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The Scold's Bridle By Olga Turlovna "Of the men who came into the world, those who were cowards or led unrighteous lives may with reason be supposed to have changed into the nature of women in the second generation" Timaeus (Plato) Prague, Czech Republic, 2013 So here's me, running down a dark cobbled street in the middle of the night, fleeing like my life depends on it. But hold on - what do I mean "like my life depends on it"? Because let's face it, it probably does, (depend on it, that is). If this guy catches up, at the very best I'm in for one mother of a shit-kicking. From only just behind me I hear the rapid breathing and the footfalls of this bruiser, a human mountain of man, twice my weight and all the difference being made up of muscle. Yeah, here he comes, the princess's bodyguard is in hot pursuit of yours truly. If I don't get away, the first thing I'm gonna know about my failure will be after I wake up in hospital, like that guy in the Metallica video with every inch in plaster and his piss seeping out of a tube. I don't mind admitting I'm scared, because this time, no one is going to help me. We're in a quiet area of the city you see, and there are not many people about, especially in the middle of such a bitterly cold winter night. The few streetlights round here that haven't been smashed or shot have their lamps surrounded by those frosty glowing halos that tell you it's not just cold, but ball-retracting cold. Tonight there won't be one single witness to whatever happens between me and him. 'Truth!' the bodyguard roars, pissed off that I'm only a weedy little man, whereas he's in peak fitness, but he's still not caught up. I had a good look at him earlier, checking for threats the way his type do while the other two were getting out the car. He's the typical recruit for a royal bodyguard, one of those ex-soldier lunkheads with a neck and arms of pure beef and used to a lifetime of exercise. But I have an edge. I am fuelled by the rush you only get from shit- yourself terror. My blood is pounding in my ears. An opening between the houses is racing up on my left - the entry into an even narrower cobbled street. This little alleyway is almost pitch dark. At the last moment, as the heavy dude's fingertips actually brush my shoulder, I turn in. The freezing cold means the ground everywhere is icy, and my heart stops for a second when I almost lose my footing on a puddle hidden in black shadow. Luck is on my side tonight, though. The training shoes I'm wearing just manage to maintain their grip, and by the skin of my teeth I make the turn. Thank you, Nikes. I'll never take you for granted again. My pursuer is not so lucky. The security guard is in shiny flat shoes, part of his dress uniform. From just behind me I hear him hit the ground and skid sideways, hitting some bins with a thunderous crash. That must have hurt, I smile. The surprise the minder got from my sudden turn, and his fall have given me a precious few seconds of lead. I push myself even harder. By now my lungs are burning from the effort of keeping going, I can taste iron in my mouth and I can see sparks in my eyes, but I know I won't have to keep this frenzied exercise up for much longer. You see, that bodyguard's primary duty is to protect the princess's physical person, and he is her only defender for tonight. That means soon enough he will have to give up the pursuit of me, and return to her sweet little majesty. It won't look very good on his CV if a terrorist kidnaps the stuck-up bitch because he left her to chase a scrawny man armed with nothing but a camera. 'Truth!' he bellows again, from further behind me this time. That's my trade name by the way - 'Truth'. Lots of people know it in the business and a few do outside as well. I'm perhaps the most famous paparazzo in the world. Yeah, makes me laugh that these days I'm nearly a celebrity myself. Ironic or what? Over the years I've built quite a reputation - no-one escapes Truth's camera. Philandering spouses; famous women that think no one is watching when they take their tops off in Barbados; starlets in short skirts that forget to close their legs when they get out the limo. I give them all a dose of medicine, a piece of Truth, a few moments when they're knocked off their fairytale perches to taste the stinking lives most of us face as our daily reality. Okay, I admit - I don't just do it for the money. Each time I screw one of them over it gives me a buzz. Especially when it's a woman - let's face it, it's the only way I'd ever get to fuck most of those bitches over. They wouldn't look at me twice in the street, but they know my name anyway, and I make them fear me. Fate handed me a great big turd when I was born into this world, but