A Shimmer of Silk

by Raven McAllan

  "My lords, may I introduce to you my new assistant? Lord Callender has agreed to let me show him the ropes." It was only the laughter in his eyes that alerted her to her poor choice of words.

  "The other way round, my dear, I assure you," She didn't need his softly spoken riposte to know she reddened. Deborah hoped anyone watching would see it as heat from the candles. She nodded to Luc, who moved forward and took Lord Callender with him to divest him of his coat, and no doubt give him very strict guidelines to adhere to. It seemed Luc was happy with the replies he was given, because, with a theatrical flourish, he tied a red cloak around his companion's shoulders.

  On a lesser man it could look effeminate; on him it looked menacing. Once more Deborah questioned her sanity in allowing impulse to take over from common sense and calling Oliver forward. It was usual for any person called to help to have a minimal role. So, why this time, had she changed her habits, and indicated to Luc to give Oliver a larger part to play?

  Strange, how I can think of him as Oliver and not Craster or Callender. She would think about that later, once the evening was over.

  Deborah switched her mind off and let her subconscious take over. Indeed it was the only way to endure the next ten minutes. For endure was the only way to describe it. It gave her no pleasure and no pain. It was necessary, numbing, and, she had long realized, her way of thumbing her nose at those who had deprived her of so much she held dear.

  Her costume this time was different. No lost ties or floating skirts that could catch in the flames and burn. Instead she wore a feminine version of male attire. Form-fitting pantaloons, chopped off above the knee. A shirt, albeit without ruffles and cut tight over her breasts—allowing the soft swell of her bosom to be revealed above each nipple—and glossy boots. Her hair, which had earlier flowed down her back in a waterfall of blue-black curls, was tied close to her nape. Deborah knew some may consider her reckless, however, both she and Luc were safety conscious to the utmost degree. Illusion and trompe l'oiel worked in their favor every time.

  With a flourish, she lifted one long tapering candle from its place in the candelabrum, and let the wax trickle slowly down the sides.

  She handed it to Oliver who took it with a flourish. He would have been well coached on his duties by a watchful Luc who stood close by. As the first drop slid lower inch by inch, to be followed by more, her breath quickened. Images of those globules beaded on her flesh, of the delicate cobweb tracery they could create, made her breathing choppy and her pulse jump.

  To her amazement, the usual sick feeling in her stomach wasn't there. By now it would be normal for her head to pound, and her skin to be clammy. Instead her body prickled with something akin to excitement, and the muscles in her quim pulsed. Her juices gathered in the apex of her thighs, and she forced herself not to push them together to try and relieve the delicious tension inside.

  Oliver's grin showed her he had noticed, and Deborah gritted her teeth. Damn him, he is too all-seeing.

  "Do it," she said softly. "Do as Luc has instructed you. Let us finish this performance."

  "This is for them." He waved the candle in the direction of the silent crowd. Faces appeared and disappeared as the flickering light crossed them. "Later it will be for us."

  What? Her cunt contracted and for the second time in minutes. She felt the long forgotten gush of arousal fill her channel.

  "Concentrate." Luc must have realized her attention had wavered, and brought it back. "Five minutes, that's all. Then we are gone."

  He was right. Deborah walked to the angled bench placed at the front of the stage and stretched out. Her body was tilted to enable the audience to see everything. Behind her Oliver stood, the candle in his hand. Next to him, the ever-vigilant Luc waited.

  She nodded. "Ready." As Luc spoke to the audience, explaining the rest of the act, she turned her mind inwards, slowed her breathing, and took herself to a place where what was about to happen wouldn't register. It was the only way she could cope.

  "Later, I will show you how arousing it can be to experience the soft path of the wax caressing your body. Bring the sting of pain and change it to the sharp shard of pleasure. Now, I do as I am asked."

  ****

  Oliver speculated what was going through her mind as she lay on the bench, her body stretched and her face devoid of expression.

  "Do it," Luc said. "For the love of God and De…her, do it now. Do not make her wait. That is cruel."

