Crinolines and Leather Ch. 01

Overcome with lust, straining for the desires that she strove so hard to deny herself, Beadle kissed him with a passion, imagining how his body would look, taste, feel... As his hands reached for her body, as he began to undo the lace fastenings about her neck, as his fingers grazed the line of her skin, the long ragged scar that coiled around the base of her throat, a lover's parting gift that she was never able to discard, she recoiled, reminded herself why she refrained from physical and emotional contact. Repulsed, she pushed him away from her, used all her strength to snap the cords that bound her wrists.

'You,' she growled, animalistic, afraid, 'will never touch me again.'

Unsure of what he did wrong Edward nodded dumbly. 'I'm sorry,' he breathed. Gently, as if he was afraid that he might break her, he reached out and wiped a tear, which she was not aware that she had cried, from her face. Softened, Beadle returned to her seat by the fire, and sat surveying Edward as a hunter surveys its prey. She touched the bonds that were still attached to her wrist, impressed with the workmanship.

'Sit,' she commanded, 'I have a business proposition for you.'

He fell into the chair opposite her, his body rigid with fear. Beadle plucked at the cuffs around her wrist. 'You can work leather?' she asked.

When he nodded, numbly, she smiled. 'Then,' she drew out the word, savouring how it felt in her mouth, 'I want you to come and work for me.' She smirked. 'As you can imagine, we require many items that are difficult to source; that are too often poorly made, not fit for purpose. I want you to come and work for me; to make such items for me and in return, I will let you lodge here, give you free use of the girls.'

Edward surveyed her pretty, mocking smile. 'Why?'

She shrugged. 'Because I need you: this isn't charity, I assure you. I cannot afford to pay you a wage but I can provide you with likeminded contacts, help you start a business.' She proffered her hand, watched him as he hesitated. Finally, he reached out, grasped her fingers between his.

It was with a sense of pride that he ambled back to his father's house to collect his meagre belongings. He dragged his mother's old traveling chest from under his father's bed and assessed the battered, misused object, wondering why she neglected to take the relic from before her marriage with her when she left. As he opened it, he heard the clink of bottles and smiled wryly, understanding: some things are too heavy to carry with you. He turned the case upside down, emptying it upon the sheets of the bed; allowing the drips of fermenting alcohol to soak into the fabric, allowing the shards of shattered glass to lie glittering, like broken promises; uncomfortable truths that his father could no longer hide.

He threw his clothes in carelessly and carefully wrapped and placed his leather working tools and his collection of books, stolen from libraries and book stores on top of the pile of rags. The case was light as he carried it down the stairs. Feeling as though he owed his father an explanation, he searched the house; found him passed out in the kitchen, an empty bottle of gin still clutched in his hand. Pity widened Edward's eyes and he reached for the man who began to choke, to struggle. His lip curled with hatred and he recalled how his father's eyes had glazed over as he had attempted to strangle his mother; how despite her pleading he would beat her until her face was stained with blood and she was unable to speak due to the pain. He remembered each cut, each bruise and he felt the remorse slip from his body. With a face of indifference that resembled his father's, he kicked the drunkard onto his back and walked from the house.

Estella welcomed him as he entered the brothel.

Her eyes sparkled and she took his hand. 'I was told to make you feel at home,' she declared.

As she showed him to his new room, Edward found himself fascinated by the nape of her neck; the contrast between her coils of copper hair and the pale ivory of her skin. His room was small but comfortable; dominated by the structures of the bed and workbench that stood at opposing sides of the chamber. He smiled drily when he saw that Beadle had placed the cuffs on his pillows. He turned to unpack his belongings and realised that Estella was waiting behind him; her hands clasped before her, her eyes downcast. She bit her lip and looked at him pleadingly.

'Please,' she whispered.

Unsure of what she meant, Edward took a tentative step towards her, placed a comforting hand on her arm.

'Please,' she repeated.

His brows knotted in confusion. 'What?' he asked thickly.

'Again.'

He shook his head gently. 'I don't understand you.'

She licked her lips, looked nervous. 'What you did, last night. Again please?'

Afraid that Beadle had forced her to attempt to seduce him; afraid that her timidity stemmed from reluctance, he declined: 'I'm not here as a customer; you don't have to sleep with me.'

'I want to.' She blushed and dropped her eyes. 'I had never... It had never felt that good before and I want it again.'

He scoffed. 'Please don't lie to me.' He turned from her and started to arrange his tools on the workbench.

Estella did not move. 'I'm not lying.' She took his hand, ran it over her body. He watched as her eyes drifted shut, as her lips parted. 'Please,' she breathed.

Edward smiled, safe in the sanctuary of his study, as he recalled the swell of Estella's breasts and the warm pulsating taunt of her mouth. He swilled his whiskey around the glass, savoured the taste and starred into the roaring fire before him, regretting that his new found position as wealthy and respectable member of society barred him from such exploits. The sigh that escaped his lips wracked his body and he recalled his glorious past. He had sacrificed his sexuality for material and social gain and struggled to ascertain if he had made the correct choice.

Suddenly, the thought hit him with such force that the glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the solid floor. Maybe, he thought, there is a way. His study, that previously cold space of banishment, was warmed with the heat of ideas that he chased around the recesses of his mind until he felt drunk, delirious. He stood to lose everything, yet, he rationalised; the dull tedium that was his married existence, could hardly be classed as a life. Hidden beneath the veneer of respectability afforded to him by his wealth and marriage; funded by his darling wife's inheritance, he could satisfy the two principals that drove him; the ardent yearning for pleasure and wealth.

If he justified his actions through philanthropic means: if he ensured that the girls who worked for him were healthy, consenting, paid a fair wage and protected from physical and emotional harm, he would be doing good. If he marketed the brothel correctly; if he made it appear luxurious, mysterious; if he could attract the right client, he could make money. And - of course - he could satisfy all his desperate urges while doing so! Tearing a blank journal from one of his bookshelves, he began to scrawl across the milky white pages with black ink, plotting. He already knew where he would search for an appropriate property; already knew how he would have it decorated and already knew how he would advertise for women. As he wrote, the fire tore through his body and he revelled, raged in its immolation.