All Stars Week One: Erudition
WARNING: rape, drug use, adultness, very not safe for work!
There are three people sitting in a room that might once have been described as elegant, but now conjures words like ‘dilapidated’ and ‘rotten’. The carpet is worn so thin that the pattern is no longer discernible. Most of the lights no longer function and are missing the crystal decorations completely, and the few that remain flicker dully over dust-dulled beads.
Two of the tattered chairs are occupied by a woman in pristine satins and handmade lace, and a man in a crisp, dark suit. The woman keeps darting her bleary blue eyes about: the door to the molded ceiling panels to the floor, to the chair arm she was clutching nervously. Every so often her breath catches, almost as if she is about to suggest they leave. And, indeed, this is her thought, but then she remembers why it is they are here in this frightful little room with its rank stench of decay and resumes breathing naturally. Her eyes take on a hard, determined gleam and her thin lips press into a firm line. She is certain about their decision.
Her husband sits next to her, patting her trembling fingers and offering a smile of confident reassurance. Truthfully, he is just as nervous as she, but his is the composure of a man who will get what he wants and cannot fathom an outcome that dictates otherwise. His clothing matches her in richness, though in more muted tones than the garnet color she prefers. Secretly, he thinks the garish tone accentuates her yellow pallour. He never tells her though, not even when she asks him directly.
Across from them is a man sitting on the corner of a scarred desk rather than on the ratty chair behind it. He is young, handsome in a dark and dangerous sort of way that would make him quite popular at court. His hair is longer than considered fashionable, but is pulled back neatly from his narrow features. There are definite signs of aristocratic blood in his cheekbones and nose, and a keen intelligence in his eyes. He too has the posture of a man used to getting what he wants. The difference between him and the man sitting across from him is that his confidence comes with an edge of violence; he will get what he wants or destroy whomever gets in his way.
“I do hope you realize how highly unorthodox this is,” the younger man says, speaking softly and in a cultured voice that demonstrated a formal education. “Typically, I do not meet face to face with prospective clients.”
“And I do not conduct business unless it is face to face,” the older man replies curtly, using the tone he reserved for when he disapproved of how he was being addressed.
The younger man smiled, but it fell several yards short of his glacial eyes. “I respect that about you, milord. Which is why I am making an exception. You have been informed of my business, yes?”
Both of his guests nod hesitantly.
“And from whom did you hear this?”
It is the wife who answers in a thin voice torn between excitement and nerves, “The Duchess of Ilsbane. She… She is aware of our situation and suggested we seek your assistance.”
The young man is silent, possibly trying to recall who exactly the Duchess of Ilsbane is. Finally, he pushes to his feet and walks slowly to stand before the nervous couple. “There are conditions, of course. Firstly, once we enter this agreement there is no backing out. If you renege or find that your … situation has changed, you will still be responsible for the outcome. Is that clear?”
Again, the pair nod, the wife a bit more eagerly than her husband.
“Secondly, I expect half of the payment in advance, the other once the deed is done and before you collect what is yours. Did your Duchess happen to disclose how much my services cost?”
The older man’s chin lifts haughtily. “The amount is of no concern. Simply the end result.”
The young man inclines his head in a bow that somehow manages to be both conceding and condescending at the same time. “Very well, milord. Shall we proceed then?” He rounds the desk then and, sitting down, opens the topmost drawer. A plain, black leather bound book is removed. It looks very much like an accountant’s ledger, except instead of figures it is full of photographs and statistics: height, weight, profession, place of origin. The couple edges closer as he flips the book open and turns it toward them.
“My men are available at any time,” the young man explains. “Though there are some who do it for the work itself, the majority are volunteers: honest men trying to support their families. We are very selective in who we accept. You will find no criminals here.”
“Oh, that is quite relieving to hear,” the woman murmurs as she flips slowly through the pages, pausing every so often to examine a photograph or demographics more closely. After a moment more of consideration, she laughs and shakes her head. “I simply cannot decide! There are so many to choose from!”
The young man leans across the desk and extends his hand. “If I might make a suggestion, milady?” She passes the catalogue back, relieved to have someone else make the decision for her. Their host turns the book about and flicks through the pages quickly until he finds the desired page. Then, flipping it around again, he taps the selected page.
“This one here is quite popular with the gentry,” the young man says as the couple lean in to study the demographics. “He is also local, and thus much easier to contact.”
“Oh, Edgamund! Darling, look!” the woman exclaims excitedly. “A father of seven! Clearly, he is of strong stock!”
“And it says here that he is a teacher,” the older man continues. He pauses, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Studied at His Majesty’s University under a scholarship, eh? Obviously a good head on his shoulders.”
“Might I also add that he is rumored to be the bastard son of Baron Rothsborn?” the young man supplies with a sly smile.
The woman gasps with delight. “Why, of course! Yes, I was just thinking his features were very noble indeed. Oh, he is absolutely perfect!”
The young man’s smile widens as he takes the book back from her. He closes it, returns it to the drawer, and pulls out a much smaller notebook from inside his coat pocket. “Shall I send word then that his services are required?”
“Yes, please do so at once.”
“And what of your female stock?” her husband inquires. “Is there a similar ledger that we might look through?”