rather than try to climb out the muck and better myself, I soon found out there was much more fun to be had dragging those who think they're superior down to my level. So that's a snapshot of me - Truth. Yeah, I know I don't sound great. But before you get too judgemental remember you didn't have to look. I bet you're one of those who goes around thinking the paparazzi are scum, but peek at the snapshots of Kim Kardashian on the beach anyway. We're the same, you and me. You're just more hypocritical about it than I am. But if it eases your intellectual conscience to stay with me until we get to the bit of the story with nudity, kinky sex and guys in women's high heels, feel free to consider me as a kind of working-class hero. This avenging weedy spider man running up the darkened lane dispenses justice by teaching people like the princess that sometimes the little guy can win. And tonight is going to be a big victory for the ugly majority, if only this minder doesn't catch me. So, anyway, back to the midnight alleyway, where I turn left and then sharp right, the buildings getting closer and closer in. I can hear the goon is on his feet again, but much further behind me, and then: Oh, fuck! For a moment I think I'm screwed. The reason it's narrowing in here is because this lane is a dead end. But then I see there's a trash can close to the wall. With a kick-ass leap and a clang that sounds deafening I'm on top of it, and vaulting over the back. On the far side of the wall I land in what should be a small grassed- over yard area, but the winter freeze has turned the soft ground as hard as concrete. I hit the deck painfully, jarring my knee and not trying to break the fall, because the whole time I'm keeping one arm clutching my camera protectively against my chest. But with the adrenaline rush the chase has giving me I can ignore the pain. I'm already up and running. I'm in the back yard of a tall sandstone apartment building, one of those with about five floors, build before the era of the communists when the Czechs still gave a shit about architecture. Adrenaline peaks again when I think I've trapped myself in this box, but my eyes soon adjust to the blackness and I see a dark tunnel leads to a grilled gate. My hand almost sticks to the frozen ironwork. Jesus, it's cold here. Luckily the gate is not locked. When I open it, it makes a loud rusty creak, so I push myself into a run again in case he heard me, exiting to find myself on a wider cobbled street. A late night tram rumbles past me, its lights bright and welcoming. I stick my arm out, but the driver doesn't stop. Fucker. I've not heard a peep from the princess' security guard since I was jumping for the trash can, so once the tramlines lead me even further onwards, to a cobbled square, I allow myself a moment to recover my breath, dropping from a run into a slow trot. "Nearly payday Truth," I whisper to myself, my breath forming a cloud in the frozen air. After another minute has passed without him after me, and I've moved even further from the apartment block and that icy alleyway, I start to let myself feel some relief. I don't think he's coming. Better be careful all the same. From my pocket I pull out a battered smartphone. The screen on this one got smashed a year ago, but it still works and it's worth its weight in gold. This little piece of technology is a wonderful thing - I can connect the phone to my expensive camera via some Bluetooth technology and I'll be on the internet, even out on a deserted street like this one. With the hook-up processing away, after just a few seconds I'm uploading the pictures to the safety of the cloud. Victory. I'm tempted to shout for joy and wake half of Prague, I feel so high with success. They can't stop me know. Even if that chunk of meat catches up with me and breaks my camera, the pictures are still safe. Mess with Truth and the prissy little bitch he looks after can buy me new gear - the best there is. If I feel like ever working again, that is. I won't have to now. Inside my camera, and there floating up to the cloud, is my fortune - the kind of photo in my business you get to retire on. I have struck paparazzi gold. They're just a couple of grainy shots of a young couple leaving an apartment building, but even in the half-light you can clearly recognise the faces. An image in the newspaper of those two smiling people arm in arm together would be more than enough to ruin the princess and lift Truth up to the high life. Happily married royalty do not leave the homes of handsome male movie stars in the early hours of the morning - not when that movie star is not the princess's husband. Getting this kind of rush is why I do the job I do. Once I was the one being exploited, but now Truth is the one to be feared. I smile like