Sinful Seduction

 

SINFUL SEDUCTION

 

 

 

 

 

 

By

Kate Benedict

 

 

 

Sinful Seduction first published in 2001 by

Chimera Books Ltd. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Chimera a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

 

Digital Edition Converted and Published by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

 

New authors
are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to
hear from you
.

 

This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex

 

This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

 

Copyright Kate Benedict. The right of Kate Benedict to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 

‘Get aht of it, you little bitch!' snarled the coach driver. His whip flicked dangerously close to Maggie as she ducked under the horse's hooves and scurried for the safety of the narrow pavement. Once there, she put down the stoneware jug she was carrying and gave him the fingers. Miserable bastard! Thought he owned the whole bloomin' road!

He responded with a mouthful of oaths and his passenger looked to see what the disturbance was. Maggie stared at the bloated, self-indulgent face peering at her and generously included him in her rude gestures. Fat old git! She snorted. Not hard to work out why a posh bloke like him was down here slumming it. He'd be after a bit of rough. One of those poor bitches who made their living selling themselves to all comers for the price of a few gins and a doss-house at the end of the day. She grinned. With a bit of luck they'd give the bleedin' toff a good dose of the pox. That'd wipe the smile off his face!

But the smile was wiped off her own face as the driver lashed out with his whip again and this time connected. ‘Ow!' squawked Maggie, hopping up and down and rubbing her leg, where a thin weal was rising beneath the dirt. She looked round for ammunition and spotted a rotting cabbage stalk lying in the muck of the gutter. Picking it up she heaved it at the cabbie's horse, there was a satisfying squelch as it hit its backside, and it reared up and took off as if the devil himself was after it, the driver cursing a blue streak as he hauled on the reins.

Maggie chuckled as the coach disappeared round the corner, its wheels jouncing dangerously on the cobbles. Served him right if he broke his bloody neck! The bastard might not be quite so quick with his whip the next time. Still grinning, she dusted her hands and picked up her jug.

The cracked bell on the church clock chimed eleven and her triumphant smile vanished, to be replaced with a look of apprehension. God strewth! Was that the time already? Ma would be desperate for her gin by now. Her lips set grimly; the last couple of times she'd had to do without she'd started raving on about spiders coming out of the walls.

Clutching the jug to her chest Maggie scurried on as fast as possible without spilling the precious liquid. Dodging the scrawny, grey-faced kids playing in the gutters she made her way through the narrow twisted streets towards the crumbling tenement she called home.

Holding her breath against the stench, she picked her way bare-footed through the noxious puddles in the courtyard. Funny that; once you'd been in awhile you didn't notice the smell, but if you'd been out a bit it hit you like a sledgehammer when you came back. Still, what else could you expect when there was only one outhouse for the whole bloody building?

The cellar door gaped like a rotten mouth and the reek was even worse here. Hardly surprising when their tiny room was sandwiched between the cats-meat man on one side and the bloke who collected dog shit for the tannery on the other.

She negotiated the slimy steps, carefully avoiding a pool of drying vomit; ma would go mad if she dropped the jug now.

The sound of a blow followed by a soft whimper stopped her in her tracks. Oh no - Bert! He should have been off down the docks looking for work by this time. He must've slept in after reeling home from the pub the night before - and now he was taking his spite out on her mother.

Carefully hiding the jug beneath a pile of old sacking she pushed open the door, and a familiar scene met her eyes. Her mother cowered in the corner, holding her hands up as she tried to ward off the blows from Bert's fist. Her left eye was swelling already, a fresh bruise rising to cover the faded one beneath. He was grinning as he raised his arm again.

‘Get off her, you bastard!' shrieked Maggie. She flung herself across the room, landing on his back and clinging like a monkey. He didn't even blink. One meaty paw reached back over his shoulder and plucked her off as if she weighed nothing and he threw her against the wall. Her head banged against it and everything went black.

When she came to it was to the sound of grunting. Her mother was spread-eagled on the rag-covered pallet that served for a bed, her skirts flung up around her waist. Bert heaved and panted on top of her, his hairy buttocks clenching as he thrust himself on her. He gave one final thrust, grunted in satisfaction and hauled himself to his feet.

