A Demon's Desire

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 onlysokind 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 shehadintervened 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 herverygenerously – 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 aregularcustomer. 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 aspractisedas my other girls. She would not be able to please you as-"

Her client's grunt cut her off sharply and then He laughed, the sound ill-humoured and icy.

"I will be content enough to see her play for me tonight," the deep, rasping voice declared in dispassionate tones. "Next time, we shall see."

Martha blinked uncertainly.But of course.Why had she not considered that before getting so worked up? The beast had only recently let Sabrina see Him up close and she had been fornicating with Him for months now. Natasha would be spared the horror of seeing him and once He saw how inexperienced Natasha was, He would tire of her, she was sure.

Sabrina, damn the girl, was already half in love with Him but then again, it could be all the opium she had taken over the years finally revealing its damage to her senses but if his prowess between the sheets were to believed then Martha could hardly blame the silly girl...still, Sabrina never spoke of pain or torture at his hands. Natasha would be fine, she reassured herself, her chest feeling oddly tight.

Nodding once more, Martha said at last : "She will be with you anon, my lord."

Silence met her words before the deep voice questioned from the shadowy darkness of the sparsely lit room. "She is discreet? Trustworthy?"

"Of course." Martha didn't miss a beat.

"Good. Go then."

And stumbling slightly in the blackness of the room, Martha went, her movements clumsy in her attempt to escape the confines of the suffocating space. For the first time in her career as a bawd, her hands, her body, were shaking.

"Just do exactly as I have instructed. You can get away without penetrating yourself with your fingers if you play the game well."

"But – but what if I can't-"

Martha exhaled in irritation at the girl's pale face and anxious eyes.

"If you can't bring yourself to pleasure that way then pretend, girl. Do you understand? Haven't I done my part for you? Had I not extended my hand to you, you would no doubt be in some disease ridden bawd house, bellyful already, or six feet under. Instead I take care of you – of all my girls," she felt herself become harsher, angrier with the girl, her desperation to get her to Him post-haste and her guilt making her uncharacteristically ruffled.

"All of this fear over nothing - all you have to do is stroke yourself to completion, for he will be able to smell you and detect the very nuance of your pleasure andthatwill be enough for him. Trust me. Simply listen to him, obey him, and you shall be perfectly alright. The man you are about to join is one of my most important guests. If you displease him, I will suffer the consequences and you will be no better off."

The dullness of the warning made Natasha shiver, Martha was pleased to note. Her eyes, too, had a slightly vacant look to them, the wine have done its work, but there was also a deep fear flashing in those deep green eyes that could not be avoided.

"Well?" Martha quipped, impatient.

"I understand." Natasha nodded, her voice quiet, her limbs feeling light, her racing thoughts pleasantly slowing, becoming sluggish. "I shall not displease you."

At first, Natasha thought the room was in complete blackness, but a single candle glowed by the window – what little good it did, she did not know.

She hesitated in the open doorway, not yet ready to close herself in and accept her fate or loose the precious light of the corridor.

"Close the door and stand before the candle. I would see you."

At the masculine command, the deep, gravely tone of the instruction, Natasha started hard but she did as bade, silently cursing her anxiety as she made her way gropingly across the dark room. The wine Madame had forced upon was slowing coursing through her limbs but not fast enough for Natasha's comfort.

Once in her designated place, she stood, hands obediently clasped before her, peering into the darkness. She could see nothing. The candle was so strategically placed that the only light showed a mere few inches of wooden flooring and nothing more. it cast She could see her hands, the ends of her long, dark hair curling over her shoulders but lower body, her feet, were lost in the clutching shadows of the room.

She was at this man's mercy. Madame had already pressed the point of it – the older woman had seemed scared, almost, as she spoke of her client. He could see her yet she remained in ignorance. Had someone asked her what she had preferred before entering the room, she would have chosen this precise situation - but the reality of being totally exposed and vulnerable, of not facing your opponent head on...it perturbed her.

"Remove your garments. Slowly."

At the compelling strength behind the voice, Natasha found herself obeying almost unconsciously. She moved her head in the direction of the calm voice like a child eager to please, and her hands shaking slightly, she slipped the flimsy material of her gaudy gown first from one arm and then the other before it pooled around her chilled bare feet. Next, she carefully unbuttoned her semi-transparent chemise, its bodice so low that the only thing hidden of her breasts was the dark areola.

The silence that met her ministrations was unsettling. This was not the leering, bold patron she had expected. No crude word or comment came her way as she stood there, completely bare, save for her garters and stockings. Her mound was shaven clean, as Madame dictated, and Natasha felt the nude skin pucker at the slight draft in the room, felt her nipples tighten into stiff buds.

