By this time I was fitting to burst but resigned myself to waiting - Besides, what kind of man couldn’t keep his head for a few more minutes before taking it to a whore?
We walked up two flights of stairs, the banisters painted in gold, walls adorned with red felt, long corridors with numerous rooms or booths on each side, whores strutting about baring their tits, pouting lips, men crawling on the floor, being whipped, lying down, being trampled on by girls in knee high leather boots in full view to all who walked by - The humiliation was all part of the thrill for some of these sordid creatures who afterwards would return to their lives as lawyers, bankers or cabinet ministers. Loud screams emanated from one of the more premium rooms, each cry immediately preceded by the cracking of a whip - A man after my own heart.
And then we arrived in the most exclusive section of the brothel, an anti-room lavishly appointed with art, sculptures, leather couches with gold trimmed cushions and an array of nibbles, mostly French fancies spread over a large marble table and Champagne almost chilled. Three doors were set on a wall each, the Bronze Room facing the Silver Room. Opposite the corridor was an actual gold painted door with what was probably a solid gold door knob, thick and heavy. It was the first time I’d been in this part of the establishment and it would be my last lest I finally start running the business and making the fortune I knew I could. For the moment however, the Gold Room was out of my reach but I did listen with some curiosity to the feminine giggles that came from within.
Evidently, Clayton too had been eavesdropping, the randy bugger he was. “I say, the chap must have five, maybe even six girls in there.”
It was sickening wealth, whoever it was.
My mind was taken away from the Gold Room when the light patters of feet along with their accompanying French accents drew nearer and then emerged the two sirens, both clad in black and white frilly lace dresses that cut off barely below the buttocks, stockings and black heels, both carrying feather dusters. But to look at them was to know they’d be worth every penny. Lola and Camille, who could’ve been twins and probably were, stood tall and slender with perfect clear skin, long brown hair framing delicate oval faces and tits I couldn’t wait to lose my face in.
One of them, I didn’t much care which, strutted by me, making mischievous eye contact and lightly brushing her face with the duster as my legs went weak. Clayton wasted no time, delving straight for his girl’s milkers and received a playful slap for his trouble.
“Naughty, naughty, you must wait until we say.” The trollop said, producing a silver key and opening the door.
“I say, Strappy, I hope they don’t torture us too long.” He was already prodding and nudging his girl inside when I was distracted by the door to the Gold Room opening. “Strappy? I say, old boy?”
Yes, my loins were aching but this was one of those occasions when curiosity got the better of me - Five seconds, you see, and everything would’ve been different.
The feminine hand tugged at my arm and I took two steps toward the opened door, to paradise, when the wenches began filing out from the adjacent room; one, two, three, each as beautiful as the last and just as much as our Frenchies, four, the fifth girl was none other than Sweet Jane who sashayed by without so much as a shy glance at me, six and finally the seventh wench left holding the hand of a tall gent in grey overcoat. He was looking down at the buttocks of the girl in front, who from my angle obscured his face, the top hat he donned covering his head.
My French girl gave me a playful tug. “Monsieur? The fun is zis way monsieur.”
“Yes, come along old boy, they’re the ones who’re supposed to be doing the teasing, not you.” Came Clayton’s muffled voice, his nose probably inhaling the perfume from between his girl’s tits.
But another three seconds is all it would take to settle my interest before I could commence rogering in earnest. The whiff of several expensive tarts was already reaching my nostrils, followed by something more masculine as the man, in his blind lust, accidentally nudged my arm as he strode by.
“Sorry, sir, scuse me.” He said in Paddy accent, seemingly twitching for some reason.
But my mind had already gone into limbo, like when something complex interrupts something simple and your brain which is used to the mundanity of the task instead has to find a new way of solving it. In my case, I’d forgotten how to move as my mind attempted to make the connection and I certainly didn’t feel the small hand pulling at mine.
How had I forgotten?
There was no forgetting those red mutton chop sideburns that still resembled thick moss on the side of his head.
