Justine Elyot's Blog, page 24

1888 Part 6

The maidservant's virtue is imperilled…

 

Molly Macaulay considered herself more fortunate than most young ladies of her class and background.  Brought up in the workhouse with her seven surviving siblings after her parents had been taken by the typhoid, she had assumed a future of penury and hardship would be unavoidable.

 

But then one day, she had somehow caught the eye of one of the Board of Guardians when he came on an inspection visit.  She could remember it as if it were yesterday – she had been out front on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the flagstones in the yard.  A cold day, it was, and her hands were red raw from the bitter wind combined with the sudsy sloshing water.

 

The two Guardians crossed in front of her, in confabulation, when suddenly one of them stopped.  A tall, well-made man, dressed in the height of fashion with a most extraordinary waxed-moustache; why, you might think he was a Prince or Lord of some kind.

 

"You, girl."  He turned back and approached her, at which she sat up straight on her heels and lifted her chin respectfully.  "How old are you?"

 

"Fifteen, Sir."

 

"The same age as my own daughter," he mused.  "How the Fates collude to raise up one and lower another.  What is your name?"

 

"Molly, Sir.  Molly Macaulay."

 

"And are you a good girl, Molly?  Do you say your prayers?"

 

"Indeed I do, Sir, both morning and at night."

 

"Well."  He stroked his chin ruminatively for a moment.  "I believe that your fortunes may this day have taken a turn, Molly, for it so happens that I seek a lady's maid for my daughter.  I shall speak to the workhouse Master and ascertain your suitability for the position.  Would that please you, Molly?"

 

"Oh, Sir!  Oh yes it would!"

 

Molly's hazel eyes sparkled with an access of hope and excitement.  It was every workhouse girl's dream to attain a position in a grand house, and surely this man's house would be grand, judging by his attire.  And a handsome man, too, if a little old; past forty, she wouldn't wonder.  It was interesting to note how money could make the years take a gentler toll on the face  – not many workhouse men lived to forty, and those that did were shattered ruins of humanity.

 

The very next day, Molly Macaulay sat in the hansom cab with her bundle of forlorn possessions, gazing out at the white pilasters and porticoes of Mayfair, on her way to the London residence of Mr Rupert Smythson Esq., Purveyor of Fine Goods and Sundries from the Oriental Colonies.   Her natural optimism was thrown vaguely off-kilter by the memory of the conversation she had had with her older sister before dropping off to sleep in their shared cot for the last time.

 

"You're pretty, Moll, and that's why he's give you the position.  You wants to watch that ain't the only position he's got in mind."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Gawd, don't you know nuffing?  There's usually only one fing a fine gent wants a pretty girl for, Molly.  It's what I'll probably end me days doing if I ever wants to leave this place."

 

"Jen, he's a gentleman.  He wants a maid for his daughter, that's all."

 

"No, Moll, he wants a pretty maid for his daughter, else he wouldn't have spoke to you at all."

 

Molly dismissed the unease this recollection had introduced, noticing that the carriage was drawing to halt outside a very handsome mansion in Half Moon Street.  Her new home.  It certainly beat the Marylebone Workhouse.

 

*

 

Three years later, Molly was a shapely young woman of eighteen.  Jen's dire prophecies had not been borne out; Mr Smythson – now Sir Rupert, after an elevation to a baronetcy in the 1887 New Year's Honours – had left her to her business, scarcely even acknowledging her once she was properly settled into her post.

 

It wasn't what you could call an exciting life, but there were good times to be had.  Florence was a nice enough girl, if a little aloof, but that was breeding, she supposed.  There was pleasant company below stairs, and a fine game to be had of fending off all her suitors among the livery lads and tradesmen.  She could have been married ten times over by now, if only she weren't holding out for somebody better.

 

Clearing away the table after the evening's earlier controversial dinner party, Molly allowed herself a smile, thinking of how she had sent the knife-grinder away with a flea in his ear.  Walking out with a knife-grinder; the very idea!  No, Molly's heart was set on a gentleman and nothing less.

 

Low mumbles of conversation carried through now and again with the cigar smoke from the next room.  The gentlemen were indulging in brandy and a post-prandial smoke, as was their custom.  The lady of the house was in bed after another of her turns, and by all accounts, poor Florence was in disgrace.  She had sent Molly away when she had gone up to offer help with her preparations for bed, and her voice had been suspiciously unsteady.  It was probably nothing;  it was to be hoped that it would not disturb their plans for the operatic visit.  Here was Molly's big chance to mingle with the quality and she was loth to let it go.

 

"…away from those confounded gaming houses."  Molly's ears pricked up; Lord Hunter-Fox had raised his voice, unusually for him.  Was there an argument taking place?

 

"…no need to concern yourself….Coutts…valued customer…No, Sir, I am conscious of that, of course!  But…."

 

Molly ducked down behind the table instinctively as the door opened with a bang and Lord Hunter-Fox, looking quite as terrifying as she had ever seen him, strode through the dining room, on his way out.

 

At the slam of the door and his firm footing on the stairs, she bobbed back up again, only to be confronted by the master of the house, leaning against the drawing room door jamb with a lopsided smile.  His hair was a little dishevelled and a half-full bottle of cognac dangled from his fingertips.

 

"Ah, my sweet Molly," he slurred.  Molly blushed.  Over the last few weeks, she had been noticing him attending to her more and more.  "My little workhouse treasure.  Those pretty hands weren't made for scrubbing flags."

 

Molly was unsure how to respond to this inebriated flattery; she made a great clatter of gathering up the unused cutlery and smiled tightly.

 

"You've broken a few hearts down in the kitchens, I hear," he persisted.

 

"Oh, no, I'm sure I have not, Sir.  Is my Lady feeling better?  Can I take her anything?"

 

"She'll live," drawled Sir Rupert with an expansive gesture of his arm that had a drop of finest Remy Martin spilling out of the bottleneck.  Molly clutched the silverware to her chest and looked for the most convenient door to the kitchens.  "Oh, don't run, little turtle dove.  Stay awhile and share a drop with me."

 

"I…ah…"

 

"Merely a little drink, Molly; you may never again have the chance to taste a liquor of this distinction."  He smirked flirtatiously at her, pouring her a glass without attending to her reply.

 

"Well…I suppose a sip can't hurt, Sir."

 

Molly accepted the crystal goblet and followed her employer back into the withdrawing room.  She stood shyly at the centre of a fine Persian rug while Sir Rupert made himself comfortable in his favourite oxblood leather armchair.  She waited for him to give her permission to sit, but it seemed a great deal of time coming.  Instead he looked her up and down, settling back into the chair and baring his teeth in a vulpine smile.

 

"Do you remember the day I found you, Molly?"

 

"Indeed I do, Sir, and I am still everso grateful for it, believe me."

 

"Yes, I believe you."  Sir Rupert's smile flickered and he raised a beckoning finger to his daughter's maidservant.  "Over here, sweet thing.  Don't be coy.  Come a little closer."

 

Molly trod haltingly over what seemed acres of floor, keeping her eyes lowered, until she was a foot or so away from the reclining Baronet.

 

"Don't you like my brandy?" he asked her teasingly.  "You have taken but a tiny sip."

 

"Oh, it is very nice…I'm sure."

 

Sir Rupert gave one thigh a portentous slap.  A half-gasp escaped Molly's lips.

 

"Come and sit on my lap, girl.  I'll show you how to appreciate fine brandy.  You hesitate – what, do you take me for a rogue?"

 

"Oh no, Sir," said Molly in alarm, more fearful of offending the man who provided the roof for her head than of compromising her virtue.  She perched herself precariously on the roué's knee, keeping her eyes studiously fixed on her glass until he braced an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and tipped her chin upwards with his other hand.

