him a lot, and finally—God, finally—all at once. They move him to the middle of the bed, throw off all the blankets and pillows, and ride him like a carousel. One mounts him, first facing him, then facing away from him. One presents herself to his mouth. They switch. They switch again. Their lack of modesty is as stunning as it is magnificent. They pull him up, both get on their hands and knees in front of him and summon him with their moans and beckoning open hips to alternate between them. A minute for me and a few seconds for her, sire. No, no, a minute for me and a few seconds for her, sire. Julian obliges. No one wants the bell at the end of that round to ring, not them, and emphatically not him.
While mortal man rejoices, refracts and rejuvenates, all the while wishing he were immortal and needed no bells and no rounds, the roses and lilies show him that downtime can also be wonderful, by intermingling with each other in ways Julian has only dreamed of. The flowers have reappeared on the earth. The girls make kissing and sucking sounds when he uses his mouth and fingers to please them, as if to guide Julian aurally to what they would like him to do to them orally.
He fights the desire to close his eyes as he is smothered under their warm abundant flesh in friction against every inflamed inch of him. With impressed murmurs, they cluck over his rigid boxer’s body, they praise his drive, his short rest, his devouring lust. They kiss his lips until he can’t breathe. One slides south. Aren’t you something, she purrs. She kisses his stomach. Josephine, she calls to the other one. Come down here.
I’m coming, Josephine. They both kiss his stomach. Their hair, their kisses, their lips, their hands slide farther south. His hands remain on their heads, in their hair.
Four breasts bounce against him, four hands and two warm mouths caress him in tandem. They feed him and drink from him and melt in the fading fire. One scoots up to his face, holding on to the frame of the bed and lowers her hips to him. One remains down below.
I’m coming, Josephine.
They entrust him again and again with their bodies and their happiness, and he bestows them with his own gifts because he doesn’t like to deny insatiable beautiful girls with lips of scarlet.
If you keep this up, next time I’ll charge you double, one moaning girl murmurs.
If you keep this up, next time I’ll give it to you for free, murmurs the other.
Julian can’t decide which murmur he prefers.
The honeycomb hours pour forth in a treacly feast, in debauched splendor. The fire goes out. The room is lit only by faint moonlight through the open windows. It’s hot, and outside is quiet except for occasional bursts of revelry on the street below. Exhausted, the girls lie in his arms during another break, ply him and themselves with house wine, and confer to him all manner of knowledge.
Julian learns he’s near Whitehall Palace, in a house of pleasure named the Silver Cross. So for the second time, he’s back in London. He knows the tavern fairly well. The Silver Cross, a block away from Trafalgar Square, is one of London’s oldest pubs. He’s drunk and eaten there a few times with Ashton. The selection of beer is first rate and the red meat is tender. Whitehall, a short stroll from Westminster, was once the residence of kings. In 1530, Henry VIII bought the white marble palace from a cardinal, lived there, died there. A fire had decimated the palace (a fire? or the fire?) and now only the Banqueting House remains, and the eponymous street. It’s July, the girls inform him, which explains why it’s so bloody hot, that and the fiery female flesh scorching his hands.
Before Oliver Cromwell in his Puritan zeal shuttered all of London’s playhouses, pubs and houses of bawd, Charles I licensed the Silver Cross as a legal brothel and the irony is, to the present day the license has never been revoked. The king was beheaded, England became a republic, there was a civil war. There was so much else to think about besides a brothel license. For four hundred years, it had slipped everyone’s mind. Julian read this on a plaque in the pub, while dining and drinking there with Ashton.
The Silver Cross is run by a woman named Baroness Tilly. She has ten high-quality girls and “ten rooms of pleasure.” The house is colloquially called the Lord’s Tavern after its most frequent patrons—“the Right Honorable Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the Kingdom of Great Britain, England, Scotland, and Ireland in Parliament Assembled!” the girls proclaim to him in happy unison. They do so many splendid things to him in happy unison. With the recently re-established House of Lords, the Temporal Peers have become the tavern’s most generous benefactors. They have unlimited time, unlimited money and unlimited vices. The girls are top-notch, game for all sorts of debauchery (as Julian can attest), and most importantly (after the recent “epidemic of death”), clean. The girls and the rooms adhere to rules of purity not found in other similar establishments, “like that pig-pit the Haymarket, or Miss Cresswell’s in Clerkenwell.”
Did someone say Clerkenwell?
Yes, sire, do you know it? It’s filthy.
I know it. It’s not so bad. His heart pinches when he remembers Clerkenwell, the rides to Cripplegate through the brothel quarter on Turnbull Street. He wants to peer into the girl’s face but can’t keep his eyes open.
At the Silver Cross, the rooms are spotless, richly decorated, well furnished. “And the girls, too,” Julian murmurs sleepily. His body is raw, sore, sated in all its imaginable and unimagined earthly cravings. This is his favorite room in the world.
Yes, this room is nice, the girls murmur in return, but there are a few others that have bathtubs, and in those rooms the girls can soap him, and lather him, and wash him. Would he like that, for the eager girls to soap his naked body? Look, it’s almost dawn, one girl says, what’s better than dawn by cocklight? Nothing, says the other, tugging on him and smiling. Nothing’s better than the crowing of the cock to usher in a new day.
Julian is nearly unconscious. Yet the mention of being soaped by the caressing hands of the lush sirens in his bed calls him to attention and turns the girls once again into warm quivering masses of excited and groany giggles—
The bedroom door is thrown open. The giggling stops. In the frame stands a tall woman wearing yesterday’s theatrically overdone face makeup and an outrageous pink velvet housecoat with a red fringe.
“Mallory!” she shouts. “How many times have I told you—No! Bad girl! No, no, no, no, no!”
One of the girls scrambles off the bed and searches the floor for her clothes.
“This isn’t your job! Do you know what your job is?”
“Yes, Aunt Tilly.”
Julian nearly cries. Don’t go, Mallory! Her back is to him, but if only he could catch a glimpse of her face …
“No, I don’t think you do know what your job is. And it’s Baroness Tilly while you’re working—and I assume this was work?”
“All my other work was done, Baroness.” The girl throws a chemise over herself, a skirt, a flowy blouse, an apron. She ties up her hair. “I was finished for the day.”
“You don’t look as if you were finished.”
“Just wanted to make some extra money, Baroness …”
“That’s everybody’s excuse. But you know I forbid it. Your mother, may she rest in peace, forbid it. I will not tell you again. I’m going to send you to the South of France if you don’t stop this. Do you want to be sent away with your boorish benefactor? He’ll be a lot stricter than me.”
“No, Baroness.”
“I didn’t think so. Then, go do what you’ve been hired to do and stop the wickedness at once. Oh—and who is this man? I allowed you upstairs at the start of the night for the viewing pleasure of Lord Fabian, and here you are, at nearly dawn, with another man in your bed.”
Viewing pleasure? Lord Fabian? What? Julian lifts his head off the pillows. Baroness Tilly, a broad, vulgar woman, turns her unwelcome attention to him. “I don’t remember you walking past me, good sir, and I certainly don’t remember you paying