Fumbling with her garter belt and garters, she flinched at the sharp order commanding she cease, feeling her already hot face flame at the hoarseness that harshened the already rough tone.

"Leave them. There is a chair in front of you - two arm's length from where you stand. Pull it towards you but do not move further into the room. Settle yourself onto it and spread your legs wide. Keep them bent so that your feet rest on the seat of the chair. I do not want them touching the ground."

Pulling the object towards her, Natasha found a hard-backed chair just as stated and as instructed, awkwardly sat on it, her legs held stiffly together. In shame, she clasped her hands on her knees, her eyes burning as she glanced at the warm-hued skin of her thighs gleaming softly in the flickering light.

"Spread yourself for me."

The man you are about to join is one of my most important guests. If you displease him, I will suffer the consequences.

Her employer's words echoed in her mind.

Oh, God,Natasha prayed ineffectually. But God would not save her now, not when he had already abandoned her, long ago. She had no one in this life but herself and lifting her chin at the harrowing thought, she slowly brought her legs up before her, lifting and bending her knees up until they partially hid her breasts which was some small consolation.

He did not comment on her lack of speed and so she took her time, doing it in increments, finding it easier that way. She spread one leg, the other, and sat, her breath hitching slightly as the cool air against her vulnerable mound.

"Wider."

"No, I-" her angered voice sounded startling to her own ears and she closed her mouth in belated horror.

So far, the only sound in the room had been of her own uneven breathing and his own voice when he deigned it appropriate to give an order. He had a rough, slightly abrasive voice, yes, but it had been almost soothing to her senses in a strange way. By speaking, she had startled herself out of her slightly imbibed, slugging, dreamlike state. It was an erroneous move on here part, for now she could feel, touch, see herself, the image of her spread legs vivid and raw to her eyes.

After a long pause of silence, she heard: "Do you disobey?"

"No, my lord," Natasha whispered after a pause in a defeated voice and spread herself to his satisfaction.

"The candle."

"My lord?" her voice whispered into the silence.

"The candle by the window," the voice was harsher this time, a definite note of anger – impatience – presenting itself. "Reach for it and hold it to your cunny."

With fingers that shook, she did as bade and closed her eyes, unable to watch herself illuminated so brazenly to this crude man.

"You are dry." The statement was dispassionate and Natasha cringed. "Rub yourself until your fingers shine with your wetness."

Curse you to hell.He was humiliating her. Zara, one of the girls she shared her room with, had said there were such men, but Natasha had never paid much mind to it, had not understood it. But as she set to work with her free hand, she despaired of the humiliation coursing over her. She had practiced this game many times in bed at night, sometimes for herself as much as for practice. She knew which parts to touch, which parts made her feel that delicious ache, that euphoria that climbed higher and higher in her belly until she came apart as she imagined Richard, her childhood neighbour in Surrey who had grown to blond, lithe handsomeness during his time away at Oxford and who she had seen but briefly before leaving Surrey for good mere months ago.

And so she pictured him now as she first smoothed the fingers of her left hand down her nude lips and massaged them thus for a few moments, her eyes remaining closed as she tried to imagine herself back in bed, her hands hidden under the secret veil of her blanket, Richard's soft, sensual lips, his handsome face, in her mind. Two fingers then moved slowly up to circle what she had discovered in recent weeks was her feminine bud, a pressure point so sensitive that when touched correctly, made her fly high.

Her bud started to tingle in the pleasant way she was used to, and she carried on for a time, slowly feeling herself becoming more languid and relaxed but wary enough to remember she held a hot candle in her hand. It wasn't long before she tested her hole to discover the slightest of moisture there. Triumphant, she stopped and held the candle closer to herself and awaited her next instruction.

"Continue."

The command was clipped – almost panted out – and the admission of the man's own pleasure made Natasha's feminine bud throb. Alarmed at the revelation, Natasha continued cautiously. She worked the moisture upwards over her lips towards her bud again and smoothed her slightly slippery fingers over the hard knot, slowly rolling it between her fingers in time with the deep, delicious throbs. Her hips arched gently, her breath caught.

"Stop. Test your wetness. Two fingers. Show me."

Natasha did as bade, shivering at the demanding voice, and as her forefinger and middle finger glistened in the light of the candle, the sounds of shifting and creaking furniture could be heard at the opposite end of the room. In alarm, Natasha dropped her feet to the cold wooden floorboards.

"Place the candle in its holder and close your eyes. Should you open them, you will suffer the consequences of my displeasure. Do you understand?"

Natasha murmured in the positive, her heart thudding painfully, her fingers clumsy as she replaced the candle and she couldn't help but feebly question: