Victorian by Miru Chapter 2 The moon shone through the window, bathing the room in its pale glow. The young man lay naked in his bed, restless despite his long day. The doorknob slowly turned, and he raised his head to see his owner opening the door, similarly undressed. She stepped forward, and her bare form glowed in the moonlight. He watched with wide eyes as she came closer and placed a hand on his chest. The mare slid her hand across him, feeling his coat, feeling his body, feeling his heart pound, feeling his soul tremble. Her fingers trailed down his belly. He gripped the sheets and gritted his teeth, and then he awoke, gasping for breath. The sky was tinged with coming dawn. The door was closed, and there was nobody in the room but Martin. He checked himself, and noticed he was drenched with sweat. Once he was calm, he stood up and dressed. Later that morning, their coach rolled and bumped along cobbled stone, passing the rabble through the city. Martin looked out over the mid-morning bustle with subdued curiosity, and Victoria watched him with amusement. In five short days, the wonder in his eyes had dimmed only slightly. He flopped back into his seat and faced the mare. “Where are we going, Lady Victoria?” “A seamstress, dear boy. A smock may suffice within my house, but you need proper clothing if I am to take you out and about regularly.” Martin pulled his smock taut to get a better look at it. It was slightly wrinkled, and a little stained by last night’s dishwater, but it was one of the finest pieces of clothing he had ever owned. Still, it was plain compared to the pantsuit Victoria wore. It was unusual, he thought, for such a lady to wear pants, but the past few days had taught him that he knew nothing about the rich. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but the words never passed his lips. Victoria’s practiced smile did not waver when she watched his face. For but a second, she wished for him to speak again. Instead, she forced herself to look outside, and she spied their destination. “Oh, we’ve arrived.” They disembarked from the carriage. Martin was impressed by the facade, with intricate signage and an alluring window display featuring a smart red coat with long tails. He might have stared at it a while, but Victoria nudged him along. A bell rang as they entered, and the shelves inside were lined neatly with folded clothing and bolts of fabric. Martin’s attention was drawn from the mannequins’ checkered pants to a box of ornate buttons, and the vacant counter on which they sat. Victoria checked her watch and clicked her tongue, irritated. “Hello? Mrs. Kensington?” she called. “Oh—one moment!” a shrill voice returned. A moment passed, and a nervous, bespectacled ewe emerged from the back room. “Ah, Lady Howclair! Here for your appointment, yes? So sorry to keep you waiting!” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, of course.” “I was just replacing the buttons on the baron’s shirt, you see...” Her ears swiveled forward. “The baron?” “Yes, the baron,” a man echoed, rounding the doorway into the room. He was a gray fox, with a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye, dressed more smartly than all the mannequins. He puffed out his chest and gestured to some shining silver buttons down its center. “Aren’t they lovely, Victoria?” “Of course, milord,” she replied with a curt bow, which Martin clumsily mirrored. “Mrs. Kensington has done fine work, as always.” “Hasn’t she? I can hardly wait for the matching cufflinks.” He canted his head, noticing the boy. “Who’s this, then?” “A servant, milord. Beneath your notice, but at your call as much as mine,” the mare said, straightening her posture. “Ah, yes, the baker, Thomas, he told me you had a new one. I knew we would meet sooner or later.” “Yes… Martin, this is Baron Harold Loveway, railroad magnate, owner of Loveway Transportation, and my… benefactor.” The word lingered in her mouth like the bitter taste of turpentine. “Ah, Martin.” Loveway leaned in. The gleam in his eye turned predatory, and his grin was suddenly cheaper than the wooden toggles on Martin’s smock. He bowed again, unsure of how to react to the baron’s judging gaze. “Not much to see, is there? I’m certain Victoria will find a use for you.” Loveway returned his attention to her. “Well, it was a pleasure bumping into you, Victoria, but I should be on my way. I’m having tea with a viscount this afternoon, and I’ve yet to pick up his gift. I trust you’ll wait for my letter. Farewell.” “Of course. Farewell, milord,” she bade. Her eyes dripped with venom as she stared after him, until Mrs. Kensington cleared her throat to draw her attention. “So, your appointment?” “Oh, yes. I need a suit for this one, to make him