by Bryn Colvin
The lascivious knight of the realm cast his eyes toward the drapes and breathed easily. Chambers had drawn them closed, excluding the world from the deeds Sir Jasper now longed to perpetrate with his gorgeous conquest. His eager hands were soon undoing hooks and ties and, as the body of Jenny emerged from the swaddling of her long dress and undergarments, his temperature rose. With feverish desire he thrust the package he was carrying into the hands of this goddess of lust and hoarsely implored her:
“Wear this for me, dear Jenny. You can go behind that screen.”
She took the parcel and sashayed over to the tapestry screen, blew him a theatrical kiss and went behind this makeshift stage set.
Five minutes later she called, “I am ready, Jasper.”
“So am I. Come out.”
Jenny walked into the middle of room eleven at the Dalton Hotel as though it was a stage. All she wore was the Izod corset Sir Jasper had purchased for her. She waited for the audience of one to greet her arrival with appreciation. Then she gasped.
* * * *
Sir Jasper stood naked before her. His powerful torso making her heart beat violently. She had enjoyed the attention of lovers and admirers before, but there was an air of power about this man that thrilled her. His manhood left her fascinated and biting her lips to control a lust even a woman of the stage was not expected to exhibit so blatantly. He moved toward her and pressed his body into the curves of her thighs, stomach and breasts.
“Why so surprised, Jenny? You said you would be mine…and I would be yours.”
“I know. But we also said…”
“I will keep my promise.”
“When?”
“I have spoken to friends already,” he breathed heavily and his fingers were rubbing the hard fabric of the corset into her slightly open legs. She felt her own resistance slipping away.
“And you’ll get me a proper actress role in a stage play. I’m so tired of these cheap productions at Drury Lane. I want everyone to recognize me as a great actress.”
“The world will come to see you, my dear Jenny. But not as I am going to see you now,” he whispered with the breath of hell’s lust at his beckoning.
“Over here, Jenny.”
He led her to the bed in the corner and pulled back the cover so she lay on the white sheet, her pale skin like soft rose petals. His fingers forced her legs farther apart so he could explore into the wetness of her sex. She moaned and suddenly her frame shook with a cough. As the fit caught her, she turned away from him, her delicate body shuddering delightfully. He waited until the spasms passed, determined that she would tremble for him before he was done.
Sir Jasper leaned over Jenny and felt under the pillow. Yes, Chambers had procured everything. She knew he wanted to take her body with illicit penetration. What she still would not appreciate was that the true instruments of his passion were yet to be revealed. The unctuous Chambers had left the riding crop and manacles, just as the perverted Sir Jasper had instructed.
“Oh, Jenny,” Sir Jasper thought as he felt her muscles tighten under the exploration of his fingers into her vagina, “both you and I will feel the agony and the ecstasy of this love.” Lust burned in him as he revealed the tools of his depravity.
“Bind me and use me,” he demanded.
If Jenny was surprised by his request, she did not show it, but set to on his often-brutalized body with determination.
* * * *
Walking home, Jenny pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, warding off the cold as best she could. She seemed to be feeling it more acutely this year. The summer was upon them, but still the evening chills troubled her considerably. At least it had proved easy enough to play the courtesan role and act out Sir Jasper’s whims.
He was a peculiar man, and his demands had almost shocked her, but she knew that, if she was going to get anywhere, a wealthy patron with good connections might just make the difference. Talent alone seldom seemed to be enough in her profession. At least he was reasonably attractive and attentive to her needs. Furthermore, he had given her a little gold bracelet, which rubbed pleasingly against her wrist. It was a beautiful little item, and she was determined to enjoy it. If needs be, she could always sell it.
Jenny shared a small house with four girls from the theatre and a ballerina who was scraping a living as a teacher now that, at twenty-seven, she was too old to continue dancing. None of them ever had enough money even to eat properly, and the place was always cold. She could not imagine what it would be like once the winter was on them in earnest. Feeling the rub of gold against her arm, she smiled: A few more gifts like that and she would be able to live a little more comfortably.
