At the Slaver's Association
The Caravan Arrives
Paying a Call
There Goes the Neighborhood
At the Realm of Thorns
Native Ground
At the Consortium
Through the Looking Glass
Plucked
Peer Gynt
Solitude
Clipping a Raven's Wings
When Once We Were Mortal
Neighbor of the Beast
The Hunter, Dawn
Realm of Thorns home
The Slaver's Association
Message boards
Web site
 Trailblazing.
San Gregorio, California - 1873 - A shadow carved its way at an angle across sculpted porcelain, the product of the crown of a small pillbox hat trimmed with a few downy feathers and tied under her chin with a ribbon. At the nape of her neck, flaming tresses were wound into neat curls, each as thick as a child's finger and twice as long, so that they brushed across the collar of her peplum jacket She was decorated all over in the most elaborate ruching, embroidered ribbon, and ribbon braid, perhaps a protest to the fact that she was forced to wear a neckline so abominably high. A fitted, boned bodice created a trim line down the flat of her stomach, but it also suppressed one of her most valuable assets - the swell of her bosom - to the demure silhouette demanded by the times. Long, close-fitting sleeves tapered into ruffles of lace at the cuffs, abbreviated by kidskin gloves. Her skirts, every bit as full as they had been for the past century, had trimmed outer panels that were tied back into a bustle of outrageous proportions, at least by modern standards, although the contemporary opinion of such a display was one of considerable approval (at least by one half of the town's population). Last, but certainly not least, her wan features were protected from the midday sun by the doting shade of a silk parasol with flamboyant fringed edging, and she was, every inch, a study in burgundies and rich berries. This was a rare afternoon for her, that she should venture into the town. Rose and San Gregorio had a mutual unspoken agreement, a mutual disdain for one another that normally kept her at the preferred comfort of her ranch house, and anyone without a specific welcome far from the property. But there were times when she took it upon herself to collect mail for the household, or fetch treats for her girls from Packard's Store, or some other such nonsensical errand, only because she liked the way, when she walked down the clapboard sidewalk along the main street, the women cringed back, as though they might be tainted by the mere sight of her, but the men - well, let's just say that, to someone who knew what to look for, the mental calculations involved in figuring the amount of gold that could be spared for a night of carousing were etched clearly into their eyes, no matter how shaded they kept them. As she passed before the swinging double doors of Brody's, the local dance hall, the silk panels of her skirt whispered carelessly against the edge of a bench, and the slightly off-key plunking of an old piano filtered out onto the sidewalk, bringing a smile to her lips and a tiny lilt to her step. In fact, she was almost dancing over the clapboard as she sashayed past, her skirts lifted to show a barely indecent amount of ankle over the tops of her boots. The deafening rumble of wooden wheels, rutting the ground on their way out of town, drowned out the delights of the music for a moment, and as the stagecoach passed, it left a cloud of choking road dust hanging in its wake. As Rose glanced across the way, through the clearing haze, towards the storefront of the boot shop, a vision stopped her dead in her tracks. Her smile quickly faded, melting into a look of undisguised wonder, her lips slightly parted and pouting, the sable lines of her brows dipping down at the center. The girl on horseback, her mount bobbing anxiously as it was forced into waiting, could not have been long out of the schoolroom. She was fresh-faced and wide-eyed, but her posture, and the assured uptilt of her chin, marked her as already having crossed the threshold to womanhood in many respects. She was dressed all in cream and sand, and a veil swept out from beneath the brim of her hat, to capture those few misbehaving locks of hair that refused to stay within the confines her coiffeur. Slender fingertips, wrapped in thin leather the color of honey, curled around the reins, holding her steady with a careless, casual ease. The effect was hypnotic… the haunting loveliness of her pallor… the exotic beauty of crisp raven curls that escaped to frame her face… and eyes of such startling azure that they threatened to pierce the soul and freeze any heart they touched in perfect captivity for all time… Rose withdrew slightly, into the shadows afforded by the oak tree at the south corner of the saloon, studying the girl for a long while, unobserved. She examined the young woman as though she were a property, weighing the relative merits of her skin tone, her silhouette, the shape of her lips, and the marketability of each of those features, for in this town, too, she perpetuated the lucrative profession that had served mankind since the dawn of time. In fact, she often found herself wondering, as this century drew closer to an end, why she ever chose to follow the drums of war, when her life could have been so much easier. But this was a new era, a time of discovery, and the people here were harder, of necessity. And she, in this age of leather skins and steel wills, had toughened too, running her brothel with an iron fist, and treating her girls as though they were chattel. It was the only way to run a business in this logging town, where life could be both precious and cheap in the same turn. So, when she watched this heart-rendingly beautiful girl, she could easily tell herself that she was studying property… until the strangely stirring began to rise in the pit of her stomach, tickling at the core of her being and causing her heart to race, her mouth to go dry, stoking the tantalizing warmth of the fires down below… She must have made her arousal clear, with the vibrato purring that was her habit, because the girl shifted in her seat, her attention caught, and brilliant sapphire melded with dazzling emerald. From across the narrow expanse of the lane, their gazes locked in a moment of pure, unvoiced understanding that denied the existence of anyone else in the world… Later that night, inside a lavishly decorated room on the upper floor of a particular ranch outside of town, a