Willing (3 page)

Alisdair pressed her shoulders down, leaning down to her ear. “I did not command you to speak.”

His words were hushed, just for her. He held her stare, his face upside down to hers, then pressed his fingertip to her forehead. She felt the warmth of his touch, then the cool of moisture left in its wake. He’d wiped his blood across her forehead. She jerked against the arms that held her, but they held fast. Alisdair gestured to someone at the foot of the table, then looked down at her again.

“Who has come to worship at my altar?”

The figures all spoke in unison, including the ones holding her down, “We have.”

Alisdair’s hold on her shoulders shifted as the men holding her took her by the ankles and spread her legs. She jerked against it, kicking at their strong arms to no avail. She glared up at Alisdair, seething. Whatever she was being paid, it wasn’t enough if there would be knives involved.

The men bent her knees, pulling her legs up high over her. She wriggled in their grasp, crying out in protest, but there would be no fighting them. Jesus, where the hell was Roger?

“If you hurt me -”

“No one will hurt you, Constance. Release. We need you in a state of ecstasy, not rage.”

“What?!”

Alisdair glanced up to the foot of the table, and Constance followed his gaze. One of the robed figures was climbing onto the table. She took a sharp breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

Alisdair bent down to her ear, whispering for just her. “As my altar, I need you in a state of serenity. You’re meant to be a vessel for our Goddess. Your anguish will sour the work we do tonight, but your joy will empower it. Will you let us worship you?”

Constance looked down at the figure now leaning over her, his mask still on his face. A low rumble began to fill the room and Constance realized the hooded figures were now chanting. The man over her pulled the hood of his robe back, and she recognized him - one of the stoic men from the brothel. He glanced up at her, his eyes darkened by the mask, then slowly lowered his head between her legs, never breaking eye contact. She watched, breathless, but didn’t protest. Still, she shrieked in shock, but Alisdair’s hand clamped over her mouth just as the man’s tongue touched her clitoris. She whimpered against Alisdair’s hand, his dark eyes inches from hers, watching her face.

“Your cries are welcome, as long as they are cries of pleasure. Will you behave if I let go?”

The man’s tongue grew more fervent and she gasped. The men holding her legs apart responded to her by lifting them even higher, opening her to him. Alisdair loosened his grasp, pulling his hand away, slowly. Before she could respond, one of the men holding her legs lowered his own face to her sex, joining the first man in his pursuit. She felt their mouths warm on her, their tongues flitting against her, pressing and sucking as the muscles in her thighs spasmed. She cried out, only drawing a wicked smile from the face that still hovered over hers. He brushed her dark hair out of her face and ran his hand up under her arm, tickling the sensitive place there with the graze of his fingernail.

Alisdair glanced down at the men. “Is that the best you can offer this Goddess before you?”

The men’s efforts doubled and Constance curled into herself, bracing against the fervor of stimulation. There wasn’t an inch of her they hadn’t tasted, and were now lavishing as she convulsed on the hard stone.

Alisdair’s hands took hold of her shoulders again, pinning her back down. “I want you to come, Constance.”

She inhaled, sharply, looking up at him.

“Will you come for me?”

She didn’t answer, unable to form words. He turned to the man holding her legs aloft. “Get it.”

They released her legs, but she kept them where they were, pulling her knees toward her chest to let the men do their work. Her sex was throbbing, and her whole body vibrated in response to their efforts. If this continued, she would do exactly as Alisdair wanted.

The man reappeared and handed something to Alisdair. She wriggled, frightened, craning to see what was in his hand. He took it and held it over her face, letting her see. It wasn’t a knife, but instead a carved wooden phallus, sanded so smooth it glinted in the candlelight. She whimpered at the sight of it, veins and contour clearly modeled after a real man, testicles and all. Alisdair smiled at her reaction and handed it back to the masked man who took hold of her leg again. Both of the men between her legs rose from their perch, allowing the third man to lower the phallus out of Constance’s sight. She fought against Alisdair’s grasp, trying to close her legs. She’d had so many men over the years, some of them stranger than others, she’d even seen a phallus like this once or twice, but never had one used on her. She swallowed, craning to watch the men that hovered over her. She felt the head of the wooden cock, cold and smooth, slipping against her wetness. Then she felt it plunge inside her, unforgivingly hard. Her whole body tensed and she cried out.

“Mmmm, I thought you might like that. She’s ready.”

The two men returned to their work in earnest, lapping at every exposed inch of her, all while the third man drove the phallus in and out of her, letting the wooden testicles batter against her backside. She moaned against the sensation, unable to hold her breath any longer.

“Yes, she is ready, isn’t she?” Alisdair whispered into her ear. His hand slipped down her collar bone and took hold of one of her breasts, kneading it in his hand. She arched her back, crying out again as Alisdair met her gaze. He was smiling. Then he moved over her and she felt the heat of his mouth clamped over her nipple, sucking at her as the other three men serviced her out of sight. She took hold of Alisdair by the hair, the smoothed locks cracking loose in her fingers, and pressed him down onto her breast, clutching the fabric of his robe in the other hand. Her screams seemed muffled by the solid shape of him over her, mingling with the constant chanting, their low voices causing the space to hum.

She moaned louder, then again, unable to stop the sounds as her whole body convulsed. She wrapped her arms around Alisdair, desperately in need of something to hold onto, biting into the fabric of his robe as she came. She screamed, shivering against the mouths that tasted her. The man withdrew the phallus from inside her as the two men relinquished her. Alisdair did not loose his hold on her breast, suckling a moment longer as she fought to catch her breath, as though the warm sensation of his mouth was slowly killing her. Then he moved to her other breast and lapped at her nipple, sucked firmly, then released her.

