27 comments/ 38470 views/ 52 favorites A Demon's Desire By: anais_v 1830. Kensington, London. Natasha considered her painted face and exposed skin in the reflection of the window and with a final look of resignation, set off from the small room that had been her home for the past three weeks. Before she left, she gave a last, brief glance to the space she shared with three other girls, her eyes straying to her small bed pallet in longing. How great was the temptation, the urge, to hide herself beneath the comfort and security of the thin blanket as she had as a child when a perfectly innocent shadow on her bedroom wall would suddenly grow grotesque and menacing as her youthful imagination ran wild. But no matter how frightened she had been, there had always been someone there to soothe her fears, for her pitiful whining and tears would always alert her indulgent papa or mama who would sweep into the room, kiss her brow, light a candle, and banish the monsters away. But tonight, there was to be no reprieve. She was no longer a child to be coddled, she had no father or mother to wipe away her tears and assure her that everything would be alright. She was, indeed, completely alone. Annoyed at her weak thoughts, at her inability to forget the past, Natasha swept from the room, slamming the door behind her, the violent action piercing the otherwise silent and dark hallway of the third floor, the floor where the girls lodged. The second floor told a different story. As she travelled through the candle-lit hallway, she gazed at the artwork, partly to calm her nerves and distract herself. Madame Marielle, the proprietress of this grand house, was an exacting woman. Only the finest décor littered the place, and, just as fittingly, only the finest of whores occupied her rooms. The shrewd woman had carefully created a whorehouse fit to service the highest of men and if Natasha could gain any solace from her current predicament it was that she wasn't selling herself to any old swine in any old brothel. She would service the very best and would do so on silken sheets. She eyed a few of the doors on the second floor as she made her way unwillingly to the central staircase, wondering which room she would occupy tonight. The manor contained many rooms of varying sizes, all hidden away behind thick oak doors, all the better to muffle the cries of shame and passion with, depending on the girl in question. Though Natasha had been at Madame Marrielle's for a good while already, she doubted she would ever become accustomed to the extravagant, ostentatious surroundings. Her own house – her familial home in Surrey – had been handsome and had well-crafted furnishings, but it had reflected gentle luxury befitting her father's gentle occupation as a solicitor. It had been nothing compared to this grandeur. Thus far, Natasha had been given a reprieve from claiming the status of accomplished whore but Madame Marielle was only so kind and her gratitude towards Natasha had to come to and end at some point. Natasha sensed that the end was fast approaching. After all, the woman wouldn't be the wealthy woman that she was if she allowed such concessions for all of her girls... For the first few weeks, Natasha had spent her days and nights at the mammoth townhouse "learning her craft." She had been exposed to all of the possible and numerous ways there were to please a man with mouth, fingers and the body's other receptors. At that stage - still fresh from having lived on the streets of London since the death of her parents in a terrible riding accident – she had still been too proud to believe that she could actually go through with it, to barter her body in exchange for survival. But days that turned into weeks of not eating, not sleeping, of running in fear for your life...well it tended to sober you up quite quickly, pride be damned. She fervently wished she could have been strong and determined, to have chosen death instead of this fate - but she was neither of those things. She did not want to die nor spend her days in a workhouse where in enough time, death would seem like bliss. And so, she had accepted the opportunity Madame Marielle had given her, accepted the opportunity of the woman she had saved two weeks ago now. Had it not been for Natasha intervening when the thief had pulled a knife to Madame Marielle, the woman would be dead, rotting in that forgotten street in London and Natasha would likely be not far behind her. But she had intervened and now here she was, getting ready to dance again for those of the men who came here merely to be enticed and teased, not bedded. These particular men did not want her body to fill but her body to look at. Madame had carefully created a persona for Natasha, played up on her ambiguous Russian and Eastern heritage, dressing her in gauzy, transparent garments that bared scandalous portions of her legs, waist and hips. Thus dressed, she danced for these men and they paid Madame well for the pleasure but men who sought their pleasures in this way were rare and Natasha would have to yield her body to a man sooner or later or end up exactly where she had been. Alone, starved...and facing a certain grim fate. As she finally reached the double oak doors on the ground floor, she took her ritual deep drag of calming air and sipped into the room warily but it was so shadowed within that her presence went more or less unnoticed for the moment. Joining the other dozen or so girls in a room that was formally a large, formal dining room but now converted into a rich, luxurious space, all dark walls and low lit gas lighting, Natasha sought out her elusive employer, settling herself into the darkest corner of the room when she failed to spy her. There, she observed as the ritual began. First, the men chose their women. They conversed, shared wine and bantered saucily for a time and then when the signal came from Madame or one of her girls, the room began to empty as the men took their pleasure in one of the rooms upstairs. She glanced across at the gilt clock above the mammoth marble fireplace and released a breath of relief. There was time yet before her own duties would begin. A Demon's Desire "Will you hurt me?" Silence met her words and Natasha's ears strained on the sounds of her own heavy breathing. At last the deep voice rasped: "Nay. I only wish to give you pleasure." The reply was dismissive, not short of breath and lusty – not predictable. Natasha's eyes fluttered closed, her hands fisting on her lower stomach and she waited thus until her buttocks began to numb slightly, until she was half-convinced that the man had quietly left the room - but the roughened hands that cupped her thighs some moments later dashed that particular hope and she flinched in surprise. "Madame – Madame said that you only wished me to play, she-" "I am going to taste you," the man's voice cut into her pleading words with slight ferociousness. "Only taste you. I keep my word. Keep your eyes closed, girl." She would not open them for the world, she internally vowed. But soon enough, she felt herself relaxing somewhat at his admission, for oddly enough, she believed the man, believed that he would not cause her pain or harm. She knew what he was about to do. The girls who had been assigned to instruct her of her upcoming duties had been most expansive in their explanations. The fact that a man may want to lick a woman in her most intimate parts bemused Natasha. She herself had tasted herself once, quickly, when she was alone and learning herself for the first time and she hadn't thought much of the taste, wondering why a man would bother with such a burdensome task but her musings crashed to an abrupt halt as a hot tongue followed by a sweet suction over the entire length of her cunny, gave her a jolt of pleasure she was unprepared for. Gasping in jerking response, she squeezed her lids tighter. The pressure on her mound was light and the mouth over her did not move at first, simply stayed settled upon her, making her innards quiver in anticipation. And then came the licking. Strong, bold strokes – greedy, Natasha decided dimly as it persisted – the sounds filling the air lusty and carnal, the sound of wet tongue on wet flesh, of grunting male muffled between feminine thighs. The lashing tongue suddenly hardened and probed at her throbbing opening and the moisture that gathered and pooled there in reaction to the immoral act made Natasha hot with mortification. She was drenched. Unable to prevent her moan of confusion – of ecstasy – Natasha turned her head away, her neck aching as it fell back against the hard head of the chair but she barely noticed the pain. And then she did something foolish, wrong – mortifying. She could not have prevented it, not when that attacking tongue brought her so much pleasure that her every though all but scattered. She clasped him – she gripped bare, broad, taut shoulders for leverage, her fingernails digging hard into the skin before her hands moved of their own accord, journeyed to a taut, veined neck until they settled on their target. Curling her fingers through handfuls of crisp hair, around a warm skull, Natasha's thighs closed tighter around the head between thighs. Crying out in wonder, thrusting her hips against the attacking mouth again and again, on a scream, she came.