It wasn’t working anymore. However much money Henry paid, whichever whore he chose to watch, the excitement he’d found before was lacking.
When had watching lost his appeal? As he handed his wasted money to a smiling madam, Henry realised that he already knew the answer. It had been the moment in which he’d walked into the master bedroom of his handsome Earls Court house, and seen his wife being ravaged by his manservant.
It hadn’t angered him. Quite the opposite, in fact - having his most cherished fantasy come to life had given Henry more pleasure than he’d ever thought he’d feel. Watching his wife get the pleasure that she’d always hungered for, however silently, over the course of their marriage had given him a rare sense of fulfilment. And what came afterwards, the collaboration with Swift, the depraved sexual lessons that they would watch Sophia undergo… he never thought such a complete exploration of his fantasies would ever be possible.
But it meant that secretly watching whores get fucked in an expensive brothel was no longer worth the money. Not when he could get the same, and better, at home.
Perhaps it was best to leave. Even if the next lesson was more than a few days away, and he had a relentless, aroused itch that needed scratching.
‘Wait.’ The madam came over, her black skirts rustling on the parquet floor, her face a carefully crafted mask of politeness. Henry realised that he was on the point of stuttering. ‘Have - have you got anything…’
He trailed off into silence. The madam raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘If you’re looking for something a little… different, sir,’ she said, her voice lowered, ‘perhaps I could show you another area of our establishment.’ She gestured to a red velvet curtain that hung in the corner of the room. ‘Would you be interested?’
Another area? Henry hadn’t even known there was another area. He felt obscurely cheated. He looked at the velvet curtain, wondering what on earth was considered so taboo by the brothel-keepers that it needed to be segregated from the rest of the rooms. ‘What… what particular…’ He trailed off again, hoping that the madam would understand.
The woman’s small smile made it clear that she did. ‘Sir… perhaps it will make things clearer if I refer to them as the Lavender Rooms?’
Oh. Henry gulped. But his head was already nodding, his feet were already following the slim figure of the madam as she pulled the velvet curtain aside.
A long, dark corridor stretched out ahead, lined with doors. Henry’s feet seemed to sound unnaturally loudly on the wooden floor as he walked, a bowl of burning incense perfuming the air.
The Lavender Rooms… for lavender men. Men who didn’t turn to women to slake their lust, but to other men. The strange, secretive deviants who clung to the fringes of society, never openly expressing their desires for fear of recrimination.
Henry had never had dealings with these men - as far as he knew. But there was a curiosity there, a forbidden, half-buried desire to know what these men did, what they did to each other - a desire that he’d never even thought about exploring.
But now, he was here. He could hear muffled sounds coming from the rooms; moans, masculine cries. And the madam was looking at him, smiling the knowing smile of a woman trained to detect a man’s wants.
‘Look through the eyeholes in the portraits,’ she said quietly. ‘For a newcomer, I’d recommend door number three.’
With another swift rustle of her skirts, she was gone. Henry was left alone in the corridor. He realised his cock was already stiffening; so this was what he needed now, this extra thrill, this delicious, deviant edge.
Sophia could never know.
Door number three lay to the left of him. Henry walked towards it, noting the two small points of light that lay to the right of the door, at the perfect height for a pair of voyeuristic eyes.
Taking a deep breath, fumbling hands unbuttoning his trousers, he walked up to the wall. Leaning down slightly, he looked through the eyeholes.
Henry found himself looking at a large four-poster bed, the silk covers a decidedly feminine pale blue. A young man was lolling on the covers, almost offensively relaxed, tousled blonde hair framing a sharp-boned, catlike face. He was naked, long-limbed, the smooth ease that lay in his muscles a contrast to Henry’s own nervous tension. His cock lay against his thigh, huge even in softness, and Henry felt his own cock harden further in response.
The blonde man sighed, idly tracing a finger along one thigh. He looked at the ornate clock on the wall, as if he were waiting for something. Henry felt his hand slip slowly over his rigid cock, beginning to stroke, waiting for the show to start.
