Carved turnips twinkle in the crisp night, sending a slight shiver down my spine. Though not one typically given to fits of superstition or maudlin thoughts, I must admit the atmosphere draws one in and demands they examine their very soul before even approaching the door. Seems as if Madame Douleur cares nothing about the reputation of the whipping house she oversees, and everything about setting an uneasy blaze for all of London to observe.
Granted, at this point, with most of the Ton away in the country, it’s not as if they are here to witness this brand of debauchery. The Crown Prince surely doesn’t care how I while my time away after our messy business is concluded. In fact, it would not surprise me at all if I found him hidden away in one of the rooms, taking out all manner of vices on an unsuspecting omega.
Perhaps it’s my own demons I worry about confronting as I sit astride my horse, debating whether or not to go in and relieve some of the pressure building in my skull. The need to gather a willing omega under my exacting hand and unleash hell onto her body scratches at my skin, and demands I answer the call. Fitting that it happens to be on such an auspicious night.
Samhain, as the farmers call it.
All Soul’s Eve, as the church demands it.
The night where devils and angels cavort under the gaze of a weeping God.
Though, with all the atrocities lying strewn at my feet, I’m sure he’s already turned a dry eye from my plight, and fixed his gaze upon someone else far more redeemable. I can lie to both God and myself by saying the horrific torture I’ve inflicted on my fellow man be not a sin, seeing as it was orchestrated by the Crown Prince himself, and not from my perverse desires to see others suffer. At the end, however, I know it still to be a mortal sin that has stained my soul so black I find it to be nearly irredeemable.
Perhaps once my services are no longer needed I can affix my gaze upward and hope to atone, but tonight is not that night. Even now, as I contemplate whether to just go to my townhome, or to indulge in the carnal delights of the flesh, the stench of blood fills my nose. As much as I’ve scrubbed, as many times as I’ve bathed, I cannot seem to rid myself of the coppery scent that seems to linger upon me as if a second skin.
What is it Lady Macbeth cried? ‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’ And yet, just [as] with her, I fear I shall never be clean. With a weary shake of my head, I dismount and head toward the yawning gates of hell, where only perdition lies. Though I long for salvation, the next best thing is to have my cock in a courtesan's embrace.
There I can let it all melt away. Then I can finally breathe and relax. With every quivering twitch of her cunt around my cock, I find my own holy salvation, my own devilish sacrament.
As I approach the door I slide my mask on, and knock. Soon Jeremy opens it wide, allowing me access. The instant I cross the threshold my shoulders unknit, allowing my arms to sway ever so slightly by my side.
Home. Or at least as close as I can manage until I can flee once more to the pristine countryside, where no threats lie, and no haze of blood consumes my thoughts.
Taking in the room, I do my best to tell the revelers apart, committing each movement to memory so I can compare it to the known shiftings and stirrings of the regulars populating The Rose and Thorne. Normally, I have no trouble taking a quick inventory of who’s here as I file it away for future use. Unfortunately, since party is to be a masque, I find my normal tells and signs even harder to procure.
But then, I’m sure the madam orchestrated this for that very purpose. To her, there is no harm in others playing the ghost, goblin, ghoul, or devil. They mean her no ill will—notwithstanding the amount of muscle she employs, who could easily dispatch a threat at the slightest provocation.
For someone like me, however, it strips me of my sense of security, and forces me to rely on far more arcane methods of classifying those around me. Thankfully, some of them reek in a way that makes it hard to ignore who they are. Many who now sully the space with their anxious sweat are the same who cried foul at Parliament, forcing us to argue issue after issue when things could be settled quickly.
Would they still drink and be at ease knowing that this part of the tavern is merely a gathering spot for us who are debauched indeed before we slide deeper into the most unholy den of iniquities? Tipping my nose in the air, I force my brain past the hint of copper to concentrate on the Alphas milling about the room.
Many are younger upstarts, just barely out of leading strings. How they boasted and swelled as they made their point in the middle of the those heated parliamentary meetings. Now they mill about, an air of uneasiness hanging off them as lovely lasses ply them with ale and food. Poor saps. They probably have not even had the pleasure of finding a clit, let alone getting their dicks wet by heavenly slick.
They’ll soon learn, but not tonight. Not with the way Madam Douluer mills about, her lips in a tight smile as she greets them all as cherished friends, yet stares them down as the potential threats they are. Only a few of us remaining here in London have passed her intense vetting process, and until the next season, I don’t see her opening the gates for anyone else.
At her false, tinkling laugh, I look over as she accommodates an Alpha whose scent is muddled with the candles and incense burning in the name of pagan curiosities. The way she lays her hand upon his arm and gazes into his eyes would look in earnest to anyone passing by. I, however, know the difference.