a nut-job as I wonder what the princess would do to stop these pictures going on sale. I might be able to make even more coin straight from her than I would do selling this to the papers. That princess is a sweet piece of skirt. What if she was willing to by my silence in other ways? Yes, now there's an idea. That would be the kind of lay that really does it for me - enjoying the bitches putting out even though they hate my guts. And to avoid the pictures with the movie star being published, she might pose for a second shoot that was even more interesting. My dick starts getting hard at the fantasy of catching the princess in the kind of private pictures that are normally only shared by hackers or vengeful ex-boyfriends - her lying naked on a bed, or with her mouth around someone's cock, or with her legs chained open waiting for a dose of Truth. She might actually do that - believe it or not - because she could claim the porno set were old photos, from before the wedding, whereas the movie star only made his name last year. Now we're talking, we're cooking on gas. Imagining this is making me urgently want to give some woman a taste of reality. Okay, I won't be able to get to the princess tonight, but I am going to find me someone that will help relieve all this pent up arousal and fear and rage, this very evening. Yeah, I deserve a reward for the day's work by sampling this city's delicacies. I make my mind up right there on the icy street - I'll just drop the camera back at the hotel and the party can begin. The anticipation of being so close to the finer things is making me more and more rigid. Some girl is going to learn the Truth tonight. Money will be no object with this next victim, because the princess is going to end up paying for my night's entertainment, one way or another. My phone brings me back from the fantasies and down onto the frozen cobbles when it gives a discreet chime. The upload is complete. I walk gently back to my hotel, relaxing, taking time to enjoy the moment and fantasising just enough to keep up a boner for most of the way. I'm not being careful - I can bump right into that goon now and he can't do a thing, hardon or not. Even if he makes me vanish Laura has instructions what to do. A couple of times on that cold walk I make wrong turns - I'd fled with no concern for direction so I have to orientate myself using a floodlit castle on the top of a hill and the tram tracks, but I get there in the end. The Pension Prague is only two-star. I always stay in anonymous, dingy hotels. That's my Word of Truth number one for you, even though you people don't deserve these pearl necklaces of wisdom. Always go downmarket if you want to make it as a paparazzo. Think about it - you can't stalk a celebrity without being noticed if you're lodging in the suite right next to them in the Hilton. I'm calm, sure now that the bodyguard has returned to protect the princess in person, and he can't touch me anyway, but just to keep up good habits I take care to avoid being seen, sticking to the darkest parts of the street. I wonder how she's doing - the princess? She probably knows the deal - they saw the flash. She'll be in a panic, wondering what to do. Not much sleep for her tonight. Precious-miss-living-in-fear. The thought of that turns me on even more. Christ, I'm getting so hard. My pent up lust is really getting the better of me tonight. Once safely in my room all I do is take time to stash the camera. I'm not even going to tout any pictures out tonight - that can wait. My prick is the priority. Let's go. You've been patient. Not long now until you read the dirty stuff, spying on my world like you're reading a tabloid story, so why not come with me on this journey while Truth finds some celebratory pussy? Let's go. Prague, Czech Republic, 2013 Here's a word of Truth if you're in any strange city. Taxi drivers always know where the best prostitutes hang out. "Where can I find a girl, a girl to have some - you know - fun?" I ask the guy as soon as I've got in my seat and slammed the cab door. There is only the briefest hesitation before he answers. "Lots of pretty girls in Prague," he shrugs. Good, he's not one of those rare uptight ones that won't help take a fellow human to get laid. "I'm looking for someone special," I press. "A girl who doesn't like it to be nice." The pause is a bit longer this time. "You want to be rough with her, or for her to be rough with you?" "I want to be rough with her," I say firmly, determined not to sound embarrassed about telling it like it is. Yeah, discussing my twists with other guys doesn't make me feel great, but some driver with his hundred-dollars-a-week-job doesn't have the right to judge me. I am Truth. "More money for woman who takes beating - two hundred Euro?" the