presentable. Nothing outlandishly particular.” “Of course, milady,” the ewe replied, and led Martin into the back. She stood him up on a platform and whipped her measuring tape around him, jotting down notes. “Color?” “Gray.” “Material?” “Cotton will suffice.” “Breeches?” “No, pants.” “Tie?” “A narrow red ribbon.” “I see.” The seamstress raised an eyebrow, then hesitated with the tape before Martin’s waist. “Shall I measure his... erm...” “Hm?” “You know,” she blushed. “His willy?” The mention caused him, too, to turn red. “Oh, please,” Victoria laughed. “It was just that once. And you saw it yourself; you cannot deny the boy needed custom underpants.” The embarrassment quickly faded from the ewe’s face. “Right, then. Your taste is impeccable, milady. I’ll have the suit ready in two weeks’ time.” “I wait with bated breath, Mrs. Kensington.” She beckoned Martin, and they left. Rather than hail a coach, they walked along and ducked into an alley, where Victoria produced a pouch of inky black powder and rubbed a streak across her nose. She turned to Martin, and then suddenly he was alone in the alley. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around. “L… Lady Victoria?” he called. “Not so loud, boy,” she replied, suddenly back where she was… except she hadn’t actually vanished to begin with. “Put this on your face, and we can continue. Or would you rather hold my hand?” She gave him a wry smirk. He was ill at ease. He held his palm over hers for a moment before taking the pouch. Her face became neutral again as he smeared the fine powder over the bridge of his nose. They were soon moving again at a fair clip. The streets narrowed, the population thinned, and the buildings fell into disrepair as they walked, but nobody seemed to notice either of them even as they entered shadier parts of the city. Martin began to ask where they were going, but Victoria held a finger to her lips. Eventually, they came to an inconspicuous shop. When Victoria opened the door, a blast of sharp fumes hit Martin’s face. Inside, the walls were lined with shelves full of bottles and pouches of varied and unidentifiable substances. The dim lights filtered through an acrid smoke that was still in the air until Victoria pushed through it. The graying old stoat behind the counter was reading a book, oblivious to her approach. She cleared her throat, and he jolted in his seat, finally aware. “Back so soon, Miss Howclair? I was not expecting you.” “I did not expect so, either. Do you have the usual in stock?” The stoat slowly rose and leaned on the counter. “Not in the usual numbers, I’m afraid. The herptile boy, he was short on salamander, so I’ve only got half your order.” She huffed, but set her irritation aside. “I need it tonight, so it will have to do.” She drew a handful of coins and passed them to the clerk. He stowed them in a drawer, then reached for his cane. “Right, one moment, dear,” he rasped, then hobbled around the shelves. He took a bottle here, a pouch there, and put them all in a burlap sack, then handed it off to Victoria. She gave it to Martin, and the stoat blinked, then cocked an eyebrow at her. “A servant? You’re keeping him awfully close, Miss.” “A murderer,” she stated. “He is no such liability.” Martin winced. “Oh, I see.” He limped back behind his counter. “I’ll take your word for it, Miss. I know you’ll be careful.” “Of course. Farewell,” she replied, and turned to leave. “Farewell,” Martin echoed, and followed. The stoat waved to them, then sat down with his book. Victoria led the way to one of the main streets and brushed the dust off their faces before calling a driver. The ride home was uneventful, and they reached the Howclair house as the bells tolled four. Once inside, she took the bag. She instructed Martin with a terse voice: “Resume your chores. I will be in the basement; do not enter the basement. A courier will knock on the door around six with a letter for me; call me from atop the stairs, and do not open the letter. I will expect supper at seven. Understand?” “Courier at six, food at seven. Understood, ma’am.” “Good.” Her hooves clicked down the hall as he began his duties. He had just finished adding wood to the stove when the knock came at the door. The courier’s shirt bore a coat of arms that matched the wax seal on the envelope, and he gave a smile and waved goodbye before promptly leaving. The seal was Loveway’s, of course; Martin had seen it on stagecoaches and on the banner in the foyer, but didn’t realize its significance until now. He took the letter to the end of the hall and opened the stairwell door. “Lady Victoria, the letter...” The stench of something burning rose up the stairwell. He took a step down the stairs, then heard a door open, followed by