“Tut, tut. Mrs. Erskine will have you thrown out on your ear if she hears you. Surely she pays you to be pleasant and polite and to smile at me, not to grumble like an old fishwife.”
She poked her tongue out at him. “I’m here, aren’t I? Waiting obediently for you to undress me.” Goose bumps formed on her bare arms as she spoke. The prospect of having him as her master and having to obey every naughty command he gave her was strangely enticing.
His green eyes were calculating as he looked her up and down. “I like obedience in a woman. Take off your slippers.”
She held out her hand. “Two chips.” Nobody, especially not Tom, was going to cheat her.
Not until he passed her the chips did she slide her embroidered slippers awkwardly off her feet.
“That was easy now, wasn’t it,” he remarked, amused at her discomfiture. “Now, come closer and let me unfasten your skirt.”
He put his arms around her waist, drawing her in to stand between his thighs, and reached behind her to unhook her skirt. Her skin prickled at his nearness and she suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“You are very practiced at undressing women,” she muttered at him to hide her embarrassment, as he unfastened her hooks with ease and pushed her outer skirt over her hips to pool at her feet on the floor.
Though she was not cold, she shivered as she stood there in front of him, dressed only in her petticoats, her arms crossed over her nearly naked breasts to protect her modesty. Being a naughty woman was more difficult than she had expected. The lessons of a lifetime could not be overcome in one short evening.
All pretense he had made of indifference was gone and he was gazing at her as if he wanted to eat her up. She did not know where to look. He made her feel both eminently desirable and horrifyingly debauched at the same time.
“Silk stockings with red clocks embroidered on them?” His voice was still hard and sarcastic, but his face was flushed as he reached up and loosened his necktie. “How quaint. Put your foot up on my knee and let me see them closer.”
It was good to know that she had some small amount of power over him. She put her stockinged foot up on his knee, her skirts lifting with the movement.
His hands lingered over her ankle. “Very nice. Now take them off.”
Timorously she reached inside her petticoats to unbuckle the garter holding up her stocking, but Tom stopped her with one hand on her arm. “On second thought, I will take them off for you.”
Was he offering to put his hands up her skirts? That would never do. She pushed him away. “I don’t need any help. I can take them off for myself.”
“But I want to do it for you. And I have won the forfeit, have I not?” Reaching under her petticoats, he ran his hands up her leg to the top of her stocking. “You owe me.”
“Get your hands out from under my skirts,” she hissed, slapping at his hand on her leg and wriggling around to get away from him. “It is not proper.”
Oblivious to her protests, he unfastened her buckle, removed her garter, and slowly rolled her stocking down her leg and over her foot. “You are not meant to be proper. Give me your other leg.”
Sarah looked around for someone to protest to, but no one was paying them any attention. All the others were either crowing over their cards, or one half of the couple was undressing the other with much laughter and giggling.
“Come on. I’m waiting.”
Modesty had no value here—indeed, it would ruin her. She had to get over her fears if she wanted to stay. Mrs. Erskine would not take kindly to her first customer complaining over her unwillingness to play the game with him. Reluctantly she took her bare leg off Tom’s lap and put her other leg on his knee.
He reached under her petticoats to the top of her other stocking, caressing the bare skin of her thigh with his fingertips. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Her leg was shaking under his feather-light touch. “No.” He was touching her where no man but her husband ought to touch her. She ought not to be enjoying the feel of his fingers on her leg.
“You are lying again. You really must try to stop. Lying is a nasty habit.”
She shivered as he continued to caress her gently. “I am not lying.”
“Your neck is all red and flushed. Your leg is trembling under my hands. And if I were to reach my hand just a little higher, I would find your pussy as wet as any man could wish it. As wet as it was when you were looking at those naughty pictures in the salon yesterday.”
How did he know that her pussy was dripping into her drawers? She clamped her thighs together, trapping his wrist between them so he could not roam higher. “Don’t touch me there.”
“Relax.” He unbuckled the garter on her second stocking, unrolled it, and cast it aside. “I am only claiming my forfeit as I am entitled.” His pile of chips was dwindling rapidly, and he eyed it with disfavor, suddenly losing his patience. “I never knew a tart had so many damned underclothes. Come, take off those petticoats of yours.”
Her petticoats were fastened with distressingly few hooks and tapes. One by one she let them fall at her feet until she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but corset, chemise, and drawers.
A murmur of appreciation escaped him. “Turn around for me. I want to see you from every side.”
Obediently she turned in a circle for him, her body burning under the heat of his gaze.
“Now your corset.”
Her eyes fixed on his beseechingly. “Do you have no pity?”
“Not a whit,” he replied cheerfully. “Take it off.”
One by one he handed over his chips as she unhooked every last busk on her corset.
With shaking hands she cast her corset aside. Her breasts swung freely under her fine linen chemise, the dark outline of her nipples clear beneath the thin fabric. Her nipples were peaked into tight buds at the unaccustomed sensation of freedom, and the unsettling knowledge that his gaze was fixed on them. Her seminakedness was decadence itself—instead of being ashamed, her wickedness excited and inflamed her senses.