driver says uncertainly, as if he's not sure I can afford it. Well I'll show him. "Take me there." I command. He starts the engine of the cab obediently. The radio comes on, a deejay talking in whatever language they speak here. With that the driver puts the car in gear and pulls away from the rank. You'll find most city brothels are central, to locate close to the hotels where stag parties and the rich businessmen stay. But this driver takes me away from Prague centre, and into districts of grey apartment blocks. I'm not worried - the kind of girl I'm looking for would not be found in an established strip club, and over the years I've found partners in some pretty freaky places. After ten minutes driving through almost deserted streets we finally come to a stop in front of an anonymous concrete apartment building. It's an ugly place - it looks like it was built in the era of the Russians, and they put all their soviet quality into the construction. "Go up to second floor. Apartment sixteen," the driver says. I pay him the cab fare, including a generous tip. "I wait for you," the driver says, already reclining his seat. Sensible guy - he doesn't have much chance of getting anyone else's fare this late and out here, but he's pretty certain of a return fare from Truth. Leaving him to his nap, I climb out the cab into the frozen night and look up at the apartment block. Don't judge the girl by the building, but I hope she's better looking than her home - I'll have to beat her more to get turned on if she has a face like a dog. There is no elevator in the concrete box, so I climb a zigzag set of stone stairs up to my destination. Graffiti daubs the walls in the stairwell, and the underlying paint is chipped and peeling. It's a depressing place. A balcony runs along one side of the second floor, with front doors on one side, and open air on the other so desperate people can throw themselves off. A man stands leaning over the handrail to smoke. Someone like me arriving in the early hours of the morning can't be a normal sight for this loser, but he pays me no attention. I find the doorway to apartment sixteen, and knock confidently. The door is made of cheap chipboard - as faded as the rest of the building, and looks as if it's been kicked-in some time in the past. Nothing happens for almost a minute. I'm about to knock again when I hear the sound of a bolt being drawn back inside. The man who opens up is wearing jeans and one of the black leather jackets favoured by Eastern Europeans. He looks like another bodyguard - oh two goons in one night - lucky me - but his military menace is diminished by the way he blinks and rubs his eyes. I stand waiting while the thug appraises me. He doesn't look like he's ever going to speak, so I start the conversation. There's no point messing around. "I was told I can find a girl here," I say. "One where it's okay to beat her." He studies me for a moment longer. Now he's fully awake he's started flexing his shoulders to give off an intimidating vibe of toughness. I wonder if the driver has set me up and is laughing his ass off in his car, because this gangster seems really pissed off, like he's deciding whether to break my neck for waking him up in the middle of the night, rather than preparing to invite me in and show me to a nice fuck. But just as I'm about to apologise and walk away back to the stairs, he silently holds open the door so I can enter. I go inside. There's no hallway or anything, so I'm straight into a small living room. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling is too bright. An old fashioned TV is switched on but with the volume very low, some kind of game show in a foreign language. I hear barely audible applause. It's oppressively hot in here after the freezing night outside, and I can smell cooked meat. The owners haven't redecorated in here since the 70s. The wallpaper is the brown shade and style that was popular then, you know - the one like vertical streaks of dogshit. On a table is a gun, a real gun. Seeing it there, so solid, gives me a deeper prickle of fear than the beefy minder. "Tanja," the gangster calls out in a heavy Russian accent, and for the first time I see her, standing in an open doorway leading to a cramped kitchen. Dressed in vest and shorts is this small brunette, very small, with slightly curly black hair that hangs down right over her breasts. She comes swinging her hips as she walks into the room. I study her eagerly, and feel relieved. Beggars can't be choosers when you're in a foreign city, looking for a hooker for hire in the middle of the night that's desperate enough to put up with some ill treatment, but apart from being a bit short and a bit on the old-side, Tanja will do me just fine. She's kept herself in good shape. Short girls