Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

BENEDICT

A lone. That's where I find myself at The Rose and Thorne on such a desolate evening. Nursing a glass of port, I stare at the women undulating on the stage, their nubile bodies writhing as they touch themselves for all to see. Normally, my friends and I would make ribald jokes, and possibly take bets on which one we would strip down and use for our nefarious purposes.

Not tonight.

With all of my friends, either married or off to parts unknown, I am left here to my own devices. Not that I blame them. If I had the same fortune in procuring such delectable morsels, I'd flee far away as well.

Taking a deep swallow, I eye the girl closest to me and motion her over. With a welcoming smile and a beguiling glint in her eyes, she makes her way to me and leans forward, showing off her ample bosom.

She certainly is a lovely addition to the whipping house, but I feel nothing as I slide my hand over her breast, gripping it tightly. The gasp she gives me is contrived. Everything about her is false. She's merely a painted doll practiced in the art of seduction.

There is no innocence in her eyes, though she tries her hardest to convey a na?veté that she will never possess. Heat threatens to melt my brain as I stare into her eyes, looking for some modicum of childlike wonder. But there is nothing there except the need to please in order to make a living.

What I want—what I need—is not here. Deep down, I know I won't find it in the bowels of Madame Douleur's fine establishment. I will never be as lucky as Birchleigh, and that knowledge eats at me as if it were a sickness. For someone like him to find a virgin amongst the ladybirds...

And the daughter of an Earl, on yet. Shaking my head, I motion for the girl to leave, doing my best not to snarl at her coquettish pout. No amount of manipulation will make me wish to be in between her thighs. Or any of these whores, for that matter. Tipping my glass, I drain the rest of my drink, reveling in the burn as it slides down my throat.

I shouldn't be here. But then, where would I go? It's not as if my friends will take me in and have a house party in my honor. Not that I could defile a chit there the way I wish to do either. No. It is best for me to be here. Anywhere else, and I'm no more than a prowling animal looking to consume virginal flesh.

A deep sigh flits through my lips as I slam my cup down and head to a different room. Perhaps the whores will be a bit more to my liking somewhere else. Sauntering through the dim hallways, my cock hardens at the sounds of pleasure dripping from the walls like blood sliding down to puddle at baseboards.

The hunger within me grows, a darkness that threatens to consume me. Soon, I'll have to let my monstrous desires out. But on whom? Easing through a thick curtain, I pause at the doorway, watching the show on the stage.

Not more than a few weeks ago, it would have been one of my friends up on that dais strapping down a willing woman as they took implement to hand and struck it upon her upturned backside.

Now, it's some upstart, a baron of some sort, wielding the paddle with awkward motions and an unsteady hand. The girl beneath him, bless her soul, does her best to act as if she's enjoying his attentions, but her eyes tell the true story. She's bored and in discomfort. Only the buffoon is far too engrossed in his ineptitude to notice.

She looks at me, a hopeful glimmer shining in her eyes. The girls here know how I play. They know the skill with which I bring them to release one mournful cry at a time. They pay for it with their bodies, but the end result is well worth the pain they derive at my hand.

My lips curl up into a smile as I stare at her, shaking my head as she pleads with me on wordless lips. In truth, this form of torture is far more alluring than when I paint their bodies with the pain I inflict upon them. It's an agony I don't have to work for yet can observe all the same. I suppose I should say something, perhaps instruct the oaf.

But then... it's not my job, is it? If the Madame was truly concerned with the wellbeing of her girls, she would do better to keep the miscreants out and save these pleasures for the more elite. Not that I begrudge the man. He still looks to be wet behind the ears, just out of Alpha school.

In time, he'll be just as skilled as the rest of us. Perhaps he'll even come to surpass us. But that's another contemplation for another time.

Slipping back out into the hall, I wind my way around lovers taking their place along the wall, the diminutive dicks of the betas sawing in and out of the omegas, finding pleasure in their cunts while the girls find very little of their own. My lips turn down into a feral scowl as I scent the air, searching for the slick that should be dripping from their bodies.

It's faint, but it's there all the same. Not nearly as much as when an Alpha knot stretches them wide. But then, when a demographic like omegas outnumbers us Alphas so vastly, at least, that's how I understand it, they need to take what they can get and be grateful.

The next room is silent like the grave. The emptiness washes over me, soothing me in a way that has no words, a relieved sigh heavy on my lips. There, off in the corner, the pianoforte sits untouched. Drawing a lit candle from the doorway, I make my way to it, like a penitent crawling toward the priest.

This is what I've needed. This is what my soul cries out for. With an ungodly reverence, I slide the pads of my fingers across the keys. My cock aches with unspent need, even as the cool ivory calms my nerves. Sitting at the instrument, I close my eyes and allow the melody to seep into my soul and pour out of me as I channel my frustration.