One chip was left on the table. He picked it up, tossed it into the air, and caught it again with an air of utter unconcern. “Take off your shift.”
And allow the entire room to see her naked breasts? That was taking decadence too far. She crossed her hands over her chest, wanting to obey him but unwilling to violate her modesty to such an extent. “I cannot do that.”
He was inexorable. “You lost the hand. You owe me a debt, and I want to see your breasts.”
“Will you not take another forfeit?”
Her words piqued his interest. “What are you offering?”
She looked wildly around the room for inspiration, her gaze finding only half-naked couples in unchaste embraces. “A kiss?” she offered in desperation. There could be no great harm in a kiss. It was better than showing off her naked breasts to a room full of gentlemen, and to Tom in particular. One kiss did not make her a whore.
“Sit on my knee and give me a kiss and we will have a deal.”
She had not kissed any man before—she had never had a follower to ask her to kiss him, or to steal kisses from her on the sly in a dark corner. The prospect of kissing Tom frightened her a little, but not as much as exposing her naked breasts in mixed company did.
Her heart beating fast in her chest, she perched herself on the edge of his knee and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. “Now give me the chip,” she demanded, hopping off his knee again. “I have paid the last of my forfeits.”
“That was no kiss.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him so she was sitting on his lap, her head resting against his shoulder and her breasts jammed against his chest.
She gasped half in horror and half in pleasure as her drawers gaped open, plastering her naked pussy tantalizingly against his rock-hard member. Only the thin cloth layer of his trousers separated her bare skin from his. Her brain felt thick and heavy, as if it were covered in a thick London fog—all her sensat
ions were bound up in her pussy, hot and tingling at the nearness of his member.
She moved tentatively against him and was rewarded with a quiver of pleasure that shot right through her body. Did all women experience this delight when a man kissed and fondled them? Was this wondrous feeling why women gave themselves over so willingly to be whores? No wonder Polly danced around with a smile on her face if she was made to feel like this every evening.
He bent his head to hers, kissing her roughly on the lips, forcing her to open her mouth under his onslaught. With one hand he held her tightly against him, while the other crept under her chemise to fondle her naked breasts.
His mouth was hot against hers, as he forced her to respond to him. She had no breath left to protest, and no will either. His hands were like fire on her breasts and his kiss was more intoxicating than port wine.
She squirmed against him, thrusting her breasts into his hands, her nipples begging him to fondle, to touch, to taste. He obeyed her wordless commands, cupping her breasts in his hands, flicking his fingernails over her sensitive nipples and rolling them gently between his fingers.
Her pussy ached with desire and she could not resist moving backward and forward on his lap to rub it more insistently against his member. Her juices would leave wet patches on his trousers, but she was beyond caring. What did it matter if he discovered what a wanton she was if he would only go on touching her and kissing her like this forever. He made her feel so alive, so desirable, so much like a woman.
When at last he raised his head from the kiss, his breathing was labored. “I can’t wait any longer,” he said with a groan, his hand already at his waistband fumbling with his buttons. “Take me upstairs and let me fuck you.”
His rough-spoken demand called her to her senses. Pushing his hands away, she pulled herself free of his embrace and stood up off his lap, flushed and panting. They had gone more than far enough already and she was not his for the asking, not even if her pussy was on fire for him. “No,” she said, her voice shaky. “I will not take you upstairs.” Enough of her good sense was still left her to refuse him the ultimate act.
“You’d rather fuck me here? With all these people around?” He sounded intrigued, but not put off by the notion. “What ever the lady wants.” He flicked open another button and rearranged himself so that his member stuck out, stiff and purple, from his unfastened trousers. “Come here and sit on my cock then, and let me fuck you right here with everyone watching us.”
She stared at his huge member poking out of the top of his trousers. Did he like the thought of fucking her in the midst of a crowd of people? Would he take her to the room next door and thrust his member into her pussy while a man took pictures of them for the stereoscope? “I will not be your whore.”
He stopped in the act of pushing down his trousers over his hips and looked up in confusion. “Why not? I can pay. I’ve already told you I have plenty of money.”
Mrs. Erskine had given her a choice and she would take full advantage of her freedom. She would not throw her virginity away for mere money. She was not that desperate yet. “Because I choose not to.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, stroking his privates with one hand and holding out the other to her in invitation. “You cannot refuse me. You are a whore.”
“I make my living playing parlor games with gentlemen, not by sitting on their cocks,” she said crudely, gaining strength from his disarray. The ache in her pussy would go away if she ignored it. “Now, do you want to play another hand of cards?”
His member had grown more purple and swollen with every word they spoke. He slammed his hand down on the card table in a fury. “Damn the cards. I want to fuck you.”
“I do not fuck strangers for money,” she said primly, throwing his earlier words back in his face.
He gestured at the room, which had already lost a good half of its occupants. “I doubt your friends are as fastidious as you are. They will all be upstairs fucking away merrily by now.”
She shrugged. Taking off her clothes for a forfeit did not make her a whore, nor did kissing a man to pay another forfeit. Keeping company with whores did not make her one. “That is their affair. Not mine.”