“Sadly, no,” the young man answers. “It is far more difficult acquiring women for our operation. We have a very limited stock. The process takes time, which renders them out of commission during the duration. After that, they are given a recovery period of anywhere from one to three months, at which point they are examined by the doctor we keep on staff. They will not be put back into rotation until he gives clearance."
“Oh, my! That is certainly a long process,” the wife replies, disappointed. “I hadn’t expected that.”
“Unlike our competitors, we take great care to insure we do not overuse our resources.” The young man shrugs in a what-can-you-do gesture.
The older man makes a gruff sound and waves a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, but what I actually meant was where - or, rather how - do you acquire them? Are they volunteers as well?”
“Some of them, yes.”
The woman’s back stiffens as she fixes their host with wide eyes. “Some? As in most of them are not?”
The young man shrugs again, not confirming it one way or another. “We screen our women as well and take special … precautions to insure they remain complacent throughout the entire process.”
“And what are those special precautions?” the older man asks, his dark eyes narrowing. He guesses, but wants to hear it confirmed.
“Opiates,” the young man replies. “Not enough to addle the girls completely, but enough to guarantee they don’t do anything rash.”
The wife frowns, her head tilting as she considers this. “Do they remain induced the entire duration?”
“Yes.”
“But won’t that have a negative impact on-,”
“Milady, doctors administer opiates and sedatives to patients every day. This isn’t a back alley opium den. This is medicinal - and also absolutely necessary. We do it for the safety of the women as well as for the safety of your investment.”
She doesn’t look completely appeased by his explanation, but she doesn’t press it further. The desire to see this through is far stronger than her morals.
Unfortunately, her husband’s conscience is not so completely blinded. He inhales deeply, his lips curving into a frown. “I should like to see your facility, sir. Including what female stock is available.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, milord.”
“You have already made one exception in our favor. What’s one more then?”
“It’s not a matter of exceptions, milord,” the young man says, slowly and with obvious restraint. “It’s more that I don’t trust you. Let me rephrase,” he adds when both his clients look ready to protest. “I don’t trust anyone. My operation is not only quite illegal, but also what many would consider highly corrupt and morally apprehensible. It is for the safety not only of those in my employ but myself as well that none of my clients observe the full function of my work. It is also for your best benefit that you know no more than is necessary. Unless, of course, you wish the authorities to question you more closely.”
At the mention of the police, the woman gasps and flutters her hand once again. Her husband’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t respond. Finally, he nods and says, “Very well then. What - or should I say who - do you have immediately available?”
“Unfortunately, milord, I must inform you that at this time I do not have any women available.”
“Then how soon until one is?”
“Not for at least seven months.”
The woman gives a disappointed little moan. She turns toward her husband, her eyes imploring him to do something. He pats her arm to placate her before leveling a stern glare at their host. “Now, see here, good sir. We came here under the impression that you were capable of aiding us in our hour of need. We were assured by the Duchess of Ilsbane that you would not fail us. And now here we are, paying an exorbitant fee only for you to deny us service? That is an outrage! An absolute outrage!"
“Milord, please try to understand-,” the young man tries to soothe, but he is cut off the older man abruptly stands, his wife hastily following suit.
“There is nothing further that needs understanding here,” the husband continues, his voice rising angrily. “You, sir, are deceptive and fraudulent!”
The young man’s eyes narrow dangerously. Very slowly, he pushes to his feet, fingers splayed flat across the desktop. “And you, sir-,” There was no mistaking the mocking lilt to the title, “- need to be educated on the definitions of ‘deceptive’ and ‘fraudulent’ before you toss them about so freely - and in reference to my business practices. Never once did I promise you an immediate solution to your situation. I said that we would meet and determine the course from there. We have done that. As far as I am concerned, our business has concluded for today.”
“But the Duchess of Ilsbane-,”
“I don’t give a bloody damn about your precious Duchess of Ilsbane,” the young man hisses. “She has violated the terms of her contract anyway by informing you of my business. Now, you may either take my offer as it stands or you may not. Either way, you are leaving here. Right this minute.”
For a moment, the men maintain eye contact, neither one willing to back down. The wife stands by, silent and glancing fearfully from one man to the other as she awaits the outcome. It is her husband who looks away first, and it is as if a collective breath is released all at once. The older man draws his shoulders back, cocks his chin at a haughty angle and says, “Good day to you, sir. Willisa?”
The wife quickly follows after him as they exit the room. They are both silent as they walk down the narrow hall, through the foyer, and out the front door of the ill-kept house. A sleek black coach is waiting for them and they enter, taking the seat opposite the other. It isn’t until the driver snaps the reigns and the horses lurch into motion that the woman finally dissolves into bitter tears.
“Oh, come now, Willisa,” the husband implores. “We will succeed!”
“But how?” she weeps, dabbing delicately at her eyes with a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve. “We have tried everything!”
In answer, he reaches out and covers her hand with his, squeezing gently. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. A solution is out there. We only need to find it.”
She offers him a weak smile and gives a dainty sniffle. “You are right, as usual, Edgamund. Oh! I feel so silly for crying like this.”
He chuckles and pats her hand before withdrawing back to his side of the carriage. “There, there, dearest. This is not an easy thing in the least. Tears are a perfectly natural reaction. Now, rest yourself. You don’t wish to cause yourself a sickness, do you?”
