The Mistress Auction Ch. 01

The Marquess of Ravenswood hated dramatics.

He also loathed crowds, prying eyes, and London. Yet, there he sat, in the very back row of what was surely the most infamous, crowded event in the city's history. Only one thing could pry him to this cesspool.

The Hellfire Club was having an auction.

Even Ravenswood couldn't resist that temptation. He shifted in the rickety wooden chair, his large frame unused to such cramped spaces. A growl of impatience left him. "For a gathering that's supposed to be secret, there are crush of fools here."

Next to him, Lord Seth Cardew rolled his eyes. "Only you would call two hundred attendees a crush, Will. It's been almost a year since the last auction, you know. Our membership craves this sort of diversion, even those whose pockets won't let them bid."

Will grumbled. Truth be told, he wouldn't be attending this blasted event, if it weren't for the letter. Even in the wilds of Yorkshire, he kept up with London's underbelly. Gossip had reached him, quietly and with the archest of tones, that suggested he might find tonight's auction particularly interesting. He didn't dare hope that what he looked for would be on display, however. In the five years since Violet had left him, no woman had tempted him for long. To think one of the women here, willingly selling herself to the highest bidder, would fill that void was ludicrous. He would be a damned, romantic fool to assume such a thing.

Just in case, though...

Just in case, here he was. Dressed like a Christmas goose, in his top hat and tails, and antsy. He'd taken the train down just that morning. "Get on with it," he growled.

As if bidden by his thoughts, the electric lights dimmed. The audience members, or buyers he supposed, were left in shadows, while the slightly raised stage remained illuminated by a host of white, glowing tapers. A woman stepped out of the gloom and onto the stage. Hers was a serious beauty, made more so by the candlelight. Inky black hair swept back in a chignon, with features as sharp as a hawk, she reminded Will of a governess.

If governesses wore men's clothing, of course. The mistress of ceremonies was kitted out better than Will. On her tall, slim frame she'd donned black trousers, a perfectly tailored jacket, and gleaming, emerald silk waistcoat. The only nod to her femininity was the bright red stain on her lips.

Will roused a little, intrigued against his will. She wasn't for him—too sharp, when he'd been spoiled by curves—but he appreciated beauty in all forms.

"Welcome, friends, to The Hellfire Club's Mistress Auction," she said in a deep, throaty voice. The room quieted even further. "I am Madame Valerie, purveyor of fine mistresses and the ringleader of this particular circus. We'll start, as always, with the gold contracts."

"Bring on the whores!"

She narrowed her eyes at the audience, skewering the interrupter. "These are not whores, sir. The women who take part in this auction are of the highest breeding and class, women who have willingly signed their contracts and are bestowing their talents onto select, respected persons. We vet not only our mistresses, but their protectors." Her tone suggested the man in question could kiss his luck tonight goodbye. Madame Valerie straightened and continued her introduction. "As I was saying, we'll start with the gold contracts. For those who are new to our ranks, I will explain."

"The Hellfire Club color codes our contract levels, each corresponding to a prescribed set of limitations. Gold contracts, the rarest, are entered into very carefully. There are no limits on what you can do, after purchasing a gold contract, aside from inflicting permanent bodily harm. For whatever amount of time she signs on for, the mistress will be under the buyer's complete control, both sexually and personally."

"She is, for all intents and purposes, an indentured sexual servant. Though, one who is paid quite handsomely for her time. We start the gold contract bidding first, so that your pockets are filled to her liking. Shall we begin?"

Enthusiastic applause met her questions. With a flick of her wrist, Madame Valerie cued someone offstage and three women filed up the stairs, then into the light. Each was shrouded, from head to toe, in a velvet cloak. Red, green, and white, they looked like Christmas decorations, The Hellfire Club's sadistic nod to holiday merriment. They stopped behind Madame and bowed their covered heads in unison.

Madame Valerie nodded her head. She smiled, cold and fast. "Very good, girls. Now, Twenty-Two do come forward. We begin with your contract."

The green-cloaked woman moved forward. Even covered by velvet, her generous body was evident, hips moving in sensuous rhythm with each step. Will stirred, aching for a closer look. That walk. It struck a chord in him, unfurled some long-tamped desire to possess.

His lips twisted in the gloom. What foolishness. Underneath that cloak, she would be like every other woman he'd had. Beautiful, surely, but uninspiring.

As if reading his mind, Madame Valerie reached out one slim hand and untied the other woman's robe. It fell to the floor in a puddle of emerald.

The audience gasped. Several people around Will flipped through their programs, searching for her information page.

Will started. She was completely nude, save an extravagant green half mask. Tumbling waves of long, dark red hair rioted around her, framing her body with flame. God, what a body. Twenty-Two was all curves. Generous breasts, more than a handful each, sat high above lush hips and an impossibly narrow waist. Will grew hard with just one glance, his cock insisting that he open his wallet, give her whatever she wanted. Anything to take her.

