Club Lustrum London Series
Book 3: The Roughened Petals
by C. C. Castleton
Samuel: The end justifies the means is Machiavellian. I’m de Sade: the end is entirely mine. When I’m hard, I’m no gentleman. Sex is that perfect balance of pain and pleasure. Without that symmetry, sex becomes a routine, not an indulgence.
Linnea: Sir said my virginity was a virtue. He said virtue needed vice, such as the extreme pain he gave me, for me to gain the ultimate pleasure as his Slave. I thought it was just a game. No skin off my nose. So I signed the contract Sir offered me.
A quarter of a million quid? That’s one dotted straight line from slut to harlot. It will most definitely make a whore out of me, I tell myself over and over again, however an expensive one.
Even in fiction I don’t remember reading a book where a woman accepted money in exchange for sex, and I failed to think she was a prostitute. So if I’m going to judge myself by that same logic, then that makes me one as well. That is, if I accept Sir’s offer. The operative word being “if”. No matter which way I turn this around in my head, no matter how it’s termed – whore, slag, prostitute, slut – I can’t see the offer in a positive light. Sir called it an incentive, but the wording doesn’t matter. You can call a spade a shovel, but it’s still a spade. Sir wanted a contract with me even if he didn’t use that word. Simply put, he wants sex, outrageously kinky hot sex, and is willing to pay the price. Isn’t that what prostitution is? A contract between two consenting adults involving sex and – most usually – money? With the payer having the upper hand over the payee?
My throat scorches with anger. I feel insulted that he would offer to pay me while he denies me. It cheapened the experience I had and want to have with him. Why on earth did he feel the need to offer me money? Did he think I was a chattel he could buy after I rebuffed his advances to take me out of the club? I bite my already-bitten-to-the-quick thumbnail, remembering the wanting look in his eyes. I bloody, totally, fucking want him, too. I’m tempted in the most biblical sense. My Adam, in the Garden of Eden, but reversed. The money he’s offering is the kind of apple that could make such a huge difference in my life. I could pay off my student debts, my car instalments and stash the remainder of the money away for future investments. I certainly have no shortage of things I could do with that money. But, above all else, it means I’d get him. I’d get to live out a forbidden desire that keeps me awake late at night.
I’d have my Sir night and day.
Do whatever you want with it. It will still mean you’re a whore, that annoying voice at the back of my head whispers. I grit my teeth, angry that I’m even considering his offer.
Just thinking about it takes my breath away. The very idea of being paid for sex makes my body tingle with excitement and exhilaration. I mean, how much lower can you get in a relationship? It’s something forbidden, especially in 21st century. Bloody hell, it’s the century women are celebrating their suffrage! And that in and of itself is so seductive.
“All the same, I am not a bloody prostitute,” I murmur with some inexplicable fondness.
About the Author
C. C. Castleton is a Kenyan of Indian and British descent. Her ancestors arrived in Kenya between 1896 and 1920. C. C. studied sociology and political science, works as an actress, model and freelance journalist. She and her husband both love globetrotting, a love now shared with their miraculous baby. The Castletons are at home around the globe, a legacy they love to attribute to their migratory ancestors.
Her full name is Charulekha Christiana Castleton. The last C she wears with honour and pride from Mr Castleton, a Kenyan of aristocratic British descent, whose ancestors settled in Kenya in the late 19th century. After Mr Castleton introduced her to the delights of the London exclusive clubs, C. C. was inspired to start writing about the BDSM scene and those delights she experienced and came to cherish.
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