Scarlet
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Scarlet free porn video
The crescendo roar of applause prompted the pale-faced stage hand to leap into action. Grabbing the handle, he tugged at the door separating the dressing room corridor from the stage. He held it open, his eyes lowered. Just in time. Having finished her turn for another evening, Miss Scarlet Carter barged her way off stage in a full-on flounce.
“It’s ‘alf bleedin’ empty. Again,” she whined at anyone who’d listen.
Miss Scarlet, a diva whose auburn locks and fiery temper matched her name, was accustomed to being a ‘star.’ She hated performing to anything short of a full house and the declining audience figures plaguing our once thriving theatre drove her to distraction.
“Something’s got to be done,” she ranted as she stomped towards me, heeled boots scraping the flagstones and her tall, feathered hat brushing dangerously close to the gas lamps.
Standing outside her dressing room, I shifted awkwardly. Normally, I had little to do with Miss Scarlet, just dropped off her costumes and collected her laundry. That particular evening, however, was different. I was to be her personal dresser for the first time. It was a role in which I wasn’t altogether comfortable.
Mrs Baxter usually dealt with our resident red-headed ‘volcano.’ Fifty years old and unshakable, she’d dressed countless ‘Scarlets’ and didn’t bat an eyelid at the constant tantrums. But Mrs Baxter wasn’t there. Hearing of problems at home, she’d upped and left, leaving me to take her place. For my part, I was no newcomer to the theatre; I’d been a dresser for the ladies chorus for years, but they were pussy-cats compared to Miss Scarlet.
Dubbed ‘Scarlet The Harlot,’ Miss Scarlet had gained notoriety in the theatre world and beyond. At nineteen years of age, only a year older than me, she commanded top billing in our burlesque production and had a burgeoning presence on the London social scene. Such a rapid rise to fame had, inevitably, evoked bitter jealousies. On top of that, her intimate association with one Sir Henry Brooke had left her branded a ‘whore.’
Sir Henry was widely considered to be London’s most eligible widower. Filthy rich and old enough to be Miss Scarlet’s grandfather, he’d fallen for the charms of the feisty burlesque showgirl. Their affair was flaunted publicly, much to the horror of London’s elite upper classes. It was quite the scandal.
I found it all rather amusing and was secretly fond of Miss Scarlet. She had a formidable presence, quite awe inspiring. Her confidence amazed me. Even with a background more dubious than mine, she managed to mix with the upper echelons of London Society as if she’d been born amongst them.
I bobbed a curtsey as she swept past then meekly followed her into the dressing room. “Help her change, collect her laundry and leave. Do it quickly and quietly.” That’s what Mrs Baxter had told me and I planned to follow those instructions to the letter.
Miss Scarlet, hot from performing, poured herself a glass of water. “Anne, isn’t it?” she asked, her gaze upon me.
“Yes Miss.”
“Well don’t just stand there gawping, Anne. Get me out of this costume.”
Not a great start. She didn’t like me. I’d been warned that might be the case. Cautiously, I set about unfastening her tunic.
“No, not like that, remove the collar first. You’ll never get anything else free until that’s done,” she sighed impatiently. “Careful. Don’t damage anything, this tunic’s my favourite.”
Was it? A smile flickered at the corners of my mouth. Miss Scarlet was obviously unaware that her outfit was one of my own creations. My mother, a seamstress, had been making costumes for the theatre since I was small and I’d become her assistant. I was highly skilled and my imaginative creativity had recently been let loose on my own designs. I’d crafted Miss Scarlet’s costume especially for her. It thrilled me that she liked it.
I admired my own workmanship as I undid the fastenings. The tight-fitting, velvet tunic hugged Miss Scarlet’s body in exactly the way I’d envisaged. It clung to her hourglass figure, enveloping her voluptuous breasts before tapering around her minuscule waistline. The material then flared out over her sensuously curvaceous hips. It was perfect and I couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride.