 

"Now see, Molly," he began, retrieving his brandy balloon from the side table, "this is how a gentleman approaches a fine spirit.  Do as I do."  He swirled the warm golden liquid gently around its glass bowl and Molly copied the lazy wrist action of her captor.  Next she was encouraged to raise the glass to her nose and take a deep inhalation of what Sir Rupert seemed to think was a heavenly aroma.  To Molly it smelled rich, potent but with a harshness that made her wrinkle her nose, not at all sure she would find it palatable.  "Thus we determine the bouquet," said Sir Rupert, somewhat bafflingly.  What did flowers have to do with it?  A nice mixed posy would certainly beat this worrisome drink in the fragrance stakes any day.  "Now take the merest drop on to your tongue….feel it burn itself on to your flesh until it dissolves, leaving only the tang of its fire…and now you can take a mouthful…"

 

Molly did so, and immediately began to splutter, wanting to spit the foul concoction back into its glass and rush to the kitchen for a swallow of cordial.

 

"Oh, Molly, no!  This is sacrilege!  Drink it down, pet, it will strengthen you.  Such a slip of a thing needs nourishment.  Come, waste is wicked, as we know."

 

Molly nodded, somehow managing to rush the powerful brew down her throat from whence it could go and play merry hell with her stomach.

 

"And now it doesn't seem so unpleasant, does it, turtle dove?" whispered Sir Rupert into her ear, and…oh…it was true.  A blushing warmth fanned out from her collar bone upwards, to tingle in her cheeks and sting her lips.  It was a giddy, almost confident feeling, and she smiled up at Sir Rupert, suddenly at ease and wanting him to know it.

 

He smiled back, fondly.  "Eighteen now, Molly?" he asked, arranging his fingers around the strings of her white frilled apron to hold her fast.  "No longer a girl.  My Florence will be introduced to Society in the spring, placed squarely on the marriage market.  Do you hope to marry soon, my dear?"

 

"Oh, not soon, I'm sure."

 

"Take another sip; go on, don't be shy.  No suitors on the horizon?  No favoured swains?"  Molly giggled and shook her head.  "Come now, a sweet little treasure like you?  I can't believe that to be true.  Are you toying with me, Molly?"

 

"No, Sir!"  Molly gasped as Sir Rupert placed the palm of a hand on her fevered cheek, cupping it gently, intimately.

 

"Lady Adelaide's health is so fragile," he murmured.  "If only she had your constitution…your strength…your bloom… But she is so sickly these days, and a man sometimes needs…comfort…"

 

"Comfort, Sir?" Molly's breath was quickening, the brandy inflammation roaring through her blood so that she did not know quite how to think.

 

"Ah, I wish you well, Molly.  I know you will make some unworthy lout very happy.  You aren't one for the vapours and the fainting fits, are you?  You wouldn't keep your husband from your bed…"

 

"Sir, I…this is not…I'm sorry to hear it but…"

 

At the sound of urgent footsteps entering the dining room, Sir Rupert tipped Molly from his knee and dashed back the remains of the brandy.  He strode through the connecting door, and Molly heard the concerned, lowered voice of Lady Julia.

 

"She is no better, Rupert…you must go to her…she is raving about your ruin and Florence's dishonour…please call the physician…"

 

Molly shrugged, poured herself another glass of cognac and sank down pleasurably into the indentation her suddenly very interesting master had made in the leather.

 

 

Mi Amore

With Valentine's Day creeping up on us, the time has come for Total E-Bound to release its collection of themed short stories, Mi Amore. The theme, as the title might imply, is Italy. When I read the call for submissions, I jumped at the chance to write about something I have adored since I was twelve – opera.

I always find it amusing that opera is regarded as a highbrow and rarefied art, because so much of opera is about sex. Tosca, the Puccini work that provides the structure of my story Sempre has been described by one eminent musicologist as a 'shabby little shocker' – and it is true that the political message of the Sardou play it was based upon is largely lost in the passion and melodrama of the plot. But I write erotic romance, so passion and melodrama are where it's at. Of course I'm going to love opera.

Though the background picture is of Venice, my story is set, like Tosca, in Rome (the hero looks a lot like that dude though…) Here is a snippet:

"Beneath the shadow of the battlements, in the obscurity of gathering night, Luca and Julia's lips met, sealing their promise to one another. Ignoring the hard stone ground, they fell together, full-length on the floor, faces in hands, legs between legs, hearts bumping up against each other.

The Castell was deserted now, the tourist crowds having drifted off for pasta and nightlife. Luca and Julia, forgotten by the guards, took the chance of that last crumb of comfort before their worlds had to change.

Just for tonight, thought Julia, let us be together.

The passion of their kisses intensified until they were like one conjoined being, twisting and panting in coils on the ground, pressing and kneading its four hands wherever it found free flesh.

Luca pulled Julia up from their position on the bruising stone and flattened her against the battlement once more, standing between her and the open terrace, covering her from sight of any onlookers.

"We are alone here," he whispered, his hand finding the torn shred of her dress, reaching inside to stroke along the line of her bra cup.

"Luca!" Julia was appalled and exhilarated at his implication, heat and wetness flooding her knickers at the thought. "Not here!"

"Why not here?" he asked, his other hand finding its way beneath her skirt, drawn upwards toward that burgeoning heat source. "Don't you want to?"

"I…oh God, Luca…" His hand was patting the damp spot between her legs, rubbing the soft cotton until it clung to every crease of her lips and clit. Her capacity for word formation fled, leaving her a sighing, melting mess in his hands.

"I think you do want to," he laughed gently. His fingers slid inside the material, dipping into the honeyed floods they found there. "Come on…Tosca and Cavaradossi would have done it. We have their passion, don't we?"

"Mmm," moaned Julia, swivelling her hips to push herself further on to his touch. His mouth and nose fitted snugly in the hollow between shoulder and neck, and he devoured the tender skin he found there, nipping and sucking at it while he continued to work his fingers between her pussy lips until she was helpless, unable to resist his delicious onslaught.

"Stand on the step," commanded Luca, helping her up on to a raised flagstone so that her height roughly equalled his. He hoisted one of her legs up, positioning it so that it wrapped around the hollow of his back. Now, when he pulled the panties aside, Julia's pussy rubbed against his swollen crotch while her mouth was the perfect height for grabbing kisses at will.

Julia circled the hard protrusion slowly, while Luca worked swiftly to unbelt and unbutton himself. Before his trousers fell to his knees, he grabbed the condom wrapper from his pocket and tore it open with eager white teeth, sheathing himself with urgent skill.

"Open up for me, Julia," he hissed, and she hooked her leg tighter around him, bringing him home to the safe harbour of her widespread lower lips and the narrow channel beyond. He edged inside, careful not to slam her back into the Roman stone, then he took hold of her hips and guided himself to the hilt, groaning ecstatically once he was fully enclosed. Julia looked past his dark head to the stars above, tightened her arms about his neck and contracted her muscles around him, holding him there, wanting to keep him there, safe and hers, for as long as was possible.

But Luca was not going to stay still for long. His upper body was trembling already and his forehead glistened. He pulled back and then surged forward with a gasp of pleasure which Julia echoed. The pace was slow and careful, as it had to be with such a strong possibility of injury or discovery, but Julia found that the twin stimuli of the open air and their sweeping need for one another compensated for fast and furious speed.

Luca took her patiently and considerately, making sure that he stroked all the right spots, letting her sensation build without hurry. Julia nestled into him, absorbing the love and the tenderness, wanting to remember how they felt forever.

She came strongly and sweetly, clutching and unclutching his hair. When Luca came inside her, he tensed for a moment, then let out a long gasp of air, kissing her face and neck. They remained locked together, swaying in each other's arms, letting the distant traffic noises envelop them, feeling small in the enormity of the Roman night, but knowing that they had the most important thing in the world just there.