“No, we certainly don’t want that,” she laughs back, favoring him with an adoring stare. She turns her gaze out the carriage window wistfully, watching the bustle of city life slide by. “I do so wish this solution would hurry up and present itself.”
“It will, dearest Willisa. It will. Think of this as an exercise in patience.”
She says nothing to that, simply stares out the window at all the faces on the other side.
_______________________________________________________________
I was sixteen when I was taken.
People talk about monsters in the night. They live under beds, move through the shadows, lurk around corners. They wait for the sun to go down before rising up to work their mischief.
My monsters came in broad daylight, in the shopping district. One minute, I was escorting my younger sister across the street to the sweets shop, and the next I was being jerked off my feet and dragged down a side street. I can still see the look on my sister’s face as I’m snatched right before her eyes. I can still hear her scream my name and how no one - no one - did anything more than turn a curious eye down the alley. They didn’t interfere; they didn’t want to get involved.
I fought the arms around me. Strong, like iron bars locked around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides so that my only defense was to try and dig my heels into the cobblestones. I kicked and I screamed and I struggled with everything I had, but it didn’t do any good. The man behind me was a behemoth, one that stank of stale alcohol and even staler sweat. I could feel his breath on me, hot and heavy, and it made my skin want melt from my bones.
I was shoved into a black coach, the sort the gentry rode in, and had just reached for the door latch when something sharp pierced the side of my neck. I jerked away, saw that another man was in the coach with me. He was slimmer than the one that had grabbed me, but there was something about him that terrified me even more. There was just something about his eyes, so cold and utterly devoid of that human spark, which made my insides tighten.
A warm sensation began to creep through me, spreading outward from my neck. I tried to lift a hand to touch the sore spot, but my limbs refused to move. My legs gave out, collapsing me onto the floor of the coach. Everything felt so strange, so surreal, as if I as staring down from high overhead, watching my body go limp and numb. As the world swam and swirled and glistened in ways I knew it shouldn’t, a black bag was thrown over my head and then there was nothing.
When I came to, it was to find myself strapped to a narrow bed. My arms were tied over my head to the wooden frame and my legs were stretched wide to either corner. I was naked. That fact didn’t fully register with me at first, at least not until my blurry eyes noticed a pile of clothing in a corner of the room. Clothing made of fine green wool that looked suspiciously like my own.
Panic took hold of me, sent me into a desperate frenzy. I tugged at the bindings hard enough to bleed, jerked and contorted my back to try and gain leverage. I screamed and screamed until there was no voice left inside of me. And when all of that failed … when I had fought with everything I had to no avail … I cried.
I don’t know how long I cried, but it was during that time that he came in - the man from the coach. The one with inhuman eyes. He was young, perhaps a few years older than me, with long dark hair tied neatly in the back. Immediately, I went still beneath his gaze, frozen by the way his eyes traveled up and down my body, humiliated that he was seeing me like that. My body jerked when he traced a finger around my bare breast, a smile crossing his lips with the peak became firm. It was embarrassing beyond words.
“Normally at this stage you would be on a steady stream of opium to fuck that pretty head into oblivion,” he said. His voice was soft and politely conversational, but it filled me with an ice cold fear. He continued touching me, always lightly: a brush of knuckles along my side, a finger traced across my navel, a thumb smoothing along my hipbone. Never before had anyone touched me like this. It … did things to me. Things that, despite the terror threatening to choke me from the inside out, felt pleasant. My stomach gave a sharp lurch.
“It makes it easier,” he continued, letting his fingers trail down my thigh … my knee … my shin. “It makes you more pliant. More accepting of what is expected of you.”
I was breathing hard at that point, torn between the dueling sensations of fear and an alien niceness. My body was shaking and all I wanted was for him to stop touching me.
When he gave a low sigh and did exactly that - stop touching me - it tore a raspy sob from my throat. His eyes met mine and my stomach churned sickeningly. “Unfortunately for you, my employers don’t wish you to be drugged. It offends their moral delicacies, I imagine.”
I shook my head, tears running down my cheeks, and whispered, “Please….” My voice was ragged, hardly recognizable as my own due to screaming. He circled around the foot of the bed, reaching into his inside coat pocket with one hand. He withdrew a small leather pouch and, opening it up, removed a syringe containing a milky white substance.
“Unfortunately for my employers, I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about their request,” the man continued as he moves the needle toward my arm.
This is where everything dissolved into a blur for me. I remember the panic surging inside me again, narrowing my entire focus to just one thing: escape. The need to get away from him, to avoid that syringe at all costs, was so strong I could almost taste it on my tongue like bitter bile. I was crying again, fighting wildly as he climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest, pinning my torso down. Several times, the needle scraped along the inner bend of my arm, and several times I managed to keep it from sinking into my flesh. The man sat upright on my chest, his narrow eyes on me while I continued to buck beneath him.
And then he hit me. Not the open handed blow like his cohort, but a hard punch to my jaw that snapped my head around and stunned me senseless. Fire raced across my face, through my head, burning behind my blurred eyes. A painful fire that spread too quickly for me to process. I vaguely remember feeling the needle press against my inner arm again and then … the world became that shimmering, ethereal place it had been before.
