Authors: Sarah Michelle Lynch
A Fine Profession
An Erotic Novel
By Sarah Michelle Lynch
Copyright © Sarah Michelle Lynch, 2013
The moral right of Sarah Michelle Lynch to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. You must not circulate this book without the authority to do so.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
British English is used throughout.
onnect with Sarah Michelle:
excessive sexual desire.
a delusion in which a person (typically a woman) believes that another person (typically of higher social status) is in love with them.
I am inspired by those around me most of all but I am also so thankful to the
likes of DH Lawrence, Pauline Réage and Alice Walker for writing about love, so truthfully.
As ever, without my editor, I would be done for. In more ways than one.
Charlotte's original script is sandwiched between third-person accounts I've re-imagined using both Charlotte's and David's recollections of their meeting. The Prologue and Epilogue are similarly not part of the original script, but we hope they enhance the reading experience.
story is interspersed with the
, which are part of the tale but can be read separately and indeed, individually. They provide an insight into her service and are designed to not only arouse the reader but also offer standalone reference points.
only ever aims to help her Initiates find their true selves.
Madam L—b's List of Skilled Ladies,
Miss Er–ca Fen—ll
A former parlour maid whose childhood left her unfortunately marked, thus rendering her disadvantaged though of an educated nature, this is a moderately handsome young woman of twenty-four who found an improved situation of sorts through expression of her wants. This willing mistress will beguile and prosperously succeed in initiating a buck in the pleasures of Venus. Madam L—b swears this is the best of her flock, in so much as she is of good conversation, and elegant of foot, hand and neck. She is light of hand and more importantly blessed with a generous womanhood and gracious to all gentlemen regardless of their status. Blue eyes, brown hair, medium figure and soft of voice. She can be relied upon to play her part, and surely, her desire to please and be pleased is her greatest appeal. This lady may long live in the hearts of her conquests but it is warned that she will not reciprocate such devotion. She has settled for a wicked life and has no desire to be rescued. The Bawd fears this proficient may find success elsewhere.
The consummate seductress sat cross-legged on a chaise longue that was as crimson as her feted heart. That secondary bed straddled a voluptuous, Moroccan-inspired, Axminster rug, which added a touch of colour to a boudoir dominated by dark oak. She took a moment to survey the lavish, candlelit bedchamber, which might once have housed Henry Tudor for a night, for all she knew. It was just like many other sanctuaries she had grown accustomed to and those workaday environs no longer held any romance for her. They were as much a part of the illusion as she was.
plush velvet of her seat somewhat clashed with the French, silk stockings she wore, so fine were they against her smooth, waxed limbs, she avoided static contact, barely moving an inch. The brooding, feminine musculature of her back was visible above a black lace basque, complemented by French knickers, suspenders and a customary pair of patent leather stilettos. The garments she need not have worn, for they left little to the imagination, though perhaps acted as a barrier of sorts.
away from her latest Initiate, who lay face-down on the room's four-poster, solid mahogany bed, a grand antique piece that would not look out of place in any stately home. The seeming conquistador had arrived earlier that night, sure that the luxurious setting and that stead that loomed so majestically at its centre would be his fount of never-ending pleasure. He lay naked, and chained, to his alleged source of revelatory experience, atop a black fur throw and several scatter cushions. He might have appeared to be resting if examining his pose from an aspect at the foot of the bed, but on closer inspection, once by the side of the frame, one would see how his body hung suspended somewhat, allowing a small amount of access to one particular facet of his physiology. A harness around his midriff and a complex rope system raised his upper body a little. According to her notes, his preference was to have his nipples and scrotum paddled gently. He liked other things to be done more rigorously.
his eyes were averted, she glanced at her iPhone. Just a quick check in case another challenge awaited her that night.
Ah, only Heath. Again.
Interrupting a session she was deeply engaged in.
It was probably a
nother in a long line of messages requesting, nay, begging her for the chance to be audience to her story. She had been seeking the person who had given away her number to someone outside of the circle, for she warned her employers never to do so. It annoyed her daily: this unwelcome inquisition into why she does what she does. The enquirer appeared to be a journalist seeking her story for the
She knew this was a ruse, however, and that this infiltrator was something else.
began earnestly, naively even, with a request along the lines of:
Hi Lottie. Would you like to meet? I work for the Post. Just want the story. Dave Heath.