"Is this a private fuck or can anyone join in?"

Julia screamed into Luca's neck, hiding her face in his shirt collar, feeling his neck twist around to pinpoint the interloper.

"Gianfranco," she heard him say. "Why aren't I surprised?""

The book is available from tomorrow at the Total E-Bound website. Grab yourself something hot and Italian for Valentine's Day. In the meantime, here is some of the beautiful music mentioned in the story.

Indigo Skye With Diamonds

I'm delighted to welcome a guest to the House of Elyot today – my fellow Noble Romance author and Uniform Behaviour contributor, Ms Indigo Skye (and her UB story was about a priest too – always guaranteed to get my attention). She has lots to tell you about her new release, Her Captive Muse, as well as a scrumptious free read for you, so without further ado, I'll hand you over to Indigo.

Indigo Skye is celebrating the release of her first novel, Her Captive Muse, with a blog tour. Visit her blog for all the juicy details and a chance to win fabulous prizes!   http://indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com/2011/01/kicking-off-my-blog-tour.html
Author Bio: Indigo Skye is a writer, photographer, artist, and visionary living in the American Southwest.  Her blog, Indigo Skye: Ink and Art ( www.indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com ) is an exploration of the sensual in words and images. Indigo Skye's first book, Her Captive Muse, was recently released by Noble Romance Publishing, and is available online at https://www.nobleromance.com/ItemDisplay.aspx?i=235. Her short story, "True Confession" was included in the anthology, Uniform Behavior, edited by Lucy Felthouse.  Her fiction has also been published online at Erotica For All, The Erotica Library, Ciara Dallas, Victoria Blisse, The Noble Authors' Blog, Romance with SASS, My Pouty Lips and Felicity Gold.

Ready for a free read? Here's a smasher!

The Man Downstairs

My first night in my new apartment, I decide to throw a huge housewarming party for all of my old friends- and my new neighbors. It's a great bash, and being newly single, I'm eager to get some action and christen my new bedroom.

On my own after a nasty breakup, I'm ready for some single-girl fun. My best friends, Mandy and Chris, are here to cheer me on, get me drunk, and introduce me to all the available guys in the vicinity.

"What about the guy with the ponytail?" Chris asks, yelling to be heard over the blaring house music.

"Ew, no!  You must be drunk," I tell her. "He's ancient.  And, FYI, Chris, that's a comb-over, not a ponytail."

"You're cut off," Mandy teases her, taking away Chris's beer and swilling half of it herself.  "Beer goggles, beer goggles, beer goggles," she chants, downing the rest at a go. I laugh as they continue to fight. They fight like sisters- with much humor, and great love for each other.

"You two work it out.  I'm going outside for a smoke," I tell Mandy.

"I thought you quit," she says, narrowing her green eyes at me in an evil glare.  "Is this a drunk cigarette, or are you starting again?" she asks, hands on her hips.

"It's definitely a drunk cigarette." They both give me suspicious looks, which makes them seem more like sisters than ever. "It is. I've got two left in my emergency pack and when they're gone, I'm quitting again." I give them both big hugs and say, "Find someone cute for me to flirt with."

I slip outside on a warm wave of party-laughter. The porch is crowded, so I edge past them and down the stairs to the little courtyard below.  It's beautiful in the moonlight, with pepper-trees and rose-vines bordering a small labyrinth of white stones.

A chill breeze blows over me as I open the gate and enter the deserted little courtyard.  There's a little gazebo under the boughs of an ancient pepper tree near to hand, and I venture inside for shelter from the wind. I'm hoping to get out of the wind long enough to light my cigarette.  It's dark in there, all overgrown with rose-vines, and I take a seat in one of the wrought iron chairs. I dig through my purse, finally locating my emergency cigarettes.  But I can't seem to to find my lighter.  Not even a cheap pack of matches from a bar.  Nothing.

"Damn it," I mutter, cigarette bobbing between my expectant lips.

"Need a light?" I look up, startled, and see a dark figure emerge from the shadows beneath the pepper tree.  Although his voice is quiet, it is oddly penetrating.  I can hear every word clearly, in spite of the howling wind.

"I'd love one," I tell him, beckoning him into the gazebo with me.  "Come in out of the wind," I tell him. "Aren't you cold?" I ask him, shivering. He's not dressed for this storm, wearing only a red T-shirt and a baggy pair of torn-up jeans.

He shakes his head no, and lights a wooden match from a box in his pocket.  I smell sulfur and damnation on his fingers.  Where his hand touches mine to shield that bright little flame from the wind, I notice that his skin seems to be radiating heat.  Touching him only makes the rest of me colder. I button up my sweater all the way to my neck.

"Could I bum one of those?" he asks.  I nod, and hand over my last emergency cigarette.  He sees it's my last one and thanks me- tries to give it back, in fact.

But I insist. "No.  Take it.  My friend Mandy will be thrilled.  I promised her I'd quit when this pack was gone."  He holds it up wordlessly, one more time, making sure.  But I wave it away. "It's all yours."

He lights up, the flame revealing dark silky hair and a serious, intent face.  His eyes are hidden in the shadows.  His skin exudes a sort of ruddy good health; and he's got a wicked smile.  We smoke in silence for a moment, and then abruptly he says, "You're my new neighbor.  Caitlin, right?"

"Right.  But how did you-" I begin.

"I saw your flier in the laundry room.  I'm Damian.  Damian Hirsch." He puts out a hand for me to shake.  Again, I'm struck by how warm he is.  His skin feels like a brick that's been baking in the sun all day- he's that warm.

"Caitlin O'Rourke," I say politely, hugging my sweater close around me.  The warmth and liveliness of my housewarming party seems suddenly very far away. I realize no one knows where I am, and this frightens me a little.

"Poor thing…you're freezing, aren't you?" he asks sympathetically.

"It's a little windy, is all," I say, teeth chattering out the words in short staccato bursts like machine-gun fire.

"Wait right here." He leaves the gazebo and disappears beneath the shadows of the pepper tree, returning with a beat-up leather jacket.  Cut for his broad-shouldered frame, it fairly swims on me- but it's warm, and it keeps the wind at bay.

"Thanks," I say, when my teeth stop chattering.

"My pleasure."

I finish my smoke and say, "I should get back to my party. Stop by later, if you want," I tell him, knowing somehow that he won't come.

"Not my scene," he laughs. "Why don't you come over to my place when the party's over?  I'm downstairs, in 2-C. I stay up late," he tells me, with a wicked grin. "See you later?"

"Maybe," I shrug, trying to play it cool. "If I can sneak away." He smirks and turns to go. "Wait- your jacket!"

"Keep it," he says, walking away. Before I can say any more, he vanishes into the deep realm of shadows beneath the vast old pepper tree.

It's a cold night, windy and superstitious.  I dig my hands deep into the pockets of Damian's coat.  I feel something in the left pocket- a little book, maybe, or a notepad.  Curious, I pull it out, stopping under a streetlight to investigate. It's a small, rectangular object, wrapped in a cloudy grey silk scarf. I untie the complicated knots, revealing a battered old deck of cards, oddly warm to the touch. They smell like him- sulfur and ashes; smoke and sweet, sweet sin.

I look at them wonderingly, realizing it's a pack of Tarot cards. The Tower, The Hanged Man, The Moon, The Devil, The Lovers…  I recognize the images, but the words are in a language that's unfamiliar to me. Did he mean to give me this deck of cards, as well as his coat? I decide that a gift like this was never meant for me- he must have left them in his pocket accidentally. I wrap them back up in the scarf, and put the pack back in my pocket.  I shiver a little, staring at the moon peeking out from behind a cloud.  I decide to go up to his place later and give his coat back. I won't even mention the cards.

