For the first time, in broaching the subject of a new patron to me, Madame Lafronde manifested a doubt as to the expediency of putting my youth and inexperience to the test which she clearly thought an alliance with Montague Austin would signify.
I had seen the man but once; he was not a regular habituate of Madame Lafronde's house, but her facilities for gathering information were such that within less than twenty-four hours his social position, resources, and such portions of his history as were available on such inquiry were known to her. All the information, excepting that which related to his economic situation, was unfavourable. She summed up her opinion in the one expressive word-rotter. But he had money, and money covers an otherwise inexcusable number of objectionable qualities. Possibly by the exercise of tact and vigilance I could handle him.
As for myself, I was the last person in the world to doubt my own capabilities, so Madame Lafronde finally and with patent misgivings, yielded to my complacent and optimistic self-assurance.
Now let us glance briefly at the man himself.
He was, at the time our paths crossed, thirty-four years of age. The younger son of a titled British aristocrat, he had inherited both money and social position. The social position had been forfeited by dissolute escapades, the money dissipated in part, but enough remained to qualify him still as a rich man. He was married, but according to rumour his profligate ways had brought about an irreconcilable estrangement with his consort.
At first glance one would have marked Montague Austin as an extremely good-looking man. But a less cursory observation would not have failed to disclose signs of a cynical and somewhat cruel character in his darkly handsome face and narrow mouth. A little above average height and signally favoured with regard to other physical characteristics, he was in truth a figure to intrigue feminine imagination.
In my brocade jacket, high-heeled slippers, and with my grenadier's cap tilted at a jaunty angle I was going through my customary antics one night when I suddenly felt myself clasped from behind, and turning, looked into the cynically smiling face of a man I had not previously seen among our parlour guests. I paused, waiting for him to release me, but instead, he swung me around, dropped an arm under my hips, and hoisted me, cigarette tray and all, into the air.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men," he quoted, "which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Baby, you're my tidal wave, the one I've been waiting for all my life!"
He got off this declaration with such well-simulated solemnity and impressiveness that all within hearing laughed, nor could I myself restrain a smile.
"I think you're the tidal wave," I retorted, "since I find myself quite swept off my feet. If you'll be so kind as to set me down, maybe I'll let you buy a packet of fags from me!"
"Lord love me!" he exclaimed tragically, "she peddles fags while Rome is burning! I perish for a kiss, and she offers nicotine!"
"Oh, all right!" I giggled, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Now be a nice man and let me down!"
He set me down on the floor, but still held me a prisoner with an arm under mine.
Yielding to his solicitation I unhooked the cigarette tray, placed it on a table, accompanied him to a secluded corner of the room, and let him take me upon his knee.
Dropping his bantering attitude he immediately became serious and asked for a room appointment. A shiver passed over me as his fingers boldly played with the nipples of my breasts. I glanced into his eyes but hastily lowered my gaze as something of the lustful obsession which was later to dominate me came into being. Sensing the absurdity of telling this man any fairy stories, I explained frankly that I was not permitted to make any appointments except through the intervention of Madame Lafronde.
"Ah, I see," he answered, taking in the situation instantly, "you're a special attraction. So much the better, I'll see her immediately, and I suppose there's no use of taking up any of your time until I do."
"Any of the other girls can make, room appointments." I preferred.
"Thanks for the information," he answered dryly, "but you've wrecked their chances. I couldn't even get a hard-on with any of them now."
"I've got a friend here," I murmured, looking around for Hester. "That's her over there by the door, the girl with the dark hair. She can give any man a hard-on. Shall I introduce you to her?"
"No thanks," he answered with but a brief glance in the direction I had indicated. "It's you or nobody now. When can I talk to your madam?"
"I'll tell her you want to speak to her, but I'm afraid it won't do any good."
"Possibly she can be persuaded. What's your name, baby?"
"Jessie." I replied.
"That's a nice name. Mine is Austin, Montague Austin, Monty to you.
Skip along and tell the old lady I want to speak to her privately."
The result of his interview with Madame Lafronde I have already made known. Inasmuch as I had now become quite a parlour attraction, having in addition to my earlier accomplishments learned a number of naughty songs and suggestive dances, she was loathe to concede any of the earlier hours of the night, but an understanding was reached where Montague Austin, or Monty as I shall henceforth refer to him, was to enjoy exclusive prerogatives over my person one night each week after the hour of twelve.
A feeling of lascivious exhilaration was welling within me as I groomed myself for our first rendezvous. I had lately noticed that the craving for more frequently repeated orgasm was growing on me. It seemed that no matter how often I had it, the longing was never completely satisfied. Even the two or three patrons I had who were sexually potent now left me with the irritated feelings of a woman whose passions have been inflamed and then abandoned in a smouldering state.
The effeminate Wainwright, who still came regularly, caused me almost frantic torture with his licking, and sucking, and despite the preoccupation and the watchfulness I was obliged to observe to keep him from biting my legs, he left me in such a state that I nearly always masturbated as soon as he had gone.
It was a little after eleven-thirty. I had slipped out of the parlour, abandoning for the night my role of cigarette girl, and was making my toilette, preparatory to Mr. Austin's promised call.
"How nice it would be," I thought, as I fluffed violet talc over my body,
"if this Austin would suck me French style and then fuck me about three times afterwards." My nerves tingled at the luscious vision thus evoked and a warm feeling crept through my body. The little scarlet tips of my bubbies swelled up and in the upper part of my cunny I could feel something else getting hard, too.
A few moments after twelve there was a discreet knock at my door and the maid appeared, inquiring whether I was ready to receive Mr.
Austin. At this moment I was standing before the mirror considering the dress I had tentatively chosen for the occasion, having yielded to an impulse to use one of the short black silk frocks which Daddy Heeley had bought me. Just why it had occurred to me to put on this juvenile costume on the present occasion I could not say; some vague intuition probably, but as it turned out, a fortunate one as far as the effect on my new patron was concerned, though until the arrival of the maid I was still debating, undecided whether to wear it or change to something else more in keeping with the circumstances.
"All right, Maggie," I answered, "you may bring him up."