usually get fat looking legs when they age, but Tanja has kept hers so nice and slim she's got the limbs of a teenager. She's got no cellulite or varicose veins on them either, nothing like the stuff you usually see blemishing older women. Not yet. That's more good news - nothing worse than orange-peel skin. Her whole frame is small, a bit too small - like she's a living waxwork of a woman from hundreds of years ago. Only her tits are normal size, and that makes them look a bit too large - like one bazooka set of boobies compared to the rest of her body. Now there sits a top-class pair of knockers, I think to myself. Look at them straining so tight they almost spill out her vest! And they're still pretty perky given her age, although she could look fresher if her pimp would splash out and buy her a Wonderbra. Just staring at those funbags is starting to reignite my hardon. Okay, let's admit Tanja's got a few more miles on the clock than would be my preferred taste in the bitches - I reckon she's in her late thirties or early forties. But as she's so small, if she looked any younger I'd feel like a paedo. Her skin - it maybe has a slight Mediterranean or even middle-eastern tint, has start to weather, the way Italian and Greek women do when increasing age and sun suddenly change them from screen goddesses into raisins. Looking closer still I see that Tanja's almost-black hair, with waves of curls, even has the first few grey threads in it. But that doesn't matter. I'm saving the most important part of my description until last - the woman's face. And here is where Tanja scores best - her mush even trumping the quality of her knockers. If her legs and her torso could only be stretched out by a foot I'd have been able to imagine I'm fucking Monica Bellucci, because this woman has the face of a real looker. Tanja has delicate features, again like a doll's, but she's blessed with pouting cocksucker's lips and those big appealing dark eyes that I like in a female. She's one of those girls where as soon as you look into their eyes it's easy to imagine them wide and wet with tears, as they get a dose of the Truth. What a dumb bint she must be, because in her teens she'd have been quite something and she could easily have worked her assets to find a decent man. Too late for her now. In Tanja's small hands she is carrying a book, its green leather cover so faded and tattered it looks ancient. I shrug. She can read then. "This man is looking for a woman to play rough with, Tanja," says the leather-jacketed minder, pronouncing the English carefully. There is no reaction from the woman at this news, not a sign of fear, no disgust, no shock, not even a shrug. Her big eyes just keep on checking me out, staring at me just as directly as I am looking at her. Maybe she doesn't speak English. A lot of these whores in the East only know the few words they need to know. "So, you want to go with her or not?" the minder asks me, in a tone as if I'm being told to pay protection money rather than offered something nice. I look at him with contempt. The oppressive atmosphere in this crappy apartment is starting to piss me off. Lowlifes like him do not have the right to look down at Truth, but they try it on anyway, thinking that just because they're connected to the Russian mafia or something, they can treat me like shit. Well - I bet whatever mob-boss put them here won't have given him the job of selling her pussy to passers-by and then allowed him to drive them all away. I bet the minder here is too scared to cross the real management, so watch me walk over him. I've been growing harder and harder since his woman wiggled in from the kitchen, and the whore he's pedalling here is way better than I expected from a grimy back street hooker. Seven out of ten, and she must have been an eight or a nine in her teens. Tanja shifts position while the protection and I silently battle over who has the biggest dick, letting me continue to watch her slim bare legs. Below the waist she wears cut-off denim shorts, the type that the trashy girls always cut too high so they can show the bottoms of their ass cheeks. She is barefoot. Her toenails have been painted with a slutty looking scarlet varnish. Above the waist she's got that low cut vest top on, showing that cleavage I can dream of burying my head in, and maybe squashing around my iron hard dick. I've already clocked that the management have not provided her with a bra to wear under that vest. I can see Tanja's nipples pressing against the top, calling out to me to pinch them like they're bubble wrap. Her big melancholy brown eyes continue to watch me back, appraising in as much detail as I'm appraising her. She'd look intelligent, like she was a professor or something, if she hadn't dressed in the outfit of