The Diary of Cozette (7 page)

I watched in curious fascination, still quite unsure of her plan, but standing ready to help at a moment’s notice. Yet I admit it was a happy thought indeed to see him harnessed to the bedposts.

“You must relax, now and let us do all the work.”

“While I get all the pleasure, eh?” He spoke, trying to lift his head from the mattress.

She handed me the long braided strips knotted together at one end.

“Take his hand and tie it to the bed rail.”

I moved with caution toward the man, grateful his gaze was focused on Betsy’s bare breast dangling in front of his nose. He shifted suddenly and I had to hold his wrist in place with my knee to finish tying him.

He jerked against the binding and it only tightened the knotting further. I moved to his feet then and followed suit, until all four appendages were properly bound. Betsy and I stood at the end of the bed and beheld our work.

His gaze darted uncertainly between my accomplice and me. I admit I was far more courageous seeing his feet and hands bound, though I shudder to think what might have happened if we’d brought out his temper.

“Well, I can say that I’ve never had it done this way before,” he slurred sleepily. “This is a mite odd, but not altogether unlike riding a horse, eh, ladies?”

He chuckled deep and I glanced at Betsy with a questioning look. She surely had a better plan than the one he suggested.

She came to my side and leaned near to whisper in my ear.

“What I’m about to do I was taught in the woodshed by Frank. He said it was a way to relieve him of his tensions and I retain my virtue. I swear to you, I never thought I would practice this on anyone other than Frank.”

My gaze darted to the man, seemingly comfortable in his state. His eyes would slowly drift shut from time to time and then pop open as if he wanted to be sure he didn’t miss the show. I had to admit, Betsy was a most resourceful woman.

“I need you to stand over him and open your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Men like to look at a woman’s breasts. They would rather touch them, for it aids them to a state of arousal.”

I glanced at his cock, which appeared most alert. “It would appear that your client is fully arrived in that state.”

“Not yet, trust me. You will know.”

She paraded in her near naked state, except for her drawers, to the other side of the bed. With a subtle nod to take my position, she grabbed the whiskey, doused a piece of her robe with it, and knelt between his legs.

Carefully she stroked his length, disinfecting him, if I were to guess. It was evident to me that she was about to perform the act which Ernest had done on me.

With a deep breath, I shirked out of my shirtsleeves and stood with one knee poised at his ribs. Uncertain what portion of the breast of a woman a man found most desirable, I cupped myself and leaned forward, taking a look over my shoulder at Betsy’s progress.

Beneath me, I heard a low pleasured growl, and my gaze darted back to his face, seeing his eyes closed in a euphoric state. Were we fortunate enough that he’d fallen asleep?

“Like this?” I whispered over my shoulder. So intent was I on observing Betsy’s amazing technique that I’d found myself nearly seated at the man’s side. Her blond hair fanned out over his thighs as her mouth covered his tip, lapping and licking at him as though she was a child with an all-day lolly. I was completely engrossed and jerked backward when the man strained forward and latched on to one of my nipples, drawing it painfully between his teeth. I shifted farther from his face and inspected my breasts for any break in the skin.

“Do that again,” he growled.

I glanced up and cupped myself, pressing them together.

“Yeah, like that, more,” he stated, his voice rising between Betsy’s mouth and watching me.

Betsy’s pale pink tongue slid up the side of his rigid member, teasing the tip. A guttural groan crooned low and easy from him as his eyes drifted shut in bliss.

It was odd that that being in this most unusual position would cause any sort of arousal in me, but I admit watching her perform with her tongue and hearing the groan of his satisfaction caused my breasts to tingle with arousal. I wanted to be sure that I memorized every detail to offer this technique to Ernest one day.

I was unaware that I was rubbing my breasts even as Ernest had done that night and my breathing had become shallow.

“Both of you.” He jerked at the ties, causing the bed to jump once, banging against the floorboards. Anyone below in the pub would surely think that it was just another trick.

I wasn’t sure what to do, but Betsy ushered me to her side.

