Tales of the Odalisque Read online

  Table of Contents

  About this Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  About this Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  About this Book

  Welcome to the Odalisque, the world’s most exclusive club intime. Kindly leave your inhibitions at the door (clothing is optional). If this is your first visit, a few words of explanation may be in order. The tall, lithely muscular and all-around stunningly handsome man lounging at the bar is the club’s founder and owner, Lucius Belmont. “Luscious Lucius” some call him. Others are more inclined to mutter about his resemblance to Lucifer. A word to the wise, enjoy your visit but do nothing to vex him. Especially not now.

  Lucius is pre-occupied with a problem unlike any he has encountered before. That rarest of creatures--a virgin--has wandered into his circle of debauchery. Natalia Bollinger is everything she should not be--exquisitely beautiful, unbearably arousing, and uncannily able to penetrate all his hard-won defenses. But Natalia is guarding secrets of her own that will pit her against Lucius in an epic showdown of vice versus virtue. Before your visit is over, limits will be tested, lines will be crossed, and all the rules will be broken. Take a seat. The show is about to begin!

  Although inspired by my earlier work, “His Lordship’s Downfall”, also available on Amazon, “Tales of the Odalisque” is a standalone novel with no cliffhanger. You need not have read “His Lordship’s Downfall” to enjoy this story but of course, I hope that you will do so. Please be aware that while this story is M/F, monogamous and HEA, it contains explicit sexual scenes that some may find disturbing. Read at your own discretion.

  Chapter One

  The Abbey of the Virgins occupies an elegant, neo-Georgian townhouse at the heart of London near the corner of St. James Street and Piccadilly, immediately adjacent to that most infamous of clubs intimes, the Odalisque.

  Perhaps because of its proximity to such a notorious den of carnal indulgence, the abbey offers no advertisement of its purpose but instead turns a modest, not to say disinterested eye to the world. Still, the citadel of chastity is well known in certain circles, enough so that Natalia Bollinger had encountered only moderate difficulty ascertaining its location.

  Standing on the opposite side of the street, where she had spent much of the previous week crouched in the shadows disguised as a street waif, Natalia observed the by now familiar comings and goings of the neighborhood.

  At that hour--it had just gone ten a.m.--they were very few.

  A delivery van arrived at the service entrance of the club. Two burly men carried in crates overflowing with fresh vegetables, braces of partridge, and several large wheels of cheese. All this proceeded under the watchful gaze of a slender young woman in a chef’s jacket who snapped orders with the practiced charm of an army drill sergeant.

  No one stirred from the abbey.

  Of him next door, there was no sign at all.

  Not that she had expected any. He was a creature of the night, if ever there was one.

  Her clear, unflinching eyes--a remarkable hue of violet that had caused her no end of trouble for being so memorable--traced the distance from the roof of the abbey to that of the adjoining building. The townhouse was no less than six feet shorter than its far larger neighbor. In addition, there was a gap of three feet between the two edifices. Fortunately, summers spent climbing in the Alps--and occasionally elsewhere--had left Natalia confident that she could manage both when the time came.

  But first, she must endure the indignities that were about to be inflicted upon her person.

  Grasping her well-worn leather valise, she crossed the street with a firm tread born of resolution that she told herself would remain unwavering come what may. With hardly a moment’s hesitation, she mounted the polished granite steps to the anonymous door and grasped the gleaming brass knocker in the shape of a ram’s head. Having given it three sharp raps, she stepped back and waited.

  Several minutes passed during which she was conscious of the unusual quiet all along the leafy street. With the truck’s departure, the loudest sound was the cooing of pigeons. It was a Tuesday; across the vast expanse of London several million people--residents and visitors alike--hurried about their business, on foot, in cars and trucks, amid a cacophony of clanging, honking and shouting. Only in the ultimate enclaves of wealth and power was the luxury of silence attainable.

  At last, the faint sound of footsteps on the other side was followed by the appearance of an eye in the aperture at the center of the carved oak door. A moment later, the soundless movement of well-oiled hinges gave way to the sight of a sturdy, round-faced girl in the modest black dress and white apron of a parlor maid.

  “Good morning, Miss. May I help you?”

  “If you would be so kind. My name is Natalia Bollinger. I would like to speak with whoever is in charge.”

  The girl swept her gaze over Natalia’s outdated black velvet cloche hat and unfashionable brown woolen suit to her sensibly shod feet just visible a few inches below the hem of her skirt. The faintest of smiles came and went.

  “Very well, Miss. Follow me.”

  Directly over the threshold of the abbey, Natalia paused. The entry hall with its black-and-white tiled floor, golden chestnut wainscoting and coffered ceiling was precisely what one would expect in such a setting. The only anomaly was the portrait of a young woman on display at the far end.