He’d continued walking, but now stopped mid stride, not five paces away. Dolan removed his hat and slowly turned around, his mouth hanging loose like a goldfish looking through a bowl.
I had three seconds advantage on him, which was enough to act first and my action was to laugh.
I don’t know how he took my laughing, which was actually more like the kind of bark one does to acknowledge an absurdity, but he returned a pained expression, like awful memories were flooding his thick skull and then it phased into a scowl before he turned on his boot and stumped off down the corridor behind his trail of seven hookers.
And that was the strange thing because my first thought wasn’t that Dolan was the mystery gentleman who’d hired the Gold Room and everything else that fact carried with it, but that during our short acquaintance, I’d rubbed off an awful lot on this former ‘good Catholic boy.’
I dismissed it as just one of life’s funny occurrences and bounded into our boudoir, slapping my hussy on the buttocks as I did.
“Oh monsieur, I was worried I wasn’t attractive enough for you.” She said, leaning down to bare her cleavage as my knees wobbled.
Clayton meanwhile had trapped his in the corner and was even now tickling her under the skirt with the duster, laughing uncontrollably.
Gosh, but I’d not seen Dolan since he’d turned lunatic at Strabane, voluntarily slaughtering all those zombies and we’d not spoken for even longer, since the night I welshed on that twenty thousand. He’d chosen not to visit whilst I lay comatose and bedridden in Galway, which spoke much about the individual - No, I was better off without people like that in my life. But now I’d had a minute for it to sink in, and I’d give it no more of my time, I did wonder how such a poor man was even permitted in the establishment, never mind that he’d rented the premium suite along with all those girls, which then made me recall how back in Londonderry, he’d possessed barely the tin for one romp with his favoured girl, having to be subbed by myself. He subsequently fell for the woman, something I warned him against, and soon after Fort Garrison I heard she married a dashing infantry captain who went by the name of Norris.
I’d also heard that soon afterwards, Dolan sold his commission and was not seen since, which made life easier for me given he possessed one secret I didn’t want anybody knowing and there was hearsay, perhaps aided in part by myself, that his motivation was to avoid his duty - Blacken his name, you see, just in case certain rumours about a past duel should ever surface.
The only plausible explanation for Dolan being permitted into The White House was that he’d used the money obtained from the sale of his commission on one big whore splurge, perhaps to have the time of his life before throwing himself into the River Thames - And good riddance.
I was brought back round when some fragrance from a large bottle was sprayed in my face, the other end of which was attached a giggling petite French trollop.
I spent the next two minutes chasing her around the room, half blinded and cursing as I clattered into tables and chairs. “Would you come here you daft woman. You’re bloody lucky I didn’t bring my riding crop, damn your eyes.”
Clayton meanwhile lay naked on one of the beds and had evidently submitted to being blindfolded whilst his girl tickled his knackers with a feather. What was this?
My girl waved a similar black blind in front of me, which I batted away before pu
tting her over my knee and commenced spanking. She wailed, howled, bawled and screamed and after both buttocks had turned pink I dumped the teary eyed wench to the bed.
“I warned you!” I was about to unbuckle my belt to finally start what I’d paid for when I was distracted by Clayton’s whore, who, most pointlessly, was whispering in his ear whilst slowly stripping away her garments in some kind of drawn out tease.
“Come on, old boy, we paid for French, we’re getting French. Enjoy the experience.” Now his hands were tied behind his back - Really? What was the point if he couldn’t even clutch the girl’s teats?
“Don’t you get any ideas.” I warned mine with a finger and told her to strip at once lest she feel my belt buckle.
And she did, suitably cowed as she was. I’m not against foreplay as a general rule, but there are times when a man just wants to dish out a bloody good thrashing and these two hussies had cost more than enough to warrant that I’d not be leaving without ensuring both had been given the thrice over from Strappy - There are only so many hours in a day, after all. Oh I was lusty for them alright and wouldn’t wait another minute for them to play out their silly theme.