Here, I can indulge as much as I like, playing for both sinner and saint, vicar and harlot. Here, no one judges me for being both a duke and a man, as I take out my mounting anger on the innocent keys. To be sure, in the eyes of the all-seeing Ton, it is an unseemly hobby, but it tempers my emotions, allowing me to get them out in ways that keep the others safe from my shifting moods.

As I allow my mind to drift along with the music, I'm increasingly aware of the audience gathering. Naked girls stride in, followed by the men they plan to seduce. The mixture of scents clogs my head, making it harder to concentrate. As much as I want to send them all away, this isn't my room. I haven't paid for the peace I desire.

Maybe next time.

My gaze wanders, taking in the nubile sights as my fingers and brain continue with the melody. Soft sighs and loud grunts punctuate the notes, turning the deviants into my own private orchestra. Leaving the familiar tunes of practiced pianists before me, I allow my fingers to drift, creating a cacophony that's all my own.

I play the crowd, using their movements and eccentricities to dictate the pace and strident tones. It's a unique melody filled with madness and longing, a cry for the defilement I crave and the anger at not having found what I'm looking for. There's no name for the sounds banging from the instrument, and I know I shall not remember their sequence on the morrow when I look back with a far more chaste eye.

It's a moment in time, an emotion set to sound, and a frenetic energy driving the tune. The girls whirl about as if possessed, and perhaps my music is the devil embodied, just waiting for a willing supplicant to drink his dark promises. Grabbing a small glass left for me by a serving girl, I play with just one hand as I down the spirits with the other.

The burn races through my throat and into my gut, settling there like hell itself. Groaning, I allow the sweat to drip from my brow as I concentrate on transmuting feeling into music, turning my longing into a symphony. If I were a far more romantic person, I'd imagine my music drifting across all of England to land on the ear of the sacrifice meant for me.

But I'm not a romantic person. At my core, I'm pragmatic, a man who lives by facts and figures, only allowing myself to drift in these rare vulnerable moments. To drift is to allow the monster out to play. Only at The Rose and Thorne can I do that. Perhaps if I'm lucky enough to find a wife as eager to swallow the shadows as she is my cum, then I can truly be happy.

The virginal brides Madame Douleur passes my way may claim to have all that I need, but one look into their soul and I know they'll break even before I set my knife to their skin. I need someone like me—a girl who can put on a proper face for the Ton, yet eventually revel in the devilment I require at the snap of a finger.

The misses here are either so innocent that I would cause them mental harm or they're too jaded to do me any good. For other poor saps, they might be able to spin their tales of innocence, but I know better. They lure them in with creams to snatch up their cunts, pretending to bleed as they're penetrated by minuscule cocks of betas, only to put on such a performance all over again the very next day.

Granted, Madame Douleur does her best to keep the girls from spinning falsehoods. Not like the other brothels in town. It still does nothing to quell my dark appetites. Unfortunately for me, I am without at the moment.

The ones who can give me what I need must recover from our previous sessions, putting them out of commission for the next chap. Not that I care. I only care that I cannot have their canvases blanked for my purpose more than once a month… and I've already burned through the lot.

Adjusting my stance, I slow my fingers down into a far different tone. This one speaks to my longing and loneliness, the part of me I rarely allow to see the light of day. I cannot settle. I will not settle. But soon, I may have no choice.

Around me, naked women drape themselves over the piano, doing their best to entice me with their bodies. But I do not see them. Even when a bold raven-haired harlot climbs atop and spreads her thighs, planting a heel on either side of the keys.

Her cunt clenches as she rolls her hips around, showing me her beautiful wares. To be sure, it's a lovely pussy indeed, but not one that I want to indulge in. As it is, my mind is transfixed, captivated by the one person I cannot indulge in. It's an ephemeral thing, a lust so exquisite I dare not put a name on it lest it become a reality and prove far more lackluster than my dreams.

Every time I close my eyes, my phantom is there. Her hair changes, as do her eyes and scent, but the core of her stays the same—submissive, enchanting, captivating. I want Lady Venus in human form, a tender ingénue ripe for my plucking and defilement. Nothing like these women surrounding me.

And certainly nothing like the timid church mice Madame Douleur sends my way in hopes of enticing me. No doubt the good lady Alpha misses my coin. Not that I'm reticent in parting with it. I simply grow tired of the same visuals, the same false sighs, and the same jaded women vying for my attentions.

It's a madness creeping over me, one without a name or tangible outlet. It leaves me breathless and ragged with the desire that lies on the tip of my tongue. It's as if I can create my goddess out of the ether if only I could apply pen to paper or spill the words out into the void.

Yet, they never come.