CHAPTER FIVE #2
Other titters fill the room at Sir Gilead’s questionable wit, but it’s true enough that the need to understand the beast consumes me.
Slipping underneath, I hunch over and creak my neck at an odd angle as I examine him from below.
Fur covers him in uneven length, as natural as if someone covered a lion in dust. I can count each hair, though when I run my glove over the fur, I can’t sense the slightest softness.
Casting a quick glance toward the table where my absence goes unremarked, I shimmy out of my right-hand glove. Stroking lightly over the beast’s fur, I trace the leather bands before turning my attention to the massive genitalia some artist has decided to describe in intricate detail.
Immediately, heat scorches my face. Even so, I can’t tear my attention from the massive stalk and twin, tight balls the lion sports.
Do not, Charlotte.
But my brain has a mind of its own, and its own need. Unlike most unmarried women, I know all too well where the stalk is supposed to fit in a woman. I know how it will feel. To my eternal shame, I know the grunts and smells associated with its pleasure.
Images pour into my head, fast and furious.
Mr. Swanson’s cock, all purple, veiny, sour, and sweaty.
The feel of heavy skirts blissfully shutting out my sight as I’m angled and turned, face down over a table.
The sharp pain as he pushes into me. My bloody lower lip, shredded where I’ve bitten to keep from screaming.
The gold sovereign in my hand afterward, the weight both a terrible victory and failure.
“Charlotte, come out from there.” Lady Mary whisper-orders. She’s slipped over to me without my realizing it. “The others can see you beneath the beast, and you know how gentlemen gossip. What are you doing in such a position?”
Imagining this fellow’s member inside me.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I…I was daydreaming. I’m coming out now.”
But as she steps back, I can’t seem to help myself.
The monster’s cock is straight and rigid, though furred.
It’s somehow the essence of beauty, unlike Mr. Swanson’s ugly, squat thing.
My ungloved hand reaches out to grip the width.
It’s not as smooth as I expected. There are ripples beneath the fur.
But as I stroke my hand over the appendage, something sparks against my palm. With a small yelp, I draw back and out from under the beast.
“Come, Charlotte. There’s an exhibition at Prince Albert Hall of the lesser finds, and Sir Gilead has kindly invited us to join him.” Mary tugs me along toward the doorway where Sir Gilead waits.
The other gentlemen have already filed out. As we approach the baronet, he fixes his attention upon me for the first time. There’s a look he wears, the same look Mr. Swanson wore. It’s a look that says he recognizes me for what I am: available for his pleasure. A whore.
He must have seen me stroke the statue’s member. It’s as good an indication as any that he might use me to satisfy his needs without the pesky requirement of marriage.
I send a quick glance at Mary, hoping to find her oblivious. Instead, she frowns. A noise grates from her throat, so unladylike, it shocks me.
But in the next instant, she begins prattling about creamed ice served at the Abernathy supper, leaving me to a horrid, heady mix of relief and worry.
Did they all see me stroke the monster’s member?
If so, I am ruined. All my carefully laid plans, all my best intentions, gone up with a careless caress.
“What were you thinking, Charlotte?” Mary hisses, taking me aside as Sir Gilead gives a museum worker instructions for covering the statue.
“Did they witness my caress of the beast’s… er… fur?” I push the question through my clenched teeth as I hastily slide into my glove again. It remains wrinkled, but I don’t wish to catch Sir Gilead’s attention by smoothing it.
She bites her lip. “Only Sir Gilead, I think. The others were already out the door, though I’m certain they question why you would hunch beneath the lamassu. What were you thinking, Charlotte?”
“I wasn’t. I’m sorry. I was just overcome by how natural the carving. Each hair, Mary. How did they do it?”
“I don’t know, and you need to stop thinking about it. And don’t worry,” she says, unbending. “I can seal Sir Gilead’s lips.”
“Thank you.” And I mean it. Mary has her position with which to bludgeon others into doing her will. Plus, she has charm and kindness. She’s a force of nature, and I’m lucky she’s still on my side.
But I can’t help taking one more glance over my shoulder at the beast as we walk through the door. My imagination, as always, runs wild. I swear that the creature’s head has rotated several degrees towards us, his golden eyes focused upon me.
Golden? Now I really am imagining things.
But I can’t risk going back to find out. Mary hurries me along, but my mind is still in the closed room of the exhibition.
The lightning strike in my palm. The weight of his member. The power in his form.
Tomorrow, I’ll beg Mary to visit the creature again. And since she is the very best friend a woman could have, as well as my employer, she’ll concede. I don’t ask for much out of life. I serve her well and without complaint.
But I need to see the statue again.