She’s a ghost in the mist, a lithe shadow swaying her hips gently, moving with the music. As she steps into the light and clasps the pole, I gasp.
She wears a floor-length, figure-hugging gown, made from some kind of linen so fine that it’s see-through. My throat is one hard lump and my dick is even harder.
Arabella stretches out one impossibly long leg, her foot bare, and kicks, letting the momentum spin her around the pole. The see-through linen pleats of her dress whisper against her skin as her body whips through the air. The sound is the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
She’s mesmerising.
As she moves through the flickering lamplight, the smoke from the incense kisses her shadowed skin, and the gems at her throat glitter like fireflies. I don’t know how I ever believed the jewellery was paste.
Voices break through the spell of her performance. My new friends whisper about her.
“She’s the one who used to sit for me,” Auguste says, his voice tight with lust. “She has such beauty, it’s unsettling. She’s not unlike our new friend Gideon here. I’d like to sculpt him, but I’m almost afraid I would sully his perfection.”
“If you wish to keep your manly virtue, Gideon, I suggest you steer clear of Monsieur Rodin’s studio,” laughs Pierre-Auguste. “Marble dust between one’s cheeks is not a pleasant experience.”
“Arabella sat for me, too,” Édouard says in a bored voice. “She is certainly beautiful, but she is too arrogant. I prefer a woman not to be aware of the power she has over men.”
“More like you prefer a stupid woman who succumbs to your charms,” Berthe shoots at him. “Arabella Macquart does nothing unless it benefits her. I admire her greatly.”
“But how much of that confidence is God-given, and how much is gifted by the jewels at her throat?” Édouard quips. “We’ve all heard the legend – good fortune until the collar is removed and the wearer is cursed forever.”
“Even cursed, I’d pay a queen’s fortune for a night between those legs,” Pierre-Auguste sighs, furiously sketching Arabella’s sweepingform. “But I’ve heard Arabella no longer takes private clients to her boudoir. The best we can hope for is to enjoy her dance.”
The drums beat faster as Arabella darts across the stage like a panther, extending one ebony leg from the slit in her linen shift. She grips her ankle and pulls her leg behind her head in a standing split that steals the breath from my lungs.
She undulates around her pole, tearing off the linen shift to reveal nothing but shimmering midnight skin and golden pasties covering her nipples. The dark triangle between her legs beckons me, and it takes everything not to throw myself upon the stage and kneel at her feet.
As Arabella exits the stage, I rise to my feet like a man possessed. My new friends call out to me, but I barely register them. I duck through the curtain separating the backstage from the audience, pushing past women in various stages of undress as they hurry to set the stage for the next scene. I come to a narrow corridor with doors flung open and costumes flying through the air. I approach the first door, but a large man bars my way.
“You’re not supposed to be back here.” He frowns down at me.
“I merely wish to see Mademoiselle Arabella Macquart—”
He folds his arms across his chest. “No admirers.”
My hand flies to my purse. “Perhaps a shiny coin or two might help you lead me to her chamber?”
“Perhaps,human, you would like to be Catherina’s guest on stage during her Countess Bathory act?” His face contorts with malicious glee. “It’s been a time since she filled her bathtub with fresh blood.”
“Fine, fine.” I hold up my hands and back away.Why did he call me “human”? What else could I be?“I am leaving. Please tell Mademoiselle Macquart that—”
“No.”
He shoves me. Hard.
I fly through the air like a leaf tossed in an autumn breeze. I crash back through the curtain and hit the nearest table. Women scream and men shout as I crash to the floor, bringing glasses and an absinthefountain down on top of me. I clutch my chest, gasping for air, certain the man has staved in my ribs.
How did he push me that hard?
“No luck, old chum?” An object is thrust in front of my eyes. It takes a moment for my addled brain to recognise that it’s a hand attached to my new friend, Édouard Manet. I accept it and allow him to pull me painfully to my feet.
“You must be a man who enjoys having his heart torn out and eaten in front of him, because that’s what Arabella Macquart will do to you. That woman is more elusive than a place in the Salon,” Claude says with a grin as I collapse into an empty chair between Édouard and Victor.
“But if you intend to come back and try again, we are here most evenings, in this same booth. You may join us whenever you like.” Édouard glances around the table. His friends nod their assent. “Good, then we shall have Gideon in our merry group. Now, what do we all think of this tower Gustave Eiffel is proposing to build? I for one believeardentlythat what the Paris skyline truly needs is a giant steel triangular phallus…”
The Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven Group Chat
Maisie:Did you learn anything useful on your Sanctus tour, Arabella?