Was her skin really so fair, or was she scattered with light freckles up close, like gold leaf over a canvas? Suddenly, it seemed the most important thing that he find out.

He'd so loved Violet's freckles.

The hand on his shoulder shocked Will out of his daze. He was half out of his chair, Seth restraining him with a smile. "Patience, Will," his friend whispered, with a laugh.

Right. The Hellfire Club would have its pomp and circumstance. No matter that Will was the richest man here by a mile, heir to both a dukedom and an American shipping fortune. This girl was already his, no question. Whatever amount of time she was contracted for, Will wanted her. Perhaps she, so like his first love in both coloring and form, would be the one to finally flush that need from his system.

He would pay millions for such peace.

***

The Countess of Mulvane shivered.

Despite the fires raging in the ballroom, Georgiana was chilled through. Standing naked in a room full of your peers trembled even the most stalwart body. Given her life lately, she wasn't feeling particularly hardy. What foolishness, to think this would be the easy part.

After agonizing over this decision, the Countess was ready to get on with it. There would be no more worry, simply pure sensation. Meet the man, fuck him madly for six months, then spend the rest of her life free. What a lovely word that was. Free.

Funny, really, that giving in to a stranger's every sexual whim was her ticket to true freedom. Not only would her sisters be safe from scandal, but little Camille would be set up for life. All for something she enjoyed immensely. Stephen, damn his treacherous soul, had been a terrible husband, but an adventurous lover.

And yet...

And yet nothing had quite prepared her for this feeling. Lascivious eyes raked over her body. Hundreds of masked and shadowed figures loomed in the darkness ahead of her, making appreciative murmurs of her form. If her mask should slip, all would be lost. The utmost secrecy of the contract was part of what lured her to the Hellfire Club. No one but her lover need know that the Countess of Mulvane had sunk so low. All of Stephen's failures were overturned, in exchange for half a year of Georgiana's service.

It wasn't even a choice. She willed the mask to stay put.

"Please turn around, Twenty-Two," Madame Valerie ordered.

Georgiana slowly pivoted to the back, conscious of every inch of her body. The audience's gazed tickled over the flare of her hips, down the swell of her bottom. Only two men had seen her so bare. To think that number was now multiplied a hundredfold, in less than a minute.

Her eyes burned into the masked faces of the two women standing robed, at the back of the stage. The snowy fall of white silk and the bright crimson velvet shimmered in the light. What circumstances had brought them here? Were they desperate to right a wrong, like Georgiana, or merely in search of a few hedonistic thrills? Would that she could see their faces, find solace in their shared experiences. Madame Valerie had kept them in separate rooms, until right before the auction began. Time for one last reflection, the intimidating woman had suggested.

"Our dear Twenty-Two has a generous figure, to be sure." A cold, slim hand traced the line of Georgiana's spine. Goosebumps raised along her skin. When she came to her bottom, Madame Valerie squeezed the right cheek in apparent appreciation. "What a magnificent rump you have, lovely one. A man like's something to hold on to."

The audience whooped. A room full of aristocrats turned to rowdy schoolboys, with a little nudity and sexual titillation. Madame Valerie pushed at Georgiana's side, indicating she should turn once more. The woman's throaty voice continued its examination. "Twenty-Two's true assets, though, are these breasts." At that, the mistress of ceremonies came around to the back of Georgiana, arms threading through hers like a lover. The woman's breath, hot and minty, caressed her neck. Madame Valerie cupped both of the countess's generous breasts in her hands. "Rare to have breasts so large still be so perky. What do you think, lads? Would we call them melons or grapefruits?"

"Cantaloupes!"

"Honeydews!"

Madame Valerie laughed. "She will certainly do, honey."

A flush spread across Georgiana. Would the blasted auction never start? She raised her head a fraction, responding to the ribald investigation with hauteur. Her governesses had probably never intended those comportment lessons to land a peer's daughter here. Georgiana knew the ropes, though. The more they lusted after her, the higher the price. Whatever wicked little tricks Madame Valerie planned, they would drive the final payment higher. Her family was worth a moment's—a lifetime's—humiliation. Just as she finished that thought, Madame took both of her nipples in hand and pinched. Hard.

Georgiana shrieked, taken by surprise more than pain. Sensation flooded her. Heat pooled, low and banked, in her pelvis.

"They're sensitive, as well. Think what fun might be had with these darlings. I bet our prim little lady would love a set of clamps for Christmas."

The audience cheered in support. Georgiana shivered, desire ramping up past her defenses. How did Madame Valerie know? Stephen had a pair of clamps made especially for her, gold chain with emeralds winking at each tip. They'd been sold to a discrete buyer, along with everything else of value in Mulvane House. Just like Georgiana herself would soon be sold.

Resolve wrapped around her heart. No.