  He was not a cruel man. Even as he wondered what Luc had been going to say, when he had stopped mid-word, Oliver held the candle high and watched. As if in slow motion the tiny tears of wax dripped and hit her skin. To him it was a caress, a bite of pain, which would morph into a swell of pleasure, and a hint of things to come. A gift he could give her. If he thought they had the chance.

  "Another." Luc was insistent. "As we discussed. Now. While she is within herself."

  His phrasing intrigued Oliver. Nevertheless, he tipped the taper once more, and created the patterns they had agreed upon. By now his peers were cheering, the sight of her soft flesh covered in the ribbons of cooling wax a turn on to all those there. Even if it was not their own preference, each could appreciate how something so misunderstood, and called deviant by many, was so necessary to others.

  In one way it seemed an aeon before Luc indicated he was done. In another scant seconds. He handed the stub of the candle to Luc and took his bow, before he turned to the woman still supine in front of him. With what the watchers would see as theatrical, he bent his head. To all intents and purposed he was offering a soft kiss to her neck. In reality he moved and nipped her earlobe. "It is over. Come, make your bow and let us take you out of here."

  It was a relief to see her eyelashes flutter. Her eyes cleared and she blinked several times, as if coming from a trance to reality. Oliver looked at Luc who shook his head in a reassuring gesture. So this is the norm? I have a lot to learn. He realized he wanted to know everything about this woman. What made her tick, how she lived … and loved. How they would love. First he had to help her get through the next few minutes. He replayed Luc's words in his mind. "Once you finish, we move quickly to get her away. One acknowledgement, and she must be out of here. I will tidy later." Now he took one of her arms, as Luc took the other, and helped her to her feet. The cobweb tracery of wax clung to her skin, like a lover, and led a pathway down toward her breasts. Without conscious thought, Oliver ran his hand along one shiny pathway. As he stopped his fingers just above the top of her shirt, the crowd erupted. There were shouts for more, and Luc held up his hand.

  "Dear sirs, 'tis always better to finish wanting more than wishing for less. We bid you goodnight."

  That was Oliver's cue. He lifted the still dazed woman into his arms, and followed Luc to behind the rear curtain.

  "Where now? I have a room."

  Luc laughed. It held no humor. "I'm sure you do, monsieur. So do we. This way."

  We? Oliver was taken aback how that one word was a knife thrust of pain into him. He had accepted the woman he held was for him. She had to feel the same. He would brook no opposition. With a grim expression, so alien to his normal demeanor his acquaintances would be hard put to recognize him, he trailed after Luc.

  Chapter Three

  The room he found himself in was in a part of the house he had previously not visited. He thought it was in Felton and Araminta's private quarters which were in an adjoining building, conveniently linked. Even though his own apartments were nearby, those areas were somewhere he had not ventured, past the salon and dining room. The couple valued their privacy.

  "Put her on the bed, and I will take over." Luc spoke with an abruptness that had not been present earlier.

  Once again as he obeyed, Oliver wondered about Luc's relationship to his partner.

  "Deb? It is over, no more. Never, enough is enough." Luc was rubbing her hands. The worry on his face convinced Oliver that Luc was concerned, not as a lover, but perhaps as a brother. There was
love in his eyes, but no gleam of arousal.

  "Deb? Is this my lady's name?"

  Luc looked up from where Oliver had rested her. "Your lady?"

  "My lady. Do not argue, or demur. I know not why, but one look and I accepted it was true. She is mine. In every way. Our road may be long, it may not be straightforward, but 'tis our road. Problems and worries we will solve together. You will not stop me Dalmain; that I promise you. Deb." He emphasized the word. "Deb is mine."

  "She is called Deborah, and is my sister in everything but blood. Indeed there may be shared blood; who knows? We do not." It seemed Luc had accepted him—or had he—for he continued, "I will say to you now, you harm her, and my knives will no longer be used to entertain, or even maim. They will be used to kill. You. Slowly."