‘Breeches’ part costumes were my specialty and making them for Miss Scarlet was a joy. No-one else looked as devastatingly alluring in breeches and stockings, or wore the provocative garments with such unabashed poise. Miss Scarlet always looked scandalously stunning and many a gentleman paid to see her time and time again.
I slipped the tunic off her shoulders and pulled the cuffs over her tiny hands with their slender, red-nailed fingers. As the garment came off, a whiff of lavender tickled my nostrils. The scent was emanating from Miss Scarlet’s milky white skin. How lovely. I breathed in deeply, luxuriating in the fragrance before stepping away to arrange the tunic on her hanging hooks.
“Boots next,” Miss Scarlet instructed.
“Yes Miss.”
I waited for her to plonk herself down on the wooden chair in front of her dressing table, then I knelt at her feet. Each calf length boot had stout, black laces meshed around a bank of hooks and eyelets that ran down the boot like a spine. I paused, my fingertips grazing the shiny black leather. It was soft and clung to her like a second skin, flattering her narrow ankles and shapely legs.
“This place is going to the dogs, Anne, ‘ave you noticed?” Miss Scarlet complained as she began removing her carefully curled hair pieces. She dropped the hair pins, one by one, into a ceramic pot. “I’ve told ‘em, I ‘ave, but they don’t bleedin’ listen. Burlesque’s ‘ad its day. We need to do something new or we’ll close.”
“Close Miss?”
“That’s right, close. We need to bring our show up to date or we’re done for.”
“Yes Miss.”
Closure? Miss Scarlet was astute, she could be right. My mind wandered…closure of the theatre was something I didn’t wish to contemplate. For Miss Scarlet, it would be no more than an inconvenient hiatus. She could sing, she could dance and she was pretty as a picture. With those qualifications, she’d find new employment long before she went hungry.
Not so for me. I’d find a new placement but it wouldn’t happen overnight. Mother and I would lose everything; our income and our home. I’d spent my entire life wandering the maze of ‘backstage’ corridors in that particular playhouse. I’d been raised on a diet of feathers and greasepaint and knew every word of each musical farce we’d staged. It was my world. The thought of moving on made me shudder.
“’Ave you been to The Savoy?” Miss Scarlet inquired.
I shook my head.
“Gorgeous it is. Totally modern. It’s got incandescent light bulbs.”
“Electric?”
“That’s right, it’s incredible. Folks are saying they don’t look good but I disagree. It’ll catch on, you mark my words. We should follow suit.”
“Put electric lights in ‘ere?” I stifled my amusement. Our little theatre hadn’t changed in decades. The thought of introducing new-fangled technology was absurd.
“Why not? Sir Henry says we should.”
Her eyes twinkled as she mentioned Sir Henry and she took care not to drop the aitch in his name. What’s more, her face lit up with the most endearing, impish smile. She looked perfectly adorable. No wonder Sir Henry was smitten if she smiled at him that way.
“There Miss, done,” I declared, having finally defeated the tightly knotted boot laces. I eased her boots off her silk encased feet and placed them beneath her dressing table.
“Thank you. Now ‘elp me get this wretched corset off, will you?”
Miss Scarlet stood behind her chair, bracing herself as I pulled at the laces fastening her corset. Once loosened, she unclasped the whale boned garment and cast it contemptuously aside.
“Bleedin’ thing was killin’ me,” she gasped, rubbing her ribs through her cotton petticoat. “Way too tight. I could ‘ardly breathe.”
“Sorry Miss.”
“What for? Mrs Baxter did it, not you. An’ to be fair, I did ask ‘er to.” She flashed a crooked smile. “’Ave you set out my undergarments? Are they behind the screen?”
“Yes Miss.”
“An’ my gown, where’s that? I can’t see it.”
A shiver crept down my spine. Miss Scarlet’s gown was in ‘Wardrobe’ awaiting a repair. I’d intended to do it but I’d got side tracked. “I just need to fetch it,” I lied, lowering my gaze to avoid detection. I’d never been any good at telling fibs.
“Can you go now while I finish taking my ‘air down? Be quick. I’m entertaining Sir Henry soon and I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Yes Miss.”