A door to the right of the bed swung open. In walked a tall, muscular man, his dark hair and moustache in vivid contrast to the blonde youth’s pale fragility. The newcomer’s powerful thighs were encased in a pair of tight black breeches, but Henry could clearly see the outline of his rigid cock pressing against the fabric. He saw the blonde man’s eyes fix greedily upon it, and unconsciously licked his lips.
Apparently, no words were needed. The dark-haired man merely beckoned, two fingers casually curling in the air, and the blonde man rose from the bed with a feline smile of satisfaction. With swift, professional fingers, he pulled down the other man’s breeches until they lay crumpled on the thickly carpeted floor. The stranger’s cock sprang out, a huge, thick member that had Henry’s eyes widening, and the blonde man eagerly wrapped his hand around the rigid flesh.
‘Your wife hasn’t taken care of this in a while, has she?’ The dark-haired man nodded curtly in response, grunting at the blonde boy’s fingers began to skilfully stroke up and down his cock. Henry watched, captivated, his own fingers mimicking the boy’s movements as his cock twitched forcefully in his hand.
How would it feel to have another man’s hand wrapped around the most intimate part of himself? Or, even more perverted - how would it feel to wrap his own hand around another man’s member, to feel that hot, silken flesh go rigid under his touch?
It would feel like power. He gripped his own cock harder, briefly wishing that it belonged to another man. Someone braver than he was. Someone stronger.
The dark-haired man had his head flung backward. ‘God,’ he muttered, ‘I’ve never met a single whore who could do this as well as you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ The blonde boy practically purred with pleasure as the stranger moaned. ‘This way I keep getting to touch it. Or maybe even kiss it… if you’re ready?’
‘I’m going to fuck that dirty mouth until you stop asking stupid questions,’ the dark-haired man growled. Henry watched, biting back a gasp, as the blonde boy bought his full, pouting lips to the head of the man’s cock.
‘Go on then,’ he said, his voice playful. ‘Make me choke.’
Henry had to stifle a moan with his fist as the dark-haired man thrust his cock into the blonde boy’s mouth, sinking his full length deep into the young man’s throat. The boy took it as if he was born to do it; his lips stretched wide, his mouth clearly opened to its limit as he struggled to accommodate the man’s enormous member. Henry watched the delicate muscles of his throat moving, imagining how wonderful it would feel to have his cock sunk deep into such a wet, welcoming space.
The boy gagged slightly, and the man viciously muttering expletives almost had Henry coming into his hand. He pulled away from the peephole. This was too much, too quickly, and he’d paid for an hour. There was no sense in wasting the rest of his time.
The sound of the velvet curtain being pushed back flooded him with terrified adrenaline. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He stood in the centre of the corridor, hand still gripping his cock, consumed by fear.
A gentleman was approaching. As he walked closer to Henry, Henry realised with a shock that it was no stranger. It was the dark-haired, dark-eyed man who had been present at Sophia’s last lesson; the man whose wife had tied Sophia up, kissed her, touched her… he had been standing next to him.
He’d seen his cock, in a half-distracted way. And he realised, with a strange jolt of sensation, that the man had seen his.
‘Don’t be startled.’ The man had a slight accent, just like his wife. He smiled. ‘I’ve never seen you in the Lavender Rooms before, my lord. I didn’t think you were… a regular.’
There was a subtext here, an undercurrent that Henry could feel thickening around him. He looked down at his exposed cock, noting with surprise that it was still rigid.
He spoke with difficulty. ‘I suppose I’m a visitor.’
The man’s smile grew wider. ‘Really, my lord? It looks like you’re enjoying your visit.’ He openly eyed Henry’s cock, and Henry found himself caught between humiliation and deepening, growing arousal. To have another man’s eyes fixed on his member, inspecting it, deemed designed to bring him to a fever pitch of excitement.
‘You’re not the first, you know.’ The man’s voice was softer now, curiously understanding. ‘They cast no aspersions on your character, these… adventures. Variety is no sin.’