The last thing I hear clearly is his voice, coming to me like a melody in a dream. “And now you’re ready to learn what is expected of you.”
___________________________________________
The couple is now in another room, a space built between walls with comfortable seats and a pane of tinted glass in front of them. It looks into a dimly lit room. The only furnishings are a bed that, while neatly made, looks to have not had the linen changed in quite some time. There are stains that even the low lighting cannot hide; stains from past transactions.
It does not please either of them. The wife alternates between casting looks of stern disapproval toward the walls and secretive, curious glances back to the window. Her husband, meanwhile, chews the end of his cigar and shakes his head, but there is a glint in his dark eyes that can only be described as eagerness. His overcoat his folded neatly over his lap to disguise the burgeoning firmness in his trousers.
The side door opens and the young man, their host, enters the room. He smiles, rubs his hands together eagerly, and says, “Shall we begin?”
“Is it absolutely necessary that we be here?” the woman demands with the prudeness expected of her status. The effect is ruined, however, by the flush of color to her cheeks and a look that lingers longer than is appropriate on the scene.
The young man isn’t fooled for one minute, but he says in a regretful tone, “My apologies, milady, but it is. To insure that everything is precisely as instructed, of course.”
“Well, get on with it then!” her husband demands gruffly. He discreetly adjusts his position in the chair, something else that fails in defying the eye of their host.
With a slight bow, the young man steps out of the room. A minute later, the door on the other side of the glass opens and a girl is carried in. She is conscious, but doll-like in the way she allows herself to be positioned on the bed, hands secured overhead with a length of rope. Her head rolls languidly across her pillow, her eyes fluttering as they struggle to stay open. It is obvious she has been drugged, which goes against their express wishes, but neither of them care to protest. Both of them are staring at the girl’s nakedness, watching as her pert breasts rise and fall with each breathing. Watching her slim legs shift and slide across the sheets. Watching her lips part as a protesting moan slips from her tongue.
The woman’s fan snaps open and she beats it rapidly so as to cool her face. The man clears his throat and surreptitiously slips a hand beneath his folded coat.
The door in the opposite room opens once again. A man enters; he is the one from the catalogue. He is exactly as they expected him to be: tall, nicely muscled, good facial structure. And aroused. Very aroused. The woman’s fan moved faster. The man’s hand moved as well.
I don’t remember being taken from the room and into another one, but I do remember how nice the cool sheets felt against my bare flesh. How my skin almost seemed to sing at every brush of fabric, how electrified each sensation was. I remember closing my eyes against the soft glow of the world and opening them again to see a man kneeling on the bed next to me. He was glowing, too. He looked beautiful and he was naked like me and I remember being baffled by this, but then he was turning me over onto my stomach and all I could see was the wall made of glass. I thought I saw movement behind the dark tinting, but that ceased to matter the minute the stranger touched me.
His hands were large and moved slowly over my rear. A part of me was utterly humiliated, but another part was strangely soothed by the gentleness. Everything was cloudy, but where he touched it burned pleasantly. I didn’t protest when he guided me to my knees.
And then he was touching me.
It hurt, and the pain helped clear some of the fuzziness from my head. I could feel him, hot and hard and unwelcomed, and I tried to move away. But his hands tightened on my hips and, before I could even begin to think of protesting, he forced me back completely.
I think I screamed. I can’t remember. All I know was that it hurt far beyond what the drugs could disguise. I tried again to break away, but he wouldn’t let me. He kept me still, kept our bodies locked together. I could feel him getting harder inside of me, and I gagged as bile shot up my throat.
It felt like forever that we remained like that, me sobbing and him unmoving inside me. Eventually, the tears began to fade into jagged, choking breaths. My entire body was shivering, so badly I’m honestly surprised my bones didn’t rattle free. His hands were moving over me again in long, calming strokes. And whether it was the drugs or his touch, my body started to respond. I felt him pull out, slowly, right to the very end. For a split second, I thought perhaps he was done, but then he was pushing inside me again and the nightmare continued.
I can’t even begin to tell how horrible it was. There are no words to describe the total and complete violation of what was being done to me. I was acutely, painfully aware, of each slide of his flesh against mine. I still hear his hard breaths on some nights, still feel the weight of his chest on my back. Still hear the grunts and groans as his hips flex faster against mine. And that final moment, when he flowed inside of me, filling me with his seed… My stomach gave out and I vomited all across the pillow my cheek was resting on.
Then it was over. The stranger withdrew, leaving me covered in his sweat, smelling of his body, feeling his essence sticking to my thighs. The drugs are gone and I’m very aware of how sore my body is, of the throbbing ache between my legs. He leaves the room, and this time when I stare at the glass wall I’m positive I see people behind it. Shaded people, hidden behind the tinted glass. People who had watched what had happened and hadn’t done a thing about it.
Several more minutes pass before someone comes to collect me. I don’t look at them; I can’t. I don’t want to see their face, whether the look in their eyes was one of pity or wickedness. This time, I don’t fight as I’m taken back to that small room, strapped down to the bed, and left alone.
I realized, lying there in the dark, that no one was going to help me. No one was going to come through that door and rescue me. My only two options were to give in or continue fighting. Either way, I would die. Whether by losing myself to the drugs and the violations or an actual death, I wasn’t leaving this place. I was going to die here, and no one - not my family or friends or anyone else - would know what had happened to me.
