hair. He motioned her to the couch. ‘Sit there with your legs wide open, hands behind you, breasts thrust out and your head lolling back.’

  There was a moment’s hush as the photographer, with the help of his assistant, moved the camera forward and prepared the lighting. He took several shots, and it was easier than Angela had thought, though uncomfortable holding the pose for so long.

  The spectators were losing interest in the proceedings, seeking the greater stimulus of caning girls and buggering men, though they paid attention when Aidan said to Angela, ‘Now on your knees with your legs spread.’

  She took up this position on the divan, and it was only because she had been imbibing in the potent drink that she could bring herself to do it. She hollowed her spine and raised her bottom and her secrets were fully exposed for everyone to see, the plump purse split like a luscious fig, the crease that divided her buttocks, the tiny, puckered mouth of her anus. The air was cool on her fevered parts and, face buried in the cushions, she heard the click over and over, and knew that, successful development in a darkroom permitting, her sexual attributes would be captured there for posterity.

  ‘Just one or two more,’ Aidan said, stage-managing the whole thing. ‘Angela, lie on your back and masturbate for me.’

  It was easier to obey than to argue. She was so hazy and filled with mixed emotions that she did as he ordered, warmed by the velvet beneath her, forgetting the crowd, the photographer and even Aidan as her fingers explored her cunt, gathering juice to lubricate her clitoris. She circled it, rubbed and played with it, and pinched her nipples with her other hand. The photographer was flashing away busily and Angela raised her hips and moved her pubis against her fingers.

  She yearned to reach a climax before anyone stopped her. Valerie had deliberately frustrated her and now it was likely that Aidan might do the same, for his own twisted amusement. Perhaps she could cheat on them, have it quietly and secretly before anyone knew. But she was too tense for this to happen.

  Aidan flung off his robe and stood above her. From that angle he looked enormously tall, wearing an undeserved halo of light around his head. She shuddered with almost superstitious awe as he addressed her. ‘The time has come, Angela, and what more fitting way for you to l
ose your maidenhead than in front of a camera. We move with the times, my dear.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ she objected, staring up into his smiling eyes.

  ‘Oh, but I am,’ he assured her. ‘I rather fancy being photographed while I’m fucking you. It will be something you can show your grandchildren in years to come.’

  ‘What a disgraceful idea.’ She was really alarmed; lust withering under the cold blast of reality. He was hell-bent on doing it, and nothing she could say would stop him.

  Everyone was watching now, and the photographer most of all, though concealed under his black cloth. His assistant was ready to ignite the flash. Angela struggled, but her arms were pulled back and her wrists held by Valerie on one side and Julian on the other.

  Aidan gripped her legs and forced them apart, then positioned himself between them. Flash, click went the camera, catching him whilst he paused. He lowered himself on Angela, and she felt the pressure of his cock against her entrance. She muffled a scream, even then unwilling to admit that she was terrified. After one photo her arms were released.

  The photographer was behind Aidan, so that his face was concealed but not hers. Aidan hitched her legs up round his waist and pushed, inching into her. She clenched her muscles but it was useless. The pain was excruciating and he gave her no respite, sweating as he wrestled to rupture her hymen, his arms bracing his weight. A murmur rose from the spectators.

  ‘Look at me,’ he demanded harshly, and she let herself drown in the darkness of his eyes. Then he took his penis in hand and wetted the end with her juice, then rested it against her vulva again and, with a push, sank into the depths of her virgin passage.

  She shrieked and the watchers expressed their delight in the show. ‘Go it, Aidan!’ some of them advised. ‘Bring tears to her eyes!’

  The camera flashed again but this was of no significance to her as the pain started to melt into pleasure. Aidan moved slowly and his cock was hot and long and solid, filling her completely, nudging against the gateway to her womb. He thrust again, getting faster, and she was so wet that now he was sliding in and out easily, but no matter how she wriggled the root of his prick missed her clitoris and she longed for a finger or lips to make her come. Aidan paused momentarily, as if aware of her need, but he was beyond the point of no return, thrusting harder, gathering momentum, and she clung to him with her arms around his neck, praying for release but not quite reaching it.