Chapter Four
Afternoon tea with the Melchetts. Sir Jasper hated the thought. He tossed the gold-edged invitation card onto the seat of the cab. The journey was a mere fifteen minutes from his town house in Bath to the elegance of Empire Crescent, built in the most fashionable Georgian style. The heyday of the Spa City had declined since the dandies and glamorous ladies of the High Regency had made it a byword for opulence and gracious living, but he still preferred it to his country home, Bellington Towers, five miles southwest at Polchester.
That pile of ancestral expense was bleeding him dry. Those seventeen bedrooms and extensive stabling cost him more than his women. It might have been ideal for the first baronet, who in 1748 had built the stately mansion on the back of unlimited money flowing in from his sugar plantations in the new colonies. Now, nearly one hundred and forty years later, Sir Jasper was facing bankruptcy. Not that his mode of living suggested dire straights. Credit was always available, so long as the bankers did not find out how much he owed.
Extravagant living, coupled with bad investments in the financial crashes of Glasgow in 1878 and Paris three years later, had left him in a pecuniary state. Hobnobbing with the likes of Lord and Lady Melchett might give him what he required: Marriage into money. What he desperately need was a widow with a fortune. Hang the beauty and sex; he could buy that elsewhere if needs be.
Sir Jasper had grown weary of the whores and maids who frequented his bed. When the urge came upon him it seemed to rob him of both control and reason, but ultimately he remained unsatisfied by these fleeting encounters.
He needed something more sustaining and the money with which to pursue a more exciting liaison. Gorgeous Jenny Nightingale had that certain frisson. Unfortunately, the delightful woman was an actress, and while she had plenty of theatrical sensuality he knew that, like most of her kind, she was impoverished financially. She would not help him, but be a continual drain on his depleted resources. She had made it all too clear that he was buying her favour, and her sexual complicity would depend on expensive gifts.
To further complicate matters, there was also the question of his relationship with The Duchess of Penbury; dear, delicious Lotte. A lady endowed with prodigious sexual appetites and a pleasing willingness to share them with him. Unfortunately she had a husband. Percival, ninth duke of Penbury, had the money but was not going to give it to Jasper for shagging his wife.
Opportunities to indulge himself with her were frustratingly limited and he knew that the affair was both hopeless and dangerous to his future. Not that the noble earl had any interest in Lotte’s loins, so long as nothing his wife did might affect his reputation. He could take care of that matter for himself. Penbury’s orifice fixation was centred on a certain aspect of the young men about town.
It had become the gossip of every salon, every downstairs parlour and coffee shop in the metropolis. There was even a rumour circulating that Percival’s poking of a certain young man had elicited a note from the father, General, Sir Archibald Strangler. It was whispered in the Athenaeum Club that the old General had left a card saying the single word “Sodomite.”
“Here, Sir.”
Sir Jasper paid the cabby, and before he had got to the top of the stone flight of stairs, the door was opened by a flunky who ushered him in to an afternoon with
the Melchetts.
“Dear Sir Jasper, we do so like to see members of our government gracing us with their presence,” Lady Priscilla Melchett gushed in welcome, delicately offering a hand for him to kiss.
“You are too kind, I am not yet a member of Her Majesty’s Government.”
Sir Jasper smiled and tried to find an immediate excuse to escape the hostesses clutches. Within five minutes she would have him introduced to the daughters of county squires who were looking for husbands and would then, most probably, sit him in a foursome for bridge.
“I must have a word with your husband, dear lady,” he unctuously said and slid toward the far side of the room.
“How are your agricultural interests holding up?”
Sir Jasper turned. His questioner was Lionel Alpington, a self-made man with extensive interests in the shipping trade out of Bristol. Now there was a fellow who could bail Sir Jasper out of his financial troubles if so inclined.
“Struggling,” Sir Jasper answered.
