Like a Wisp of Steam, Thomas Roche [list of e readers txt] 📗

a few times in full view of the client, building tension as it whooshed through the air.

"I do this for your own good, child," he said, walking around to stand to the left of her raised buttocks.

"P-please, my lord, have mercy on me," she whispered, her toes stamping nervously.

"I give you such mercy as you deserve." He began, keeping an even tempo and building the intensity slowly. She watched him, her breath coming fast and shallow, so he made a show of using his entire arm in the blows, though with only a small fraction of his full strength.

Some clients suffered in silence, but this one made considerable noise, begging and pleading and apologizing. In the absence of her warning phrase, he took it as encouragement to increase the intensity, to the point when the birch began bruising her. Her feet danced, threatening to make her knock over the chair, but he pressed his free hand into the small of her back.

After several minutes of birching, he decided that, judging by the tone of her gasps and the flush on both sets of cheeks, she had reached a point of saturation, and returned the birch to its hook.

He lowered her skirt, eliciting another gasp as the fabric just touched her sensitive skin, then untied her wrists and helped her up to stand again. She clutched her hands to her bosom. There was a different tension in her now, and her eyes showed a new awareness. Her fantasy no longer obscured her perception of the moment.

This was the most delicate juncture, and one wrong step could spoil the entire scene. Would he be the harsh Patron, the one who throws the suffering Innocent out into the wilderness, or the forgiving Patron, the one whose heart is softened by the Innocent's tears and soothes her hurts? He looked in his client's eyes, saw her yearning and chose.

"Come here, little one," he said, pulling her over to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap. He was too small and she was too heavy to give the full experience of sitting in the Patron's lap, but he knew how to carry her weight on both of his legs so that her feet were off the ground, sustaining the illusion.

His experienced hand found its way under her skirt, through her bloomers and up her soft thighs to her sex, quite wet. She gave a little eager sound and spread her legs wider.

Remembering the notes on the assignation card, he did not press his fingers deeply into her, but instead stroked her lips and button, searching for the right rhythm.

Her face pressed into his shoulder and her fists pressed against his chest as she murmured, "Sir, please, oh, sir—"

"Good girl," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. She made an odd little sound, part gasp, part sob, and her thighs closed, mashing his hand against her. Her eyes closed with pleasure newly discovered, even if she had dreamed this moment a thousand times before, stroking herself in her own bed. This was the sacred moment that was somehow born from the hackneyed words and actions and costumes, straw spun into gold.

When her breathing slowed a bit, she looked at him, face to face. "Please sir, let me show my gratitude for taking me in." She slid between his legs, ending up on her knees before him.

He hadn't expected this at all, and it took him a moment to go with it and help her undo his trousers. She was surprisingly eager in this regard, taking his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

Each male player had his own trick for rising to the occasion, but he didn't focus on the sensations as he usually did. Instead, he thought of Miss Alwyx, looking resplendent and invulnerable in the Virago's dress, her massive bare arms wrapping around him, lifting him, crushing him against her bosom. She smiled playfully at his attempts to escape her grasp. I won't let you go, little Ricar....

He spent into his client's mouth. She coughed a bit, and he discreetly passed her his handkerchief so she could spit out his seed.

Buttoned up again, he guided her to her feet and stood up, back in the Patron's authoritative manner. "Do not think this has won you any special consideration, girl."

"Oh no, sir, of course not," she said, swinging her torso back and forth, pleased with herself.

"Dinner will be at eight, sharp," he said and turned his back on her, the session over. Shame weighed on him as he left through the player's entrance. He had betrayed his client by not being in the moment. Even if she hadn't noticed anything, he had betrayed his own standards.

* * * *

Ricar and Chel sat on a narrow catwalk among the lights and rigging. They dangled their feet far above the stage and watched the show, as they had done decades ago when they were both apprentices, awestruck to have even bit parts in the Commedia.

They had the best seats in the house as the performance started beneath them. Again, Miss Dyr played the Innocent, fresh from the wedding to her Servant groom and about to settle into their marriage bed, when the Prince entered and demanded his right as their lord. The Innocent huddled on the bed, quivering hands barely covering her bosom, while the Servant feebly begged for his bride to be spared.

"Something's off with her," Chel commented.

Ricar was forced to agree. No one in the audience noticed, he was sure, but the Innocent had caught on to manipulating the Prince by his desires too quickly. There was calculation where there had once been spontaneity. And little by little, it was growing. Someday, even the most unsophisticated observer in the audience would pick up on it, and then the illusion would be broken.

"We'll need to train her in some new roles," he said, half to himself.

"She's a terrible Fatale, not much better as a Pedant. And she'll quit before playing