Page 70 of The Unseen
“A condom. A contraceptive. It’s to protect you from pregnancy and disease. Dmitri’s condition,” Mr. Mayhew explained. “Now, please stop talking. There’s a good girl.”
She knew she should look away, but she couldn’t. She watched as Mr. Mayhew rolled the sheer tube from the tip of his throbbing cock down to the base with practiced fingers. She was glad there were no sharp objects within her reach. She might havestabbed him had there been anything resembling a weapon. At that moment, she hated him with every fiber of her being, and wished she could slice off his manhood and feed it to the dogs. No amount of fantasy could turn him into Alexei, and no amount of detachment could keep the resentment at bay.
“Stop staring at me,” Mr. Mayhew said as he got onto the bed and rolled on top of her.
Valentina closed her eyes. She wished he’d turned out the light, but the room was bright enough for Mr. Mayhew to watch her reaction as he guided himself inside and forced his way into her unwilling body. He was stretching her, violating her, and laying claim to something he had no right to. Her eyes flew open when she felt a sharp pain, but she gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making any sounds. He wanted her to, she could tell by the way he was watching her, his gaze hungry and triumphant at the same time.
“Relax, Valentina. I can give you pleasure,” he said as he began to move inside her. Valentina lay perfectly still, her gaze fixed on a damp spot on the ceiling. Mr. Mayhew panted and grimaced as if he were in pain until he let out a final gasp and rested his forehead against hers, clearly satisfied. She felt him grow soft inside her, and she was grateful the ordeal was finally over. He rolled off her and slid off the French letter, tying it off and tossing it on the bedside table with a flick of the wrist.
“Thank you, my dear. That was lovely,” Mr. Mayhew said as he turned his back to her and began to pull on his clothes. He turned and looked at her, having clearly expected some sort of response.
Lovely. Taking her virginity, ruining any possible future she might have, making her wish she were dead, had all been summarized in one word.Lovely.
“You’ll learn to enjoy it,” he promised. “It’s always a bit uncomfortable the first time. I’m in London once a month on business, so that will be our standing arrangement.”
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Mayhew?”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“How much did you pay for tonight?”
Timothy Mayhew cringed at the unexpected question, but he pulled himself up, puffed out his chest, and replied proudly, “Twenty-five quid.”
Twenty-five quid was a lot of money. A great deal of money. It could feed a poor family for months, if not a whole year. Apparently, money was no object, or Timothy Mayhew would have shopped around for a better deal. He’d wanted her, and he’d had her.
“But that’s only because you were, eh…intact. Next time will be much less, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed. She was used goods now. Despoiled, deflowered, and destroyed.
“I do hope the weather improves,” Timothy Mayhew said as he began to button his shirt. “I can’t abide all this rain. Perhaps we’ll have snow for Christmas this year.”
Valentina sprang out of bed and began to dress, desperate to get away. She couldn’t bear to look at Mr. Mayhew any longer, nor could she bring herself to talk about the weather as if nothing had happened. He prattled on, telling her that his children would enjoy a white Christmas, as if she could possibly be interested in anything he had to say. Valentina pushed her feet into her shoes, jammed her hat on her head, grabbed her coat, and fled down the stairs until she almost reached the bottom.
Then she stopped. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She felt sick with shame and disgust. She’d enjoy it more next time, he’d said. How many times would there be? Every month for…years? How long would it take him to tire of her, and would there be others she’d have to service? Surely, Dmitri wouldn’t be satisfied with just one client.
Dear God, she wished she were dead. How easy it would be to throw herself under a train, like Anna Karenina. She wasn’t supposed to have read the book. Her mother had forbidden it. But she’d snuck it out of their library when she was sixteen and read it in one night, desperate to find out what all the fuss was about. After she finished the book, she’d spent weeks thinking about it, unable to comprehend the depth of Anna’s despair. How could someone willingly end their life in such a violent, horrific manner, especially when they had a small child to think of? Suicide was a sin against God, but more than that, it took great courage to take such a drastic step. Valentina tried to imagine herself standing on a platform as a great locomotive, belching black smoke, roared into the station. To throw yourself beneath those massive wheels, knowing your body would be crushed and broken, and death might not be immediate, would take a lot more strength than she had.
No, she could never do it, not even if the manner of death were peaceful and painless. No matter how degraded and hopeless she felt, she couldn’t bring herself to end it all. As long as she was alive, there was still hope for the future. No matter how wretched she felt, no matter how dead inside, she had to go on. She would find a way out of this predicament. She wouldn’t allow it to break her.
Valentina took several calming breaths and descended the stairs. Dmitri was in the foyer, reading the paper as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She supposed he didn’t. He’d just earned enough money to pay Mrs. Stern and her daughter for a full year. This had been a very profitable evening for him, with more opportunities to turn a profit still to come.
“Ah, my dear. There you are,” he said, folding the paper and setting is aside. “I trust all went well. How pretty you look. Flushed with pleasure.”
Valentina had a momentary desire to grab the poker from the fireplace and skewer Dmitri right there in the foyer. How pretty he’d look with his guts hanging out as he breathed his last. “Shall we go?” she asked instead.
“Of course. You must be tired.” He escorted her out to the car and held the door for her, ever the gentleman. “Not a word of this to anyone. Understand?” he said as he started the engine.
Who’d believe me?Valentina thought as she nodded obediently. And so, her career as a courtesan had begun.
THIRTY-NINE
JANUARY 1919
London, England
Timothy Mayhew had been the first, but he certainly wasn’t the last. Over the holidays, two more clients had been added to the roster: John Gleason and Ian Murdoch. Valentina wasn’t sure if these were their real names, nor did she care. She was determined to keep a distance between herself and these men who used her body. Mr. Gleason was in his thirties, a thin, balding man who wore wire-rimmed spectacles and looked like an undertaker. He seemed to be intimidated by her and asked her to get undressed and under the covers before he came to her. He always turned out the light and finished very quickly, thanking her profusely after each time and asking after her comfort. He left the room as soon as he put on his clothes, allowing Valentina a few moments to freshen up and compose herself.
Mr. Murdoch was a whole other matter. He was in his early forties—tall, broad, and very blond. His sparsely lashed light blue eyes missed little, and narrowed dangerously when he was displeased. He had the ruddy complexion of an outdoorsman and was fit and strong, where Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Gleason were as soft as white bread. He proudly informed her that he went to a boxing club every day, where he spent two hours pummeling younger men into submission. He had iron-hard muscles, a taut, flat stomach, and powerful thighs. Mr. Murdoch could have probably killed her with one hand if he chose to, and he had a fiery temper as well.
