Meanwhile her own crisis was coming, her clit sliding over the knot, thrumming and tingling until it spasmed and shockwaves flooded her. The man in her arse felt this and he too exploded, his creamy tribute jetting out, filling her anus and dripping onto the wood.
He pulled out abruptly and strode round so she could see him. He reached out and jerked off the blonde wig, the hairpins dragging at her scalp. Her own locks spilled down and he grabbed a handful, jerking her head up, making her look deep into his eyes.
‘So it is you. The Cornish Nightingale, the songster Gerald has been boasting about.’
‘Hello, Aidan,’ she croaked, her anus hurting, her bruises stinging, her emotions in turmoil.
‘Is that all you can find to say to me?’ he growled, standing spread-legged in front of her, large and masterful and incredibly handsome.
‘What else is there to say?’ she asked. ‘You must realise by now that I refuse to be your slave and wish to make my own way in the world.’
He snapped his fingers and the two dancers who had guarded her released her from her bondage and gave her back her clothes. But Aidan put out a hand and prevented her from dressing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to see you naked. I had forgotten how beautiful you are.’
Her legs were shaking and she needed to sit, but, ‘How did you find out I was here?’ she asked.
‘Rumour about the new singing sensation intrigued me. I’m not a friend of Gerald’s but I offered him Valerie in exchange for an invitation. He’s always wanted her and the deal was done.’
‘You have no scruples, have you?’ she sighed, her spirits sinking once more.
‘Very few,’ he admitted. ‘Now, get the rest of your things and come back to Temple Grove with me.’
‘I want to continue performing,’ she protested. ‘I enjoy stage work.’
His smile deepened. ‘We’ll see. But I want you with me first.’
Angela did not trust him an inch. She must be as subtle as a serpent if she wanted to escape him. ‘I’ll get my cloak. Wait for me here,’ she said, and picked up her garments.
Once in the dressing room she put on her clothes, gathered up her bag, stuffed the wig in it and swung the cape around her shoulders. Then she took another door, speeding down a passageway, up stairs that connected with the kitchens and out into the yard. She ran as if the devil was behind her, giving herself no time to reconsider. She wanted Max and her career, even though her whipped flesh and abused body hankered after Aidan.
On reaching the main road she hailed a cab and, lost in its solitary darkness, reviewed her situation. There was no doubt that Aidan would pursue her to the Pelican, but there she hoped Max would defend her, tell him that she had potential and demand that he leave her to pursue her career. Perhaps later, if Aidan regained his respect for her, there was a slight chance that she would permit him to woo her.
The Pelican was shrouded in darkness, but she had a key and let herself in. She mounted the stairs that led to Max’s room and opened the door. It was candlelit, and looked different. Several trunks and cases stood on the carpet.
‘Max?’ she called.
‘What the hell…?’ cried a female voice and she found herself facing a large, beautiful woman with tousled black hair who shot up in the bed, glaring at her. ‘Max, who is this trollop?’ Then her eyes narrowed and she leapt up, advancing towards Angela like a naked Valkyrie seeking vengeance. ‘Ah, I see! You must be this Cornish Nightingale he’s been fucking! My God, just you wait till I get my hands on you, lady. I’m his wife!’
Chapter 11
Angela was in a state of total shock. She had accepted that Max was married, but the sudden appearance of his wife came as an awful surprise. She stood there, her back to the door, and stared at the couple. Max was lying in bed looking tousled, disconcerted and ashamed.
‘This is Carlotta, she came home unexpectedly, that’s why I left the party,’ he muttered, and it was the first time Angela had ever seen him at a loss.
‘You abandoned me to Sir Gerald’s mercy,’ she snapped, unable to control her temper, tired of everyone pushing her around as if she was of no consequence.
‘He owes you nothing, slut!’ Carlotta stormed, aiming a blow that Angela dodged.
‘After you went Sir Gerald had me stripped and tied to a pillory. I was forced to lean over it, clamped and restrained. My back was to the audience and I couldn’t see the man who whipped and then buggered me, but I guessed his identity. It was Aidan. How could you do this to me?’ she stormed.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know he would be there,’ Max protested while Carlotta loomed over Angela, her voluptuous body, alabaster skin and mane of blue-black hair making her feel small and insignificant. This was indeed a formidable rival!
She could smell her, too – perfume, sweat, and female love juice mingled with Max’s spunk that wafted from between her thighs. Her mat of public hair glistened with it. She raised a hand to strike Angela again, but Max leapt up and stopped her.
‘No,’ he said sternly. ‘None of this is her fault. She didn’t know I was married until today, and even then I wasn’t sure if you’d ever return. She is talented… not as talented as you, my love, but her act is filling seats.’
‘Sack her!’ Carlotta demanded, her full red lips curved in a snarl.
‘I can’t do that,’ he protested, and Angela was thankful that he had not dismissed her out of hand. ‘She has nowhere to go.’
‘That is not my problem,’ Carlotta declared, and swung round on him. ‘Why did you fuck her, Max? You could have listened to her sing, watched how she performed and probably given her a chance. But oh no, you couldn’t control your dick!’
‘And what about you and your boys?’ he thundered, a vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead, his eyes blazing with fury.
Carlotta shrugged, every inch the diva though bare as the day she was born. ‘That’s neither here nor there. They mean nothing to me, but you are my husband.’
‘They may mean nothing, but your infidelities matter,’ he stormed. ‘Why should I deny myself and remain faithful while you bed any youth that takes your fancy?’
‘You know I love you,’ Carlotta said, as if this explained her behaviour. ‘You are the only one who has my heart. No one is as dear to me. You have accepted my dalliances in the past. We decided long ago that this was permissible if it enhanced my performance. I sing dramatic roles, full of passion. If I’m not with you I need to express my emotions in other quarters.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Max replied, glowering at her. ‘But the same should apply to me. “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander”.’
‘Well, I’m back with you now. The tour is over and I shan’t be needed again for six months. Rejoice, darling; I shall sing in your troupe and you can dispense with this little bit of folly,’ Carlotta retorted, sneering at Angela.
‘Be reasonable, my dove,’ Max pleaded, stripped to the buff but still dignified. ‘Would you turn a fellow artiste out on the street?’
‘Damn right I would, if she’s been usurping me,’ Carlotta said imperiously, but her tone had softened and she was examining Angela from head to foot. ‘Who is this Aidan person you spoke of, girl?’ she asked.
‘My name is Angela,’ she answered stiffly, aware that the look in those black eyes was almost that of a man scrutinising his next amatory victim. ‘And Aidan was my fiancé who jilted me when my father died, leaving me penniless and without a dowry.’
‘An out-and-out cad, yes? A man without morals or principles, but he still attracts you. Don’t deny it. I can tell when you speak his name. I’m a woman too, remember?’ With every word she uttered Carlotta was becoming less fearsome and more human.
Angela hung her head. Her welts were stinging, her bruises aching, her arse sore, but yes it was true; Aidan still had a hold over her, devil though he was. ‘This may be so,’ she admitted. ‘But I never want to submit to him again. He uses me as his slave. He refuses to marry me,
yet won’t let me go. I want to sing and dance and make something of myself. Max has helped me so much and I swear to you that I thought him single. I would never take another woman’s husband.’
Carlotta sat on the bed and motioned Angela to join her. ‘Don’t cry,’ she said. ‘I’m not such a dragon, am I?’ Angela winced as she touched her and Carlotta shot her a shrewd glance. ‘He whipped you tonight, you say? Let me look. Take your clothes off, deary. Max, fetch that bottle of lotion from my case… not that one, dunderhead! The vanity bag.’
Angela was thankful that she was not to be turned out into the night. Carlotta seemed less threatening, and she hoped they would let her stay with the company though it was essential she moved soon, for Aidan would be on her trail. She had a little money saved, with which she had hoped to redeem the trinkets she’d left in the pawnshop, though it might be difficult without the ticket. She needed to acquire more wages from Max before she could branch out on her own and find another impresario who might give her an audition. She was stage-struck, and never wanted to do anything else.
Hesitatingly she undressed, feeling shy and inadequate under this gorgeous woman’s appraisal. She stood with her back to her, one arm covering her breasts, the other cupping her mons veneris. She heard Max give a slow whistle while Carlotta tut-tutted.