  Oliver nodded. "If I harm her, you may do so with my compliments. She may think herself hurt, but everything we do will be for us. That, I promise you."

  Had Luc picked up on his meaning? Evidently so, for his eyes narrowed. "Lord Callender, think on before you show her the lifestyle you follow. What to you may result in pleasure may fill Deborah with abject horror. She may not have been affected by the terrors as many others, but she was a small child when rescued from the tumbril and taken to safety. If this half-life can be called such. Her nights are filled with fear, with half remembered sights and sounds. The sense of a loss of love. We survived; many did not, her parents included. Is it any wonder our lives have ended like this, challenging ourselves, taunting our past?"

  Put like that, it gave pause for thought. "Then I hope to help her banish her demons. What about you? Who will help you?"

  Luc rolled one shoulder in a Gallic gesture of 'who knows'. "Help my beloved Deborah, my lord. I will help myself, and perhaps one day, I also will be complete. When…" His voce trailed off and he shrugged. "Ah well, what do you want me to do?"

  "Stay here." It was Deborah who answered him. "Lord Callender will be ever the gentleman I am sure." Her eyes dared him to dissent. "I am also sure he has an apartment we can adjourn to, and I am equally certain there is a system of safety in place. That I will ascertain from our host." She stood, walked none too steady toward Luc, and took his face in her hands. "Truly, my love. It is as it should be. I sense this. Now you can do as you must. Follow your lead and I will pray for you."

  For one moment, Oliver thought Luc might dissent, but after a strained silence, he dipped his head.

  "God be with you."

  "And you." Her lips scarcely touched Luc's before she straightened and turned to Oliver.

  The look of anticipation, of hope, and something indefinable, seared him. A swath of heat cut through his body, sending his senses onto high alert, and his cock stiff with hope. He had to have her, and soon. His prick was so rigid, one tap and it would snap, one stroke and it would release its treasures. He wanted neither yet. The sharing of each other was to be sipped and savored, not gulped. When he came, wherever and however, it would be after she had experienced her own sweet climax. That was a promise he made himself. Even if their first time was conventional and lacked the trimmings he so loved, it would be memorable.

  "My lord?"

  Ah, for the time she says those words in a different way. He held out his hand. "Come." Oliver turned to Luc who hadn't moved. "Ask my Lord Dalrey for anything you need, I will cover it."

  The thump to his stomach would have been so much worse if a split second of awareness hadn't enabled him to clench his muscles. Without that, the intense discomfort would have been so much worse. As it was his breath left him with a whoosh, and the swift splinter of pain made him grit his teeth.

  If a look could inflame him, the one she shot in his direction did just that. He rather thought she meant it to wither; however his body reacted in the opposite way.

  "I, my lord, cannot be bought. We have earned our wages. We need nothing from you. If you think you are purchasing my time and my body…pah, you are mistaken. Our time together will end before it begins. Go and find yourself a demi-monde."

  Deb," Luc said, his voice gentle. "He did not mean it as that. He is offering to help me, I believe. And if I need help, I will remember. Thank you, my lord."

  "'Tis true. I would never insult you so. All we do will be because we want it. As partners. This is my promise and my oath, spoken in front of a witness. Do you want me to write it, have it signed?"

  She looked from him to Luc and back again. Her gaze penetrated his soul, and for the first time in his life, Oliver felt judged and wanting.

  "No," she said as his nerves screamed their tension to him. "No, if Luc is happy, so am I." Her tone suggested she was anything but. "Shall we go?"

  ****

  It was one thing to agree to accompany Oliver; it was another to do it with insouciance and style. Deborah hung onto her composure by a thread. One word out of place, one unaccustomed challenge, and she feared she would fall to pieces. But deep inside her was an excitement she had never felt before. The recognition of hope and arousal that she sensed would over come any negative feelings, or doubts, within her.

  He took her hand and tucked it into his as they walked along a brightly lit, deserted corridor. There were no doors to break the flow of the walls, just lamps at regular intervals. "We will see no one unless you wish it. My apartments are mine alone. Nevertheless, Felton knows you are with me, and I have given him my word, as I did to Luc, we will do nothing without your acceptance. I promise you this also. Our life will be ours. Not for us anything others want, it will be as we desire." He stopped suddenly and pulled her into his arms.