She had looked him up and no Dave Heath work
ed for that particular rag. She wanted to reply to him but she never gave him the satisfaction of knowing she was on the other end of a line. Her device was set to divert all calls; he could send messages but not phone her. It was how she maintained her mystery and cloaked her true identity.
She had scorned each and every correspondence he had sent her since. None made sense.
Why did he want the scoop? Not the service?
She did not understand.
day's message was different, however. Not begging, pleading or nonchalant. He had tried all those tactics already.
, I am tired of this. We need to meet. Either that or I unveil you to the Press. Consider it. DH
And a threat!
infuriated her though she rarely allowed herself to become possessed. It was not done. She had to take action. Nip this one in the bud.
recomposed herself, quietly and quickly tapping out:
this is most inconvenient. I did not anticipate becoming undone so easily, but alas, it has transpired. I will retire and leave the borough after you unveil Miss Lottie. It is done. Her time is up. Will you be requiring display of The Service? L
No service. Just the facts. The plain, shameless, simple facts.
Friday. You state the time and address. I will be there. DH
He did not know what she was really all about
and how in being interviewed, she could reveal the true nature of her work, but would never be able to operate anonymously thereafter. She wanted to tell him what a vile and detestable human being he was for hampering what she knew were “good deeds” but she was defeated. She had known her time would one day come to an end. Simply, she responded:
I will contact you with details
She tucked her iPhone in a
handy, hidden pocket beneath the chaise longue and rose, standing up to flex her curvaceous limbs for the task at hand. She picked up the leather riding crop that had been waiting furtively on a dressing table nearby and wickedly cracked it against the sturdy wood of the bed frame, alarming the Initiate instantaneously. He shivered and trembled, his body almost in spasm as he sensed torture heading in his direction.
Now Mister Vine, how bad a husband have you been? Just how bad?” she chided, in a guttural, menacing tone.
His response was muffled from the gag she had placed in his mouth. There came only caveman grunts and rapid, frantic snorts through his nostrils. He m
anaged to turn his head to look in her direction. She once again thrashed her weapon against the bed and he desperately tried to shake himself free. Behind his fear, however, was a small, imperceptible smile.
Did I not warn that it is forbidden to look upon my body?” She was calm in tone but he was afraid. She continued, relentlessly incalculable, “Remain absolutely still, otherwise, there will be no more mornings for little Mister Vine…”
* * *
Her situation appeared to him to be seedy, sordid and without taste as far as he was concerned. True, he did not know the finer details, but his imagination had thrown up some idea of the treats this
character divvied up amongst her clientele.
Some part of him, that which had a thirst for knowledge, was intrigued by her however. Th
e men she “serviced” apparently did not ever speak out about her and obviously had reason not to. They were probably wealthy and well-known, some public figures, others with wives who would not forgive easily perhaps. Tracking her down had been almost impossible.
tall, brown-haired, hazel-eyed and mildly handsome. He drove along the chock-a-block Nottingham bypass to get toward the outskirts of the city. He was finally going to meet Her, the notorious woman whose working name was whispered amongst certain circles. Though he did not belong to them, his work had certainly given him a whiff of the trail she had left behind over the years. A private detective, he had been tasked with finding the Chambermaid ‒ whatever the cost ‒ and had frustratingly missed her on a number of occasions. Once found, his job was to discover exactly why she had severed all ties with her family and friends, dwindling into obscurity to take on such a profession. He feared she did not believe his story about being a journalist, but then, he didn't really care either way. He just felt this was it, finally.