This was a temporary arrangement. She was selling her body willingly, happily even, but it was hardly the whole of her. Whomever paid for Georgiana's contract would receive a fool's bargain. He could have her body any way he wanted, but her soul wasn't up for grabs. She'd given that away only once and lived to regret it bitterly.

Madame Valerie raked her hands down Georgiana's body, narrating for the audience, as she went. No mole, no patch of skin was left unviewed. The countess half expected the little majordomo to open her mouth and count each tooth aloud. For the inspection's finale, Georgiana was turned around once again, back facing the audience, and ordered to bend over. She clasped her ankles and closed her eyes. Cool air wafted over her nether regions.

Oh, for heaven's sake, Georgiana. Don't be so missish.

Nether regions, indeed. Her vagina—her cunny, Stephen had called it—was on full display for hundreds of people. Surely she could dismiss the euphemisms now.

Madame Valerie spoke again. "Note the naturally red hair, gentleman. This one is a true ginger beauty." An elegant finger traced the opening of Georgiana's slit, which was embarrassingly damp. "See how she glistens? Twenty-Two loves to submit to my whims. A natural pleasure object, as we proved during her training. You should see how she responds to the strap."

Shame, that useless emotion, flooded through Georgiana. How strange, to have her sexual deviancy discussed in such a cold, logical manner. She would be banished from Mayfair, if it got out that Countess Mulvane enjoyed being defiled in such a way. Yet, it was true. The last few weeks of training for the Hellfire Club had opened her mind to a world of sexual possibilities. Stephen had been dominant, yes, but he was the Pope compared to Mistress Valerie. Worse yet, Georgiana had enjoyed every moment. The darker the act, the more intense her pleasure.

As if reading her mind, Madame Valerie began a rhythmic exploration of Georgiana's folds. The majordomo stroked up her pussy lips, around her clitoris. Up and down. Back and forth and—

"Oh, God." Georgiana couldn't control the invocation. Her body was alive with sensation. Nipples pebbled, muscles twitched, with the glorious motions.

"Such a vocal little thing. Enjoying yourself, Twenty-Two?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Slap. Madame hit her bottom, open-handed. "Yes, what?"

The weeks of training jogged Georgiana's memory. Her voice was thready with desire. "Yes, Madame Valerie."

"That's better." The mistress plunged a finger into Georgiana's opening, drawing circles with her thumb over the nearby clitoris. A second finger soon followed.

Georgiana groaned in response. Heavens, that was good. So terribly, horribly good.

"Do you want to come, little one?"

"Y-yes, Madame Valerie."

"Say it. Tell these people what your naughty little body wants. Tell them exactly how bad you can be, despite those angelic curves."

"I want to come, Madame Valerie. Please keep doing that with your hands."

Slap. "Doing what exactly?"

"Playing with my c-cunt, Madame." The words burned through Georgiana. Humiliation warred with desire. Desire won, desperate and hot. Just a little more. "I like it when you fill my cunt with your fingers and stroke my clitoris. Would you go a little faster, please, Madame?"

Slap. Slap. Thwack. A flurry of strokes rained down on Georgiana's upturned bottom. Pain twined with pleasure, white hot and sharp. Madame obliged the pleas, though, her hands working furiously at Georgiana's clit. Spanks alternated with strokes. Sensation overcame the countess, her cries dancing in the air.

Oh, it hurt. God, it felt so, so—

Georgiana climaxed, with a shout. The release washed over her in a storm of pleasure, twitching her muscles and firing each nerve, like a cannon. When she finally regained her senses, Georgiana quietly said the final words of her training. "Thank you, Madame Valerie."

Another slap to her bottom. "You're quite welcome, Twenty-Two. Stand up and turn around."

Doing as bidden, Georgiana faced the audience once again. A drop of sweat whisked down her spine. The front row of spectators watched her with obvious desire on every face, mouths agape. Her humiliation was worth it in the end, as Madame promised.

The Countess of Mulvane had orgasmed in front of a room full of people. Next, she would secure her future. On cue, Madame Valerie gave the last signal. Georgiana fell to her knees, head bowed. And so the auction began.

"That was quite a show, wasn't it? Imagine what a woman like this could become with a bit more training. We'll start the bidding at one thousand pounds, my lords."

A voice, deep and hideously familiar, rent the silence. "Five hundred thousand pounds."

"Sold to—" Madame Valerie paused, as if shocked into silence. "My, my. The Marquess of Ravenswood."

The words fell on Georgiana like an anvil. Oh no.

No, no, no.

Georgiana's head snapped up, willing her ears to be malfunctioning. There at the bottom of the stage, stood a man. He was a little broader than she remembered—the country exile did wonderful things for his already muscled physique—but the sandy blond hair and penetrating brown eyes were achingly familiar. The Marquess of Ravenswood had just purchased her contract. She was to be Will Thorne's sexual plaything.

All was lost.