THE RIDING CROP
Karyn Gerrard
Copyright © 2012
October 1887, London
The night was a typical one in the heart of the
East End of London. A thick, coal-laden fog blanketed the
cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. Laughter and raucous merriment
poured out of the many pubs lining the narrow lanes. A noxious odor
of gas, piss, and stagnant water filled the air.
Lord Gideon Broyles, Viscount Cravenbrook, no
longer paid attention to the sights and sounds he encountered in
his numerous nocturnal journeys. The decadent and depraved
adventures he pursued most nights earned him the name “Lord Craven”
for a good reason. Moving aside the red velvet curtain on his
carriage window, Gideon glanced down the alley where he observed a
couple of men copulating with shilling whores against the brick
walls. Yawning, he sat back in his plush coach, and thought of his
destination for tonight. The club, The Riding Crop, was private and
recently opened.
At age twenty-eight and sexually active for
twelve years, there wasn’t much Gideon hadn’t experienced. Since
the time of the innocent tumble with an under-house parlor maid at
age sixteen, his sexual escapades grew in intensity as the years
passed. Boredom was perhaps the reason he sunk to such debauched
levels. He played the game, attended balls, assemblies, and danced
with the appropriate and eligible daughters of the ton. None had
ever sparked his interest, or more importantly, his lust. In his
more reflective moments he wondered if he even felt anything at all
resembling feelings and emotions.
The carriage came to a halt and Gideon moved
aside the curtain once again. He had arrived. Placing his beaver
hat low over his brow, he clasped his silver-head walking stick and
waited for his man to unfasten the door.
The door opened and the wrought iron steps
snapped into place awaiting Gideon’s departure. With a flick of his
long cloak, he descended the carriage, and with quiet stealth,
slipped into the adjoining alleyway.
His man knew to return in four hours. Gideon
allotted that block of time for himself and his carnal pleasures.
Knocking on the oak door, the small window slid open and a pair of
sinister, blood-shot eyes glared at him in question.
“Ah, Lord Craven. Welcome.”
He cringed. The nickname annoyed him. By no
stretch of the imagination was he a sniveling and pusillanimous
man. The name referred more to his cravings and appetites of the
sexual nature. Still, the moniker grated. The window slid shut and
the door opened. Well over six feet in height and broad of
shoulder, Gideon bent slightly and strode across the
threshold.
The rather brutish looking doorman stepped
aside and Gideon was immediately greeted by Pan, the host. Rumors
abounded Pan was, in fact, a eunuch. He could believe it. Pan was
flamboyant in speech and dress and could very well be a “back
gammon player” if he wasn’t absent any part of his
tackle.
“My lord. And what is your desire
tonight?”
Pan gave him an assessing and admiring gaze,
taking in his form and formal evening dress. Gideon removed his
kid-leather gloves, then his hat. He tossed the gloves inside the
hat and passed them along with the walking stick to Pan.
“I believe I will start with the third floor,”
Gideon answered while removing his cloak.
“A very good choice, my lord. Please, follow
me.”
Pan momentarily ducked into the cloakroom then
rejoined him. He led him through the narrow, darkened halls. The
hiss of gas from the wall sconces intermingled with groans of
ecstasy emitting from the many closed doors. As they climbed the
stairs, Gideon could already feel his cock harden in
anticipation.
The third floor consisted of small rooms with
private alcoves. This was the voyeur floor. Each door leading into
a private alcove had a sign. The red side indicated the alcove was
occupied and the blue side meant the alcove was vacant. The first
door showed blue.
“Do call on me, my lord, when you are
Karyn Gerrard
Copyright © 2012
October 1887, London
The night was a typical one in the heart of the
East End of London. A thick, coal-laden fog blanketed the
cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. Laughter and raucous merriment
poured out of the many pubs lining the narrow lanes. A noxious odor
of gas, piss, and stagnant water filled the air.
Lord Gideon Broyles, Viscount Cravenbrook, no
longer paid attention to the sights and sounds he encountered in
his numerous nocturnal journeys. The decadent and depraved
adventures he pursued most nights earned him the name “Lord Craven”
for a good reason. Moving aside the red velvet curtain on his
carriage window, Gideon glanced down the alley where he observed a
couple of men copulating with shilling whores against the brick
walls. Yawning, he sat back in his plush coach, and thought of his
destination for tonight. The club, The Riding Crop, was private and
recently opened.
At age twenty-eight and sexually active for
twelve years, there wasn’t much Gideon hadn’t experienced. Since
the time of the innocent tumble with an under-house parlor maid at
age sixteen, his sexual escapades grew in intensity as the years
passed. Boredom was perhaps the reason he sunk to such debauched
levels. He played the game, attended balls, assemblies, and danced
with the appropriate and eligible daughters of the ton. None had
ever sparked his interest, or more importantly, his lust. In his
more reflective moments he wondered if he even felt anything at all
resembling feelings and emotions.
The carriage came to a halt and Gideon moved
aside the curtain once again. He had arrived. Placing his beaver
hat low over his brow, he clasped his silver-head walking stick and
waited for his man to unfasten the door.
The door opened and the wrought iron steps
snapped into place awaiting Gideon’s departure. With a flick of his
long cloak, he descended the carriage, and with quiet stealth,
slipped into the adjoining alleyway.
His man knew to return in four hours. Gideon
allotted that block of time for himself and his carnal pleasures.
Knocking on the oak door, the small window slid open and a pair of
sinister, blood-shot eyes glared at him in question.
“Ah, Lord Craven. Welcome.”
He cringed. The nickname annoyed him. By no
stretch of the imagination was he a sniveling and pusillanimous
man. The name referred more to his cravings and appetites of the
sexual nature. Still, the moniker grated. The window slid shut and
the door opened. Well over six feet in height and broad of
shoulder, Gideon bent slightly and strode across the
threshold.
The rather brutish looking doorman stepped
aside and Gideon was immediately greeted by Pan, the host. Rumors
abounded Pan was, in fact, a eunuch. He could believe it. Pan was
flamboyant in speech and dress and could very well be a “back
gammon player” if he wasn’t absent any part of his
tackle.
“My lord. And what is your desire
tonight?”
Pan gave him an assessing and admiring gaze,
taking in his form and formal evening dress. Gideon removed his
kid-leather gloves, then his hat. He tossed the gloves inside the
hat and passed them along with the walking stick to Pan.
“I believe I will start with the third floor,”
Gideon answered while removing his cloak.
“A very good choice, my lord. Please, follow
me.”
Pan momentarily ducked into the cloakroom then
rejoined him. He led him through the narrow, darkened halls. The
hiss of gas from the wall sconces intermingled with groans of
ecstasy emitting from the many closed doors. As they climbed the
stairs, Gideon could already feel his cock harden in
anticipation.
The third floor consisted of small rooms with
private alcoves. This was the voyeur floor. Each door leading into
a private alcove had a sign. The red side indicated the alcove was
occupied and the blue side meant the alcove was vacant. The first
door showed blue.
“Do call on me, my lord, when you are
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