‘This Aidan knows how to handle a whip!’ she exclaimed. ‘A master at it, I should say. Is this how he gets his thrills?’
‘He enjoys it, yes,’ Angela admitted, shivering as Carlotta’s fingers traced over the scarlet stripes and applied the cooling lotion.
‘And you?’ she questioned.
‘I have grown to understand the mixture of pain and pleasure,’ Angela whispered, her face as red as her bottom. ‘He taught me well, and is my master. Yet part of me longs to escape him. I don’t want to go back to him.’
‘Then you need not,’ Max put in. ‘I will introduce you to Richard D’Oyly Carte who runs the Savoy Theatre. He’s always on the lookout for suitable young actresses who can sing and act and meet the approval of that popular pair who write comic operas for him, Gilbert the lyricist and Sullivan the composer. Meanwhile, we’ll have two divas here. You can perform duets.’
‘But I need to sing arias,’ Carlotta pouted. ‘I’m an operatic soprano, don’t forget.’
‘That too,’ he said placatingly, and Angela felt pity for him faced as he was with the dilemma of keeping both of them happy.
Once Carlotta had finished anointing the whip marks Angela took up her chemise and slipped it over herself, covering her breasts and partway down her thighs. ‘Where shall I sleep?’ she asked nervously.
‘It’s very late. I can’t rouse the landlord now. Besides which, the inn is full,’ Max answered, climbing into bed.
‘Then may I use the couch?’
‘Certainly not,’ Carlotta rapped. ‘You shall lie here, with us.’
‘But…’
‘Don’t argue. There’s plenty of room for three. And why should Max have had all the enjoyment of your perfect body. I want a share in you.’
Dumbfounded, Angela did as she was told, occupying the space next to Carlotta with Max on the far side. She had retained her chemise and held herself stiffly away from Carlotta’s luscious curves, but the warmth was undeniable, and so was her curiosity. Was Max’s wife of a similar persuasion to Valerie? Did she enjoy women as well as men? She resembled her somewhat, also well built and with a big bosom.
A single lamp glowed on the nightstand, and the tester bed was like a raft floating on the swell of an exotic sea. She had become used to it over the past weeks, looking upon it as hers, shared with Max. Now the dynamics had shifted: she was the outsider, allowed to lie in it with his wife’s permission.
Carlotta was stirring, pushing her large bottom into Max’s groin as they lay close, curled together like spoons in a cutlery drawer. ‘Caress my tits, Angela,’ she ordered, her voice husky with desire.
The situation was fraught but exciting and Angela responded. She started to run her hands over Carlotta’s throat, and down to the opulent breasts. Carlotta raised herself a little, seized Angela’s face and captured her mouth, her fleshy tongue poking inside, eliciting an instant response that took Angela by surprise. She moaned as that agile organ explored her gums and teeth and danced with her own slippery tongue. And, moaning still, she played with Carlotta’s nipples, brown and crimped and rising from dark aureoles. They felt rubbery and instantly responsive, reaching even bigger proportions.
Carlotta released Angela’s mouth and ground her hips against Max’s erection. ‘Lower, girl, lower,’ she muttered, and seized her hand and guided it down to her curly pubes.
Just for a second Angela felt revulsion, and then this was superseded by interest as her fingertips delved into Carlotta’s cleft, parted the labia and dabbled in the flow from her vulva. In doing so she encountered the end of Max’s cock, inserted between Carlotta’s legs.
‘Ah, that’s good,’ he groaned. ‘Rub it, Angela.’
‘She is attending to me,’ Carlotta objected. ‘Do your work, Max, and spear me on your rod while she brings me off. Thus we can attain bliss together, beloved.’
He withdrew his tool from Angela’s hold and Carlotta bucked and heaved as he slipped it inside her. She grunted her pleasure and dragged Angela’s face towards her crotch. Angela lifted back the bedclothes so she might breathe. While Max slipped in and out of his wife from the rear Angela hung over her, slid her thumbs each side of the darkly furred slit and opened the pinkish labial wings. They parted easily, swollen and engorged, and Carlotta’s plump clitoris crowned the slit, standing proud.