All through the rest of the night, I think of Damian- his dark eyes; his serious face. I want him; there's no doubt about it- but he's my new neighbor.  And there's something dark about him, something that frightens me.  This makes me hesitate- it could be an awkward situation, if things don't work out between us.

It makes me hesitate… until about three o'clock in the morning.  After that, all bets are off.

Lonely and horny, I put on a fresh coat of lipstick and clear the last few drunks out of my apartment. Then, I change into my lucky red dress. When I'm wearing this dress, I look so good I get whatever I want.  I slip his jacket on over my silk dress and let myself out. I hurry downstairs, looking for 2-C.

It's not so hard to find- it's the only place on the second floor that's still got lights on inside. I knock softly on the door, hearing a torch-singer wailing about how her man done her wrong. There's no answer. I knock a little louder, and clear my throat self-consciously. Damian opens the door, smiling. There's no need for words. He kisses me, and pulls me inside.

I take off his leather jacket and hand it to him. He tosses it over a chair without taking his dark, intense eyes from my face. I can see my own desire reflected in his gaze. He kisses me hard, and holds me close, running his hot hands down my back.  He grips my ass, squeezing hard, and grinds his hips against me. I can feel the hard curve of his cock through the thin silk skirt of my dress. In the hallway, which is painted red to match my dress, he shoves me up against the wall.

"Don't make me wait-" he says. He's already reaching for his belt, unbuttoning his fly, slipping a condom over his swollen cock. I push my panties aside and he lifts me up, grabbing my ass.  I wrap my legs around him; feel his hard hot mushroom tip nudging against me.  Damian moans, grinding harder.  I put one finger to his lips, signaling him to wait. Then, as he holds me against the wall, I put my hands between my legs and guide him inside.

He's huge; and it hurts a little at first, but it doesn't take me long to get used to his girth. He starts slowly, building to a quick, driving rhythm when he senses I'm ready for a change of pace.

"It's so hot inside you…oh, yeah…that's what I need," he says into my hair, biting gently at my earlobe, nibbling my throat. Rocking his hips faster, he thrusts deeper and deeper inside my tight little box. I'm wet and aching for it; it's been ages since I've come this hard. I tear off his shirt, and bury my fingers in his hair. I kiss his neck, his chest, his shoulders- anything I can reach. He fucks me madly, with a wild, lush abandon that soon has me crying out loud and waking the neighbors.

I come again and again, shrieking out his name. I can't help myself. I've never been fucked like this before. I didn't even know this kind of fucking was possible, outside of porn films. Damian is tireless; even though we've been at it for hours and the pale dawn light is beginning to creep around his thick curtains, he still hasn't come.

When we take a break to change positions, I have to ask: "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No. It's great- fucking wonderful. Why?"

"Well, you haven't…uh, you know…" I close my eyes in embarrassment. "Never mind."

"No, no. I have very good control. And I want you to be satisfied; happy-"

"I'm so satisfied I'm about to pass out," I tell him. He roars laughter and fucks me with renewed vigor and determination. I scream again and again, and claw bloody furrows in his back.

"Oh…oh Caitlin…" he cries out, arching his back, and then reverts to a language I've never heard before. It is low and guttural, and sweetly melodic, a dark croon. He comes hard, and collapses on top of me.  Holding me close afterwards, Damian's so warm it makes me feel claustrophobic.  When he falls asleep, I free myself from his embrace.  I dress silently, and tiptoe out of his apartment with my shoes in one hand.

In the shower, I see Damian's marks on me- love-bites, all over my throat and breasts; little bruises shaped like his fingertips.  Touching the crescent-moon on my shoulder from his teeth, I immediately feel hot and wet again.  I dress quickly, then walk back downstairs.  I want a quickie before I go to work, and if we hurry, there's just enough time.

But when I arrive at Damian's apartment, he's not home.  In fact, it looks as if nobody's lived there in a long time.  There's a pile of aging newspapers moldering in front of the door.  No curtains in the window; not a stick of furniture inside.   Strange.  In fact, it's impossible.  I was only in the shower for ten minutes.  I can still taste his kisses.  I check the apartment number again, sure that I've got the wrong place.  But this is 2-C, all right.

I don't really have time for detective work, but I'm curious- and a little uneasy.  I have to know.  So I knock on the super's door.  Mr. Johnson answers, still in his ratty orange robe.

"What can I do for you?" he frowns.

"Well, I had a question about…about one of the apartments," I say, which is not exactly a lie.  "2-C.  Is it vacant?  One of my girlfriends is looking for a place, and I told her I'd ask."

"Yeah, it's empty.  You wanna take a look?"

"That would be great," I smile.  I'll be late to work, but fuck it.  I have to know.  Johnson sighs, and slams the door in my face.  When he opens it again, he's jangling a big key-ring in one hand and muttering to himself.  I follow his wide ass up the stairs, and he opens up 2-C.

"Has it been vacant long?" I ask, tracing my finger over the thick layer of dust on the windowsill.

"About two years," he grunts.   "Hard to rent a place with a history."

"What do you mean?" I ask, frowning, wondering if it's got anything to do with Damian.

"You didn't read about it?  It was all over the fuckin' papers.  This kid moves in with his girlfriend a couple, three years ago.  At first it's all good, but then the neighbors start to complain.  I'm getting calls two or three times a night about them fighting, or fucking.  They're so loud that somebody eventually calls the cops.  After a couple weeks of this, there's a little bit of a change… things get quiet.  Too quiet.  You know?"  he asks me.  Not wanting to interrupt the flow of his story, I nod.

"One night…one crazy night, they had the worst fight I've ever heard, and she left him.  The next morning, one of his neighbors found him down in the courtyard, under the pepper tree, dead as a friggin' doornail."

I gasp.  "He died?"

"Oh, yeah.  Woulda been pretty fuckin' weird if he hadn't.  She stabbed him, see?  Right in the chest.  Kid left a trail of blood all the way down the stairs…it was a bitch to get it out of the carpet," he says, gesturing to the bedroom floor.  "Had to replace it all.  It's brand-new now."

Glancing into the room, I see a little piece of paper in one corner- right where the bed was last night.  "What was his name?" I ask the super, but I'm afraid I already know.  I step into the room and pick it up, turning it over in my hand.

"Damon?  No…Damian.  Damian Hirsch," the super said.  "And I haven't been able to rent the place since.  You think your friend might be interested?"

Gazing down at the object in my hands, I feel pale.  I say, "Now that I know the story…I don't think so.  She's, uh…she's pretty superstitious," I tell him, and thank him for his time.  I bolt out the door, and run back upstairs, call in sick to work.

I sit down shakily on the couch to study the object in my hands, my mind a knotted tangle of questions and fears.  It is, of course, one of Damian's Tarot cards- The Lovers.  If I stare at it long enough, the dark-haired young man on the front of the card seems to smile and wink, as if promising we'll meet again.

Wonderful stuff! Thank you so much for heating the place up for me tonight, Indigo!

1888 Part 5

Starving in a garret never looked so appealing…

 

Vyvyan Stanford was ever considerate of his lovers' comfort and pleasure, but even the log-piled fireplace, the warm chintz half-draped across Jessie's nude thighs and the curtains drawn against the rickety sash windows could not prevent blasts of icy air penetrating their little temple to the gods of love and creation in SW3.

 

"Darling, are you almost finished?  I shall freeze solid in this pose soon," complained Jessie, fretful and unable to shift lest the quantity of strategically-placed dried rose petals that dotted her upper torso should scatter and reveal a stray nipple.