“I will give you half of what he’s paid tonight if you do as he says. It’s not so bad, if you know when to move your head to the side,” she whispered.

“What are you two witches scheming down there?” the man snarled, sounding like the pit bull that sought scraps behind the pub.

Concerned by her comment but eager for the extra income I crawled onto the bed and followed her instructions, first rolling his bollocks in my palm, then sliding my hand up and down his shaft until he grew heated and hard in my palm. I continued, keeping my eye on his cock, imagining Ernest as his hips bounced off the mattress. The bed shook from the force, and I grabbed his thigh to prevent toppling off the side.

Betsy pushed my hand away and took his tip fully between her rosy lips and her cheeks sucked in rhythmically as though she was lighting a cigar. Mystified at the technique, I took a quick glance at the man’s expression. His chin thrust upward, his lips were curled back in a sneer, while brows pinched in his beet-red face.

With a final loud groan that most assuredly had to halt the chatter in the pub below, his body stiffened and he thrust his hips off the mattress. His thigh muscles clenched, and his mouth dropped open, twisting his face in a grotesque form. I feared he was having a heart attack, perhaps a seizure, so I scooted off the bed, my gaze intent on his face as I waited for his jerking motion to stop.

When after a moment his face relaxed, my eyes darted to Betsy, where I found her collapsed and draped across the man’s thigh. His breathing drew in deep, his chest rising and falling in slow motion.

Indeed, the bloke had passed out cold.

Betsy slid from the bed, picked up the man’s boot and spit into it, before rinsing her mouth with a swig of whiskey and spitting again.

She was brilliant and I could not help but think what a fool her fiancé was to turn out a woman with so much fire and passion.

“It is probably wise that we leave before he awakens,” she suggested.

“I have a hard time imagining why Frank would be so foolish to leave someone like you.” I could have addressed any number of things, but the fact of the matter, is that I felt quite liberated.

She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and ignored my comment as she turned to a beaten old wardrobe and pulled out a tattered, thin dress. Not wasting time, she tugged it over her head and her form was so thin, she didn’t bother with its buttons or ties. Her hand she slid beneath her tresses, freeing them from the collar, and she secured it over one shoulder with a piece of ribbon from the floor of the wardrobe. The event itself lasted only a few moments, though it seemed longer. I marveled at her systematic, businesslike manner. I had just seen my first oral sex technique on a man and I was mesmerized; she acted as though it was a common as a sunrise.

The man now snored in his deep slumber, his great member listless on his thigh. Betsy lifted his trousers and pulled from his pocket a handful of shillings. She carefully counted out several shillings and handed me half. In my hand, I held more than I could make in six months of cleaning slime from the washroom. As I reached down to pick up my shirt on the floor she spoke as though understanding my misgivings to the thievery we committed.

“Don’t be so surprised. A working-class virgin can go for as much as twenty-five pounds, oft-times more than that. In my view, he received a bargain with two.” She smiled.

I remembered Ernest’s face when he told me of the bargain he’d overheard between Mr. Abbot and the stranger.

I scrambled into my shirt, not willing to argue, but was relieved I had not lost my virginity to the drunken louse.

Betsy hooked her arm through mine and for a moment, we stood transfixed watching the slumbering giant.

Betsy glanced at me, wickedness dancing in her pale blue eyes.

“I cannot deny that in this business, my days as a virgin are most assuredly numbered. Perhaps it would be best to see if I might perform the act while he is out cold? At least I would not have to contend with his disgusting mouth or his groping paws.”

I stared at her. Was she daft? There was the real danger that the clod would awaken. Had the lack of food addled her brain?

My gaze bounced back to his limp cock and I had to grin. “I am not at all certain you would have the same success given he is not awake,” I interjected, hoping she would see the folly in her reason.

A loud snore that shook his body squelched the young virgin’s thoughts. Her brows rose and she looked at me, a grimace marring her otherwise pretty face.

“Perhaps I can wait to give away my virtue on another day.”

“And to a far better suitor,” I agreed and quickly finished dressing, dashing into my room for my journal and writing tools.