Fascinated by the sight of another woman’s fissure, Angela dipped a finger in Carlotta’s copious dew and stroked the hard nodule. It was like touching herself and heat blossomed inside her, and her own clitoris throbbed with need. The welts bestowed by Aidan had their own particular ache and she longed for him – his whip, his crop, his tawse.
Would Max make love to her when he had satisfied Carlotta? Or might the woman stroke her nub till she climaxed? Angela was too much in need to care.
Carlotta was shaking with the force of Max’s entry and she growled, ‘Slow down; give me a chance to come! Go on, Angela, suck me.’
He paused in his labours, making small movements, just enough to keep her on the boil, and Angela’s desire made her lean forward, fingering the turgid little organ. Then, bewitched by the pungent odour that filled her nostrils, she stretched back the labia major and Carlotta’s clit bulged. Angela dribbled saliva over it, massaged it, and unable to resist, placed her mouth over it and started to suck.
Carlotta stretched upwards, chasing the pleasure caused by those wanton lips. Max kept up with her, his penis buried deep inside her as he clamped her close with his arms around her and his hands firm on her breasts. Angela smiled within herself, a dark, satisfied smile. These people thought they had the better of her, but at that moment they were nothing more than her slaves. Like Aidan they mistakenly thought they were her masters, when in reality they were dependent on her skill and willingness to oblige them. Who was the dominator and who the submissive? One did not exist without the other.
This thought empowered her and she sucked greedily at Carlotta’s bud, making her scream with pleasure, then gradually increasing the pressure till she felt her shake and jerk and heard her yelling as she reached crisis point. Max speeded up his movements, and as his wife came so did he. The juices flowed from both and Angela tasted them, salty and strong, then took her mouth away, drying it on the back of her hand.
‘Oh… oh, darling… that was wonderful,’ Carlotta crooned, to Max not Angela.
‘Happy now?’ he whispered, and they snuggled close together as if forgetting the third party in the bed.
‘Ah yes, so happy. I love you, Max.’
‘And I love you too, Carlotta.’
Then the silence told Angela they were asleep. Selfish bastards, she thought angrily, and turned on her side
away from them. The entire world was comprised of self-centred people, she decided. There was no one she could trust or confide in or feel was a true friend. Except perhaps Jacob, but then there was his vile uncle to take into consideration. Maybe she’d go and see him; it depended on what Max and Carlotta decide to do with her. He had mentioned D’Oyly Carte, a renowned name in theatrical circles. If only she could be taken on by him!
‘Why did you let her go?’ Valerie asked, dressed to kill and seated by Aidan in a box at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, waiting for the performance to begin.
The great building was aglow, all gilt and crimson swags, drapes and deep carpeting, with evening-dressed, white-gloved attendants at the stalls and box entrances, or ushering the audience to their seats in the tiers. Outside its gas crescents blew in the breeze, the portico was a pool of light, every window gleamed and a rich yellow flood poured out from under its covered carriageway. Used though she was to going there, Valerie never failed to be impressed by the endless procession of carriages rolling up from the Strand, driven by coachmen in livery and tricorne hats, and cockaded footmen in buckskin breeches so tight that their packages were emphasised. They sat stiffly to attention at the rear with their arms folded across their chests.
Now, having fired her question at Aidan, she lifted her opera glasses and adjusted the lenses. She swept a glance over the crowd in the pit and stalls below, then across to others in the dress circle and those who had also paid dearly for one of the secluded boxes at either side of the stage, where they could see and be seen.
This was a gala night, and handsome, moustachioed men in tails and white waistcoats escorted ladies in silks and satins, with trains and low necklines. On their arms, fingers, corsages, and heads gleamed a fortune in jewels – rubies, emeralds, tiaras, ropes of pearls and diamond necklaces. The men brought their wives, sisters, daughters and mothers to such events, never their mistresses or whores. Apart from Aidan of course, a law unto himself, and in any case Valerie was well connected. She might be the subject of gossip and speculation, but no one could deny her, married as she was to the Honourable Dennis Gail.
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