Archive of Our Own

            Walking past the doors of Eva Heissen’s uptown establishment was like pushing into a warm, welcoming cavern of crimson brocade, shot through with veins of glinting gold embroidery. Her upstairs appointments were every bit as luxurious; curtains of heavy red velvet could be drawn closed to shutter one from the outside world, as they enjoyed one or two of her girls atop silk coverlets, dyed the deep, ruddy pink of a virgin’s blush (or, more truthfully, a whore’s freshly-worked quim). The rooms were not quite as spacious as those at the Comptess’ place, and one could tell that much of the furniture had been procured second-hand; but the wood was polished and waxed to minimize the presence of their scratches and dings, and the chairs all had brand-new upholstery -- one could tell by the smell of cloth, detectable even underneath the heady mixture of perfume and cigar smoke that always permeated such places. Robert did not know if he would yet classify this as his home away from home, as he had with the Comptess’ brothel, but it at least earned itself a place in his rotation.
            As was his habit, he preferred to disrobe before the girls came in; this included unlacing the prosthesis that gave his walk a stiff, swaggering hobble. It was set to one side, balanced carefully against a chair, as if it had its own place in the grand scheme of things; a silent friend settling into his seat for a show. Robert sat back against a multitude of soft pillows, lit his cigar, and waited.
            He was not kept long. “Come in,” he called, to the knock at the door, and it swung open to reveal two of Eva’s girls. Myrrine was a pale-skinned beauty whose velveteen bustier echoed the tones of her honey-blonde hair. Helena was one of Eva’s newly-acquired Creole girls, dressed in darker colors; the deep jewel tones of emerald and carnelian dyed her blouse and her bloomers. They both smiled hungry smiles, their eyes raking over him. He enjoyed the moment, watching them size him up…watching and waiting to see if they would betray any revulsion at the sight of his right leg. Ah, yes, there it was…brief, but detectable, in Myrrine’s eyes, as she looked at his stump and quickly looked back up at his eyes. His own gaze took on a dark, glittering look as he bored into her, and was rewarded with the sight of pink flushing her cheeks as she was caught. Yes, to make a whore blush was always a pleasure, indeed.
            He smiled, and sat up. “As Madame Eva has no doubt told you, I am in the mood for something a little different, tonight.” He watched the women approach him, and tilted his head toward Helena as she reached up to stroke his hair. “My dear Helena, I hope you will be up to the task, tonight. It seems Myrrine is still shocked by the sight of my battle-wound. That seems rather unprofessional, don’t you think?” Helena murmured in agreement, and he felt Myrrine stiffen as he reached up to the small of her back, to ball up a handful of the pale green robe that she wore, and give it a tug that threatened to tear the soft, thin fabric. “I think some discipline is in order. You will find the rod on the table nearby.”
            “Of course, mon chéri,” Helena murmured, slipping her hand into Myrrine’s blonde hair to march her over toward the table. The gleaming rattan of the rod glowed, light and mellow, against the dark wood it rested upon.  Robert watched Helena’s fingers run up and down the smooth surface of the rod as Myrrine disrobed, and slipped her sky-blue knickers down around her boot-sheathed ankles. He settled back and sucked in a deep, sweet taste of his cigar as Helena made the errant whore lean over the table. Her buttocks were round, fleshy globes, pale as the rest of her. They would wear marks very well.
            He watched as Helena set into the girl with the rod, raising bright, red welts on her skin, and watched as Myrrine lurched forward over the wood, gasping and trying to hold still. Such was impossible. Soon, she was writhing, her striped flesh rising and falling and wiggling with dismay, which would only earn her a harder blow, each and every time. Her feet rose and fell in a tortured jog in place, keeping time to the curses that Helena bestowed on her in French in between strokes, and running in counterpoint to the ragged sobs that came from her as she stood there and took it all.
            At last, Robert raised his hand. “Hold up for a moment,” he said, and the strokes stopped, though Helena could not resist getting a further dig in, dragging the ribbed shaft against the straight marks that now covered Myrrine’s ass. She tugged on blonde hair, and shoved Myrrine so that she would show as much of herself as possible to her client, her breasts pressed against the wood of the table, her long legs twisting at the awkward posture of it, before Helena inserted her own booted feet between the girl’s, and dragged her legs apart. The tip of the cane rubbed menacingly at the tender, furred slit between the limbs.
            “I think your punishment is just about finished, Myrrine,” Robert said, his tone warm and generous. “All you have left to do, is ask me for a kiss.”
            Helena released her, and Myrrine turned and crossed over to the bed, her steps slow and shaky. She crawled up beside him, and the scent of her perfume wafted over him. It was sweet and floral, and reminded him of wet spring tulips. She had bitten her lip at some point, and it was flushed and dark. “Please, sir, may I have a kiss?” She leaned toward him, and Robert held her back with a hand against her chest.
            “Please?” she said, her voice tremulous. “Please, sir, let me kiss you. I want to kiss you, so badly.” He could see a shadow of pain fall across her as she pushed against his hand, which continued to keep her at bay. “Please, please let me make it up to you…”
            His other hand rose, and buried itself in her hair, pushing her downward. Past his cock, where it reared up against his underwear; he sat up, and pushed her further and further still, until her head was hovering over the bit of tapered flesh that hung below his right knee. “Why yes, Myrrine,” he said. “You may kiss me.”
            Her lips pressed against his scarred flesh, over and over again. Her features were coarser than Elizabeth’s, but all the same, with her hair let down, and her eyes brimming with tears, and her head tilted just so, as her lips suckled and kissed at his flesh…he could imagine a slight resemblance, there.
            He sank back onto the pillows again, and savored all of it.