  Beautiful, with dark red hair--by sheer coincidence almost the precise shade of Natalia’s own--and limpid eyes, she was dressed in the style of the Italian Renaissance. Her embroidered silk gown slipped off her rounded shoulders, far enough on one side to expose a high, firm breast. The artist had depicted her sitting at a table on which lay a freshly plucked rose moist with dew and a dish containing two halves of a pomegranate open to reveal glistening, ruby-red seeds bursting with juice. The young woman’s fingers plucked idly at her exposed nipple as she gazed at herself in a silvered mirror.

  “Who is that?” Natalia asked.

  The maid followed the direction of her gaze. “Why
that’s Saint Veronica, Miss, patron saint of the abbey. From Venice, I believe she was.”

  “Martyred for the cause?” From her reading of history, Natalia had observed that women who defied social norms were always at risk from authorities anxious to push their own sins off onto others. Only the clever--or the very lucky--escaped.

  “Very nearly, Miss! But she had enough secrets hidden away in her cunny, so to speak, to assure that instead she lived to a ripe old age. Lessons to be drawn from that, the abbess says.”

  The maid opened a set of double doors leading off the hall. “If you’ll come this way, Miss.”

  Discreet sunlight filtered through the sheer silk curtains drawn across the windows of a parlor furnished in ivory with accents of mauve and blue. A small chestnut burled desk held a single sheet of paper and a pen.

  “If you would be so good as to provide your particulars, Miss. I’ll be back in a few minutes to collect them.”

  Left alone, Natalia took the seat at the desk and directed her attention to the form. Nothing on it indicated the purpose for which the information was required. But what was asked was entirely straightforward--name, age, birth date, schools attended and the like. With silent thanks for the foresight her father had shown in crafting an impeccable history for her from the moment of her birth, Natalia set to work.

  Half-an-hour later, the form having been collected, she re-settled herself on a pretty settee and took a more comprehensive look around. Everything she saw spoke of wealth in service to the most refined, if exclusively feminine taste. There appeared to be no concession whatsoever to the masculine--no cut crystal decanters of scotch or brandy, no hint of a humidor, no quasi-artistic depictions of rearing horses or dead stags. Any man admitted to such surroundings would know that he was there entirely on sufferance.

  Although perhaps not quite any. Surely, he would be an exception. She imagined him entirely at ease amid such female frippery. As reprehensible as he was, he would know women in a way that very few men could ever claim to do. Even worse, far too many of them would be drawn to that knowledge.

  Rather than allow herself to be distracted by thoughts of her ultimate quarry, Natalia focused on the large, gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall directly opposite her. It looked like an oversized version of the sort of mirror a woman might preen before, turning this way and that to study her attire before departing for a glamourous evening. As such, it surely belonged in a boudoir rather than a parlor. Unless, of course, it was intended for an entirely different purpose.

  She was considering whether to take the chance of inspecting it more closely when the parlor doors opened and a woman entered. She was tall, in her middle years but hardly showing them. Her pale blond hair was arranged in a smooth chignon at the back of her head. Minimal make-up expertly applied accentuated features that could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Her classic ivory Dior suit furthered the impression of feminine confidence and power.

  “Miss Bollinger?”

  Rising to her feet, Natalia nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How nice to meet you. My name is Arabella Hamilton. I am the abbess here.”

  With a graceful gesture, she said, “Please, be seated.” Having taken her own seat opposite Natalia, the abbess smoothed her skirt, crossed her ankles, and asked, “You wish to be admitted?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “I see. May I ask how you heard of us?”

  Natalia’s father had always stressed the usefulness of telling some version of the truth whenever that was possible. It had the virtue of being both unexpected and disarming.

  Accordingly, she said, “The parrot at the Cock and Bells in Piccadilly squawked your name when I offered him my Crawfords Custard Cream biscuit. When I inquired as to what he was going on about, I was drawn aside into the alcove of a gypsy fortune teller who whispered of your purpose while examining my palm.”

  A delicately threaded eyebrow arched. “How did you come to be at the Cock and Bells?”

  “I’d heard that they do a very nice spotted dick.”

  “Really? I must give it a try. Spotted dick is a favorite of mine. What did the gypsy foretell?”

  “That I would embark on a grand adventure leading to significant financial gain during which I would encounter a dark man.”

  “Well, that seems clear enough. Do you by any chance have an ailing granny, poverty stricken siblings, or a burning desire to endow a shelter for some form of animal life? If so, you may speak of it now and kindly do not mention it again.”

  When the silence on Natalia’s part had drawn out long enough, Arabella Hamilton nodded. “No? Strictly pecuniary interest? Excellent. Be so good as to stand up.”