Miss Scarlet stared at me, as if expecting a reaction to the news that she’d be ‘entertaining.’ I didn’t flinch. Why would I? Miss Scarlet’s dressing room antics were a constant source of bitchy gossip but I, for one, never took part. Her private life was none of my business and besides, she certainly wasn’t the only actress to ‘entertain’ gentlemen in her dressing room. They all did it from time to time.
With a quick nod to my young mistress, I scurried away. That dress wasn’t mended and I’d have to do it fast. Holding up my heavy skirts, I ran down the backstage corridor, carefully dodging half-dressed performers and mounds of costumes left strewn around after quick changes. Reaching the stairs, I thundered upwards avoiding those on their way down.
‘Wardrobe’ was on the second floor. It was a large room packed to the rafters with all manner of costumes. They hung from hooks and stands or were crammed into baskets stacked against the walls. There was hardly room to swing a cat. A quick glance around revealed that mother wasn’t there. That was good. She’d reminded me twice about mending that dress.
The gown in question was hanging on a hook near the door. It was a beautiful garment. Fashioned from intricately embroidered white lace, layered over pale pink, pure silk petticoats, it looked like a tainted wedding gown. It was one of many extravagant gifts from Sir Henry and had not, as yet, been worn. Poor Miss Scarlet, she’d been distraught when she’d accidentally caught her foot in the hem whilst trying it on. The tear wasn’t too bad though. I’d soon have it mended.
I wondered how I’d look in something other than my black work dress. Standing in front of mother’s full length dressing mirror, I held Miss Scarlet’s gown against my body. I sighed, disappointed; it didn’t suit me. The pale pink colour made my skin look sallow and my dull brown hair, scraped into a neat bun, was altogether too plain. Shaking out the gown, I pictured Miss Scarlet modelling it for an approving Sir Henry. She’d do a twirl, her eyes lighting up as he moved closer…
“Anne? What are you doing?”
Mother. Laden with costumes and shaking her head. “Didn’t you mend that?”
Shamefaced, I snatched up a needle and cotton while mother, seeing the panic in my eyes, refrained from shouting. I hurried across to the sewing bench, turned up the oil lamp and began stitching. I worked fast, ensuring the repair was invisible. Quickly done, I draped the gown over my arm and hurried away.
I was out of breath by the time I’d wound my way back to Miss Scarlet’s dressing room. My corset dug into my ribs as my chest heaved and I had to take a moment to steady myself. I hadn’t been gone long, but I’d kept Miss Scarlet waiting. She’d be cross with me, for sure. Bracing myself for a tongue-lashing, I knocked quietly and ventured in.
Miss Scarlet wasn’t there. Swallowing hard at my lucky escape, I sought the best place to display her gown. Where to put it? The dressing room had been tidied during my absence. The red velvet chaise longue had been pushed back against the wall and a small, mahogany table had been placed beside it. Upon the table was a polished silver tray bearing a crystal brandy glass filled with rich, translucent liquid.
The scent of French Brandy invaded my nostrils along with a floral aroma. Ah yes, a dozen long stemmed red roses, absolute beauties, carefully arranged in a china vase that had appeared on Miss Scarlet’s dressing table.
The dressing table itself had been cleared. Gone were the pots of make-up, the brushes and hair accessories that had littered its polished surface moments earlier. In their place, laid out on a red velvet cushion, was Miss Scarlet’s exquisite pearl necklace; three strings of the finest pearls with a diamond encrusted, gold clasp. The necklace, her first gift from Sir Henry, was worth more than I’d earn in a life time.
I crept towards it, unable to resist the temptation to take a closer look. This wasn’t costume jewellery, it was the real thing. My fingers gravitated towards the tiny, white beads then withdrew. It wouldn’t be right to touch. I wondered at the wisdom of leaving it out on display. Many a friend would turn thief to get their hands on such an item.
Turning away, I draped the gown over Miss Scarlet’s ornate walnut changing screen - another gift from Sir Henry. Miss Scarlet had a wealth of oriental treasures in her dressing room; material tokens of affection from a gentleman who’d made his fortune trading in the Far East. Lucky her.