“You are nothing but a cock tease. I should have chosen one of the other women. Any one of them would have acted fairly by me and not left me in these straits.”
Her anger rose, though she tamped it down as best she could. If he treated her as a whore, that was his mistake and his loss, not hers. “You chose poorly indeed.”
“You will not go upstairs with me?” He sounded as if he still could not quite believe her.
“No, I will not.”
“I will take my leave then,” he said sulkily, re-buttoning his trousers and clapping his hat on his head. “If nothing else is on offer.”
She inclined her head politely. “Good-bye, Mr. Wilde. I hope we will meet again soon.”
He grunted at her and strode out of the salon without looking back.
Sarah watched him go with some relief. Her first client had departed, her first evening was nearly over, and she had survived. She could have wished that Tom had not picked a quarrel with her at the end, but maybe it was all for the best. His rough demands for her to sit on his cock had been easy to refuse, but if he had coaxed her and talked words of kindness and love into her ear, she shuddered to think what she might not have done for him. His member had been so stiff and proud, and her pussy was still wet with wanting him…
She turned back to the gathering. It was just as well that he had not talked of love to her, and that she had been able to refuse him. Giving in to him would have confirmed his bad opinion of her—that she was nothing more than a whore. Not that she ought to worry over what he thought of her. He was a gentleman and she was a parlor games girl. She would never be anything more to him.
The fire had long since died away and the salon was nearly empty, but she could not go upstairs until Mrs. Erskine had given her permission. She sat at a deserted table idly shuffling cards and was soon joined by another partnerless girl. They played ecarte together halfheartedly until Mrs. Erskine finally returned to the salon and dismissed the remaining gentlemen for the night.
Her toilette was soon made and she retired to bed, but she could not sleep. Through the walls on both sides of her she could hear the muffled sounds of sex—the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, indistinct voices, slaps and giggles, and hoarse groans of pleasure.
Whores they might be, but they did not seem to mind their chosen profession. Judging by the noises, they were positively enjoying their life of sin.
She lay by herself in the darkness, wondering what it would be like to have Tom Wilde beside her in the bed, to have his naked body lying atop hers and his member thrusting deep into her pussy.
She fell asleep dreaming of making love with Tom in the salon while the rest of the coffee house girls and their partners sat around on the sofas and watched them, and a man with a camera photographed their every position to add to Mrs. Erskine’s private collection of stereoscope images.
Tom strode back to his lodgings in a fine old temper. He had rescued his pretty daisy from the sweaty hands of Sir Richard Etheridge, and what was his thanks? To be shown the door with an erection so hard he could use it to break rocks.
Goddamn the little tart for being such a tease.
He’d wanted to take her right there in the sitting room, thrusting his throbbing cock deep into her willing cunt. Heaven knows, she was as ready as he was for a good hard fuck. Her pussy had left a wide patch of damp on his trousers. He’d thought only to save the scraps of her modesty by taking her upstairs where they could fuck in private—he’d never dreamed she would refuse him.
He should’ve stayed and played another hand of cards with her until Mrs. Erskine called the proceedings to a halt at midnight and threw all the gentlemen out. At least then he could have watched the sway of her unconfined breasts under her shift, and maybe even reached under the table and stroked he
r warm, wet pussy.
Dammit, he should have stayed and just talked with the wench. Even talking with her would have been more pleasant than going home to his empty lodgings with a cock as hard as steel and no prospect of relief.
He pulled his fob watch out of his pocket and glared at the face. It was too late to return tonight. Mrs. Erskine would never let him in at this hour.
Tomorrow, however, would be very different. Tomorrow evening he would pay a visit to Mrs. Erskine and claim the pretty Sarah as his own. Tomorrow night, wild horses would not be able to drag him out of Sarah’s boudoir until he was fully satisfied.
The following morning, almost as soon as it was light, Tom Wilde strode into Mrs. Erskine’s office. His temper was not improved from having slept badly, visions of Sarah keeping him uncomfortably hard all night. “Your new girl, Sarah Chesham. I want her.”
Mrs. Erskine laid her pen down on her blotter. “And good day to you, too, Mr. Wilde.”
Her chilly tone was a reminder for him to mind his manners, but he was past caring about such petty games as manners. “I’m serious. I don’t want her playing your games with anyone but me.”
Her gray eyes were hard as steel. “I am a businesswoman, Mr. Wilde. I do not keep the girl out of charity.”
“I will pay.”
“For what?” She studied him intently, her fingers steepled together. “I do not run a brothel, Mr. Wilde, but a house of entertainment. I will not sell her to you.”
“You cannot tell me that your girls are all virgins,” he scoffed.
“I would not be so foolish as to make that claim,” she said with a small smile. “But I have not prostituted a single one of them. If they choose to take a man up to their bed, they do so of their own free will, and it is naught to do with me.”
“Are you telling me that I cannot buy her into my bed?”
She shrugged. “Do not ask me. She is not mine to sell. You will have to deal directly with the girl herself on that matter.”
Parlor Games Page 4