He stood at full height, rounded the table, and without even a glance, slid his fingers into her sex. She stiffened, shocked by the sudden touch, then watched as he withdrew his fingers, displaying the wet he’d found there as the blond footman appeared at his side. The footman presented the chalice once more, and Alisdair lowered his wet fingers into the cup as the chanting in the room grew louder.

He then took the goblet in both hands, raised it over his head, and then chugged its contents in two deep gulps.

The chanting stopped and a silent reverence seemed to take its place as Constance lay there in shock, watching the masked faces. Alisdair set the goblet aside and pressed his hands flat on the stone table. Constance lay completely still, afraid to move.

A long silence passed. Finally, one of the figures shifted in the crowd.

“Did it work?”

Constance looked up at Alisdair, his face shielded by the mask. Still, Constance spotted a familiar twitch at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he turned from the table, his robes swirling around him as he went, and marched through the doubles doors and out of the ballroom.

“The circle is closed!”

With that he was gone, leaving an emptiness to the room in his wake.

Constance lay there, listening to confused murmurs, their high born accents far more clear in English. Constance didn’t dare move, but a figure appeared at her side; the dark haired footman, holding a bundle of clothes to her.

“The Master’s carriage awaits to bring you home, mum.”

Constance sat up on the table, and let the footman help her down. Her legs buckled under her and the servants were forced to hold her aloft a moment as she found her footing. She glanced to the dark doorway where Alisdair disappeared a moment before. There was no sign of anyone in the house beyond. The footman held the bundle of clothing to her.

She reached for them, but stopped. “Those aren’t my clothes.”

These clothes were very fine; a silk dress in silver and white with blue satin ribbon at its hem and lining.

“Yes, they are. Master’s gift to you.”

She wanted to protest, but given her naked state and the absence of her own garments, Constance let the footmen dress her, taking their time with the buttons at her back. By the time she was fully dressed, the ballroom had emptied of all robed figures, leaving her alone with the servants.

They led her out into the night air, and she found the drive already emptied of most of the other carriages. The footman opened her own carriage door to her as the gravel shifted under her feet. She found Roger Tims inside, his face gaunt as though shocked to see her. She smiled, gesturing to her new clothes, giving an eyebrow waggle, despite her expression betraying her own surprise at the gift.

“Master wishes you a safe journey home, mum.”

The servant bowed and closed the carriage door.

“Good bit of help you were, Mr. Tims.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry!”

The driver hollered and the horses’ hooves clacked in the gravel as the carriage surged down the path. She glared at Roger a moment, then slumped back into her seat. Her body was warm; the place between her legs still tingled from the men’s hungry mouths, and sore from the wooden thing used upon her. She squeezed her legs together.

“The well-to-do are a strange people.”

Roger startled. “What?”

“Lunatics. The lot of them.”

“Shh!”

“What? It’s just you and I, is it not?”

Roger closed in, hissing his words as though the walls of the carriage were leaning in to listen. “The driver. He’ll hear you.”

“Ha! Let him!” Constance pounded her fist against the roof of the carriage. “Ye hear that, lad? Your employer is a nutter!”

“Constance!”

She took a deep breath, blowing out through her nose in indignation. She needed to rail, needed to make a scene, do something, for if she didn’t, she might let memory settle, sink in, and twist her stomach. What had happened that night? What were all those people doing in their robes and masks, watching her be accosted by no less than four men – four noblemen, if she wasn’t mistaken? She leaned back in her seat, and turned her face toward the dark outside. What did that woman mean by, ‘Did it work?’ Did what work?

She pressed her temple to the carriage wall and despite the late hour, succumbed to the racing of her thoughts. She wasn’t sure how long they’d traveled before the jostling of the road finally lulled her to sleep.

“Constance! Oh, you’re back!”

Berty’s voice betrayed honest affection, but her body language was that of a guilty child caught stealing treats in the kitchen. Constance blinked against sleep, raising an eyebrow at Berty. It was well past hours and the brothel had quieted down. Only a single customer remained in the bar, slumped onto his table, fast asleep.

“Well, of course I’m back. And exhausted. I’ll be in my room.”

“Josselyn!”

Berty barked up the stairs and the blonde girl appeared in the hallway outside Constance’s bedroom door.

“You bitch! What are you on about? Get out of my bloody room!”

Berty touched her shoulder, but Constance shook her off.

“Constance, it’s my fault. I told her to -”

“You told her to go in my quarters? If anything is missing, Berty, I swear to you -”

“It’s all here. All of it.”

Constance turned to find Berty gesturing to a wooden box tucked just behind the bar. Constance glanced from the box to Berty’s face, saddened as though she bore some grievous news.

“What in bloody hell?”

“I’m sorry, love. Was doing a bit of rearranging.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Excuse me, Madam.”

They turned to the sound and found the carriage driver standing there, his hat pulled low over his brow, his long riding cloak surrounding him, like a pillar of stone. He extended a hand to Berty, offering an envelope.

“You have a good evening, Madam.”

Then he tipped his hat to Constance. “And you as well, Miss.”

A moment later the small gray haired man was gone, and Berty slumped against the bar, her hand pressed to her chest.

“My god, Constance. What did you do?”

Constance stared at her confused. The tone was startled, but sweet. Berty opened the envelope, letting Constance see the massive bundle of Pound Notes within – well over what she’d earned for her time. Constance swallowed, but Berty’s face furrowed as she pulled a card from inside. She stared at it for a long moment, wordless.

“Roger!”

He appeared from his room behind the bar almost instantly, his face betraying an exhaustion to match her own.