  His cock pressed against her quim, and Deborah's breath hitched. Her mouth was dry, as she felt her juices run. It seemed preferable not to look down, for she was sure the pantaloons she wore would show the marks of her excitement. As Oliver's lips touched hers, she opened her mouth and let his tongue in, to mimic the act she knew they would enjoy later. As he thrust, she couldn't help but grind her cunt against his prick.

  Oliver lifted his head. "Soon, love. You taste of nectar."

  He tastes of hope.

  Within minutes she was standing in a small entrance hall. Deborah looked round her, hoping to get an idea of the preferences of the man. It was bland, almost conventional with cream walls and a pale green a chaise set next to a drum table against one wall. The only splash of color was a bright gold and red cushion thrown carelessly to one end of the chaise. Oliver had evidently picked up on her puzzlement.

  "This is for servants to deliver food etcetera. For visitors to wait in and for us to pass through as swift as we can. Are you ready? If not now is the time to say so. You can pull the rope and a servant will escort you to your room."

  Her stomach was churning but with excitement not fear. The shivers she felt were those of anticipation, not worry.

  "I thought this was now my room? To share with you? Are you reneging, my lord?" His face was a picture of astonishment. Deborah couldn’t help herself; she burst into laugher. "Oh, my lord, you should see your expression. It is a sight to behold. Truly, if I ever feel threatened, uncomfortable, or unable to sustain aught we do, I will say so. My safe word is sauf."

  "Your safe word?" he said slowly. "What do you know of safe words?"

  "Nothing except if we are to discover my limits, we need to decide on one. A word which if I utter, you will desist immediately in whatever activity we are partaking. That is not to say you will not return to the, er subject at a later date, once we have discussed any reluctance or questions I may have. Ah, Oliver, do you think I did not know the reasons why this house exists? Even if our, that is mine and Luc's enquiries, had not told us enough, Lord Dalrey was insistent we knew where and the likes of whom we were entertaining."

  "And you are happy with this?"

  She giggled. "Until I taste what you have in mind for us, how do I know?" Deborah thought it was a reasonable question in the circumstances. "In theory, I know some activities will be good, some will push me, and strain my thoughts and mind. Indeed, so
me things may be beyond my endurance and I cry stop. But which fits where has yet to be determined. Nevertheless, I wish to see what you deem suitable for us. I need, I must, discover myself." She dare not say more. Indeed, she would have been hard pressed to do so. Deborah had no idea how to describe the turmoil her emotions were in.

  He gave her a sharp glance but didn't comment.

  "Sauf it is." Oliver pushed open a door. "After you."

  An imp of mischief made her curtsey and she saw the glint in his eyes.

  "One day, your sauce will be your undoing, my love, I will remember."

  She was sure he would. In a strange way she looked forward to it.

  Chapter Four

  Her lack of worry continued as she walked into a very elegant salon. Here, she thought it was very much a reflection of Oliver the man. Rich mahogany furniture gleamed from care and attention. There were tall elegant elbow cupboards, and low comfortable sofas with tables to facilitate resting cups or books on. On one wall a large imposing bookcase lost some of its grandeur by the way the books were arranged with scant regard to size and shape. Deborah wandered toward it, conscious of his steady gaze never leaving her.

  Without needing to stoop or stretch, she ran her fingers over the spines of a few of them, enjoying the different texture between leather and linen.

  "I relish the time you run your fingers over me like that."

  Deborah looked at him. "As if you were a book?"

  He smiled faintly. "Down my spine, lingering on my texture."

  The pictures his words conjured up were both tantalizing and juice inducing. Her pantaloons were becoming ever more uncomfortable. They were not designed for a wet core and damp quim. At least she didn’t have the added discomfort of wet curls, having long discovered the Egyptian art of sugaring was much suited to her lifestyle.