“To whom?” Byrne asked. “My cousin who refuses to so much as write to me? To my former investor? To my so-called friends who cannot bear to look at me anymore? I would rather throw every last pence into the sea than see them get it.”
“Oh, well, if I rate just above the sea.”
“I would rather see it put to good use,” Byrne said. “Give it to someone who’s clever enough to use it, instead of moaning about having to dabble in trade while living off their debts or not having the wherewithal to suss out a terrible deal. You have the cleverness, although you’re not showing it right this moment, and I can give you the money.”
“But what about—”
“I have one stipulation, however,” Byrne said. “I wish for you to write a memoir, of sorts. Perhaps diary would be a better word.”
“A diary?” I had read all kinds of published diaries and letters to him. I didn’t believe for a second any of them were actually real and not fabrications intended to spread gossip.
“Yes,” he said. “Each diary entry will feature a… well, I can explain that later. For the first entry, I would like you write about one of your other patrons.”
“I’m not a writer,” I said, for only writers, and painters and musicians, had patrons. Oh, he meant my other culls. “Why?” I had never taken Byrne to be voyeuristic.
“Uncover who he really is, outside the bedroom,” Byrne said. “Why is he there? What sort of man is he? That sort of thing.”
“Why?”
Byrne lifted a corner of his mouth. It was supposed to be a smile, but maybe he was just too tired. “You could escape, then.”
An essay on one of my flats in exchange for Byrne’s entire fortune. I shook my head. All the money in the exchequer’s coffers couldn’t buy me out of this life. I wouldn’t need to rely on Mother Dover, but I had another reason for my trade.
But with that money, I could hire a molly of my own. I wouldn’t be everyone’s meat, too desperate to feed myself to be able to say no. I could feed my terrible hunger on my own terms.
Oh, as if Byrne would ever actually make me his heir. Especially for such a small price. All I had to do was write about a cull? Well, to write what Byrne wanted to hear.
“Fine,” I said. “I agree to your terms.”
“In business, we shake hands to seal a deal,” Byrne said. He tried to raise his hand, but it trembled too much. I had worn him out. I picked up his hand, the skin around his nails yellow, held it in mine and gave it a jerk. That seemed to suffice, for Byrne smiled and fell asleep.
Chapter Two
The next night was Sunday. Sundays were the busiest days to work at a bawdy house. The rest of the week, I may only see one or two flats a night and Mother Dover gave me nights off on occasion, especially since Byrne started requesting me during the day. Her son was good at his vocation — she had enough boys to fill demand the rest of the days.
But Sundays, when all good girls and boys were supposed to be in church, were the busiest days, whether molly or green girl. Something about reflecting on the Lord’s blessed works just seemed to inspire lust in a man.
Sundays meant that we mollies lounged around, talking and flirting with the flats, until two past midnight, when Mother Dover and her son would dampen the rush torches. In the dark, when no man could see the hand in front of their face, and there was only one rule — if someone touched you, you were theirs. Molly, flat, it didn’t matter. One never knew and one couldn’t refuse.
Byrne might like to act so much more civilised, gifting his poor molly with lessons in diction and fashion, but he had used to drop by for the Sunday night exertions. I knew he had had me then, more than once. I knew the shape of his body, the feel of him on top of me, slamming me into the cold wood floor.
I liked Byrne better when he was ill in bed.
On a Sunday night, there was no way to know who took me, and I didn’t like to arrive until just before the torches went out, when Mother Dover noticed me and I still got paid. I didn’t want to speak with them beforehand. What was there to speak about? They would get what they wanted out of my body, and I needn’t do anything more.
So I couldn’t begin my assignment from Byrne until the night after, properly sated by the carnality on Sunday, and healed of all bruises.
Mother Dover kept a parlour on the ground floor, out of sight of the front entrance. Clever woman that she was, Mother Dover kept her bible by the door, in case any bow street runner came calling. In that case, she was the God-fearing old lady who rented her rooms to us boys in the hopes of keeping us on the straight and narrow. Nothing untoward happening within.