There are three people sitting in a room that might once have been described as elegant, but now conjures words like ‘dilapidated’ and ‘rotten’. The carpet is worn so thin that the pattern is no longer discernible. Most of the lights no longer function and are missing the crystal decorations completely, and the few that remain flicker dully over dust-dulled beads.
Two of the tattered chairs are occupied by a woman in pristine satins and handmade lace, and a man in a crisp, dark suit. The woman keeps darting her bleary blue eyes about: the door to the molded ceiling panels to the floor, to the chair arm she was clutching nervously. Every so often her breath catches, almost as if she is about to suggest they leave. And, indeed, this is her thought, but then she remembers why it is they are here in this frightful little room with its rank stench of decay and resumes breathing naturally. Her eyes take on a hard, determined gleam and her thin lips press into a firm line. She is certain about their decision.
Her husband sits next to her, patting her trembling fingers and offering a smile of confident reassurance. Truthfully, he is just as nervous as she, but his is the composure of a man who will get what he wants and cannot fathom an outcome that dictates otherwise. His clothing matches her in richness, though in more muted tones than the garnet color she prefers. Secretly, he thinks the garish tone accentuates her yellow pallour. He never tells her though, not even when she asks him directly.
Across from them is a man sitting on the corner of a scarred desk rather than on the ratty chair behind it. He is young, handsome in a dark and dangerous sort of way that would make him quite popular at court. His hair is longer than considered fashionable, but is pulled back neatly from his narrow features. There are definite signs of aristocratic blood in his cheekbones and nose, and a keen intelligence in his eyes. He too has the posture of a man used to getting what he wants. The difference between him and the man sitting across from him is that his confidence comes with an edge of violence; he will get what he wants or destroy whomever gets in his way.
“I do hope you realize how highly unorthodox this is,” the younger man says, speaking softly and in a cultured voice that demonstrated a formal education. “Typically, I do not meet face to face with prospective clients.”
“And I do not conduct business unless it is face to face,” the older man replies curtly, using the tone he reserved for when he disapproved of how he was being addressed.
The younger man smiled, but it fell several yards short of his glacial eyes. “I respect that about you, milord. Which is why I am making an exception. You have been informed of my business, yes?”
Both of his guests nod hesitantly.
“And from whom did you hear this?”
It is the wife who answers in a thin voice torn between excitement and nerves, “The Duchess of Ilsbane. She… She is aware of our situation and suggested we seek your assistance.”
The young man is silent, possibly trying to recall who exactly the Duchess of Ilsbane is. Finally, he pushes to his feet and walks slowly to stand before the nervous couple. “There are conditions, of course. Firstly, once we enter this agreement there is no backing out. If you renege or find that your … situation has changed, you will still be responsible for the outcome. Is that clear?”
Again, the pair nod, the wife a bit more eagerly than her husband.
“Secondly, I expect half of the payment in advance, the other once the deed is done and before you collect what is yours. Did your Duchess happen to disclose how much my services cost?”
The older man’s chin lifts haughtily. “The amount is of no concern. Simply the end result.”
The young man inclines his head in a bow that somehow manages to be both conceding and condescending at the same time. “Very well, milord. Shall we proceed then?” He rounds the desk then and, sitting down, opens the topmost drawer. A plain, black leather bound book is removed. It looks very much like an accountant’s ledger, except instead of figures it is full of photographs and statistics: height, weight, profession, place of origin. The couple edges closer as he flips the book open and turns it toward them.
“My men are available at any time,” the young man explains. “Though there are some who do it for the work itself, the majority are volunteers: honest men trying to support their families. We are very selective in who we accept. You will find no criminals here.”
“Oh, that is quite relieving to hear,” the woman murmurs as she flips slowly through the pages, pausing every so often to examine a photograph or demographics more closely. After a moment more of consideration, she laughs and shakes her head. “I simply cannot decide! There are so many to choose from!”
The young man leans across the desk and extends his hand. “If I might make a suggestion, milady?” She passes the catalogue back, relieved to have someone else make the decision for her. Their host turns the book about and flicks through the pages quickly until he finds the desired page. Then, flipping it around again, he taps the selected page.
“This one here is quite popular with the gentry,” the young man says as the couple lean in to study the demographics. “He is also local, and thus much easier to contact.”
“Oh, Edgamund! Darling, look!” the woman exclaims excitedly. “A father of seven! Clearly, he is of strong stock!”
“And it says here that he is a teacher,” the older man continues. He pauses, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Studied at His Majesty’s University under a scholarship, eh? Obviously a good head on his shoulders.”
“Might I also add that he is rumored to be the bastard son of Baron Rothsborn?” the young man supplies with a sly smile.
The woman gasps with delight. “Why, of course! Yes, I was just thinking his features were very noble indeed. Oh, he is absolutely perfect!”
The young man’s smile widens as he takes the book back from her. He closes it, returns it to the drawer, and pulls out a much smaller notebook from inside his coat pocket. “Shall I send word then that his services are required?”
“Yes, please do so at once.”
“And what of your female stock?” her husband inquires. “Is there a similar ledger that we might look through?”
