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

"We just need to find the right role for you," he told her.

* * * *

The train pulled into the platform with a hiss of steam, and the doors cranked open, letting the travelers on the platform stream in. Miss Alwyx started to join them, but Ricar gestured to her. "No, down there."

He led her to the first class car at the end, showed his rail pass to the porter and said, "And one guest." The porter tipped his cap as he ushered them inside. They settled into the plush bench seats, facing each other. He smiled at Miss Alwyx's delight in the polished brass and mahogany fittings and the bag of hot nuts from the vendor's cart.

The train left the station and clattered along the elevated track, letting them look down on block after block of newly built row houses, homes for those who toiled in the factories whose smokestacks dotted the horizons.

Ricar was about to ask her about rehearsing under Chel, when she said, "I just wanted to say that it's an honor performing in your company. I've followed your work for years, since the first time I saw you, back when you were in the Crimson Engine company. It was Carnival, and your company performed Branwen in Furs. You were amazing. I honestly never thought that men could do the Innocent, but ... Oh, I don't even know what to say. I went back and saw every show you were in."

"Well, thank you." He almost winced at the memory of how crude his performances were back then. At least the audience didn't know any better.

* * * *

"Ready, Miss Wynne?" he had asked, poised to go through the door from the player's corridor to the assignation room.

"Please, call me Chel," she said and grabbed his ear. "On three. One ... two...."

With surprising strength for her small frame, Chel shoved him through the door by his ear. He let the momentum carry him across the room, suggesting the tiny woman had thrown him, and collapsed against the wall, right in front of their client.

The client, a grey-haired woman wearing a Servant's black and white dress, gasped as he looked up at her with pained eyes.

"You clumsy oaf!" Chel, looking suitably cruel and sensual in her Fatale's red and black dress, jabbed her riding crop at him. "You'll serve me correctly if I have to beat it into you."

The client raised her hands in supplication. "Please, mistress, have mercy on him!"

"Mercy?" Chel scoffed. "Get over here, you!"

Ricar gave the client a look of suffering, then slunk back to Chel and knelt before her, carefully positioned so the client would have a good view.

"Undress," Chel commanded, tapping her crop against her riding boot.

He unbuttoned his white shirt and set it aside, his face turned away as if ashamed to be half-naked before his mistress and her Servant.

Chel clutched his chin in one gloved hand. "How dare you let me appear in public improperly dressed!" She slapped his cheek. He rocked his head sideways, exaggerating the impact and eliciting a sympathetic sound from the client.

Chel stalked around behind him, positioned so the client would have a good view. "Such willfulness only understands the lash," she stated, and raised the crop high.

On stage, the blows of the Fatale or the Prince were faked, but here in the assignation room the clients wanted the bruises and sometimes even the blood. There were tricks to create the proper impression, of course, but he had asked Chel to use her full force on him. Apparently he had underestimated her. Her crop slashed repeatedly into his upper back, precisely aimed, sending harsh vibrations through his entire body. He had to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees to keep from falling forward under her onslaught.

Chel had shifted her tempo and punctuated her words with crop strokes. "Anything to say for yourself? Any explanation?

Any reason I shouldn't throw you out of my house into the gutter, you piece of filth?" Each strike produced an inarticulate sound from him.

At a break in Chel's ministrations, he shook his head and glanced sideways to implore the client in his anguish. The client was on her knees, raptly watching as he was punished.

Her mouth hung open with panting for breath and her hands worked furiously at the bunched skirts between her thighs.

Her pleasure was spurred by the sign of his beating.

This scenario was tricky. He had noticed that some clients, mostly women, neither wanted to beat nor be beaten, but wanted to observe the Innocent suffering, and to comfort them afterwards. He met Chel's eyes and gave her a tiny nod, the cue for the next phase of the scene.

"Hmph," Chel snorted in contempt. She pushed him with her foot so he fell to the floor, his head in the client's lap.

"Make sure this useless fool is presentable," she ordered, then turned and left the assignation room.

Ricar got to his knees, genuinely tired and trembling from Chel's beating. The client helped him to sit on the bed, and she sat beside him.

"Oh, my..." the client whispered as her fingers traced the marks across his back, making him twitch and gasp. "She is horrible to you, so horrible. A monstrous woman." She reached for the rag and bowl of water waiting on the bedside table, and began dabbing at the marks.

On instinct, he improvised, "I know what you did, but I told mistress it was me instead. I couldn't bear to think of what she'd do to you."

Tears welled up in the woman's eyes. "My darling boy, my treasure—" She clutched at him, mashing his face into her dress. He returned her caresses, gratified by her acknowledgment of his unjust suffering.

His kisses on her bare neck made her shudder. "Only you make my life here bearable."

A bell chimed softly, as the house's discreet reminder that the alloted time was nearly up. She jerked away from him, suddenly embarrassed, and stood up. "I need to, er...."

To his