 

Stanford put down his palette and brush, cocked his head to one side so his luxuriant hair brushed a shoulder and smiled indulgently.  "A very pretty ice-sculpture you would make too," he remarked before swooping over to kneel beside the chaise whereon Jessie lay, brushing aside a cluster of petals and replacing them with the pad of his thumb.  "Oh yes, my poor Muse is in need of warmth," he crooned, circling the stiff red peak and blowing hot breath upon it.

 

"Oh Vyvyan, a wrap and a hot cup of tea were what I had in mind," clucked Jess, "but now you've started…oooh…don't stop…."

 

The buds stood upright, brazen pink sentinels, even as the white mounds they topped puckered into gooseflesh.  Jessie was conscious of nothing but the throbbing pleasure-pain that swelled her nipples bigger and harder than seemed possible, burying her hands in Stanford's abundance of chestnut hair and squeezing at his scalp while she giggled unrestrainedly.

 

"Ooooh, Vyvyan, oooh, stop, it tickles!"  Her protests were sincere, though somewhat belied by the prickling beads of excitement seeping into her nether curls.

 

Vyvyan's response was to dart the tip of his tongue, tensed to a point, swiftly across the diameter of that precious summit to which all his attention was directed, the gusts of the low laughter precipitated by Jessie's resultant squirm drifting down the mountainsides.

 

Squeaks and yelps turned to languid erotic moans once Vyvyan, having his fill of lapping at the tumescent nub, slipped its entirety into his hungry mouth and sucked heartily.  Starving in a garrett he might be, but this was surely the food of the gods!  He essayed a little wordplay on palette and palate as he feasted, looking for some witticism with which to impress Oscar at his next soirée, but he could not perfect it, so returned his full focus to driving his lovely model to a distraction of lust.

 

When he lifted his head, Jessie sucked in a breath, noticing the sharp distinction between his hot mouth and the frigid air that replaced it and imagining the shiny slickness that now coated her nipple freezing over into ice.  But this fear held only brief tenure in her mind, chased onwards by the plunging of Vyvyan's tongue into the welcoming location of her mouth, inveigling her into a kiss whose passion bordered on frenzy.

 

Oh yes, she and Vyvyan were kindred souls, brought together by the kind of chance lovers liked to call Fate, and never to be wrought asunder.  Who else would understand their unconventional way of loving but each other?  Who else would accept the other's need to be free even while their hearts were captivated, to taste and experience all that life had to offer, without constraint or fear of society's reproof?  Neither of the pair accepted any limits on their natural right to explore beyond the margins of decency, for what was decency anyway but a spurious straitjacket imposed on the people by autocrats who feared the consequences of giving the public imagination full sway?  No, they would live without apology or bourgeois restriction, and they would love accordingly, moving blindly in whatever direction their desires took them.

 

Vyvyan's fingers slid beneath the heavy smoothness of the drape and dipped briefly between his lover's lower lips, finding them dewy with liquid heat.

 

"My Aphrodite," he murmured, finding her ear with some difficulty beneath her extraordinary copper halo.  "I know what would warm you."

 

"Mmm, so do I," panted Jessie, but his proposal was not what she expected.

 

"Pleasure yourself, my love.  Put that pretty hand between those legs and let me sketch your face when it transfigures in ecstasy.  No man should be denied that sight; surely the faces of the Seraphim kneeling at the feet of their Lord could not rival it."

 

"Vyvyan, don't go…" wailed the redhaired temptress, propping herself on her elbows and frowning, but the artist was back at his canvas, selecting charcoals and urging her to spread her legs.

 

Relenting, Jessie shot him a brazen smile and crooked one leg whilst moving the other down off the chaise, so that Vyvyan's gaze travelled straight into the V-shaped delta thus revealed.  Her pubis was adorned with delicate curls the very shade of her leonine mane, fleecing her parted lips on either side and providing an exquisite colour contrast to the ruby red hood peeking out from the centre of the tableau.

 

"Beautiful, oh, divine," shuddered Vyvyan, his drawing hand shaking slightly at the addition of Jessie's slim white fingers to the picture.  She pressed and stroked with unhurried languor at first, then she cupped one breast with her free hand and began to flick at the nipple, biting her lip in her absorption until it was stained almost blood red, her limpid green eyes rolling upwards and back, her waxen cheeks suffused, her chest heaving.

 

"Yes, yes, Jessie, yes, please, this is exquisite!" encouraged Vyvyan, keeping the rhythm going, adding broad sweeps of his pencil to capture precisely the careless rapture of Jessie's pose, shouting in triumph as he found the expression he needed and then his model was at her crisis, heaving out his name, shaking her hair and kneading at her breast until she sagged back down against the cushions, spent and flushed.

 

"Mmmmmmm," she purred, clasping a silken pillow to her cheek and closing her eyes.  "Now I could sleep."

 

Vyvyan's eyes were torn from his sketch to the vulgar bulge in his velvet knee-britches.  "Not yet, though, love?" he pleaded, flinging down his materials and joining his Jessie on the chaise.

 

*

 

Later, over tea and toast, the drowsy lovers pondered their situation once again.  Damnable though it was to have to admit it, if one wanted to live a life of freedom, one needed capital.  Ever since Vyvyan had exhibited his first semi-nude goddess, his allowance had been shaved back to the bare minimum, in stern rebuke from his father, a merchant banker.  He had sold a few paintings here and there but it was true to say that only the barest of Bohemian existences could be financed from this.

 

Jessie earned a modest wage as a chorus girl, but it covered only sundry necessities such as food, wine, absinthe and opium, as well as clothing and entertainment.  How were they to travel, to see the world and its ways, on such a minuscule budget?  Something needed to be done.

 

"Darling, I've said it before and I'll say it again.  There are men who would queue up to give me money, to buy me jewels and furs.  Why not let them?"

 

"Jess, I know, but…it pains me to think…"

 

"I would not have to do anything, dearest.  Just let them buy me dinner, take me to the races.  Surely that would not be such a hardship?  After all, we each have other lovers."

 

"Yes, but they are for our mutual pleasure, not for….base profit."

 

"Ah, love, but base profit is what we need more than anything.  The world is wicked, Vyvyan, and there is nothing we can do about it.  Let us at least use its wickedness to our advantage."

 

Vyvyan sighed.  "You are always so practical, my dove.  I suppose you are right."

 

He sipped ruminatively at his tea and twirled one russet curl around a finger.  How could such ethereal looks adorn such a hard head?

 

 

Come back on Friday when I'll have a special guest in the House – champagne and oysters for all!

Chorus of Approval

My heart has been warmed this chilly week by kind words written about The Choirmaster.

Before I started writing for publication, I posted prolifically to various online writing communities, and I became used to getting speedy and generous reactions to everything I wrote within a few hours of uploading it. Publishing is a different kettle of feedback fish altogether; on releasing a book or story, I have this sense of flinging it out into a vast universe where it has to take its chances. Maybe somebody will read it. Maybe nobody will. You can never count on any recognition at all in a crowded marketplace.

I was relieved and delighted, then, to get three reviews for the story of Matthew and Loveday. Here are excerpts from all three.

" …I would love to hear more about (Matthew) and Loveday, and more than anything I think that's the sign of an outstanding book. The ending was great…yet I didn't want it to end.

If you like the BDSM genre, and want an intriguing love story, pick up The Choirmaster by Justine Elyot. I was truly glad I did."

(review by Zoe at Readers' Roundtable)

"The Choirmaster reads like an urban fairytale…Elyot lets her huge voice and huge passion for life shine through…Highlights for me included: London! Amsterdam! – the hurt/comfort angle that felt intense but never too overwrought – the vivid descriptions of the music and being in a choir – Loveday's physicality (I wanted to pick her up and cuddle her) – Matthew in general (deliciously certain about what he wants from life while being an all-around decent bloke – that kind of quiet confidence is HOT)."