“Sadly, no,” the young man answers. “It is far more difficult acquiring women for our operation. We have a very limited stock. The process takes time, which renders them out of commission during the duration. After that, they are given a recovery period of anywhere from one to three months, at which point they are examined by the doctor we keep on staff. They will not be put back into rotation until he gives clearance."
“Oh, my! That is certainly a long process,” the wife replies, disappointed. “I hadn’t expected that.”
“Unlike our competitors, we take great care to insure we do not overuse our resources.” The young man shrugs in a what-can-you-do gesture.
The older man makes a gruff sound and waves a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, but what I actually meant was where - or, rather how - do you acquire them? Are they volunteers as well?”
“Some of them, yes.”
The woman’s back stiffens as she fixes their host with wide eyes. “Some? As in most of them are not?”
The young man shrugs again, not confirming it one way or another. “We screen our women as well and take special … precautions to insure they remain complacent throughout the entire process.”
“And what are those special precautions?” the older man asks, his dark eyes narrowing. He guesses, but wants to hear it confirmed.
“Opiates,” the young man replies. “Not enough to addle the girls completely, but enough to guarantee they don’t do anything rash.”
The wife frowns, her head tilting as she considers this. “Do they remain induced the entire duration?”
“Yes.”
“But won’t that have a negative impact on-,”
“Milady, doctors administer opiates and sedatives to patients every day. This isn’t a back alley opium den. This is medicinal - and also absolutely necessary. We do it for the safety of the women as well as for the safety of your investment.”
She doesn’t look completely appeased by his explanation, but she doesn’t press it further. The desire to see this through is far stronger than her morals.
Unfortunately, her husband’s conscience is not so completely blinded. He inhales deeply, his lips curving into a frown. “I should like to see your facility, sir. Including what female stock is available.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, milord.”
“You have already made one exception in our favor. What’s one more then?”
“It’s not a matter of exceptions, milord,” the young man says, slowly and with obvious restraint. “It’s more that I don’t trust you. Let me rephrase,” he adds when both his clients look ready to protest. “I don’t trust anyone. My operation is not only quite illegal, but also what many would consider highly corrupt and morally apprehensible. It is for the safety not only of those in my employ but myself as well that none of my clients observe the full function of my work. It is also for your best benefit that you know no more than is necessary. Unless, of course, you wish the authorities to question you more closely.”
At the mention of the police, the woman gasps and flutters her hand once again. Her husband’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t respond. Finally, he nods and says, “Very well then. What - or should I say who - do you have immediately available?”
“Unfortunately, milord, I must inform you that at this time I do not have any women available.”
“Then how soon until one is?”
“Not for at least seven months.”
The woman gives a disappointed little moan. She turns toward her husband, her eyes imploring him to do something. He pats her arm to placate her before leveling a stern glare at their host. “Now, see here, good sir. We came here under the impression that you were capable of aiding us in our hour of need. We were assured by the Duchess of Ilsbane that you would not fail us. And now here we are, paying an exorbitant fee only for you to deny us service? That is an outrage! An absolute outrage!"
“Milord, please try to understand-,” the young man tries to soothe, but he is cut off the older man abruptly stands, his wife hastily following suit.
“There is nothing further that needs understanding here,” the husband continues, his voice rising angrily. “You, sir, are deceptive and fraudulent!”
The young man’s eyes narrow dangerously. Very slowly, he pushes to his feet, fingers splayed flat across the desktop. “And you, sir-,” There was no mistaking the mocking lilt to the title, “- need to be educated on the definitions of ‘deceptive’ and ‘fraudulent’ before you toss them about so freely - and in reference to my business practices. Never once did I promise you an immediate solution to your situation. I said that we would meet and determine the course from there. We have done that. As far as I am concerned, our business has concluded for today.”
“But the Duchess of Ilsbane-,”
“I don’t give a bloody damn about your precious Duchess of Ilsbane,” the young man hisses. “She has violated the terms of her contract anyway by informing you of my business. Now, you may either take my offer as it stands or you may not. Either way, you are leaving here. Right this minute.”
For a moment, the men maintain eye contact, neither one willing to back down. The wife stands by, silent and glancing fearfully from one man to the other as she awaits the outcome. It is her husband who looks away first, and it is as if a collective breath is released all at once. The older man draws his shoulders back, cocks his chin at a haughty angle and says, “Good day to you, sir. Willisa?”
The wife quickly follows after him as they exit the room. They are both silent as they walk down the narrow hall, through the foyer, and out the front door of the ill-kept house. A sleek black coach is waiting for them and they enter, taking the seat opposite the other. It isn’t until the driver snaps the reigns and the horses lurch into motion that the woman finally dissolves into bitter tears.
“Oh, come now, Willisa,” the husband implores. “We will succeed!”
“But how?” she weeps, dabbing delicately at her eyes with a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve. “We have tried everything!”
In answer, he reaches out and covers her hand with his, squeezing gently. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. A solution is out there. We only need to find it.”
She offers him a weak smile and gives a dainty sniffle. “You are right, as usual, Edgamund. Oh! I feel so silly for crying like this.”
He chuckles and pats her hand before withdrawing back to his side of the carriage. “There, there, dearest. This is not an easy thing in the least. Tears are a perfectly natural reaction. Now, rest yourself. You don’t wish to cause yourself a sickness, do you?”