room adorned with velvet drapes, and swathes of velvet framing the four-poster bed with a headboard of carved mahogany, the light from a few tiny gas lamps sent shadows creeping up the walls of simple, undressed pine, creating eerie patterns, like lovers waltzing. Rose's ivory curvature lay atop a coverlet of quilted silk embroidered with her namesake flower, stretched out in a nearly feline pose. Gone were the trappings of propriety, replaced by a beribboned robe, and a showy spray of Chinese red ostrich plumes to decorate her hair... and not a stitch more... In a logging town where the population didn't even top two hundred, a man had two choices for entertainment on a balmy Saturday evening. There was Brody's, the local saloon, where the whiskey was watered down, the cards were marked, and so were the dancing girls. Or there was the small ranch just to the protected side of the border on Will Rayner's acreage, where the music played all night, the air smelled of flowers and sin, and nothing was cheap - not the furnishings, nor the draperies, and especially not a tumble in the hay... Oh, yeah, and there was also a church... somewhere... Rose should have been outside, making her nightly prowl from balcony to staircase to parlor and back again, keeping up a mirth-filled, social smile, and keeping affairs humming along with a stream of mindless chatter designed to puff a man's ego and make him believe he was good enough to put all his money down on a spin of the big wheel. But the truth was, Rose hardly ever entertained clients anymore. Her zest for the lifestyle had run dry. And besides, the men out here all radiated with the odors of sour liquor or trail dust. If she hadn't insisted that Captain Rayner install more baths, her girls would never touch them either, not for all the gold in heaven. So, she indulged another of her talents, keeping dual ledgers and seeing to it that their benefactor got his fair share, the girls were spoiled, and the rest went into her pockets. Most nights didn't see her kept to her room like this, of course, but then, on most nights, she wasn't expecting guests of such rarity and luxuriant splendor. The girl arrived at half-past eight, just as she had been told to do. Splendid. Rose grew more enamored of some new quality about the girl with each passing second, and now there was punctuality to add to the list. Sweeping up from her recline, Rose tugged the belt of the robe tighter around her, but still allowed a tantalizing hint of pale flesh to peek out from the folds around her legs. In the guttering lamplight of the hallway, the girl seemed much more frail than she had at first passing, but despite that... or perhaps because of it... she was a tempting morsel, exotic features settled around azure eyes so sweet they could melt steel with just a wink. Right up to the last, Rose had convinced herself that she only wanted to take the girl in, to con her into a lifetime's indentured servitude at the brothel, but as the simpering young creature stood in her doorway, all that self-determination went straight out the window, and with a barbed grin, and a sudden stirring of resolve, she knew, as surely as the black widow knows it must devour its mate, that she could not employ this child... she must own her - heart, mind, body, and soul... She made quite a show of gracious welcome, ushering the girl in and closing the door behind her, her long lashes fluttering all the while. But the guise fooled neither of them. Almost before the door was snapped shut, and bolted, the sweet young thing was eagerly unfastening the hooks at the front of her jacket, and ripping away that nuisance of a hat, allowing the raven curls to tumble free over shoulders draped in sheer cotton that revealed the lines of a corset. Off came the shirt, tugged over her head and tossed to the bed, and the skirts too, as she shimmied and stepped out of them, kicking her bustle to the side with the rest of the encumbrance. Rose watched the whole performance with an ever-broadening grin, all semblance of grace gone in the face of her burgeoning hunger. And as the girl spun around, wearing nothing but a dainty, lace-trimmed corset and pantalets, her cerulean eyes went wide, as she noted that Rose had remained still, remained clothed (if you could call it that), and she took a cautious step back, wondering if, perhaps, she had assumed too much of the reason for her being summoned there. She hadn't. Not really. Rose was only waiting for this moment of hesitation to spring forward, the predator in her taking over, a filtered hand-me-down from those nights when the moon was ripe. Sweeping steps carried her to the center of the room, closing the distance between them, and as she flew towards the girl, the collar of her robe fell back over milky shoulders, loosely framing the shadows of her cleavage in ribbons and bows. The girl's expression eased to one of childlike anticipation, and there was a moment of coiled tension in the air, before they came together like a thunderclap, each struggling in the other's passionate grasp, each pair of hungry, velvet lips open and searching for the other, winding around each other like a tangle of serpents as they struggled for some sort of perverse union. The frenetic wrestling match lasted for only a few moments, however, and, breathless and panting, Rose drew away, leaving the girl hanging in suspended desire, her mouth agape. She backed away quickly, her smile growing almost demented with glee at how easily the plan was unfolding, and with eyes darting between the bolt and the mystified girl, she reached through the wide-open door of a cherry armoire, dragging a worn leather bridle and harness set from the upper shelf. At first, the girl's eyes grew wide as saucers, as Rose swung the leather straps before her, working at buckles and advancing with a glint of cruel intent in her eyes. But as she drew closer, it was Rose's turn to be amazed. With a coo of delight, the girl began to smile, and she dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor, stretching forward on her belly as best she could in the boned confines of her corset. Rose froze in her tracks, starbursts of bliss exploding in every nerve, rapture swimming around her like a gossamer cloud, as she heard, for the first time, the words that would determine her destiny from this point on... "Please... let me serve you..." |