Buttoning his trousers, he glared down at the whimpering woman. ‘Useless, drunken bitch,' he snarled. ‘You're not even a decent fuck any more.' He gave her cowering body a kick and sauntered out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Ma! Ma! Are you all right?' moaned Maggie, crawling across the floor and slipping an arm round her mother's heaving shoulders.

‘I... I'm fine, pet,' she quavered, her bruised lips attempting a pathetic smile. ‘Tough as old boots, me.' One thin, trembling hand clawed at Maggie's arm. ‘Did you get it, love? You know, my gin?' A horrible thought struck her and her hand went to her lips. ‘He... he didn't break the jug, did he?'

‘No ma, he didn't break the jug,' sighed Maggie. ‘I hid it before I came in.'

She gazed at her mother with pity. ‘I'll go and get it now. You look as if you could do with a drink.'

Rats scuttled off into the darkness as she bent to retrieve the jug from beneath the sacking. She carried it into the room, dug through the rubbish on the rickety table until she found a chipped enamel mug and poured a couple of inches of gin into it.

‘There you go, ma,' she said, putting it into her mother's trembling hands and watching as she gulped it gratefully.

When the mug was empty the woman held it out for more, and half an hour later she was blissfully drunk.

‘We didn't alwaysh live like thish,' she slurred, smiling tipsily at Maggie. ‘I had a good poshition in a houshe in Eaton Square.'

Maggie sighed; it was always the same. As soon as her mother got a drink inside her she harped back to the good old days. She knew the whole story by heart. How she'd been the assistant cook - and would have become cook herself if she hadn't fallen in love with the footman and left to get married. Still, if telling it again made her mother happy, she would listen to it all as if she was hearing it for the first time.

‘He wash a lovely man, your dad,' she muttered, nodding over her drink. ‘A lovely man.' A sob caught in her throat. ‘He shouldn't have died and left us like that. It washn't fair.' Her head drooped and the empty mug fell from her slack fingers. Maggie eased her down on the pallet and heaped rags over her. She'd sleep now. A temporary escape from the living hell her life had become.

Maggie's mouth set grimly. Her mother never told the rest of the story, but she'd been able to work it out for herself from snippets of gossip she'd overheard in the tenement; even with references, nobody wanted a cook with a kid in tow, did they? Most toffs didn't even like their staff to get married. But God knows, her ma had tried. Taking in sewing at first, then when her eyes had given out, taking in washing instead. Moving from cheap digs to even cheaper ones, the gin gradually becoming not an occasional escape but a necessity.

Her lips tightened even further. And then along came Bert. She'd been old enough to remember that. Nice as ninepence to start off with. Coming round all spruced up and sober as a judge. It was only after the wedding he'd shown his true colours. She could still see her mother's expression of horror when he dragged her back to this hovel.

‘We... we can't stay here,' she'd gasped, clutching Maggie protectively to her skirts. ‘You said you had a nice little house.'

‘Beggars can't be choosers,' he'd sneered. ‘It's a roof over your head, ennit? What more can you expect? There's not many blokes would take on another man's brat.

‘And you won't be needing that any more,' he went on, wrenching off her old wedding ring. He'd used the money he got from the pawnbroker to get roaring drunk and came rolling home to celebrate his wedding night by beating up his new bride before taking her savagely against the wall, while Maggie cowered in the corner.

Her lips twisted. His ‘steady job' had been as big a lie as his ‘nice little house'. He stood at the dock gates - when he wasn't too hung over to roll out of bed, that was - waiting to be taken on for a day at a time. If he did he spent most of the money in the pub on the way home. If he didn't he'd come back and take it out on her mother. And either way they went hungry.

Thinking of food made Maggie's stomach growl. She raked through the debris on the rickety table and came up with the heel of a loaf and a hunk of dry cheese. Splitting it scrupulously in half, so there would be some left for her mother when she woke, she gnawed on it hungrily, and all too soon it was finished.

She glanced longingly at the other half, and then shook her head; it might be tempting, but her mother was rail thin already.

Maggie brightened; never mind, if she went down the market she could pick through the gutter for the stuff the stallholders threw away. It might be half-rotten, but if you cut away the bad bits you'd be all right - and if you were really lucky, you might find a bone with a few scraps of meat still clinging to it.