“Have you heard that this free trade policy of you Liberals is killing our farming?”
“Not quite, Alpington.”
The truth was protectionism on the European mainland had hit the British agricultural market and Sir Jasper’s estate was another drain on his sinking finances. Alpington rattled on, his words barely registering in Sir Jasper’s mind. Instead, Polchester’s Member of Parliament scanned the room, picking out familiar faces and assessing those as yet unfamiliar by the cut of their coats or the prettiness of their faces. Eventually, something caught his attention, and he interrupted Alpington to enquire.
“Who is that, over there with Dorothy Maginshore, Alpington?”
The dapper little industrialist leaned up from his five foot five inches and peered across the room.
“That’s Sir Angus Crosshorn. He’s one of the cousins of…”
“No, no, the lady with them,” Sir Jasper interrupted impatiently.
“Oh, that would be Mrs. Caroline Terrington.”
Sir Jasper lost interest, and shrugged in a bored fashion.
“And where is the lucky Mr. Terrington, owner of such a finely sculptured lady? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to him yet.”
“Sadly departed, I fear.”
“What!”
“The old, rich fool died two years ago. Fancy forsaking the bed of such a prize,” Alpington oozed lecherous envy.
Sir Jasper smiled at the elf-sized bore, made his escape, and nudged his way through the crowd.
“I always shop in Hatton Garden when I’m up in London,” Dorothy Maginshore was holding forth. “Just the most divine Macassar Oil for the hair. One cannot get it anywhere else.”
“Dolly!”
Sir Jasper greeted her like a long lost friend, using the familiar name he had once gathered her intimates favoured. She was far too common for his social aspirations, even if she did have money, but they had once been introduced and he suspected she would play directly into his hands. Social climbing was obviously her game and to have people think she was on intimate, friendly terms with a local baronet and Member of Parliament gained her prestige–in her own eyes at least.
“Jasper dear, what a delight to see you again.”
He managed not to wince at this familiarity, and smiled broadly as he eased himself in between Dolly and Sir Angus, reserving his attention for Caroline Terrington.
“This is Sir Jasper Akenfield,” Dorothy said and beamed at her two companions like an overfed cat–proud and stupid.
“Do you know Sir Angus Crosshorn?” He is…or rather was…a Vice Admiral.”
“We have met in Whitehall, I believe, sir.”
He nodded at the biliously coloured Navy man. Without waiting for a reply, he waited for the second introduction.
“Mrs. Caroline Terrington.”
Dorothy giggled for no particularly evident reason.
In those few moments, Sir Jasper started to scheme. Here was a rich young widow–he thought no more than thirty years of age–with the face and figure to satisfy his desires. Money and sex were a potent combination. In Caroline Terrington he saw all his ambitions, lusts, and predilections being granted. With such wealth and respectability as her husband would command, he could extricate himself from the mess he was in, and when proper due had been paid to the marriage bed, he could still dally with Jenny and Lotte.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He took her pale fingers lightly and let his gaze wander over the fine features of her face. She was lightly boned and exquisite with her neatly dressed red hair and demure attire. While she was no longer in mourning, she wore a simple dress of dark blue, with remarkably little decoration or adornment for a woman of her alleged wealth. Her starkness was elegance itself, especially when compared with the grotesquely overdressed woman at her side.
“I am pleased to meet you, Sir Jasper.”
Her voice was soft and low, and pleasing to his ears. There was no hint of vulgar accent.
“Her father is Alexander Hardcastle, of Harrogate,” Dorothy chipped in, as though this was supposed to mean something to him. Jasper had never heard of the man and assumed he was probably one of those dreadful northern industrialists.
“Please excuse me,” Caroline murmured and, with that, his prize slipped away.
Chapter Five
The air was heavy with rich, disorientating smoke that swirled and curled around the few candles, seeming to caress the skin of the prone and naked girl stretched out in the centre of the circle.
“Are you ready?”