The parlour was, of course, the nicest room of the entire house, with luxurious carpet, sofas and chairs, and even a painting over the fireplace. It couldn’t compare with Byrne’s drawing room, but it didn’t shame Mother Dover, that was for sure.
The house rules kept the parlour tame, because we all knew that a runner or an agent provocateur could make it that far, and then we’d all be in trouble.
As long as I remained in the parlour, I knew nothing untoward would happen. Except another molly by the name of Justin Rogers had sat down next to me. Justin Rogers, who had less years on me at nineteen and even less experience, but was handsome enough with his blond hair and exuberant enough to attract a lot of patrons. He made one fine lady on dress-up nights.
So why, with a stable of patrons keeping him at beck and call, did he feel the need to trouble me every night? I glared at him from the corner of my eye, because I just knew what he itched to do.
When his hand started to move, I elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow, what was that for?” Rogers had the temerity to ask.
The room was empty for the moment, Mother Dover in the back fixing something to eat and the other mollies already at work in various rooms in the house. I heard their grunts, their groans. I felt the lust building in their flat’s loans.
I jerked myself away from them. “You know the house rules,” I said.
“I wasn’t doing nothing,” he said.
“No?” I asked. “This was the one time you were going to keep your hands to yourself?”
“You’re more frigid than the Thames in December,” Rogers said. “I was just going to… fluff you.”
“Fluff me,” I repeated.
“You know, get you stiff…” I knew what he meant. I had been working as a molly far longer than he.
“Mother Dover won’t pay you for that,” I said.
“I know.”
“Mother Dover won’t pay me for that,” I said.
“Is that all you think about?” Rogers asked.
“Of course,” I said, giving him an odd look. What else would I be interested in? He didn’t even know about my nature.
“I want to touch it. It’s huge!” He sighed at me, as if I were the incomprehensible one. “What’s it like fucking a cripple?”
I narrowed my eyes at his sudden change. What cripple?
“What?” Rogers asked. “I ain’t never had one before.”
“What exactly are you expecting to happen tonight?” I turned from him, back to the door leading into the parlour. I almost wished for a man to walk through, if only so I could end this conversation with Rogers.
“Just curious,” he said. “You seem to come back peaceful, is all.”
I glanced back at him. He lay back against the couch, as if the answer didn’t bother him, but he seemed confused. As confused as I was. Did he mean Byrne?
The back door to the parlour opened and I jumped. Rogers laughed. “You’re just starting, Kendall?” Rogers asked.
Kendall nodded. He was a quiet boy, not particularly handsome as Rogers was, but well enough looking that he could make decent coin at it. Maybe if he were blond like Rogers, instead of drab brown hair that looked right at home on a mouse, he would have more requests. Apparently, not enough men preferred a honeyed voice, for although Kendall didn’t speak a lot, he spoke richer than Rogers, even though Rogers had actually been a c
lerk before joining Mother Dovers.
Kendall took a seat on a chair across from us. Lucky him. I couldn’t exactly move away from Rogers. He’d take affront to it.
“I’ve already had mine tonight,” Rogers said. “Tell you what, boys. I’ll buy the bottle of blue ruin tonight.”
I almost grinned. Usually, that would mean I could pass any of the men off onto him. I had fed, I would be sated for a few days at least. Then later that night, we could both get foxed anyway.
Except for this writing business. Well, I could wrap that up in one night, and then Byrne could give me the answer I expected — he hadn’t really meant any of it.
“I tried to give this one some help, but you know what he’s like,” Rogers said.
“Frigid?” Kendall offered.
I frowned at him.
“I mean, straight-laced?” Kendall asked, as if this were some sort of test.
“Truly,” Rogers said. “I’m only trying to help you, Damon.”
“Snow,” I corrected.
“Damon,” Rogers said again. “Once I get you nice and plump, with the size of your cock, the next pink that comes through that door…”
All three of us looked toward the door. It remained shut. After a long moment, Kendall shuddered as if the tension had got to him.
