The London Cycle - Business and Pleasure

The London Cycle

Business and Pleasure

Though I wanted to return straight away, I waited a few nights to visit my scruffy little kitten to make sure my wife would give me a minimum of grief. It gave me time to think about the future, and gave me a hope for a future, something better than what I had locked myself into with this marriage.

Thinking of that was a dangerous path, and though I shelved it, like any well-bred gentleman, there was a spidery whisper at the back of my mind: ‘If you killed her, you would be free again.’ That was a lie, of course—there was the requisite mourning, and if she did not die of a disease there would be suspicion over me for her demise. Though I hadn’t married her for my money…no, Adam, no, that is a dangerous line of reasoning.

To keep the thought at bay, I busied myself with social engagements, sketching new things I wanted my tailor to make me, and planning my next outing. I had a brilliant idea, while visiting ‘Liam, and put it to him as we sat across from each other at his worktable, him pouring over my new sketches, which I’d swathed watercolour over in vague suggestions of pattern and hue.

‘ ‘Liam,’ I began, ‘Could you, hypothetically, make something that was luxuriant, but did not look it?’

He looked up at me, a wicked smile on those delicious, painted lips. So delicious…I wanted to kiss them every time I noticed them, but ‘Liam never mixed business with pleasure (just to torment us, my friends and I agreed). ‘Hypothetically, would my client—hypothetically—be wanting to slum it?’

My cheeks felt hot, and I studied my hands, running my fingertips over the spirals and gems of my rings. I heard him shift, and one of those soft, beautiful, impossibly strong hands put fingertips under my chin and lifted, until his blue eyes were looking at mine, pencilled brows quirked. Something in my expression, however, made him soften, and he pulled up one of his frilly poufs, sitting.

‘My little bat has found love on the cobbles, hasn’t he?’

‘Liam was always frighteningly perceptive. I tried to muster up offence, but only looked down, crossing my arms and trying to swallow away the pricking in the corners of my eyes. Why could I never control my emotions, the way all of my peers could? I didn’t answer, stubborn, but my actions were enough for ‘Liam. He sighed softly, brushing a nonexistent lock of hair from my face.

‘O precious…’ he cooed softly, patting my black-clad knee. ‘Of anyone, the hand Cupid deals you is particularly harsh.’

‘I have found someone,’ I said softly, finally trusting my voice enough to speak, looking up at him in bemusement. ‘I would think that is a good card to be given. The ace of hearts?’ I smiled a little, recalling his sessions with me on full-moon nights, with well-worn cards dealt on the table for something other than a game. ‘Or perhaps the page of cups…’

He gasped, drawing back and hovering one hand over his mouth, looking surprised. ‘You?’ he said in that high, fluttery tone he got when someone said they rather liked lace on their cuffs. ‘Gracious, I’d never guessed—I mean, of course marriage means little, but you were so in love with her—I never guessed—O Archer, darling, you’re one of us?!’

His little tirade, the look on his face, the absolute excitement—I couldn’t help but laugh full-out, throwing my head back. I was surprised at his faint little moan, but paid it no mind. ‘O ‘Liam, the look on your face!’ I chuckled.

‘Well I’m usually accurate about these things!’ he said, crossing his legs and arms with a pout. Moments later, his gossipy nature took over and he opened up again, eyes shining. ‘Who is it? I know all the boys on Eckham street—’

‘I sha’n’t tell you,’ I interrupted, and spoke over his miaow of protest, holding up a hand, ‘And nothing you say shall convince me otherwise.’

His eyes went narrow, and I suddenly knew what my friends had said about ‘Liam having a ‘bitch mode’. ‘Now, ‘Liam…’ I began, placatingly, as he fingered one of my drawings. ‘ ‘Liam…’ I heard the begging note in my voice as he slid the page off the table and held it with both hands, poised to tear. ‘All right!’ I cried, lunging for the drawing. He danced out of my way lightly, pulling the paper away.

‘Ha!’ he crowed, triumph glittering in his eyes. ‘Tell me his name! Tell me!’ he demanded imperiously. I almost expected him to stamp a foot, like a petulant child.

‘Your word that you wo’n’t breathe a word of this?’ I asked, holding up a finger. He smiled gently.

‘O, Adam,’ he said, in that parental tone of his, rolling his eyes. ‘Really, it’s not so uncommon—’

‘Your word, ‘Liam.’ I repeated, standing as I raised a brow. He giggled.

‘O all right, but you know me—I’m an awful gossip—’

I slammed my hands on either side of him, using my height to full advantage, looming over him. ‘Not a word, ‘Liam, or I will make life unpleasant for you.’ My voice was low with warning, just the hint of a growl coming through the words.

‘Will you swish me?’ he asked breathlessly, eyes dilated with lust. I saw my chance, and my lips curled into a lopsided smile. My, my, ‘Liam offering himself to me? A part of me was giddy, but lust had always turned me into a masterful creature, more than normal. I removed one of my hands from the wall, scratching him beneath one pierced ear as though he were a cat.

‘If you’re very good,’ I said, my voice still lower, but more a velvet growl than a sharp one. I was pleased to see his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering as he gave a breathy mew.

‘Yes sir,’ he moaned, my sketch dropping to the floor.

But I wasn’t through with him yet, as delicious as the honorific was. I made him look at me again, cupping his cheek and smiling in mock gentility. ‘And you will be a good boy, wo’n’t you?’