(review by Rachel Randall at Goodreads)

"I really enjoyed this book, especially because of the overwhelming heartfelt scenes of self-discovery."

(review by Danielle at Coffee Time Romance)

January is almost over, so I'm going to leave Matthew and Loveday to their shiny new life and move onward to February, which will be altogether more operatic. In the meantime, here is the final piece mentioned in the book – a Christmas song, but I hope you can forgive me for that – the beautiful Sing Lullaby by Herbert Howells.

1888 Part 4

Lord Hunter-Fox comes to dinner. He is overbearing, haughty and a bit scary…I quite fancy him already.

 

 

 

Florence made her grand entrance to the Green Drawing Room in a rippling swish of extravagant silk, confident that she looked every inch the young lady of fashion and taste.

It seemed that the four other diners concurred with this estimation, for each paused in the sipping of fine Amontillado, holding their schooners steady while they perused the flower of youthful beauty from ringletted head to the jet buttons of her boots.

"Florence," quavered her mother from the chaise longue, where she reclined amidst a froth of ruffles, her glass jerking around in her unsteady hand. "Beautiful choker, my dear. Why, I think I saw something exactly like it on the Princess of Wales."

Adelaide Smythson's attention reverted to the amber aperitif, while Aunt Julia nodded formally, still in black crepe, looking for all the world like a beakier, bonier facsimile of the Queen.

Florence turned to where the two males of the party stood in conference, smiling at her father, the waxed ends of whose moustache bobbed upwards in reply.

"Ah, Floss," he greeted her. "Good evening, m'dear. We have the honour of Lord Hunter-Fox's company tonight."

As soon as she sensed the watchful eyes of the Lord upon her, Florence felt the familiar sensation of burning embarrassment and frustrated irritation. Why must this man persistently haunt her home? Why did he not take it upon himself to find another wife if he was so avid to participate in family life? She knew he had been a widower for more than ten years, Lady Hunter-Fox having died in childbirth, along with the babe. It was, of course, unfortunate, but it did little to lessen Florence's antipathy towards him.

Her small kid-gloved hand was taken in his large, elegant one and raised to his lips for the customary kiss. "Miss Smythson," he murmured, and his voice, as ever, made her ears prickle and her skin flush. Insufferable man.

"Lord Hunter-Fox," she replied stiffly, her eyes focused slightly to his right in order to avoid full contact with his. Somehow her mouth always turned down and her chin thrust outwards whenever she had to acknowledge him. The pressure this put on her jaw muscles would eventually lead to an unpleasant ache and she would have to force herself to relax her face, usually around the end of the entrée.

"I trust I find you well." The pleasantry came out halfway between threat and verbal caress.

"Quite well, thank you, my Lord. I hope the converse is also the case."

Before Lord Hunter-Fox could make his reply, the butler announced that dinner was served, and the quintet made their stately way to the dining room.

Florence's taut jaw slackened by infinitesimal degrees as she digested her brown windsor soup to the accompaniment of some dull discourse between the men concerning foreign policy. Darts of tension returned every time she raised her eyes in Lord Hunter-Fox's direction to find his gaze firmly upon her, his expression one of…was it disgust? Anger? Whatever it was, it filled her with unease.

The soup plates cleared and replaced by roasted duck, Lord Hunter-Fox made his conversational pounce in the manner Florence had grown to know and dread.

"Your aunt tells me you have been broadening your cultural horizons today, Miss Smythson," he said, the polite observation laced with unidentifiable poisons.

"That is so, my Lord," said Florence warily, knowing Lord Hunter-Fox well enough to sense an attack in the offing and girding her defensive loins accordingly. "Aunt Julia accompanied me on a gallery visit."

"Dowdeswell's, wasn't it? That young artist whose name is upon all lips…though I forget it myself…"

"Vyvyan Stanford," muttered Florence, pressing her own lips together with annoyance at the cat and mouse game she found herself unwillingly drawn into.

"Stanford?" Rupert Smythson galvanised, staring at his daughter with quivering moustache. "The chap who painted those…semi-clothed ladies frolicking in a pond?"

"The Naiads at Play," sighed Florence. "Yes, that is by Vyvyan Stanford. He is a brilliant talent, the critics are in universal agreement."

Aunt Julia coughed grumpily. "I may not be artistically inclined, but I cannot concur. Lurid, sentimental stuff, quite unsuitable for young ladies."

"Can't get along with those Pre-Raphaelites myself," said Rupert. "Wishy-washy colours, what? Give me a good Stubbs any day. Nice bit of horseflesh."

"And what is your view, Miss Smythson?" Lord Hunter-Fox resumed his cross-examination. "Do you consider Mr Stanford's…oeuvre…to be appropriate material for a well-bred young lady?"

"Yes, I do," Florence's voice rang out confidently, if a little querulously. "I consider great art to be suitable viewing for all."

Lord Hunter-Fox's eyebrows shot up, his disapproval almost tangible. "Do you hear this, Rupert? Your daughter would no doubt have Vyvyan Stanford's disreputably-clad nymphs added to the syllabus at the Board School. You should mind her, Sir, mind her well. She has a dangerous independence of thought."

Florence had heard this lecture innumerable times; it seemed she only had to express any opinion at all to be accused of having a wicked and wanton nature which needed to be far more forcibly curbed than her father's indulgence was willing to allow.

Sure that repetition of this diatribe would interfere with her digestion, Florence threw a diversion across the gleaming lawn tablecloth to her mother, who was toying unhappily with a glazed carrot.

"And, Mama, you will never guess whom I ran into at Dowdeswell's? Why, I was quite exhilarated to see her again. Jessie! My oldest friend, Jessie Carter from Camberwell."

Adelaide and Rupert exchanged pained glances at this intelligence.

"Florence, must you persist in mooning over what is long past?" bleated her mother.

"I trust you did not acknowledge or speak to her," frowned her father.

"Well…of course I acknowledged her. Of course I spoke to her. Why would I not?"

Mrs Smythson threw down her fork with a cry of distress.

"You know you must not upset your mother, Florence! Her health is delicate!"

"What is upsetting about meeting an old friend? I do not understand your displeasure!"

"She is not a class of person with whom you should associate," flustered Rupert, waving his knife agitatedly. "No good can come of her society. I forbid you to speak further with her."

"You forbid me? Papa! She is a perfectly sweet and respectable young lady! Why, she is in the chorus at the Savoy."

"Florence! Consider your mother!"

Florence turned and briefly considered the now-hyperventilating woman. This was all an act, thought Florence crossly, a manipulation. Never mind the Viennese doctors and their diagnoses, her mother was simply a spoilt overgrown baby who got her own way by throwing tantrums. It was too maddening to be borne.

"Oh, I consider her all right," fumed Florence. "I consider her, and you and Aunt Julia and Lord High and Mighty Hunter-Fox. But when will I ever find a moment to consider myself?"

"Florence! Go to your room immediately! Brandon, the smelling salts, quickly! Madame has the vapours!"

Florence rose unceremoniously and flounced out of the room, studiedly avoiding the frosty glare of Lord Hunter-Fox until she was well out of his range.

Whatever those stuffy old fuddy-duddies thought, she was seeing Jessie again, and there was an end to it.

Bits, Bobs and Barbicans

The Choirmaster is available to buy from AllRomance Ebooks now, as well as the Amazon Kindle store so, to celebrate, I thought I'd do a little post about the London location where the action begins.

Londoners have a love-hate relationship with the Barbican, but I have always loved it. It was controversial when it opened in 1982 and has been voted the city's ugliest building, but I have always found much to love in its brutalist concrete blocks and windswept piazzas. Perhaps it is a huge and odd thing to find so close to the ancient London City walls, but I always relished coming up to street level and seeing it, like an alien spacecraft full of cultural delights come to land in our midst.

