Chapter One

Guinevere nestled back in the corner of the carriage and allowed herself to be soothed by the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. It had been a warm day and the heat was now rising from the cobblestones, but when she opened the window she found a refreshing breeze.

She had been looking forward to this evening all week, ever since Mrs Atkinson had sent her note. It offered as usual a small, intimate gathering of no more than half a dozen ladies, with perhaps a few more gentlemen. She had dressed carefully, in a new corset of white satin, made to measure by the reliable Mrs Court, tonight worn next to the skin; Guinevere felt that a chemise would be an unnecessary encumbrance. When it was on she had looked at herself in the mirror, then insisted her maid Johnson draw the laces tighter. She prided herself on her figure, the small waist, the softly swelling hips, and a rump the roundness and firmness of which had been commented on by connoisseurs. Sometimes she wondered if her breasts ought not to be bigger, but more than one gentleman had assured her that the common belief that men preferred big breasts was erroneous, and she knew that hers were a good shape, bouncy, pointed, with nipples that got as hard as acorns. She noted with pleasure that not only did the corset squeeze her waist; it also pushed her breasts up and out, making the most of what she had.

She had chosen to wear her green velvet dress, the one that was cut so low that even men well used to the fashionable décolletage of the day could not help staring. Under the dress, above the corset, was nothing but a starched petticoat; like the chemise, the usual silk drawers seemed redundant for this particular occasion. When she got to Mrs Atkinson’s she would divest herself of her outer garments, leaving only the corset, with the white silk stockings which its suspenders supported. And her dainty little ankle boots, of the softest grey calf-leather and with sharp heels. Before Johnson put the dress on, she stared some more at the mirror. The corset ended just above the pubic bone, and she had recently taken to having her pubic hair trimmed, leaving only a narrow strip above the cunt, with the labia bare. She was still getting used to the sight of it, not yet fully convinced that it made her more desirable, though she was becoming more reconciled to the change.

Men had told her that they adored her cunt, but she had never been quite certain that it was a thing of aesthetic distinction, though perhaps for the sort of men she allowed to see it, the cunt held a sort of mystic attraction, the supreme object of worship. Well, she thought, I know what it can do for me in the way of pleasure, and I know its power to make a man fall to his knees and beg, whether it’s pretty or not.

The cab delivered her outside Mrs Atkinson’s house in Belgravia. The woman was of lowly origins, as was her husband, but Guinevere did not in the least look down on her for that. After all, she herself was not an aristocrat by birth, though married to one. Mr Atkinson had made a lot of money in some business which was never entirely clear, and his wife helped him spend it, one of her favourite amusements being the hosting of soirees for ladies who wished to indulge certain tastes with the security of complete discretion. Guinevere walked up the steps and rang the bell. After a short delay the door was opened by a young man with a pretty face and long hair. His name, she knew, was Julian. He regularly attended Mrs Atkinson on such occasions, offering various services, some of which, she suspected, were performed in Mrs Atkinson’s bedroom after the guests had left. But for the moment he took people’s coats, showed them where the facilities were, brought them food and wine and generally attended to their requests.

As usual, Julian was naked except for some small steel nipple clamps, a leather collar round his neck and another collar around his cock and