Page 30 of Her Beast

A narrow corridor separated Malcolm’s study from the other room. The hallway was part of Malcolm’s private network of secret passages that he used to spy and sneak and lurk.

Instead of a window, the people in the other room would be staring at themselves in a mirror.

But it wasn’t a regular mirror; it was something called a transparent mirror—a mirror on one side and a window when viewed from the other.

Malcolm had been overjoyed to discover such a miracle even existed. He’d been so impressed that he’d financed the inventor and they were now co-owners of a small factory that manufactured the cunning mirrors.

He’d had them installed in all his houses, using them strategically in numerous locations.

The woman and one of the men in the other room were prostitutes. The third person—Mr. Smith—was one of the richest men in Britain, although Malcolm doubted that more than a handful of people knew that.

Of course Malcolm hadn’t paid Smith to come tonight, but the two prostitutes would be well-compensated.

Malcolm had employed the male whore—Samuel—several times in the past. He considered himself fortunate to find somebody who bore such a close resemblance to him since there weren’t huge, hulking blokes in most brothels.

In addition to topping Malcolm’s height by an inch, Samuel had a stone or two on him, and it was all muscle.

The female prostitute—Minette—bore a remarkable resemblance to Malcolm’s dead wife in both face and body. But while Minette possessed similar blunt features, a voluptuous body, and thick chestnut hair, she lacked the intelligence and sparkle that had enlivened Sukey’s brown eyes. His wife had possessed more zest for life than any ten people combined and had attracted men—and women—like moths to a flame.

Quit thinking about me when you’ve got real, live lovers right there, ya dafty.

Sukey’s voice was so loud that Malcolm glanced behind him.

And immediately felt like a fool.

Why are you in this room alone, Mal? Get in there and tan Smith’s delicious backside for him—and then ride him hard, just the way you used to do.

Malcolm didn’t bother to argue with her. Sukey had no idea what he looked like now because she was dead.

But the voice was right in saying that Smith looked delicious.

His arms were stretched high above his head and his feet were spread wide and bound at the ankles. Samuel whipped him with a leather flail while the Sukey-lookalike knelt between his legs, doing her best to throat Smith’s freakishly big cock, which had a leather thong wrapped around the base to delay ejaculation.

The three were angled in such a way as to afford Malcolm an excellent view of all participants.

This scenario had been Sukey’s favorite among the many they’d acted out with Smith. Sometimes it was Smith bound, sometimes Malcolm, and sometimes Sukey.

As always, watching Smith brought memories flooding back. They only did this on Sukey’s birthday. It was morbid, but Malcolm didn’t give a damn. Instead, he reveled in the past and pumped himself with firm, unhurried strokes as he watched Smith take his beating. The other man’s body was a work of art—hard and chiseled, like wood that had been dried in a kiln—and as close to perfection as anyone Malcolm had ever seen.

It had been Smith who’d shown Malcolm how to exercise and care for his wrecked body after the fire. He’d even designed Malcolm’s private gymnasium for him.

Keeping his muscles limber and toned, no matter how horrific he might look, was the main reason that Malcolm didn’t shove a pistol under his chin and blow off his head.

Sex was another thing that made life worth living.

The first few years after the fire he’d not wanted anyone to see him or touch him. He’d gone to brothels heavily cloaked, sat in the darkness, and paid for shows like the one he was watching now.

Later—after his first department store had become a resounding success and he’d begun to make more money than he could spend—he’d built these private apartments so he didn’t have to leave his home to enjoy the sight of beautiful men and women fucking for his pleasure.

But even that had begun to pall five or six years ago.

It had been Smith who’d pushed him to have physical contact with others. “You’ll die without touch, Malcolm,” he’d insisted. “Mask your face and cover yourself, if you must, but don’t give up on sensory pleasure.”

At the time, Malcolm had already begun to despair and knew the other man spoke the truth. And so he’d slowly broadened his horizons.

The first time he’d fucked a woman he’d removed his gloves and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Malcolm would never forget the disgust and horror on that poor whore’s face at the sight of his ruined flesh.

After that, he’d never showed any part of his damaged body—not even his hands—to anyone again. The only person who was forced to look at him naked was Norris. If his valet found him sickening, he was paid well enough to hide it.

---