Pulling the bit of old blanket she used as a shawl round her shoulders, she checked on her mother. There was a gentle snore and she tiptoed out, closed the door quietly behind her - and promptly bumped into a smelly body. Two wiry arms gripped her and she choked with terror.

‘Watch it, gel, you very nearly had me over then!' rasped a familiar voice, and she sighed with relief.

‘Blimey, Fred, you scared the life out of me!' she gasped, staring at the wizened figure before her.

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of blackened stumps. ‘Fancy a trip up west, young ‘un?' he asked.

She grinned back. ‘Wot for?' she asked cheekily. ‘You taking me to the opera then?' She stuck her nose in the air and patted her matted hair. ‘Hang on a mo' and I'll just nip back for me tiara.'

‘Impudent little madam,' he grumbled. ‘Course I ain't; my back ain't what it used to be. Pushin' that bleedin' barrow's murder these days.' He ran his bloodshot eyes over her. ‘You're a little ‘un, but you're game. You'd do at a pinch.'

‘Thanks a lot,' she snorted. ‘And what's in it for me?'

His eyes narrowed as he came to his decision. ‘Tuppence for the day,' he muttered. ‘Take it or leave it.'

‘I'll take it,' she grinned, spitting on her hand and holding it out.

Suppressing a smile he took it and shook it solemnly. ‘Done,' he agreed. ‘Now get your skates on, gel. We haven't got all day.'

The cart was heavy and the cats-meat stunk to high heaven, but the thought of a whole tuppence kept her going. Sweating like a pig she heaved and panted as they made their way through the winding streets, a string of scrawny strays trailing after them, yowling hopefully.

As they reached the better parts of London it was a revelation to Maggie. She stared at the big houses with her mouth open, watching as two well-dressed ladies descended the steps of one and were carefully helped into their carriage.

‘You mean there's only one family lives in them places?' she gasped in disbelief. ‘Garn! You're having me on!'

Fred shook his head. ‘Cross me heart and hope to die,' he grinned. ‘Course, there's the servants too. Can't expect nobs to look after themselves, now can you?'

‘Strewth!' she exclaimed. ‘They must be rolling in it!' She considered this for a moment. ‘Stands to reason though, doesn't it? I mean, fancy paying good money to feed bloomin' cats.' She sniffed scornfully. ‘They must be off their heads. Cats feed themselves; eat rats and stuff.'

‘Not these ones,' he grinned. ‘These ain't your common-or-garden moggies. These are aristo-cats.' He chuckled at his own joke. ‘Eat better than we do, drink cream, sleep on silk cushions.' He grinned ruefully. ‘Wouldn't mind being one, meself.'

He shook himself. ‘Anyway, this won't feed the baby. Get a move on, gel.' He slapped a couple of pounds of meat on a sheet of brown paper, wrapped it deftly and thrust it into her hands. ‘Number ten,' he said, pointing. ‘Down them steps to the kitchen door. And mind your manners,' he warned. ‘No cheek; these are good customers. Regular as clockwork every week.'

She grinned; for tuppence she'd be as well bred as bloody Queen Victoria!

But it wasn't as easy as she'd thought. The girl who answered the door, in her neat uniform, was only a couple of years older than her.

‘Wot do you want?' she demanded rudely, her eyes taking in Maggie's ragged clothes. ‘Didn't you see the sign? No tramps or hawkers - nor ragamuffins either. Get aht of it.'

Maggie flushed and bit down the angry retort that sprang to her lips. ‘Cats-meat, mu'um,' she said, humbly holding out the bloodstained parcel.

‘Might have known,' sniggered the girl. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in and all.' Grabbing the parcel, she thrust a sixpence into Maggie's hand and slammed the door in her face.

‘Snooty cow!' muttered Maggie, as she stamped back up the area steps.

Luckily they weren't all like that. At one house the plump, motherly cook who answered the door took pity on Maggie's cold pinched face and gave her a bit of cold bacon between two slices of bread as well as the money. At another she was given two farthings for herself. She split the bread and meat with old Fred, but the coins she tied into the corner of her shawl for safekeeping, gloating over her newfound riches.