  When she had complied, the abbess said, “Remove your hat.”

  As she did so, she patted the braids she had made that morning, reassured that the heavy weight of her hair remained neatly coiled around her head.

  The abbess also rose and went over to a chinoiserie cabinet made of teak with ivory insets depicting women in embroidered Chinese silk robes strolling in gardens.

  “Our intake process is rigorous,” she said as she opened a door in the cabinet. “You will begin as a postulant. Once all the required examinations are completed, the successful applicant advances to the status of novice. Beyond that, intensive preparation is required before presentation to our congregants. Your focus must remain absolute. During your stay with us, under no circumstances will you leave the abbey unless directed to do so. Do you understand?”

  Not especially, nor did she care. But that didn’t matter.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Remove your clothing.”

  “Pardon?” She had understood that there would be certain…procedures. She just hadn’t expected them to begin quite so abruptly. Once again, her gaze strayed to the mirror.

  “Here?”

  Rather alarmingly, the abbess withdrew a long black leather riding crop, closed the cabinet door and returned to stand beside Natalia.

  Sternly, she said, “Miss Bollinger, to enter the Abbey of the Virgins is a solemn undertaking. We take our vocation seriously. Approached in the proper spirit, your stay here can significantly change your life for the better. But I must warn you, impulsive, feckless young women do not do well with us. We require self-discipline and, above all, obedience. If you are not capable of that, you may leave now.”

  Natalia thought swiftly. She needed no more than a handful of days, with luck less, to complete what she had come to do. Surely, she could endure anything that long.

  Repressing a sudden attack of self-consciousness, she removed her jacket. Beneath she wore a plain white cotton blouse lacking in all adornment. Her fingers felt stiff as she undid the small yellowing buttons down the front and slipped the garment off. Her heavy wool skirt followed, leaving her in a camisole, boxers, thigh high stockings and black laced boots.

  The abbess flicked the crop at the first two items with an air of distaste. “Remove these. Leave the stockings and boots on.”

  Swallowing her reluctance, Natalia obeyed. The coolness of the air raised goosebumps over every exposed inch of her skin. She was aware of her nipples puckering and had to fight the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. Daring a glance to the mirror, she had the sudden overwhelming certainty that she was being watched.

  The thought was disturbing, of course, and yet it provoked a spurt of professional pride. Her line of work required her to slip in and out of many roles. Waitress, maid, debutante, bright young thing, street waif, whatever was needed, she had done it. And she could do so again in this most vital of circumstances where the stakes had never been higher.

  The Sensible Virgin, a good girl from a respectable family, properly reared, and mercifully free of romantic notions that could have prevented her from making the most of what she had. It was a challenging role but well within the scope of her talents. Besides, she didn’t anticipate having to play it for very long.

  “Lift your arms,” the
abbess said. “Clasp your hands behind your head and keep them there.”

  Trembling slightly, Natalia did so, aware of how the position elevated her bosom yet further.

  When the tip of the riding crop touched one high, firm breast, she jerked.

  “Stay still,” the abbess instructed.

  With an effort, she managed to do so as the crop passed over first one nipple, then the next before sliding under each breast as though to test their weight. It then proceeded over her flat abdomen and around to the curve of her ass where, without warning, it flicked sharply.

  Startled by the sudden, stinging pain, Natalia jumped, earning her another rebuke.

  “I said to stay still. You will become accustomed to being inspected.”

  Perhaps so but when the crop probed into the gap between her thighs, urging them further apart, Natalia had all she could do not to cry out in protest. Once again, her gaze focused on the mirror. If he was there…watching… She had the sudden, piercing sense of having been put on display for him.

  A deep, hot flush suffused her from head to toe. She was aware of a disturbing moisture gathering between her nether lips, threatening to seep from her in a most unseemly fashion.

  “You have potential,” the abbess said as she finally lowered the crop. “However, you will need to acquire a bit of poise and grace. We will work on that.”

  Standing back, she said, “You may lower your arms.”

  Doing so with relief, Natalia took the opportunity to ask, “When is the next auction?”

  The question appeared to amuse the abbess. “Whenever Mister Belmont decides that it is.”

  Having returned the crop to its place in the cabinet, she added, “These auctions are no small matter. They require considerable organization. Both the clientele and the stock being offered are rigorously vetted. Gentlemen interested merely in battering their way through a young woman’s innocence are not welcome. Nor are young women who expect that the mere relinquishment of a hymen entitles them to a large paycheck.”

  “What is to be expected then?” Natalia asked. She had turned, presenting her back to the mirror. Let him, if he was there, make of that what he would.