Chapter Five #3
“Oh, I’m sure you are, my lord,” Eleanor replied, guessing at his title.
She didn’t know which aristo he was, nor his ranking in the nobility, but she recalled from previous encounters with the aristocrats’ introductions that they addressed each other as “lords”. Not that he’d notice, in his drunken state, if she’d addressed him incorrectly.
Either the lord hadn’t noticed or cared which courtesan he took for the night, as Eleanor replacing the young courtesan he’d cornered didn’t seem to bother him at all.
He grabbed her arm and led her across the marble floor to the gold-curtained hallway she’d traversed the other night with Lord Riccie.
It was a shame she hadn’t been able to find him or his aristo friends tonight.
They’d have been easier to deal with, she was sure.
“I know people, you know,” the lord continued, thinking he was impressing her, flaunting his wealth and position. “I’m powerful,” he repeated, almost as if to remind himself more than anything.
“And a powerful man needs a strong drink,” Eleanor said as they entered a vacant room and she slipped from his drunken hold. She hoped he’d at least have a drink before he acted on anything.
The gold and marble room was near identical to the room she’d shared with Lord Riccie.
The large bed took up a central position, with the red-upholstered collection of chairs to one side and in front of where a low burning fire crackled in the hearth.
Even the placement of the drinks table and the spy hole were identical.
“Whiskey,” the lord commanded. “None of those flowery female drinks in here.”
Eleanor had to bite her lip as the lord discarded his long-coat, so much wealth haphazardly thrown onto the floor. The cost of the silk alone could feed a family for a few weeks, notwithstanding the gemstones that were sewn onto the coat’s lapels.
“Of course, my lord,” Eleanor placated as she focused on pouring the drinks into the short glasses and slipped the last of her narcotic into his drink.
Due to the time-consuming brewing process, the stringent conditions required for its creation, and the difficulty in finding the necessary herbs within Breninsol, she was only able to produce small batches of the concoction.
Moreover, there were days when she fought with a debilitating lack of motivation, feeling as if a persistent, dark cloud shrouded her, and lead her to seek momentary solace from the bottom of a bottle.
Of the few apothecaries in the city, Eleanor had found a small one that was willing to sell some of the required herbs to her.
It was not a place she could frequent, otherwise she’d attract unwanted attention, and the cost of purchasing those herbs was a drain on her limited money more than her usual alcohol purchases.
It wasn’t the cost of the herbs that were expensive, rather paying the hefty price for silence from those working in the apothecary.
The lord continued talking, as if she cared, “I know things, you know. Things that only the right people know. I get invited to the right parties.”
With a swirl of the glasses, Eleanor made sure the ice cubes clinked, thus helping the powder dissolve, the fleeting, unpleasant scent of henbane instantly vanishing as it blended into the oaky flavour of the whisky.
With a rhythmic sway of her hips, she walked towards him, where he was already lying on the bed.
His yellow waistcoat lay open, as he stretched out on the smooth, white silk bed, his soft stomach resting comfortably over his trousers.
“You should be grateful I chose you tonight,” he said as she handed him his drink.
“Oh, I am. Oh so very grateful that such a powerful and handsome man chose me.”
Eleanor hoped her pandering to his ego didn’t come across as fake, but she was relying on his inebriated state to help her.
The lord threw the drink back in one gulp, which Eleanor copied, keeping her eyes on him while she did.
If she hadn’t, his hand grabbing her and pulling her down onto him would have taken her by surprise.
As it was, her glass fell onto the patterned rug with a thud, but he didn’t let up on his tight grip of her arm.
“If you’re lucky, I might even bid on you in the Collection,” he sneered while giving her arm a further squeeze.
Stars, she hoped not.
“Undo me,” he commanded as he released her and folded his hands behind his head.
He’s too good to unfasten his own trousers. Eleanor gave a slight pause as she followed his direction, to which he narrowed his eyes. Apparently, he’s too good to take his own dick out as well.
Having unfastened his trousers, she blinked at the lack of a cock springing free from the underclothes.
Thinking she was mistaken that the narcotic was working, she realised the lord was erect after all.
In her profession, Eleanor had viewed penises of all sizes, lengths, and curves, but this one was a first for her.
She realised that Lucy’s theory might be correct.
Whenever a woman at The Ladies Grace had a difficult client, Lucy would ask if their penis was exceptionally large or small.
The consensus had usually been one of those options. Lucy called it dick-size theory.
While Eleanor had been busy staring at his erection, he had said nothing. She might have worried again that her concoction wasn’t working, but his eyes had the familiar glaze, and his leering look had deepened into a sneer.
Eleanor swallowed. She didn’t want to imagine what he thought he was seeing right now.
Instead, she remembered the spy hole in front of the bed and bounced herself up and down, making her noises of pleasure a little over-exaggerated.
To avoid detection, she needed to make her sounds unrealistic, otherwise the eavesdropping ears and eyes would know something was wrong.
With no foreplay, no one could think this lord would make her evening pleasurable.
She made her noises as fake as she liked while she pulled out his pocket kerchief and dropped it over his exposed penis as he lay there.
As the lord's sneering expression made Eleanor look away, she decided to fixate on the shadows in the headboard while his dick twitched.
As she stared, she conjured the image of the Dark God sitting on his throne.
Although only a few minutes had passed, it felt as though an age had elapsed since she had become aware of his existence.
Having learned of him, a desire to know more about him consumed her.
But what if we were his Favour?
The treacherous thought called to her, could she allow herself to be bought like that?
Indulging in a luxurious life. She was intimately familiar with the gifts she’d receive: rich food and drink, warm clothes, and a soft bed.
The Dark God could buy her if he desired, she was certain he was wealthy enough.
She’d be his Favour. She could… no, stop it.
Stop thinking like that. Those kinds of thoughts were perilous; it led to ideas that were not for her.
She was aware of the price of that type of life, and the loss of freedom that came along with it. She’d be nothing but a glorified pet.
The lord underneath her made a hissing noise, pulling her from thoughts of the Dark God. She couldn’t think about that mysterious man anymore, lest she vomit all over the narcotised lord and risk exposing herself.
No, she’d see this night through.
Just as Eleanor was deciding if she needed to use her hand, the lord’s hips bucked, and his face strained as he worked himself into a frenzy with whatever he was seeing.
With a few huffs and a strangled grunt, he came into his white kerchief, and then sunk back onto the silk pillows, falling fast asleep.
Eleanor gritted her teeth as she removed the cloth from his penis.
You’ve had worse in your hands before. You’ve dealt with worse .
Eleanor clenched her hand around the kerchief, concealing it from the potential prying eyes.
She fought back thinking of the warm liquid in the cloth, repeating the words to herself.
Then she held her breath as she edged closer to the fireplace and opened her fist over the dying flames.
The fire roused to lick along the cursive letter S and then the ruined material went up in smoke.
As quickly as she could, she backed away from the hearth and hastily poured herself a drink, needing to replace the feel of his come-filled kerchief. She didn't bother with ice, preferring the sharp, unadulterated burn of the whiskey filling her glass.
Eleanor made a great show of retrieving his long-coat before she left the room, carefully placing it on the richly textured red jacquard chair, its deep crimson a stark contrast to the coat's fetid colour.
As she carefully placed the garment down, she swiftly ripped a glittering jewel from its ornate lapels, the cold gemstone a stark contrast against her skin as she tucked it into the folds of her straps.