“No, we certainly don’t want that,” she laughs back, favoring him with an adoring stare. She turns her gaze out the carriage window wistfully, watching the bustle of city life slide by. “I do so wish this solution would hurry up and present itself.”
“It will, dearest Willisa. It will. Think of this as an exercise in patience.”
She says nothing to that, simply stares out the window at all the faces on the other side.
_______________________________________________________________
I was sixteen when I was taken.
People talk about monsters in the night. They live under beds, move through the shadows, lurk around corners. They wait for the sun to go down before rising up to work their mischief.
My monsters came in broad daylight, in the shopping district. One minute, I was escorting my younger sister across the street to the sweets shop, and the next I was being jerked off my feet and dragged down a side street. I can still see the look on my sister’s face as I’m snatched right before her eyes. I can still hear her scream my name and how no one - no one - did anything more than turn a curious eye down the alley. They didn’t interfere; they didn’t want to get involved.
I fought the arms around me. Strong, like iron bars locked around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides so that my only defense was to try and dig my heels into the cobblestones. I kicked and I screamed and I struggled with everything I had, but it didn’t do any good. The man behind me was a behemoth, one that stank of stale alcohol and even staler sweat. I could feel his breath on me, hot and heavy, and it made my skin want melt from my bones.
I was shoved into a black coach, the sort the gentry rode in, and had just reached for the door latch when something sharp pierced the side of my neck. I jerked away, saw that another man was in the coach with me. He was slimmer than the one that had grabbed me, but there was something about him that terrified me even more. There was just something about his eyes, so cold and utterly devoid of that human spark, which made my insides tighten.
A warm sensation began to creep through me, spreading outward from my neck. I tried to lift a hand to touch the sore spot, but my limbs refused to move. My legs gave out, collapsing me onto the floor of the coach. Everything felt so strange, so surreal, as if I as staring down from high overhead, watching my body go limp and numb. As the world swam and swirled and glistened in ways I knew it shouldn’t, a black bag was thrown over my head and then there was nothing.
When I came to, it was to find myself strapped to a narrow bed. My arms were tied over my head to the wooden frame and my legs were stretched wide to either corner. I was naked. That fact didn’t fully register with me at first, at least not until my blurry eyes noticed a pile of clothing in a corner of the room. Clothing made of fine green wool that looked suspiciously like my own.
Panic took hold of me, sent me into a desperate frenzy. I tugged at the bindings hard enough to bleed, jerked and contorted my back to try and gain leverage. I screamed and screamed until there was no voice left inside of me. And when all of that failed … when I had fought with everything I had to no avail … I cried.
I don’t know how long I cried, but it was during that time that he came in - the man from the coach. The one with inhuman eyes. He was young, perhaps a few years older than me, with long dark hair tied neatly in the back. Immediately, I went still beneath his gaze, frozen by the way his eyes traveled up and down my body, humiliated that he was seeing me like that. My body jerked when he traced a finger around my bare breast, a smile crossing his lips with the peak became firm. It was embarrassing beyond words.
“Normally at this stage you would be on a steady stream of opium to fuck that pretty head into oblivion,” he said. His voice was soft and politely conversational, but it filled me with an ice cold fear. He continued touching me, always lightly: a brush of knuckles along my side, a finger traced across my navel, a thumb smoothing along my hipbone. Never before had anyone touched me like this. It … did things to me. Things that, despite the terror threatening to choke me from the inside out, felt pleasant. My stomach gave a sharp lurch.
“It makes it easier,” he continued, letting his fingers trail down my thigh … my knee … my shin. “It makes you more pliant. More accepting of what is expected of you.”
I was breathing hard at that point, torn between the dueling sensations of fear and an alien niceness. My body was shaking and all I wanted was for him to stop touching me.
When he gave a low sigh and did exactly that - stop touching me - it tore a raspy sob from my throat. His eyes met mine and my stomach churned sickeningly. “Unfortunately for you, my employers don’t wish you to be drugged. It offends their moral delicacies, I imagine.”
I shook my head, tears running down my cheeks, and whispered, “Please….” My voice was ragged, hardly recognizable as my own due to screaming. He circled around the foot of the bed, reaching into his inside coat pocket with one hand. He withdrew a small leather pouch and, opening it up, removed a syringe containing a milky white substance.
“Unfortunately for my employers, I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about their request,” the man continued as he moves the needle toward my arm.
This is where everything dissolved into a blur for me. I remember the panic surging inside me again, narrowing my entire focus to just one thing: escape. The need to get away from him, to avoid that syringe at all costs, was so strong I could almost taste it on my tongue like bitter bile. I was crying again, fighting wildly as he climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest, pinning my torso down. Several times, the needle scraped along the inner bend of my arm, and several times I managed to keep it from sinking into my flesh. The man sat upright on my chest, his narrow eyes on me while I continued to buck beneath him.
And then he hit me. Not the open handed blow like his cohort, but a hard punch to my jaw that snapped my head around and stunned me senseless. Fire raced across my face, through my head, burning behind my blurred eyes. A painful fire that spread too quickly for me to process. I vaguely remember feeling the needle press against my inner arm again and then … the world became that shimmering, ethereal place it had been before.
The last thing I hear clearly is his voice, coming to me like a melody in a dream. “And now you’re ready to learn what is expected of you.”