‘Mm!’ he said with a nod, cutting off with a squeak when I gave him a warning look. ‘I-I mean, yes sir!’ he corrected himself, dutifully. I let go of him, taking a step back and making sure my hair was still in place, straightening my cuffs unnecessarily, smoothing my waistcoat.

‘Good,’ I said, looking slightly down my nose at him, the way one looked at Oppidans.

‘Did you swish a lot of boys, at school?’ ‘Liam asked, still leaning heavily on the wall, his arousal evident, with how tightly his white trousers were cut, the pale grey pinstripes only serving to highlight the new curves. I chuckled, and he trembled, moaning and sliding down the wall weakly.

I had no idea my voice affected people so.

More out of something to do than anything, I pulled out my pocket-watch and opened it. Heavens, I was due to meet Richards at the stables, to see my horse! ‘I must take my leave, dear,’ I said, still using that low voice that was full of such power. As I reached the door, I turned before I pushed down the latch. ‘By the way, his name is Jacket,’ I said over my shoulder.

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© Melanthios 2008

The London Cycle - Not for Lack of Trying

The London Cycle

Not for Lack of Trying

I threw everything into my marriage. Not to say material possessions, but possessions of a more intangible nature—my heart, my soul, &c. She was a beautiful woman, with beautiful hands, and such wit…ah, had I but known! We married in fall, with the leaves and the dark colours. She wore blue, and I did as well—it was before Victoria’s white wedding, you know.

So then, there were all the things one would think a good marriage is made of: A good and attentive husband, who loved his wife more than the earth itself, and would bring her flowers, chocolates, books she liked and anything her heart desired. What more could a woman ask for, in those days? I asked little from her, only wishing to have my affection returned, as I thought it was.

It was not.

Her wit was acidic and her suffragette sympathies were for more than women’s equality—they were for women’s superiority. How could I uphold such a thing—how could I, a man, possibly support her and still be contented with myself? I could not, and though I was one of the few men that did move for the women’s vote, it was never enough for her. I was male, and she hated men. I had no idea what I had done to deserve this, since I did not happen to be one of those men that she and her friends were so wronged by.

I loved her so, my Elizabeth. She thought me so terribly false—I suppose, in her mind, there was no possible way for a man like me to exist. Frigid, she was, even on our wedding night I could not thaw her with my kisses. ‘Get it over with,’ she said coldly, as I kissed her neck.

Needless to say, such an acrid command killed any libido I had, and I left her alone, sleeping in a guest bedroom. We never shared a bed again.

My lack of what had by now become my usual cheer and whimsy was remarked upon by my friends; to my closest ones I confided my troubles. Their solution was simple: just go find a pretty whore. It was all so easy for them, I suppose—even those that loved their wives didn’t see a problem with whoring. To me, however, a lover of Jane Austen and the other gothic romances that were considered feminine, whoring was just not an option. I didn’t want sex, I wanted my wife to love me.

Still, I did try it, just because one cannot refuse to even try something. I travelled to the red light district and found a girl that was the opposite of my wife, just to be sure I wouldn’t do the unthinkable and fantasize it was her. But…I wanted to talk to her, and even though they say they will do anything, they seem to think you wo’n’t pay them unless you have sex. So I wandered around, aimlessly, after bidding my sullied rose fare well.

Soon, I found myself surrounded by not female whores, but young boys. They were more ragged, and more aggressive. The evening was early, yet, and I found a sweet little one on a corner that looked like the very incarnation of Hermes, with that smile. Unlike the others, he was shy, withdrawn. I loved him immediately.

Money seemed crass, and so I resolved to find him a suitable gift. A bakery was only a street away—even in my gloom I had noticed the smell—and I purchased a sweet bun from there, hot and only slightly stale. I would purchase many more sweets from that bakery, in the months to come.

I slipped behind him, dangling the sweet in front of him; he grabbed it and turned, looking up at me with some trepidation.

‘Sir,’ he said, looking a bit fearful of my height. ‘Whotcher fancy?’

‘A smile, and a kiss.’ It was the first thing that came to mind. ‘Eat your bun, sweetheart.’ I stroked his ragged hair, struck with a rather motherly impulse to bathe him, feed him, take him home like a stray kitten.

He ate like a starved dog, though I couldn’t blame him—how often could he afford food enough for a growing boy? Still…I smiled as he swallowed the last, and waylaid the arm that was coming up to wipe the sticky glaze from his mouth. ‘No need, darling.’ I felt the need to comfort him, he felt so frightened, somehow.

Gently, almost fearful, I leaned down and cleaned his mouth like a mother cat; I was pleased with his soft cries, and wrapped my cloak around his slender body to have my kiss. He tasted of honey and currants and soot, not pleasant in itself, but there was something sweet beneath, fresh and…lovely. I wanted more.

‘I will be back,’ I murmured as I looked into his wide, surprised eyes. A kitten’s eyes, somehow. I stroked his cheek. ‘Lord help me, I think I’ve found my purpose in life…’ I whispered, half to myself as he gaped at me. ‘What is your name, little kitten?’

‘Jacket,’ he said, after a few tries with nothing coming out. I kissed the corner of his mouth.

‘Jacket, I shall be back for you before the week is out.’

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© Melanthios 2008