My breeches fell to the floor just as an almighty crash boomed from two floors below, immediately proceeded by voices, loud voices, shouts, more crashes, tramps squealing, their respectable clients yelling and two or three dozen feet stomping up to the next floor.
“Scotland Yard! Stay right where you is!”
“What the bloody hell…?
It was a raid and as one would imagine, I was already at the window straining to force it open whilst simultaneously fastening my breeches. I may not be much of a multi tasker, but when one’s safety is threatened one can easily find a way. Of course, we’d rented a room for the night in a ‘hotel,’ and within the privacy of one’s room, whatever the occupants chose to undertake is of nobody else’s concern, so to speak - Or so I assumed. These were strange times and in many respects the usual rules didn’t always apply. Or perhaps Mr Holloway, the owner and proprietor, had failed to pay his bribes recently.
None of that mattered to me though as I threw one leg over the sill.
The wenches were clinging to Clayton, who now held out his palms in my direction. “Strappy, old boy, surely you’re not leaving me alone to carry the can?”
He should’ve known that loyalty and honour are concepts I was never bestowed with and I pulled my other leg over the side whilst searching for the nearest drainpipe. “Clayton, you know I’d stay if I could, but if the peelers find me it’ll damage the nation and in these times, Britannia needs her heroes.” It occurred to me that I still needed him on board. “So I need you to take the hit for me. Robert, will you do it?”
He nodded with encouraging vigour, the idiot. “Yes! Strappy, of course. The country needs you. You must go, now.”
I stretched for the pipe and wrapped a clammy mitt around it. “And be a man would you…gag the whores…can’t risk them talking to plod…you can use the blindfolds.”
My thoughts whilst sliding down the side of the building - I’d be back for those two because I was not the type to lightly take being swindled.
I hit the ground with a stamp to find myself on the cobbled back street to the brothel.
“Oi, you! Stop right there!” Two peelers stood not far away, blocking the entrance to the passage and now advanced upon me with alarming speed, pulling out their truncheons with one hand, holding onto their hats with the other.
I bounded the other way, mindful that should I be caught now, there went my story about being injured and my mind contrived to run through a bunch of scenarios where I was shamed in the nation’s press and forced to fight the dead because there was nothing wrong with me after all - Well no thanks.
I dodged between two horses and almost got knocked down by a carriage that clattered down the cobbleway, around a corner and along a path, still being pursued, to find myself on a busy late afternoon Oxford Street with men in their bowlers and tweed blazers, hardly anything a strapping soldier in cavalry uniform could lose himself within.
I stepped into the gutter and threaded between the carriages lined up waiting to take fares. The front was the place for me and I accelerated, not daring to look back to check my progress, and entered the first carriage from the right, just as a young couple entered from the walkway on the left, we all taking our seats together.
“Do you mind, you buffoon. We were here first, now be a good chap and scarper would you?” The man who appeared about my age drew my attention away from the woman sat beside him, who regarded me with light interest.
She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Oh, Albi, don’t be so rude, it does not become your station.”
I closed the curtain and slunk down in my seat. “Yes, come on Albi, tell the driver where you’re going and I’ll just tag along for the ride, what?”
“What the devil is this? Look…he’s running from someone and I’ve a mind to call for the authorities. No…confound it, maybe I’ll just drag you out of here myself.”
Ordinarily I’d have been somewhat panicked at being threatened in such a way, but my fear reflexes were so well honed I could spot the difference between a real and faux hazard all the way from Sussex. And in this instance, the slightly built man with baby face and parted wispy hair failed to trigger my automatic flight response - On the contrary, the greater danger was not inside the carriage but out.
“Oh, vould you leave him be, Albi, he hardly looks like a murderer. No, he looks quite dashing in fact…far more entertaining zan ballroom dancing.” The girl had blonde hair tied up high into an elaborate bun with sticks projecting outwards and I couldn’t help but wonder if my refusal to leave the carriage, along with my apparent showboating was because she just happened to be the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
For an eighteen year old, I’m practiced with women and never found myself nervous or lost for words in their company, but if it were ever to happen, it would be now and with this Goddess. But English, she most certainly wasn’t, and not being well travelled, unless one considered deepest darkest Ireland as travelling, I struggled to place her accent. At least I could rule out French.