With Betsy in her dress and me in my man’s attire, we appeared for all purposes to be a prostitute and her client. With a final glance at the man still tied to the wrought-iron bedposts, I hoped that the mice would not nibble too much.

We wandered the streets for what seemed hours before coming upon an establishment near the docks. A fair number of men from the Queen’s navy were gathered in the street, celebrating their leave. At first, I thought it unwise to venture too far into the unruly crowd. However Betsy, who was far more knowledgeable, pointed to the soft glow behind the red curtains on the row of upper windows.

“I hear they have live performances, the same as in Paris.”

I peered through the crowd straining to catch a glimpse of the show. “Come on then, let’s see if they have any work.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her behind me, through the chorus of men singing of England’s grand fleets and waving their pints in the air.

With far less difficulty than I had imagined we were delayed only once or twice by a roaming hand grabbing for Betsy’s bum. At the doorway, my eyes adjusted to the heavy smoke from cigars and pipes, as my gaze traveled over the richly decorated interior.

The tables were simple, both round and square, with four to five chairs at each. In one corner, farthest from the stage, a hot game of cards was in process. Two strikingly beautiful women stood by two gents dressed in high-society, bringing them fresh drinks, and turning their backsides for a swift pat for luck. The bar itself was an exquisite piece, running the length of one wall. It was carved of gleaming dark wood, and had a polished brass footrest that ran along the bottom the entire length. Behind the barkeep hung a large ornate glass mirror and flanking either side of that hung paintings of scantily clad women.

A loud ruckus at the end of the room caught my attention and I pulled Betsy in for a closer look. I pushed my way through the crowd positioning us near the side of the stage, near the steps leading to the closed heavy red drapes. A single row of kerosene lanterns flickered at the edge of the stage offering a brightness to whatever was about to begin.

We crouched in the shadows and waited, watching the animated expressions on the crowd. Most were men, of all ages and types. Some dressed very well, with neatly groomed beards and high-collared shirts. The upper-crust-looking gents sat in separate alcoves, lavishly decorated, their tables laden with champagne, sumptuous food and fine linen. In the center closer to the stage were the commoners, dressed in their tweeds and simple trousers, cigars and rolled cigarettes jutting from the corners of their mouths as they laughed and drank with their comrades.

It was a sight I would not forget, a side of England that I didn’t know existed. The pubs I’d been in, the whores I’d known, were dirt poor, most of them homeless or jobless. Here, the money seemed to flow freely and pleasure was marketed as if it was theatrical entertainment.

The curtain on stage parted and a short, rotund man stepped forward, squinting against the brilliant light of the stage lamps. He spread his arms wide and grinned at the crowd.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to England’s finest venue for your entertainment. Tonight, we are pleased to present, all the way from the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Madame Sadie Toulusse, who will entertain us with her magnificent voice.” He bowed deep as he exited the stage and a woman stepped from the curtains to the thunderous applause of the crowd.

I could but stare in fascination at the immediate presence she commanded from the entire room of strangers. She opened her mouth and sang, offering grand gestures with her fan made of giant purple plumes. I glanced at the crowd and found the audience was less impressed with her act than me.

A quiet titter spread throughout the room. They began to lose interest in her performance. Small groups leaned together and whispered while glancing at the stage. Tension began to mount in the room, a living, breathing unseen force, enhanced by the free flow of wine and whiskey.

I grabbed Betsy’s arm, just as the room began to come alive as though stirring awake. Jeers and hisses rose unceremoniously through the crowd. At the side of the stage, hidden by the curtain, the manager wrung his hands in worry. His glances darted between the unruly customers and the woman on stage, oblivious to her disenchanted audience.

My mind churned with the idea forming with the same speed as the audience’s distaste.

“Can you sing?” I asked, grasping her face and turning it to meet mine.

Her eyes widened. “I don’t know, I’ve never tried,” she stammered.

“Do you dance?”

“What evil plan have you concocted in that brain of yours?” She glanced nervously about the room, her chin held prisoner in my fingers.