Victoria’s hooves on the stone. She came around the corner and saw him on the stairs, then affixed a leer on him. “Top of the stairway, boy,” she growled. She took the envelope with a hand smudged with dark grease and opened it to peek inside, then scowled at its contents. “Alright, back to work,” she groaned, and went back into the basement. Martin returned to the kitchen and began work on supper. The pantry was running low on meat, so he made a roux with yesterday’s broth and chopped some vegetables, then added the salted meat and some thyme to the mixture. The house was soon filled with a heartily appetizing fragrance, and Martin happily stirred it to bubbling, then poured it into a bowl with some bread as the bell rang seven. He waited for Victoria to begin eating, taking only a bite to tide himself over. Their bowls had both cooled completely by the time she came up the stairs, face dark, hands coated in grime. She sat at the table and ate in silence. Her features softened, but only slightly. She emptied her bowl, then turned to Martin. “Prepare a bath. Use the soap in the yellow jar. I need to wash today away.” “Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, and stood. He took their empty dishes to the kitchen before doing so. Running the bath took little time, and Martin placed a fresh towel beside the tub. Victoria said nothing as she passed him in the hall, and as he started on the dishes he heard her climb into the suds. With no specific instruction, he cleaned the kitchen, then wrapped up the rest of his chores for the day, and prepared for bed. He had not laid in bed for an hour before she called him. He groaned a little and put his smock back on. The light in the parlor was dimmed, so it took Martin a moment to notice she wore only a towel. His cheeks burned, and he wrenched his gaze to the floor. “Lady Victoria, how may I—ahem—be of service?” “Come here, little one.” He could hear his heartbeat as he approached. The wine cask was on the table, he noticed, and the red liquid dripped from the bottom of the goblet in her hand. His eyes followed her arm up to her shoulder, neck, face, with her damp mane fallen before eyes that were still as dark as they were during supper. He again tore his eyes away, and lowered his head. “You seem uncomfortable. What is the matter? Do you need some wine?” “No, ma’am.” “You are not looking at me. Is my visage so unpleasant?” “No, that’s not it at all,” he protested. “Well?” She stood up and turned completely toward him. Her towel fell, and her bare body stunned him into silence. “Look at me, then, and let me look at you.” His eyes darted across her. She was shapely, in a way not obvious when clothed. Her chest and hips were ample, her body well-proportioned and soft due to her comfortable lifestyle, but her eyes burned a hole through Martin. He clutched the hem of his smock and trembled, acutely aware of how much larger she was as the mare bore down on him. She pushed him into a chair and held his head against the back. “Let me look at your mouth,” she murmured, and pried his lips open with her thumb. He offered little resistance, and she ran her digit beneath his lips. “What curious mouths you humans have,” she panted. “Perfect for kissing and sucking. I want to feel it.” She grabbed his skull from behind and shoved his face against her abdomen. Martin reluctantly kissed her midriff, and a moan rose from deep in her throat. She straddled his waist, and he struggled to keep his smock down while she forced his mouth onto her breast. “Martin… you have been so chaste since I brought you here, but no more,” she hissed. “Tonight, you will know me.” His eyes widened. “I… I don’t want to.” She stiffened, and her face hardened. “You’re one of those girly types, then? No matter.” She lifted him up and sat in his place, pinned him face-down across her lap, and yanked his smock up over his backside. “Your rear is appropriately soft for such a boy,” she said, and squeezed a cheek. “That’s not what I meant!” he squeaked. He turned to see her slathering a finger with her tongue, and then moaned as she slowly pushed it into his bottom. “You certainly sound like you’re enjoying it, though.” She crooked her finger into his prostate, and he moaned despite himself. “See?” “S-stop!” he cried, and scrambled off her, tumbling to the floor. He crawled up against the fireplace, then seized the poker and tugged his smock down over his thighs. She sat back in the chair, eyes searing with fury. “Are you going to kill me, then?” His chest heaved, and his whole body shook. He slowly stood, and put the poker back. “Go to bed before I strangle you, boy.” He fled up the stairs. She sat in the parlor for a while, staring at the dregs in her goblet before going to bed.