I was about to leave when I remembered Miss Scarlet’s laundry. I spotted her white cotton petticoat and bloomers discarded behind the screen. I scooped them up, frowning as I uncovered her corset hidden beneath. Her clean undergarments were there too, neatly folded, as I’d left them. I picked up the corset…where was Miss Scarlet and what exactly was she wearing?
It was while I was contemplating Miss Scarlet’s attire that my problems began. It all happened so fast - footsteps, girlish giggles, a door creaking on its hinges. The gas lamps flickered as two bodies swept into the dressing room, tangled together in a passionate embrace.
I should have stepped out from behind that screen. I should have apologised and left, straight away. Instead I froze. My feet seemed to be nailed to the spot, my eyes glued to the crack between the panels of the changing screen. It was Miss Scarlet’s laughter that held me riveted, that delightfully playful, tinkling giggle. And when I saw her…well, my heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. I had never seen a woman more beautiful, or more exposed.
Miss Scarlet was wearing a sheer silk dressing gown of oriental design, an insubstantial wrap through which I could make out every contour of her body. I held my breath, hand flitting across my mouth at the realisation that she was naked beneath. Her nipples poked at the fabric and bare legs peeped through the slit in the material as she moved. Goodness, had she been walking round the theatre like that? I couldn’t help admiring her audacity.
And she looked absolutely gorgeous. Always divinely attractive on stage, Miss Scarlet was even more beautiful without the heavy make-up and styled hair. Her face looked radiant and her hair, free of adornments, hung over her shoulders in a rich mass of auburn curls that glowed like embers in the flickering gaslight. I marvelled at its lustre. She looked like a flame, scorching her lover.
The gentleman, in whose arms she was willingly entwined, was equally fascinating. He oozed opulence from his tailored greatcoat to his silk waistcoat and matching cravat. A wide, gold pin gleamed at his throat, glinting red. Rubies, I presumed.
I watched, wide eyed, as Sir Henry Brooke, a debonair gentleman with manners as polished as his boots, behaved disgracefully in the company of Miss Scarlet. His lips met hers, mashing violently against them, his jerking movements sending his tall hat toppling. With a look of pure lust in his eyes, he grappled with Miss Scarlet’s dressing gown, tearing it off her. The material fluttered to the ground like a dying butterfly.
I scarcely dared breathe. I wanted to run away, to hide from the sight of the licentious man ravishing the showgirl. I tried averting my eyes but I couldn’t. Mesmerised, I watched, sweat dampening my brow.
Miss Scarlet stepped away from her lover, exposing her nakedness to his longing gaze. Then, submissive as a servant, she retrieved Sir Henry’s hat, dusting it down and placing it upon her dressing table. She then assisted in the removal of his coat. That too was carefully stored. With a mischievous smile dimpling her cheeks, Miss Scarlet turned down the oil lamp on her dressing table leaving the single, flickering gaslight to fill the room with ever changing shadows.
Retreating, I concealed myself in the darkness behind the screen. To reveal my presence now was unthinkable. I was trapped. I tried not to breathe and I stood, statue still. Closing my eyes, I told myself not to watch, I mustn’t watch. But the temptation was too great.
Such a sight. I had never seen the like. Miss Scarlet, plumper than I, had soft, white flesh, the smoothest I’d ever seen. Her perfect rounded breasts wobbled as she moved, her dark, engorged nipples standing hard and erect. I watched her glide across the room to the chaise longue and there, position herself on the red velvet.
Arms above her head, thighs open; her soft belly writhed as she lay back. The movement stirred the mass of tightly curled auburn hair covering her mound. Beneath that, oh goodness, her fleshy pink sex glistened, moist with juices.
“Come my love, come to me.”
Her alluring tones enticed her lover as irresistibly as a siren on the rocks. I marveled at her power. How could a woman barely older than I know how to seduce so effectively? Throat dry, I observed from my hiding place, enthralled.