I've seen and heard many wonderful things behind those 70s-carpark-like walls. I've wandered around the fake lake at night asking myself if I was in love. I've met orchestral players and watched Shakespeare. I've even (like Loveday) been caught in a thunderstorm within its vast precincts and had to drip dry in my seat at the recital.

It's different. It's a freakishly still and silent place in the centre of chaos. I hope it lasts at least a few decades longer.

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1888 Part 3

Florence involves her maid in her plotting…

1888 Part III

Sitting alone at her vanity mirror, Florence found her imagination assailed with those images from the private viewing room she had strained so assiduously to avoid.

Yet they had been unavoidable. The writhing limbs and intertwined bodies were seared into her consciousness now; they had impinged ruthlessly on her peripheral vision until she had been forced to admit them, then they had swarmed in and rearranged the furniture of her imagination into configurations hitherto undreamed of. Were such acts truly performed? Did men spear maidens mercilessly with their…their…oh, she could not even think a word for it…while they were bent over in front of them? Were there ladies so lewd that they would think nothing of spreading their thighs widely to expose their…that hair and…oh, surely a decent husband would not demand that of one? Surely a decent husband would not expect his wife to…oh, to put it in her mouth?! Why had she looked? Why had she not clamped her eyes tight shut and allowed Jess to lead her through by the hand?

Yet Jessie had not seemed to turn a hair at all this awful bestial display. What had she called it? 'Erotic art', as matter-of-factly as if she had been describing a lampshade in a catalogue. How very strange. She was, of course, very happy to see Jessie again, but although she was undeniably the same girl she had played with as a ten year old, she was somehow exotically different. Almost foreign, as if she had spent long years in the colonies and returned with a quite new set of moral and behavioural codes. Or would Florence have been the same, had she stayed in Camberwell?

"Do you want me to lace you now, Miss?"

Florence's uncomfortable train of thought was abruptly derailed by her maid's enquiry.

"Oh…yes, Molly," she said, her tone still somewhat distrait. "Tightly as you can, please. You know Lord Hunter-Fox dines here tonight?"

"Oh, yes, I heard he was coming." Molly began to criss-cross the laces up the back of the constricting whaleboned armature. "I shall stay below stairs. He frightens me, Miss. Such a severe gentleman, he is."

"Indeed." Florence frowned, thinking that Molly was unaccountably more familiar with her these days, and wondering what had encouraged her to confide such thoughts. Did she imagine Florence had any interest in a maidservant's opinions? Still, she could scarcely dispute Molly's summation of the exalted Lord Hunter-Fox. He was indeed an intimidating character, regardless of the great patronage he had conferred on Papa, financing his business until he was able to realise his dream of moving out of respectable but obscure Camberwell and into the cream of London society. It irked Florence that they always had to be grateful to Lord Hunter-Fox, to remember how much they owed him, to address him with the appropriate respect and humility. She felt that it was shameful to be so beholden to him, and it embarrassed her when Papa or Mama apologised for expressing an opinion he might not concur with, or fawned excessively over his every pronouncement. Florence was not sensible of any indebtedness to the imperious Peer, but she did wish he would stop addressing her in a tone that lay midway between disapproving and patronising in their every exchange. It was clear that he thought her quite beyond the pale, so why did he not just leave her be?

Molly puffed and strained to pull the stays taut enough for her lady's requirements, until the corded laces almost burned her hands.

"Enough," wheezed Florence, her peaches and cream complexion almost purple. "Enough. Let me catch…my breath…." The young lady stood erect, composing herself for a few minutes while she admired her tiny waist and upthrust bosom in the pier glass. In just the satin-ribboned corset and her lacy pantalettes, she was suddenly, unwelcomingly reminded of those hussies in Vyvyan Stanford's sketches. Breasts heaving while a male hand strayed down the front of the cambric undergarments…

"Oh, dress me, Molly, quickly!" she commanded, half-turning to point out the elegant blue evening gown laid out on the bed.

"Surely, Miss, at the double," said Molly cheerily, attending to her task.

"Molly, what would you think of accompanying me on a little excursion…an adventure, you could call it?"

"Oh!" Molly's lively brown eyes danced into alertness. "An adventure! Would it be dangerous?"

"Of course not," scoffed Florence. "But it would be secret. Just between you and me. Papa must never find out, nor Mama, I suppose."

Molly licked her lips as she helped Florence into the peacock silk. "That's a powerful pretty colour on you, Miss. What's the adventure?"

"A night at the opera, Molly!"

"Lawks! The opera! I ain't never been there!"

"Well, not Covent Garden," conceded Florence. "The Savoy. Gilbert & Sullivan."

"Ooooh, yes, Miss, that would be wonderful! I often hear the errand boys whistling their tunes. ' I've got a little list,'" she sang, impromptu.

"So you'll accompany me? Splendid." Florence stood still while Molly buttoned the bodice of the gown up over the rippling curves of the corset. "Just splendid."

Waiting For News

I remember last January. It was a desolate month for many reasons, but one of them was the day after day after day of nothing in the inbox, nothing in the post. I'm not a patient person by nature and I'm hoping there isn't a purgatory, because the wait for the celestial thumbs-up or -down would inevitably drive me to commit some heinous act, thus condemning me to the eternal flame by default.

So I wasn't expecting much of this month. But it has been altogether different – full of news, gossip, reviews, excitement. What has made the difference? A year of sheer graft, I think. I was inclined to view 2010 as a bit of a write-off, but now all the tedious spadework I put in seems to be paying off. Things Are Happening.

I have a contract with Carina Press, who will publish my erotica novel (tentatively entitled Amusements) in late summer/early autumn.

I am writing three (count 'em) other novels, in between various shorter pieces, and enjoying every minute.

My story Just Watch Me is the free sample from the anthology Kinky Girls at the Xcite website just now.

And I had news this week that my story, Mephisto Waltz will appear in Rachel Kramer Bussel's anthology for Cleis Press Obsessed.

Last January has already been beaten into a cocked hat, and we're only halfway through. I'm ready for whatever the rest of the month has to throw at me.

1888 Part 2

Moving on from the grim scene in part one, you are cordially invited to make the acquaintances of Miss Florence Smythson and Miss Jessie Carter.

1888 Part 2

There were few bright sides to a visit from Aunt Julia, but one of them was her convenience as a chaperone when the four decorative walls of Miss Florence Smythson's gilded Mayfair cage became too oppressive.

"One cannot help but ask oneself when this idiotic Pre-Raphaelite fad will gasp its last," sniffed Aunt Julia, curling a disdainful lip at a portrait of the Blessed Damozel picked out in muted greys and golds.

"Oh, I believe it is still a highly fashionable style," replied Florence mildly, biting back the temptation to pour artistic scorn on her companion. She was surely to be pitied rather that censured, in her primitive state of Philistinism. Besides, Florence had keenly anticipated this exhibition visit for some weeks, and the plaintive mewlings of some bitter old spinster were not going to besmirch her pleasure. Instead she made her usual reflexive nervous gesture of pulling one flaxen curl to reassure herself it still possessed the optimum quality of springiness and stepped onward to the next canvas.

"Vyvyan Stanford is garnering quite a reputation as the new darling of the Aesthetic movement," said Florence, swooning down to the viridian depths of the oil-painted pool into which a flawlessly beautiful Narcissus gazed.

"Tch, that boy is barely clothed," clucked her scandalised aunt. "It is not fitting for young ladies of breeding to be looking at youths in…loincloths. Your father will not be pleased."

"Oh, father will not mind," averred Florence carelessly. "You must not pester him with such trivialities, Aunt. He has grave business concerns to attend to, as you know."