“Why would they care?” I asked. No one who had ever ridden me had cared about my enjoyment. If they had, they wouldn’t have carried on. As soon as coin crossed Mother Dover’s palm, there was only one agreement. My body to do whatever they wished.
“Why — why would they care?” Rogers looked at Kendall, as if Kendall could somehow aid him with his grasp of the obvious. “Kendall, did you hear that? Did he really just ask—?”
Kendall showed his colours, but before he could sputter a response, the front parlour door opened and a gentleman entered. Benjamin Dover, Mother Dover’s son, followed him in, shutting the door behind them. Kendall promptly lost all the colour in his cheeks, faster than if he had seen his own corpse.
The gentleman wasn’t new. I had seen him about, every so often, for the past couple of years, although I was not personally acquainted with him. I had heard others call him Price. Mollies, like all whores, are terrible gossips, but I had never heard anything that would suggest such a severe reaction to the man’s presence. I have seen less of a reaction from mollies who had been beaten black and blue.
Rogers gave the man a wink. He must be attractive then, although from what I could tell, Rogers actually enjoyed his work. Only God could fathom why. Price was a head taller than me, and his jacket fit his well-built figure. I almost whistled when my eyes met his calves. This was the man for whom pantaloons had been designed.
Obviously a gentleman, obviously far too much a dandy. But the jacket was old. The cuff had started to wear. I would put him at… two thousand pounds annual income. From the length of his hair, he didn’t spend it on valets.
Perhaps that extra coin would end up in my pocket.
I smirked. I didn’t even need to speak to the man. I could just write the entry on that. The reason he visited Mother Dover’s? The same as all men.
“Well, sir?” Benjamin asked. He rubbed his hands together.
Strike the gift. He had obviously paid Benjamin well — too well to throw more at his whore after.
Rogers grinned at me and tried to elbow me forward. I plastered on a smile that I knew would never reach my eyes. It never did anymore.
“Perhaps Kendall would be obliged…” Price stopped to bite his lower lip.
Kendall jumped to his feet like a startled rabbit. “Much apologies, sir, but — but mayhap—”
The look Benjamin granted Kendall could poison King George III himself. Kendall hardly noticed as he stared at the floor.
As graceful as a feline, I stood and slid my arm around his waist. Price jumped, as if he had forgotten anyone else was in the room. I whispered into his ear, “Kendall is occupied. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind me?”
Over my shoulder, I could see Rogers beaming like a lighthouse. “That’s me boy,” Rogers mouthed. I resisted giving him a dirty gesture.
Price looked back to the Kendall, but Kendall just stared at the dirt, like Price had killed his puppy. And then fed it to him.
I pinched my lips together. If anyone could survive him… Well, the question may be if he could survive me first.
“Yes, that would be fine,” Price finally said without taking his eyes off Kendall.
“Top room,” Benjamin said.
Price was a big spender. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be on me. Well, Rogers had promised me a share of his blue ruin.
I led him up the stairs, past the other rooms. Like other bawdy houses, Mother Dover’s house had been carved up into more bedrooms than any proper house ought to have. In proper houses like Byrne’s, and I would assume Price’s, the more important rooms and bedrooms were lower to the ground. No need for climbing all those stairs. But in Mother Dover’s house, the first floor was as open as the architecture allowed, with cots, sofas, and cushions arranged all around for Sunday nights, or for a quick pitch or other gathering.
The higher one went, and the more privacy one gained, the more the rooms cost. A man could have me on that first floor for six pence. On the top floor, he’d have paid at least ten pounds. Of course, little of that crossed my palm.
But men had to have their comforts. On the third floor, a scream erupted from behind a closed door. Price jumped and he looked at me. It wasn’t an entirely concerned look. I patted his hip. “That’s just Long,” I said, referring to another molly. I sensed the pair inside, Long panting and covered with semen. He always screamed. Apparently some culls liked that about him.