Her spine is ramrod, and her lips are pinched. Even with her mask on, I can see the lack of skin crinkling about her eyes as she leans in closer, allowing her breasts to graze this Alpha’s arm with each deep-throated laugh.
The man in question already seems besotted, ready to hand over any sort of coin to indulge in pleasures only she can provide. Seeing as her proclivities are well known amongst those who play in other rooms, she will certainly make him pay before demanding he thank her for the privilege. As I catch her gaze, I watch as her smile turns genuine, even if for a brief moment.
Loud noises draw my attention toward some young chaps already deep in their cups. Though the omegas indulge them, it’s clear their interest begins to wane with every childish laugh and prod. Someday they’ll learn. Probably at a brothel instead of a whipping house, but they’ll learn.
Narrowing my eyes, I look upon the others milling about, chatting with the omegas as if they belong. None of them stand out in any way to bring any sort of suspicion. Even Jeremy stands by the door with a bored look affixed to his face. Nothing seems wrong, and yet I cannot shake the fact that potential danger lurks everywhere.
It’s more than just Samhain. The very air feels shifted, as if the ghosts of my past truly can come to haunt me. And what a plethora of ghosts that would be.
Your Rosy Thorne in Your Side.
Unbidden, the valediction to the damned letters we all have received at some point or other flashes through my brain. If only I could either drive it from my skull or find the culprit behind it.
Until recently I thought it some joke, a lark a bored layman or elite devised to keep themselves occupied. Yet with each note, the tenor seems to change. This person knows intimacies about my friends and me, things no one else should know.
If I didn’t trust my friends as much as I trusted the blade hidden in my jacket, I would assume it was one of them trying to get a rise out of us for some unknown reason. It’s not them. It’s no one I can pinpoint. The handwriting is unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time.
It’s what also drives me here just as equally as my need to feel a firm buttock beneath my palm. Perhaps I can fulfill both needs in one night. Unlikely, but it’s worth a try.
As of yet, we have not ascertained who it is that sends us these missives. I doubt I can derive in one night that which has eluded me for months now. Another weary sigh slips from my lips as I give our gracious patron a nod and head toward the back.
With how I’m feeling, I need to put all notions of this letter writer to the side and focus on ridding myself of these demons as I carve them into the flesh of another. Hopefully, there is still an omega who’s untouched enough to satisfy my need to mar their skin, and see my passion bloom across the delicate surface.
As I slip into the erotic play rooms concealed by the most ordinary of doors, the familiar hum of erotic pain washes over my skin, allowing me to slip into a far different role than the crown’s blade. Here, I’m merely an Alpha who needs to lose themselves in the arms of an omega. I make the rules and the demands.
Here, I am free to be who I am with no judgement. God Himself doesn’t dare look upon these rooms, for fear of seeing the most unholy and blasphemous activities taking place. An indulgent grin slides my lips upward as I study the omegas flitting about, hawking their wares for the Alphas to indulge in.
So far there’s no one who strikes my fancy, but I’m sure Madame Douleur knows what sort of mood I’m in. She always has a knack for understanding and procuring just what I need. As I secure my mask tighter around my face, I travel down a side hall toward a room that is as familiar to me as my own bedchamber.
There, I have all the tools and implements I could ever want at my disposal. Reaching out, I caress the tails of the floggers as if a lover. Soon, they will force pained cries from the lips of my helpless omega. Soon.
As I continue to choose which tools of the trade I wish to employ tonight, the damned scent of copper continues to plague me, flooding my nostrils with every inhale. I’m clean. I know I am.
The water in the tub had turned from vermillion to clear before I left the bathing chamber. Even then, I rinsed myself a second and third time, just to be sure. Still, I can’t seem to clear it from my head and mind.
Melancholy drifts over me and settles about my shoulders as I do my best to shrug it off. It’s an occupation and nothing more. I am the protector of the crown, something I should take pride in. Unfortunately, on nights like tonight, I find the mantle far harder to bear than on others.
Should I even contemplate sullying such a sweet body as the omega who will soon come through that door? My hands clench into fists as I study the immaculate skin, not tarnished with the blood that seems to only reside in my mind’s eye. It’s the only way to quiet the demons, to keep my sanity intact.
Besides, there are far worse ways to keep from descending into madness. At least the omega will be willing to accept my violence in exchange for coin. If only it were that simple with everything else.
For a moment I think of leaving, but know I can’t. If I don’t purge myself between the thighs of a willing vessel, then I’m liable to harm someone else. If there were any hope of absolution, it would be wrenched from my soul if I harmed another outside of my missives.
In this way I shall find salvation between the thighs of another, and Heaven in the pained screams of ecstasy as I drive her to the very brink of the same madness that plagues me. In that case, let my sacrificial sacrament appear.
I am more than up to the challenge of sending her through hell so that she might glimpse Heaven all the more clearly.