"Florence, your tone is altogether too disrespectful…" began Aunt Julia, and Florence sighed inwardly, noting that the puckered wrinkles around the maiden relative's thin mouth signalled the opening of a long and indignant lecture. She had made all the customary preparations for this eventuality, closing off her mind and allowing a blurred film to descend over her eyes when her attention was diverted by somebody calling her name.

"Is it you? Florence Smythson? Can it be?"

Florence turned her head to see a warmly smiling red-haired girl approaching her, arms outstretched. The blonde heiress frowned in an effort of recognition which was thrown somewhat off-balance by the unconventional appearance of the young woman. Surely she did not have the acquaintance of a lady whose hair cascaded untrammelled down her back, and who furthermore did not even appear to be wearing a corset? She was sure she had no dealings with such a coarsely presented person.

"Oh, it is, I am sure! There can be no mistaking those sea-blue eyes. Oh, Florence, do you not know me? Have you forgotten how we played together at whipping tops in the street in Camberwell?"

Florence sucked in air so hard she had to fend off a coughing fit. In a confusion of deep blushes and fond reminiscence, she cried, "Why, Jessie! Jessie Carter! Oh, you have grown up!"

Jessie laughed delightedly, throwing her head back so that extraordinary russet hair swished about her elfin features.

"Well, of course, Flo! It has been eight years since we were bosom companions. How my heart broke when you had to move away. I swear I thought I should never recover."

"And I also." Florence smiled back and dabbed away the threat of a tear from the corner of her eye with her fine lace handkerchief. "Goodness! Jessie!"

"Why did you never reply to my letters? I sent them every day for months afterward."

"I…letters? I received no letters."

Aunt Julia, visibly disconcerted, began casting vaguely around her for some excuse to break up the reunion. Sensing this, Jessie turned to her and said brightly, "There is excellent cake in the tea room. Why don't you treat yourself to a slice while Florence and I revisit our childhoods?"

"I…not sure it's wise…"

"Ah, do, Aunt Julia, please," entreated Florence, widening her cerulean blue eyes in a way she knew her father always found quite irresistible. "I am accompanied, and no harm can come to us in a public exhibition hall, I am sure."

Aunt Julia shook her head so that the black ostrich feather on her bonnet swayed amusingly, then capitulated. "Very well. I shall give you half an hour, and then, Miss, we must depart to dress for dinner. You know we have company tonight."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, kindest and sweetest of aunts," cooed Florence, embracing the discomfited but slightly mollified woman, who humphed and sailed off to the tea room, secretly relieved to be away from all those godless paintings.

Jessie's green eyes sparkled with delighted mischief. "Now then, Flo, darling, we can really talk! Come with me; I know a place we can be private."

Florence followed her old friend through the galleries. "Do you work here?" she asked, confused.

Jessie laughed tinklingly. "Oh no, dear. But I am a great friend of the artist, and I have access to the private viewing room."

"You are a friend of Vyvyan Stanford?"

She laughed again. "You will love him – and he you. Come – but Florence, you must promise not to be shocked. Do you?"

Jessie paused to pull aside a heavy velvet drape, revealing a door with brass fixtures.

"I…what might shock me?"

"The pictures in the private viewing room are…well, let's just say Aunt Starch-Bloomers would not approve!"

"Ohhh," breathed Florence, feeling a dirty little pang of guilty excitement at the base of her stomach. "Perhaps I should…cover my eyes?"

Jessie snorted. "You needn't look, Miss Puritan. Come on then."

Florence stepped after her friend into a more intimately-sized room, halted in her tracks by the sight that confronted her. The cold January sunlight that poured in through the pitched glass roof illumined a variety of sketches and paintings whose lascivious nature illustrated scenarios that had not occurred to Florence even in her most abandoned daydreams.

"But Jessie!" she half-screamed, before finding herself hustled across the room to a small office from which the lewd artwork was only peripherally visible. Florence sat down and sighed with relief at escaping the half-disturbing half-alluring scenes, watching while Jessie located a crystal decanter of a jewelled red liquid and two glasses.

"Do have a drink, dearest. It's just a light red wine."

"Thank you. I rather need to settle my nerves."

"Oh dear, you were shocked, weren't you?" An exasperated tenderness glowed in Jessie's eyes. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. When they took you out of Camberwell, they took Camberwell out of you too, didn't they? You are quite the fine young lady these days."

"When Papa made his fortune, everything changed for me," confided Florence. "He hired a governess and I learned to sing and play and where to find all the countries of the world on a globe. We have the best of everything now. Papa doesn't like to be reminded that we were ever in Camberwell and it is so seldom mentioned that I had almost forgotten myself."

"So you do not miss it?"

"Not Camberwell itself. It is an undistinguished enough suburb. But I do miss…I did miss…most awfully…having a friend. I've never had a real friend since you, Jessie."

Jessie impulsively grabbed Florence's hand. "Oh, you poor thing," she crooned. "And to think, I was jealous of you! Fine clothes, meat every day, balls and card parties. I used to dream of that life every night after you left."

"Oh, I like the clothes and the meals well enough, but I have not attended a ball yet," smiled Florence. "I am to be presented at Court in April, so all that is to come. I suppose I ought to look forward to it but…I find it all so tedious."

"I can understand that. The very idea of 'the Season' makes you all sound like a collection of game birds, to be shot at until you are bagged. It's rather…inhuman. Don't you think?"

Florence giggled. "Jessie Carter, you are a radical. But you echo my own thoughts on the matter. Of course, Mama and Papa are set on moulding me into a perfect porcelain society belle with no thought in her head beyond snaring some chinless lordling and deferring to his half-baked wishes evermore."

"That isn't the Flo I know," said Jessie slyly, refreshing Florence's glass. "She had a mind of her own."

Florence sighed. "They've tried their best to cultivate it out of me. You know, I'm so glad we've met again. We must rendezvous often. You have reawakened a dormant spirit in me!"

Jessie clinked Florence's glass. "To our indomitable spirits!" she proclaimed, and the two girls dissolved into ringing gales of mirth.

"But how do you live now, Jessie?" asked Florence. "How do you come to know Vyvyan Stanford?"

"I have taken to the stage," whispered Jessie with a mysterious wink. "I am in the chorus at the Savoy."

"Then you work with Mr Gilbert and Mr Sullivan? Oh, how absolutely thrilling! I quite dote on their operettas! Why I had to pester poor Papa until he took me see The Mikado eight times!"

"Indeed? Then perhaps you will be pleased to know that there will be a revival of Mikado in the Spring, pending the new show at Christmastime. Before that, we are reviving Pirates. Have you seen it?"

"Why, no, I have not – I was too young when it was first performed, though of course I know most of the songs." She broke into a brief snatch of Poor Wand'ring One, into which Jessie joined with gusto until their laughter forced them to abandon the tune.

"I can get you free tickets if you'd like," offered the redhead.

"Oh," Florence sighed, "I doubt Papa would want to come."

"Then come alone. Or with a friend."

"Alone?!" Florence was aghast. "That is quite impossible."

"Then bring…I don't know…your aunt." Then, at Florence's hollow laugh, "Or your maid. I suppose you have one?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I do. Oh, but Jessie, do you think…?" An unquenchable mischief seemed to have taken possession of the young demoiselle, and the thought of creeping out of the house to see a theatrical presentation filled her with violent glee.

"You must come! I'll have tickets held for you at the box office. Then afterwards you can come backstage and we'll go and take supper together! It will be the most delicious fun!"

"Yes, yes. It will!" Florence's mischievious inner sprite allowed itself a pensive moment. Fun. She had almost forgotten what that might be; a concept that had been left in the dusty gutters of Camberwell along with her favourite marbles.

"Then it shall come to pass!" declaimed Jess. "Come, we should find your aunt. If you drink any more of that wine, you will be hopelessly sloshed, and I shall get the blame."