1830. Kensington, London.
Natasha considered her painted face and exposed skin in the reflection of the window and with a final look of resignation, set off from the small room that had been her home for the past three weeks. Before she left, she gave a last, brief glance to the space she shared with three other girls, her eyes straying to her small bed pallet in longing. How great was the temptation, the urge, to hide herself beneath the comfort and security of the thin blanket as she had as a child when a perfectly innocent shadow on her bedroom wall would suddenly grow grotesque and menacing as her youthful imagination ran wild. But no matter how frightened she had been, there had always been someone there to soothe her fears, for her pitiful whining and tears would always alert her indulgent papa or mama who would sweep into the room, kiss her brow, light a candle, and banish the monsters away. But tonight, there was to be no reprieve. She was no longer a child to be coddled, she had no father or mother to wipe away her tears and assure her that everything would be alright. She was, indeed, completely alone.
Annoyed at her weak thoughts, at her inability to forget the past, Natasha swept from the room, slamming the door behind her, the violent action piercing the otherwise silent and dark hallway of the third floor, the floor where the girls lodged.
The second floor told a different story. As she travelled through the candle-lit hallway, she gazed at the artwork, partly to calm her nerves and distract herself. Madame Marielle, the proprietress of this grand house, was an exacting woman. Only the finest décor littered the place, and, just as fittingly, only the finest of whores occupied her rooms. The shrewd woman had carefully created a whorehouse fit to service the highest of men and if Natasha could gain any solace from her current predicament it was that she wasn't selling herself to any old swine in any old brothel. She would service the very best and would do so on silken sheets.
She eyed a few of the doors on the second floor as she made her way unwillingly to the central staircase, wondering which room she would occupy tonight. The manor contained many rooms of varying sizes, all hidden away behind thick oak doors, all the better to muffle the cries of shame and passion with, depending on the girl in question. Though Natasha had been at Madame Marrielle's for a good while already, she doubted she would ever become accustomed to the extravagant, ostentatious surroundings. Her own house – her familial home in Surrey – had been handsome and had well-crafted furnishings, but it had reflected gentle luxury befitting her father's gentle occupation as a solicitor. It had been nothing compared to this grandeur.
Thus far, Natasha had been given a reprieve from claiming the status of accomplished whore but Madame Marielle was only
so
kind and her gratitude towards Natasha had to come to and end at some point. Natasha sensed that the end was fast approaching. After all, the woman wouldn't be the wealthy woman that she was if she allowed such concessions for all of her girls...
For the first few weeks, Natasha had spent her days and nights at the mammoth townhouse "learning her craft." She had been exposed to all of the possible and numerous ways there were to please a man with mouth, fingers and the body's other receptors. At that stage - still fresh from having lived on the streets of London since the death of her parents in a terrible riding accident – she had still been too proud to believe that she could actually go through with it, to barter her body in exchange for survival.
But days that turned into weeks of not eating, not sleeping, of running in fear for your life...well it tended to sober you up quite quickly, pride be damned. She fervently wished she could have been strong and determined, to have chosen death instead of this fate - but she was neither of those things. She did not want to die nor spend her days in a workhouse where in enough time, death would seem like bliss. And so, she had accepted the opportunity Madame Marielle had given her, accepted the opportunity of the woman she had saved two weeks ago now. Had it not been for Natasha intervening when the thief had pulled a knife to Madame Marielle, the woman would be dead, rotting in that forgotten street in London and Natasha would likely be not far behind her. But she
had
intervened and now here she was, getting ready to dance again for those of the men who came here merely to be enticed and teased, not bedded. These particular men did not want her body to fill but her body to look at.
Madame had carefully created a persona for Natasha, played up on her ambiguous Russian and Eastern heritage, dressing her in gauzy, transparent garments that bared scandalous portions of her legs, waist and hips. Thus dressed, she danced for these men and they paid Madame well for the pleasure but men who sought their pleasures in this way were rare and Natasha would have to yield her body to a man sooner or later or end up exactly where she had been. Alone, starved...and facing a certain grim fate.
As she finally reached the double oak doors on the ground floor, she took her ritual deep drag of calming air and sipped into the room warily but it was so shadowed within that her presence went more or less unnoticed for the moment.
Joining the other dozen or so girls in a room that was formally a large, formal dining room but now converted into a rich, luxurious space, all dark walls and low lit gas lighting, Natasha sought out her elusive employer, settling herself into the darkest corner of the room when she failed to spy her. There, she observed as the ritual began.
First, the men chose their women. They conversed, shared wine and bantered saucily for a time and then when the signal came from Madame or one of her girls, the room began to empty as the men took their pleasure in one of the rooms upstairs.
She glanced across at the gilt clock above the mammoth marble fireplace and released a breath of relief. There was time yet before her own duties would begin.
*
"I want the girl," the calm voice repeated.
Martha Marielle smiled coaxingly once more. "My lord, please – can I not tempt you with another of my girls? Sabrina is waiting as we speak-"
"I tire of her. You know I come to you - and you alone - because of our... understanding of one another. So far you have not disappointed me. Much. That girl you would send me now pales before your newest whore.
I want her
."
Martha stiffened slightly at the words, the chilling, cold tone, but recovered herself quickly. Despite herself, she had grown fond of Natasha. The girl wasn't at all the type she would usually employ, of course, being too quiet and too shy – too prim – to prosper in such a business. But so far she had earned her keep well enough. It wasn't enough, however. Martha liked to see a hefty turnover as much as the next bawd and that her most powerful client wanted Natasha should be of little concern. But it disturbed her enough that she feared, for once, for one of her girl's with personal concern. It was especially disturbing because He never paid mind to her new recruits, simply accepted her advice on which girl to use - seldom few new girls that there were, of course. She had always preferred quality after quantity.
Her client was particularly exacting and thus far had liked the routine of Sabrina. She wondered what the damn girl had done to displease Him. Natasha would not be able to handle it – to handle Him – and for Martha to throw young Natasha to this demonic creature from the world below...it would be unconscionable, especially after Natasha's own selfless act in preventing that dirty cretin from taking her life. Martha liked to think she had a bit of morality left in her.
Her mind made up, she nodded once, stiffly. She would do her bit. She would tell Him that Natasha was untouched. That should deter him quickly as it always did - but what if he failed to believe her? She didn't relish the chance of testing his clemency. Though she favoured his custom – he rewarded her
very
generously – there, their association ended. She barely withheld a cringe of fear, of revulsion, whenever she was in this creature's presence. Her client was a strange being...not arrogant and proud and thereby easy to handle and coddle like the others but rather, stoic and cold. Thankfully he wasn't a
regular
customer. But she couldn't afford to lose him, money be damned. His displeasure, his wrath, could prove devastating.
"My lord - she is new, as you said, and not as