Sir Henry turned, the angle of his body revealing a distinct bulge in his trousers, the unmistakably sign of sexual arousal. Miss Scarlet smiled impishly, a strange, purr-like moan rumbling in her throat as Sir Henry advanced towards her.
What I witnessed next sent quivers of excitement racing through every fibre of my being - it was so naughty, so despicably rude. Seeing a woman’s sex was shocking enough, but to have a man’s erect penis revealed to me, sent me into palpitations. I’d never seen one before. I’d viewed the naughty photos passed around by the ladies chorus, but I’d never seen the real thing.
The hard, throbbing phallus Miss Scarlet released from her lover’s trousers was astonishing. I never knew they were so big. How was it possible? And then she placed her lips upon it, kissing it tenderly and lapping her wet tongue over it as if it were the most delicious delicacy. A powerful scent perfumed the air, a strange aroma that was oddly moreish.
Cheeks burning, a sweat broke out upon my upper lip. My breathing quickened and something else happened, a primal reaction I’ve never experienced before…my loins ached. The tingling heat of arousal erupted within me with an intensity the like of which I’d never known. Davie, the messy-haired stage hand made me blush, but he’d never set me alight. Not like this. My loins were on fire. How could that be?
Moaning in a peculiar, pleasured way, Miss Scarlet rolled from her perch and dropped to her knees before her lover. There, genuflecting before him, she opened her lush, rouged lips and swallowed the swollen member she’d previously been licking. She took it deep, closing her lips around it and sucking hard. Groans filled the air, sighs of pleasure from him and her. Then, Miss Scarlet’s pale hand dropped between her thighs to stroke her own puffy sex.
Struck by a spasm radiating out from my throbbing sex, I let out a gasp, “Oh…”
It was the tiniest sound, a mere breath, but within the confines of the dressing room, it must surely have been audible. My heart stopped. What had I done? Terrifying scenarios flooded my mind as I awaited my fate. Miss Scarlet would shout, Sir Henry might beat me.
In the event, however, Miss Scarlet’s eyelids fluttered, but her head didn’t turn. She continued slurping her lover’s meat, and he groaning, encouraged her. Exhaling slowly, I steadied myself and rubbed my clammy palms on my skirt. I felt giddy, hot. Perhaps I was sickening for something?
A sudden commotion in the room caught my attention. My gaze was drawn once more to the gap in the screen. Now on her feet, Miss Scarlet had moved to the dressing table and stood, hands gripping her chair, in much the same way she’d done when I’d loosened her corset. Her legs were spread and I could see her longing expression reflected in her oval make-up mirror.
Sir Henry, with a look of desire matching Miss Scarlet’s, moved up behind her. He fisted his manhood, pumping it hard before positioning it against Miss Scarlet’s moist sex. With an animalistic grunt, he pushed. He penetrated her in one slick move.
My jaw dropped as I watched his thick penis slide in and out of Miss Scarlet’s flower. It disappeared right down to the root before each rapid withdrawal and further thrust. His claw-like hands gripped Miss Scarlet’s fleshy hips, pulling her forcefully against his thrusting groin, while she, face a mask of ecstasy, arched her back.
I never dreamed sex was so rough. I’m not sure what I imagined it to be, but certainly not that. Sir Henry pounded Miss Scarlet like a rutting stag, slamming into her with enough force to rock both chair and dressing table. The vase wobbled, so did the oil lamp. I feared at any moment it would topple, setting the room ablaze.
Suddenly, Sir Henry shuddered and, with an almighty grunt, he ceased his relentless pounding. One last thrust and he was done. Panting, sweating, he withdrew from Miss Scarlet’s quaking body, his penis dripping with a glistening, white secretion.
The same viscous goo dripped from Miss Scarlet’s reddened slit and her body, flushed with a rosy hue, quivered uncontrollably. With the most satisfied smile upon her youthful face, she turned to Sir Henry and, for the second time that night, sank to her knees. She licked up every drop of that sticky gloop, lapping hungrily like a dog extracting the marrow from a bone.