“I thank you for the compliment, ma’am, and I can assure you, I am no murderer.” I took ahold of her hand and kissed above the knuckles, her smooth skin scented with something exquisite.
She blushed. “See, Albi, quite zee charmer too.”
The man’s face turned almost purple, his fists clenching. “Madam, this is quite inappropriate behaviour considering I am sat right beside you. And you sir, whoever in the blazes you are…how dare you lay your hands on my betrothed.”
I found it rather disheartening that this woman could be promised to such a monotonous bore and all round wet blanket. She was young and needed amusement and diversion, not this tedious fellow and the injustice was such that I couldn’t resist causing some mischief, interested as I was to witness the reaction.
“Well sir, if you must know who in the blazes I am, my name’s Captain Jack Strapper of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars.” I said, sitting back most triumphantly.
She gasped. “Oh, Albi, it iss! How exciting.”
“What the devil?” He saw it now, the captain’s insignia on my cavalry tunic’s gorget patch. “You…you’re…” it was funny watching how within a mere moment he’d turned from purple to white before managing to regain some composure, holding out his hand to the girl as my heart sank. “Come on Trudy, let’s leave the carriage to the captain.”
“But vhy? He hass been perfectly pleasant. Vhy can’t vee share zee carriage? I’m sure Herr Strapper vould be only too obliged to share zee fare?” The girl stuck out her bottom lip, which only further annoyed her companion.
“Gertrude, I will not willingly travel with a man who’s insulted me and leeched upon you.” He paused in seeming contemplation of his next words. “And I dare say, I will not willingly travel with a lady who puts herself about like som
e common tramp. So, Gertrude, what will it be?”
My eyes moved from the incredulous Albi thrashing his arms about to the beautiful Gertrude, who’d barely shown any affection towards him.
She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Vell be off wiss you zen.”
He shook and bared teeth whilst considering his parting words. “You thick headed bloody woman. Can’t you see you’ve just changed the destinies of two empires and quite possibly put them both on an unstoppable collision course for the future.” And with that flourish, he whipped around, fumbled with the handle, finally managed to prise it open, jumped out from the carriage, slammed the door on the tail of his ballroom dancing jacket, almost wrenched his arm off when attempting to stomp away and then spent the next minute trying again to open the door whilst myself and the girl could only watch on with bemusement. Finally he released himself and disappeared into the crowds with a torn blazer just as the torrential downpour restarted.
I raised an eyebrow her way. “Has a high opinion of himself, don’t he?”
She tapped the roof with the handle of her brolly. “Go! Mayfair!” The carriage began to move as she squinted and for the first time regarded me with caution, shuffling closer to the window. “You mean you don’t know who he vas?”
I shrugged and changed sides to sit beside her. “Of course not, should I?”
She shuffled even further away. “Zat vas Albert, zee Prince of Vales. Zee next in line to your throne and a second cousin of mine. And yes, you may just haz altered history.” She smiled and I went weak. “So you’d better be vorth it.”
“To the blazes with history, royalty and everything else. I still don’t know who you are?”
“My name iss Fräulein Gertrude of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.” She gave me her hand, which I again kissed above the knuckles, lingering, inhaling her scent. “And in case you ver vondering, I’m not a princess, but I am zee next best ssing.”
Oh, to bag a princess, or as good as. But I couldn’t blame her for choosing me over the other oaf, even if he was Queen Victoria’s first born son. Young women, poor and wealthy alike crave excitement and who better to bring it to them than the hero of the realm, Captain Jack Strapper and since, as it seemed, I’d escaped the peelers, the nation’s hero I would continue to be, without the sullying of my name due to my wanton promiscuity. Where Albert was boring and predictable, I was audacious and exciting and I again slumped down in my seat as we clattered by a brace of plod.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 18