Charles Cadwell turned slowly towards his sister, meeting her determined gaze and seeing the excitement in her eyes.
“Ready. The girl is deep in a hypnotic trance, and I…” he glanced down at the straining erection that pushed its head up towards his stomach. Frederica nodded and twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. Her task in this adventure was to play witness and, armed with a superb memory, apparently unshakable nerves, and an eye for detail, she knew herself more than capable of fully reporting her brother’s exploits afterwards. Offerings had been made and prayers intoned. Some of what they did Charles had gleaned from ancient magical writings, the rest was the fruit of their own creativity and desire to flesh out the bones of incantation with potent, dramatic ritual.
Charles approached the circle and looked down at the apparently sleeping girl. She was rather a plain creature for a whore, which undoubtedly explained why she was willing to undertake more unusual requests. One of the other gentlemen from the Temple of Ecstasy had recommended her after she had performed a remarkable feat of oral pleasure for himself and his colleagues.
There was undeniable appropriateness in using a bawd for this rite; the Goddess he meant to draw down was queen of sexuality and some of her own mysteries did indeed include acts of whoring. Still, Charles suspected that to truly achieve his ends, he would need a finer vessel for his ambition–a woman of greater delicacy, sensuality and passion, with a strong mind as well. Where he could find such a creature, he was unsure. Frederica fitted the bill, but it was not to her taste–not to undertake the rite with him or any of their male colleagues for that matter. He took a deep breath. Most of the ceremony was enacted, but the most vital part remained.
“I call you, Ishtar, Goddess of passion and sensuality. I summon you, Astarte, queen of love and desire. I honour you, Asherat, incarnation of lust and sex. I invoke you, Innana. Oh, goddess of many names and forms, queen of congress and ecstasy, I ask that you reveal yourself to me and bless me with your gifts.”
With that he sank to his knees, gently parting the legs of the girl before him and sliding his body over hers. He felt for the girl’s sex and found it pleasingly slick with a mixture of his sister’s making. He supposed she had probably enjoyed that part of the preparatory work. He slipped the full length of his erection into her, revelling in this simple pleasure. For the task ahead he would need both perfect focus and absolute subm
ersion in pleasure. He began to move, matching the rhythm of his pounding hips to the pace of his breathing before he began to repeat the chant he and Frederica had so carefully devised.
“Come Ishtar, come passion, come vision, come pain. Come Ishtar, come pleasure come power, come gain. Come Ishtar, come goddess, this offering take. Come Ishtar, come passion, come vision, come pain. Come Ishtar, come pleasure…”
The temperature in the room seemed to be rising as the urgent rhythm of his invocation permeated the smoke-laden air. Charles could feel his skin prickling with energy and his rod strained, utterly engorged with blood and filling the young whore with every stroke. She remained still beneath him, her face impassive as the trance held her.
“Come Ishatar, come pleasure, come power, come gain…”
Sweat dripped from his face and slicked the palms of his hands. He held on as long as he could, concentrating on the chant and letting the power build and build within the circle. He could only wonder if his mind or his balls would lose control first.
“Come Ishtar, come passion, come vision, come pain...”
Cadwell struggled to maintain the chant as his pace increased to match his forceful strokes. The raw, primal energy of orgasm flooded him.
“Come goddess, this offering take,” he shouted, the pitch of his voice rising as the hot fluids gushed forth from him in a single, violent burst. The girl came to life beneath him, her body jolting and trembling in a potent response to his release. Her eyes opened, burning with a dark light, and her legs gripped his back, pulling him tighter against her. Charles found himself unable to stop, his hips thrusting beyond his control, orgasm after orgasm shaking his body until his balls ached and his head was spinning. He could see her face, her beautiful soul-stealing face, and the vision of her filled his mind before he finally lost consciousness.
When he woke, it seemed as though his body was on fire, so intense was the pain. His skin was in torment, sensitive beyond tolerating the light silk wrapped around his shoulders.