Through the lashing rain, his beat-
up Volvo estate battled on; him peering over the steering wheel anxiously, desperate not to miss the turn-off.
osse Way, one of Britain's longest Roman roads, had mostly green-brown scenery, but there was one landmark along its stretch that had always caught his attention as he passed through en route to Lincoln or the seaside.
dilapidated Georgian manor house he was heading for sat just off the road atop a hill, seeming to bear down on its lush green surroundings with its deteriorating brickwork perishing against the elements. Perhaps the exterior was once white or light-grey, but it had turned smoky-yellow around the edges. Nevertheless, it dominated the landscape, with dozens of narrow, tall plate-glass windows smashed to smithereens, its roof with either broken or missing slates and the typical grand centrepiece that once stood as its entrance having been barricaded up with bricks as if to cement its unwelcome facade. Yet, a majesty of its former glory remained; it was still large in size and presence. It had been uninhabited for decades following fire, or some other mysterious disaster, he had heard. These rumours, so easily batted about, did not concern him. He was the type to only care about news or gossip if it meant a gain or a loss for him. Such historical greatness in his midst went unnoticed; including the fact that this haunting, dishevelled wreck of former architectural grandeur was once a house associated with the Dukeries. Many passing by always thought the ruins looked too dangerous to approach. It sat uncomfortably against the skyline; resembling a decaying corpse left to rot in entirely the wrong place. It refused to crumble against the wind but had a threatening tale to tell, for sure.
As he reached the junction
on the busy A-road, he slowed the vehicle, eager not to cause an accident in such treacherous conditions. He pulled into the unkempt country lane heading toward the remains of this old mansion – and he drove slowly, drawing out the last part of his journey.
Lottie's reputation very much
eluded him. If she were indeed a viperous bitch, a cunt-wielding manipulator, she would be gorgeous? Clever? Strong – capable of defending herself – in such a line of work?
I could be heading toward a date with destiny here
, he considered.
Perhaps this house hides mysteries that are better kept locked away
Chugging along the road
, he looked in the mirror. He was still drenched-through from having travelled just a few metres from the office to the car. His floppy hair matted, he tried to scrape it into some sort of style, and smoothed his eyebrows down. He tried to pat away the bags under his eyes, but too many caffeine-fuelled late nights and not enough proper sleep ensured he looked evermore like his own father – seemingly once handsome but now frayed and sagging around the edges. If he could just finish his detective novel, if he could just get it done, maybe he could quit his thankless job and live the life of riley. If only.
Heath had been trying to write a novel
based on his father's career as a detective in the Nottinghamshire Constabulary during the Seventies, when he had worked on several missing persons cases. His father Henry's knack of keeping his head down at work had given him chance to overhear a conversation between colleagues one day…
A secretive society apparently
gathered in dark rooms hidden in Nottingham's Archives and was led by a cloaked, unidentifiable figure, who recruited men and women to join his sex cult. Heath Senior investigated… but found nothing. The sect began meeting elsewhere, obviously having gotten wind of someone sniffing about. This group were too well-connected and had no reason to brag outside of their own, it seemed. He figured the missing persons were probably those who gave themselves to this new lifestyle. Heath's struggling novel contained several theories of the unsolved missing persons cases overseen by his father, and some even more outlandish theories about the people who returned to society as if they had never left. Now Heath was heading for this uninviting abode, he wondered whether Miss Lottie was one of those who had escaped her dungeon to take on a life of her own. Perhaps a place as dreary as Hambleton Hall would never invite intruders. His mind racing with the possibilities, Heath had to calm himself.
This might be coincidence
, he told himself,
or it might not
Just be cool
. Heath Junior had none of his father's bravery but all of his curiosity.
He reached the grassy area immediately in front of the building and saw a black Audi r
8 already parked up.
This woman really must be
crazy, he thought,
bringing a machine like that to a tip like this
. He took one last look at himself in the rear-view mirror and decided the ruffled look suited him more. Teasing fingers through his hair, he saw the glimmer of his wedding band. He still wore it, though separated. He knew Lottie would clock it and perhaps ask questions, and he did not need that, so he removed it, throwing it quickly into the glove box. He pulled the collar of his grey woollen coat up around his neck and fetched his shoulder bag from the passenger seat. Checking he had recorder, paper, pens, phone and wallet – you never knew – he hauled himself out of the vehicle and locked it. The elements hit his body. It could not get any worse, so, he casually strolled toward the structure. He headed for the side entrance she had instructed him to arrive at. Dripping and soggy, he stepped onto the flagstone, using the large iron doorknocker on the gargantuan oak entry to announce his arrival. Two minutes later, a girl opened up – a pasty, wastrel form, head bowed and shabby clothes decorating her almost unrecognisable female form. There was nothing to recommend her.