Henry coughed, finding it difficult to speak. This was a conversation so far outside of acceptable social conduct that none of the usual rules applied. There was nothing he could say, no ironic remark that would remove the heightening sense of shame.
Perhaps it was best to unburden himself. To tell the truth, as polluted as it was.
‘I think… I think I need it to be a sin.’
The man laughed gently, moving closer to Henry. ‘I should have known, with Jack Swift as your manservant. He seems to attract the naturally guilty.’
‘Did - did Swift send you here?’
‘No.’ The man looked directly at Henry. ‘This was… a personal errand. One that couldn’t be neglected for too long. And meeting you here… well, that’s a happy surprise.’
Henry blinked. There were too many questions here, too many dangers - but he couldn’t stop staring at the man’s fresh, tanned face, the flash of his pale throat at the fastening of his shirt. He remembered how Sophia had sunk eagerly into the arms of this man’s wife, how she’d kissed and licked the girl’s soft, ripe flesh, easily touching her in ways that Henry hadn’t imagined she could do.
He should leave. He should walk away from this den of iniquity now, before he did something that could not be undone. But before he could make that first, crucial step, the man grasped the head of his cock with a strong, warm grip.
The strength of him! The feel of another person, another man’s hand on him, made Henry gasp out in a choking cry. ‘No,’ he said hurriedly, ‘no, I -’
‘Wait.’ There was a hint of authority in the man’s voice now, and Henry found himself meekly obeying, his cock twitching. ‘Just wait. And if you really want me to stop, move away.’
Why weren’t his feet moving? It was impossible; the pure, raw feel of it had captured Henry completely. The no was dying on his lips; he stood as still as marble, panting quietly, praying that the young man never took his hand away.
‘Good.’ The man’s fingers began to trace up and down Henry’s cock. Henry moaned, paralysed with shame and want, wishing that he’d carry on while at the same time praying that he’d stop. He couldn’t go this far - couldn’t face this part of himself, the part that wanted this strange man to take his body and use it. He whimpered inarticulately, his hips moving of their own accord, realising that he was pushing his cock further into the young man’s grip.
‘Feels wonderful, doesn’t it?’ The man smiled, increasing the pressure of his fingers, and Henry felt bliss shoot through every nerve. ‘There’s something about a man’s hand, sir. A strength, a knowledge. Something that even the best-paid whore can’t match.’
‘Y - Yes.’ It was true. It was as if the young man already knew the exact spots to slide his fingers over, to stop at, to press and to hold and to glide. Henry felt his climax building with a numb, shocked inevitability; perhaps it was always going to end this way, a humiliation so erotic that he’d remember it forever. He abandoned his restraint, moaning loudly, debasement rippling over his body like rain, and he heard the young man laugh.
‘Next time, you’ll be doing this to me. I may even make you kneel.’
That was enough. Henry cried out, his knees buckling, one hand clinging desperately onto the young man’s jacket as he shot his seed into the stranger’s hand. The climax was dark, powerful, a door pulled sharply open onto new sources of pleasure, and he felt his muscles trembling as if with fever.
‘... Impressive.’ The young man laughed, pulling his hand away, leaving Henry sticky and spent. The climax was still working through him, a sweet, punishing hex that had him shivering, and he closed his eyes.
The man’s words came to him as if from far away. ‘Best to leave. Or I’ll make you do more, and worse - and I don’t have time to wait until you recover.’ Brisk fingers were rubbing some kind of cloth along his softening cock, refastening his trouser buttons. ‘Go.’
‘N - no.’ He didn’t want to go. He wanted to know what he could do - what he could be made to do. But the young man was already drawing the curtain back, sly humour glinting in his eyes.
‘Next time.’ And with a last pull of the fabric, he was gone.
Henry stood once more in the brothel’s reception room, his mouth half-open in surprise. His body was still quivering, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he could almost hear the thud.
Sophia. His wife could never know about this. She must already consider him something less than a man… this secret could kill her.
Please, he thought fervently, avoiding the eyes of the prostitutes lining the room. Please, let my wife have secrets too.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/gay-male/the-valet-part-six.aspx">The Valet, Part Six</a>