Price looked back to the door. His tongue darted across his lip. Oh, Price liked that too. Perhaps Long would be gaining another regular customer.
But for now, Price was my burden. We climbed the last set of stairs and I opened the door for him. The room wasn’t as posh as the parlour. It couldn’t be, not with the stucco around the fireplace. Carvings of a man thrusting into a woman’s mouth, a man being whipped by another woman, a woman being taken from behind… not really suitable for a molly house. I’d had more than one cull mention it. But that stucco was only a pence a tile from the factory, since half of the Covent Garden bawdy houses used it too, so Mother Dover had decided it would spruce up the place.
Perhaps it would even fool the Bow Street Runners. Oh no, this couldn’t possibly be a molly house. They have naked women on the walls.
The main feature of the room, the bed, was nicer than anyone could find in a molly house. Enough room for two grown men to lay next to each other, with clean sheets to boot. It couldn’t compare to Byrne’s bed, of course, but nothing in this molly house would ever compare.
I sat Mr Price on the edge of the bed and knelt before him. His eyes widened. I examined his expression. My hand went to his thigh. What would a man like him want from me?
The curse of my nature didn’t extend far enough to glean inside his head, or perhaps I already knew and didn’t need to be told over and over again. Price needed to fuck something. The methods, the equipment, it didn’t matter as long as I ended up filled with his semen. Or perhaps covered.
On the floor below, I could feel as much as hear Long get started again with his client, and hoped he received a bloody lip for it. We only got paid for one roll in the sack.
Price heard it too, or he had started to enjoy my subservience to him, for the placket of his pantaloons tented.
“What is your desire?” I asked. I blinked, the sensual smile I was putting into action froze. The question that Byrne wanted me to ask. What was it to him, anyway? “Tell me what you want.”
Price looked in my eyes for a long moment. What was wrong with him? Why was he hesitating? Half the men I’d been with would have been snapping orders at me as soon as we reached the door, and the other half would have dragged me to the bed.
I couldn’t bear his eyes judging me
any longer, so I looked down. His hand caught my chin and lifted it. Oh, so that’s what he liked about Kendall. I could play with that. I kept my eyes away from him. “Please, sir,” I whispered.
“Please, what?” he asked, and I must have had a moon-filled moment, but he seemed as lost as I did.
I didn’t know what to say to that. What was the right word? What would Kendall say? “Please take me?”
Price let out a heavy breath. “Take off your clothes,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said. I stood and stepped away from him.
I slipped out of my jacket, as smooth as Byrne had taught me, and the cravat went next. I let the cravat snake to the ground, Price’s eyes following it. He swallowed.
My hand went into the front of my breeches, and Price’s eyes returned to me. As Byrne had taught me, I slid my hand up, catching the hem of my undershirt, and brought my hand up my chest until I could slip the shirt over my head. That, too, I let drift to the ground.
Price’s eyes roved over my chest. I cut a fine figure, if I do say so myself. Part of my inheritance, I supposed.
A peal of laughter came from below. “What are they doing?” Price asked.
“Fucking,” I said.
“I want to do that,” Price said.
Of course he did. Why else would he be at Mother Dover’s?
I slid off my shoes and peeled off my breeches and stockings both. Price gave me a shocked look as he peered between my legs. Yes, yes, I was large, and it wanted to be fed, even knowing it was never fed directly. I didn’t wait for him to say anything, but dropped between his knees and undid the placket. Unlike me, he actually wore underdrawers, and I fought with them for a minute to let his cock spring free.
Another shout came from below. Price’s cock bobbed.
I lowered my lips to its head. Price tried to thrust his hips up. I understood, I wanted to tell him. No teasing, just fucking. No one had ever accused me of being a tease.
I opened my mouth and it took him all into my mouth in one stroke. Price bucked again, the tip near the back of my throat. His hand went into my hair, and he actually pulled me back.
Damon Snow and the Nocturnal Lessons Page 2