___________________________________________
The couple is now in another room, a space built between walls with comfortable seats and a pane of tinted glass in front of them. It looks into a dimly lit room. The only furnishings are a bed that, while neatly made, looks to have not had the linen changed in quite some time. There are stains that even the low lighting cannot hide; stains from past transactions.
It does not please either of them. The wife alternates between casting looks of stern disapproval toward the walls and secretive, curious glances back to the window. Her husband, meanwhile, chews the end of his cigar and shakes his head, but there is a glint in his dark eyes that can only be described as eagerness. His overcoat his folded neatly over his lap to disguise the burgeoning firmness in his trousers.
The side door opens and the young man, their host, enters the room. He smiles, rubs his hands together eagerly, and says, “Shall we begin?”
“Is it absolutely necessary that we be here?” the woman demands with the prudeness expected of her status. The effect is ruined, however, by the flush of color to her cheeks and a look that lingers longer than is appropriate on the scene.
The young man isn’t fooled for one minute, but he says in a regretful tone, “My apologies, milady, but it is. To insure that everything is precisely as instructed, of course.”
“Well, get on with it then!” her husband demands gruffly. He discreetly adjusts his position in the chair, something else that fails in defying the eye of their host.
With a slight bow, the young man steps out of the room. A minute later, the door on the other side of the glass opens and a girl is carried in. She is conscious, but doll-like in the way she allows herself to be positioned on the bed, hands secured overhead with a length of rope. Her head rolls languidly across her pillow, her eyes fluttering as they struggle to stay open. It is obvious she has been drugged, which goes against their express wishes, but neither of them care to protest. Both of them are staring at the girl’s nakedness, watching as her pert breasts rise and fall with each breathing. Watching her slim legs shift and slide across the sheets. Watching her lips part as a protesting moan slips from her tongue.
The woman’s fan snaps open and she beats it rapidly so as to cool her face. The man clears his throat and surreptitiously slips a hand beneath his folded coat.
The door in the opposite room opens once again. A man enters; he is the one from the catalogue. He is exactly as they expected him to be: tall, nicely muscled, good facial structure. And aroused. Very aroused. The woman’s fan moved faster. The man’s hand moved as well.
I don’t remember being taken from the room and into another one, but I do remember how nice the cool sheets felt against my bare flesh. How my skin almost seemed to sing at every brush of fabric, how electrified each sensation was. I remember closing my eyes against the soft glow of the world and opening them again to see a man kneeling on the bed next to me. He was glowing, too. He looked beautiful and he was naked like me and I remember being baffled by this, but then he was turning me over onto my stomach and all I could see was the wall made of glass. I thought I saw movement behind the dark tinting, but that ceased to matter the minute the stranger touched me.
His hands were large and moved slowly over my rear. A part of me was utterly humiliated, but another part was strangely soothed by the gentleness. Everything was cloudy, but where he touched it burned pleasantly. I didn’t protest when he guided me to my knees.
And then he was touching me.
It hurt, and the pain helped clear some of the fuzziness from my head. I could feel him, hot and hard and unwelcomed, and I tried to move away. But his hands tightened on my hips and, before I could even begin to think of protesting, he forced me back completely.
I think I screamed. I can’t remember. All I know was that it hurt far beyond what the drugs could disguise. I tried again to break away, but he wouldn’t let me. He kept me still, kept our bodies locked together. I could feel him getting harder inside of me, and I gagged as bile shot up my throat.
It felt like forever that we remained like that, me sobbing and him unmoving inside me. Eventually, the tears began to fade into jagged, choking breaths. My entire body was shivering, so badly I’m honestly surprised my bones didn’t rattle free. His hands were moving over me again in long, calming strokes. And whether it was the drugs or his touch, my body started to respond. I felt him pull out, slowly, right to the very end. For a split second, I thought perhaps he was done, but then he was pushing inside me again and the nightmare continued.
I can’t even begin to tell how horrible it was. There are no words to describe the total and complete violation of what was being done to me. I was acutely, painfully aware, of each slide of his flesh against mine. I still hear his hard breaths on some nights, still feel the weight of his chest on my back. Still hear the grunts and groans as his hips flex faster against mine. And that final moment, when he flowed inside of me, filling me with his seed… My stomach gave out and I vomited all across the pillow my cheek was resting on.
Then it was over. The stranger withdrew, leaving me covered in his sweat, smelling of his body, feeling his essence sticking to my thighs. The drugs are gone and I’m very aware of how sore my body is, of the throbbing ache between my legs. He leaves the room, and this time when I stare at the glass wall I’m positive I see people behind it. Shaded people, hidden behind the tinted glass. People who had watched what had happened and hadn’t done a thing about it.
Several more minutes pass before someone comes to collect me. I don’t look at them; I can’t. I don’t want to see their face, whether the look in their eyes was one of pity or wickedness. This time, I don’t fight as I’m taken back to that small room, strapped down to the bed, and left alone.
I realized, lying there in the dark, that no one was going to help me. No one was going to come through that door and rescue me. My only two options were to give in or continue fighting. Either way, I would die. Whether by losing myself to the drugs and the violations or an actual death, I wasn’t leaving this place. I was going to die here, and no one - not my family or friends or anyone else - would know what had happened to me.