CHAPTER SIX
NICHOLAS
“Here is your drink, Sir.” Reggie places the fine brandy next to me. I need this, after the events of the day. I want nothing more than to jump in my Ferrari and find a warm pussy to pound away my worries. I know that if I leave the house, my father will have his guards find me and drag me back. These women think they have it hard. I’m just as confined by the damn founding documentation of the society as they are. My head is in my hands, and I rub at my temples. I’m shaking.
“Nicholas, drink it.” Reggie urges, and I pick the glass up and drain it in one long gulp. I wonder if the burning in my throat compares to the pain, which I inflicted on the girls’ legs. How can I be so callous? It'll be nothing compared to the agony ripping through their bodies that they have yet to experience. Reggie pours me another drink and hands me a cigarette. I’m not a big smoker, but I like one with my glass in the evening. I’m sure it should be a cigar, but a cigarette suffices for me. I puff on the nicotine, killing stick, and the smoke mixing with the amber nectar of my drink starts to relax my body. I wave Reggie away, and he disappears to do whatever task he has next on his list. The man is sixty and should be slowing down, not having to deal with this shit.
I pick up the remote and turn on the televisions in front of me. There are three of them, one for each girl. I look at the one labeled Amelia, first. The guards throw her into her room. She’s been washed and provided with a long nightgown to sleep in. You know the sort, the ones that your great-grandparents wore in the Victorian ages. Why we have to continue with the awful fashion, I'll never know. Give the girls one of my t-shirts or some pajamas, anything but those lace doilies for god’s sake. I make it my mission, tomorrow, to give them some sensible clothes. Amelia looks around the room, and I notice she's still crying. I wonder whether I should have chosen her or not. She’s pretty with her blonde hair and blue eyes. I don’t lust after her. In fact, I wanted to protect her more, and that’s why I chose her. I knew my father would never let the other two girls go. They know too much, now. The society will own them until the day they die — whether that is sooner or later. I saw strength in them, but in Amelia, I see a terrified little girl who needs someone to watch over her. She climbs onto her bed and pulls the covers over her head. I know she won’t sleep a wink tonight not until she’s exhausted herself with her tears. A strange feeling of guilt sits on my shoulders. I drink it away with another sip of the brandy and turn off that television. I turn to the one labeled Elizabeth, next.
For a girl who’s about to be sold into slavery for the rest of her life, Elizabeth’s surprisingly happy about being here. It’s the reason I chose her. She's been prepared properly. When the girls are born, they’re brought together and christened into the society. Their fathers may raise them telling them of their futures or may keep it a secret. That is their choice, but they must adhere to several rules. The most important being their daughters must remain virgins. If any of them are found not to be, then the girl is disqualified and, from what I’ve heard of previously, killed. The body is then delivered back to the father who has all his assets taken by the society. What gets me is that nobody has ever talked or gone to a higher authority about what happens here. If my daughter were killed, I’d report it. But then again, my father controls most of the criminal courts in London as well as managing the majority of the government. The culture of fear surrounding us prevents any defectors.
I drink a little more and watch Elizabeth. She, too, wears the ridiculous nightgown but, with a wink to the camera hidden in the wooden paneling of her room, strips it off. How does she know I’m watching? I think she's been a little too well prepared by her father, Lord Bishop of Monchelsea. She climbs into the bed but doesn’t get under the covers. Instead, she lays back and parts her legs. I can see everything: her neatly shaved pussy already gleaming with her juices. She runs a finger over her slit from front to back and dips it inside. My cock hardens, but I don’t want to touch it. Instead, I make a mental note to check on the validity of this one being a virgin. I turn the screen off and leave her to her intimate act, despite the fact she obviously wanted an audience. I flick the button for the last screen, and the woman who captured my attention in the initial meeting fills it. She's wearing the gown and, apparently, isn’t happy with it. I stare intently as she finds what must be a loose seam and pulls it so she can shorten it. The material rips and bares her shapely legs. I find myself leaning forward and hoping she tears too far, and I can get sight of her pussy again. I had a glimpse when she was struggling to prevent herself from being branded. It wasn’t bare like Elizabeth’s, but it was neatly trimmed. She stops when the gown reaches thigh high, though. Damn it. She goes over to the dressing table and looks at the bottle placed there. We aren’t horrible — we make sure that the father’s pack a bag of things that’ll make the girls feel at home. Victoria picks up a bottle, and I can just make out that it’s aloe vera gel. She smears some over the burn and wraps the torn material around the brand. I shake my head at the care she takes. None of the other girls even thought about dressing the wound. It was the first thing she thought of. I’m sure it's some false hope that it won’t leave a mark. She finishes treating her leg and takes out the French plait in her hair. Her red waves tumble out, and she sees the brush on the table and uses it to pull her hair back into a neat ponytail. She’s exquisite to watch. Calm but with the slight tremor in her hand, I can see her apprehension. I pick up my brandy glass and noticing it’s empty, I ring the bell for Reggie. He appears almost immediately and tops me up.
“Are they doing alright?” he asks and motions toward the screen.
“As can be expected,” I reply, still engrossed in Victoria. She's looking around the room for an escape route now. She tries the bedroom door — it's locked, and the window is the same. She stamps her foot in frustration.
“Which one is that?” Reggie queries.
“Victoria Hamilton.”
“Viscount Mayfield’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“She seems braver than your mother. I remember standing here with your father watching her. I’d just been promoted to butler, despite being young. He was laughing at the girls as he watched them cry and try to find their way out. He picked your mother out immediately as the weakest of the three. I knew she wouldn’t last long, from that moment.” He goes quiet and becomes lost in his private thoughts. I don't ask him to share them. I know he'll clam up. He always does — small snippets about my mother are all I'll ever get out of him. He bows and leaves me alone again.
My attention re-focuses on Victoria. She’s at the bookcase. As her fingers skim the titles, she stops on one and pulls it out — I can’t make out the name from the angle I have. It doesn’t matter because she pushes that one back in when she sees another that captures her attention. I recognize this one. It's a book on art. It’s one of my personal favorites, and we have several copies around the house. It lists the more obscure paintings by some of the most famous artists in the world.
She looks between a Queen Anne chair, in the corner of the room, and the four poster bed as she debates on which one to choose. She finally decides on the chair and settles in it with the book. I pull up the file on her, on my phone.
The Honorable Victoria Hamilton
Born: 25th July 1997
I skip past the bit that tells me about her breeding, education, and physical attributes to the hobbies part.
Hobbies:
Victoria swims regularly, at least one hundred lengths a day. She doesn’t have many interests that allow her to leave the house as has been specified in the documentation regarding the raising of a chosen girl. She enjoys baking with Viscountess Mayfield and has been painting since a young age. The only time I allow her out, under my strict supervision, is to visit the art galleries of London. She reads an abundance of material on the subject. I’m sure this will be of interest to Earl Lullington.
The passage written by her father does indeed interest me. Art is my life. The pictures in the hallway — she was studying them. I smirk at my intelligent little girl.
Victoria yawns in her chair, and her eyelids flutter. She's becoming exhausted from her long day, no matter how much she wants to continue reading the book that interests her. She yawns again, and her head falls forward. A few seconds later the book drops to the floor open on the page showing Van Gogh’s Poppies. I knew it. I turn the screen off and let her sleep peacefully. Tomorrow is a new day, and I think my father is correct: Victoria Hamilton is going to cause a great deal of trouble.