The act was vulgar, utterly depraved and yet Miss Scarlet looked angelic. Naked, drenched in sweat and devouring semen from a wilting penis, she managed to look like a cherub. How was that possible? Was it her smile, the glint in her eyes, or the hands gently cupping Sir Henry’s penis as she cleaned it? I don’t know exactly what it was, but I think that was the moment I fell in love with Miss Scarlet.
“Enough. Stop.”
Sir Henry’s command was spoken with affection, but was an order all the same. Lowering her eyes, hands dropping to her sides, Miss Scarlet slowly rose to her feet. Silently, cat-like, she retrieved Sir Henry’s brandy and offered it to him. While he drank, she arranged his trousers, carefully tucking away his now flaccid penis. No trace of a bulge remained once she’d smoothed down the material.
Empty brandy glass replaced on the table, Miss Scarlet proceeded to wipe Sir Henry’s brow, then straighten his cravat. She dusted down his waistcoat with a horsehair brush and, beckoning him to sit before her mirror, combed through his thinning, white hair. She took her time, ensuring that he looked every bit the dapper gentleman.
“Twenty minutes. The usual place,” he told her.
“Yes, my dear.”
“Wear the pink dress. I see you have it ready.”
“Yes, I do,” she smiled sweetly.
Sir Henry touched her cheek affectionately. “You’re a good girl.”
Miss Scarlet fetched his greatcoat, holding it open while he put it on. Then, reaching into his pocket, she extracted his gloves and handed them to him. Next came his hat. She became the devoted dresser and played the part well. A most grateful Sir Henry Brooke kissed his naked mistress on the cheek, and left the room a satisfied man.
Miss Scarlet’s broad smile illuminated her face as she snatched up her dressing gown and slid it on. Then, suddenly, she spun on her heels. “You can come out now,” she declared, facing the screen with arms folded. “Come on Anne, I know you’re there.”
The blood drained from my face and guilt threatened to choke me. I had never felt so terrible. She knew I was there? No! Terrified to face her, I tiptoed from my hiding place with a heart as heavy as a convict’s on route to the gallows. My hands shook and when I tried to speak, tried to tell her I was sorry, nothing at all came out.
“Look at me. Look at me, Anne.”
Eyes brimming with tears, I slowly raised my head.
“What do you see?”
I gazed at her, mute. Her voice was quiet. Why? Why wasn’t she shouting? Where was the raging tantrum I so justly deserved?
“Do you see a whore?”
“No Miss,” I croaked, tears staining my cheeks.
“Why not?”
My brow furrowed. I didn’t understand.
“I asked you a question. Why not?”
“Because he loves you,” I blurted out.
Miss Scarlet’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Loves me?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be so naive Anne. He thinks he loves me but he doesn’t. I give him what he needs but he’ll tire of me eventually.”
“Miss…”
“No, Anne. Don’t you pity me, don’t you dare. I admit, I’m rather fond of ‘im, but someone else will take ‘is place.” She snorted, “Probably one of the stuck-up pricks who keep telling ‘im I’m a cheap tart.” There was an awkward silence. “Be honest Anne. What do you think of me?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
I meant it and as soon as I said those words Miss Scarlet’s eyes shone with moisture. Her guard dropped, just for a moment.
“Well, Anne,” she said, with wry smile. “I’ve got a proposition for you. I’m tired of Mrs Baxter so I think I’d like to keep you. What do you think? Can you handle me?”
Wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands, I smiled, “Yes Miss, I’ll try.”
“One rule Anne; no more spying, is that clear?”
“Yes Miss, very clear.”
“Unless I say you can,” she added with a smirk. “I do like an appreciative audience.” When my mouth dropped open, Miss Scarlet laughed. “Oh come on, stop gaping and ‘elp me. I need to look like one of them toffs by the time I leave this room and I’m running out of time. Can you perform miracles?”
Her fingertips brushed against my arm and she moistened her lower lip. It was enough. She’d ensnared me as completely as Sir Henry Brooke and, somehow, I knew our bond would be lasting.
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