a ten dollar whore. Unlike the guy, she looks like she's not been to sleep. Oh yeah - back to the guy. Another glance at that loser tells me he's still clenching his fists, trying to psyche me out of this. I'm really not getting the deal here. She must be a trafficking victim - no woman would freely choose to get beaten for a living. Even the more masochistic hookers or submissives don't sleep with complete strangers unless there's pressure from somewhere. And here is her gangmaster pimping her out, just like a regular whorehouse, but at the same time looking at her like he wants to break the neck of any man who lays a finger on her. One of those Moments of Truth comes to me. I know - I get it. He's sweet on her, isn't he? That fits with everything I've seen. He isn't the first trafficker to fall for one of his skirts, but he is a dumbass to choose one where he has to stand by and watch her take a leathering. All the same I'd better make doubly sure of the rules first. "I can tie her up, slap her and things like that?" I ask the minder. "She prefers men who want to," he answers, with that same double- standards yes-means-no menace. The woman is still looking coolly at me, with no denial of his boast. "Your names Tanja?" I ask her, and trying to put Romeo here at ease I compliment his woman. "You have a beautiful body, Tanja." Her wise, dark eyes stare unblinking, but she says nothing. "She doesn't speak," the gangster explains, "She doesn't make a sound," and then adds, "at least not until afterwards." That should sound sleazy - "not until afterwards" (like hey, nudge- nudge, we're all men here) - but the pimp's tone is as dry as if he's describing a flight safety feature. I take one last look up and down her curvaceous body and make up my mind. I don't know how she ended up in a crappy apartment in Prague letting men hit her and then fuck her. If poor Tanja hasn't been trafficked here, she must have done something to get into big trouble. But that's her bad luck, and I don't care anymore. Whatever the reason, her loss is my gain. My boner is already uncomfortable, and I want her. "How much?" I ask the gangster. "Two hundred. In advance." I fumble for the notes, hiding my money from view so he can't see I'm carrying almost twice as much. This wouldn't be the first time pimps have tried to rob me when I'm out on the job in the middle of nowhere. While I'm settling the cheque with the gangster, paying in a casual way that shows him how easily I can afford this, Tanja puts her battered book down on a low table and walks away, opening a door to enter what I see is a sparsely furnished bedroom. Rather than watch the hood's meaty fingers grabbing my cash I look after her, fixating on the way Tanja's buttocks move in the denim as she walks. Oh she's something - shall I fuck her in that sweet ass; in the pussy; between those balloon breasts or in her Monica Bellucci mouth? With the payment finished I think I'm free to follow her, but before I've even taken one step the guy grabs my arm and stops me. "Have fun with her, but no permanent marks," he says, his thick accent making him even more threatening. "I wait in here, and check her body afterwards. You damage her, and I break you." I tense up angrily. I should be getting treated like a paid up customer. Every minute I'm in here his shitty attitude pisses me off more and more. "What's the deal with you? Are you her boyfriend or something?" "I love her," he states simply. So I was right. I almost laugh. He loves her, but he pimps her out to sadistic guys like me, who just knock on the door. "Funny way of showing it you have," I tell him, and finally put in his place, he releases his hold. With the pimp where he deserves to be - forgotten - I follow Tanja into the bedroom. It's not the Ritz. There's nothing in this place but the bed - a king size mattress with an ornate metal frame, and that only has an undersheet to lie on. A side table is littered with condoms and a bottle of lubricant. Classy. The happy couple must sleep somewhere else. I did notice there was another door in the lounge. I guess this bedroom is where they trade, and their real sleeping place is through there. "Something I can tie you up with?" I say to the woman, a demand rather than a question. I'm not sure if she understood me, but Tanja shimmies her booty back out the playroom anyway, and when she comes back she's carrying several coils of thick blue climbing rope. These she throws as casually down on the mattress as if she was a mechanic collecting a spanner. As soon as she's safely inside I close the door behind us. My twisted pleasures are a private matter. I don't want the boyfriend watching me do this, or listening at the door. I can smile to myself now. What a putz that guy was. Just let him sit there helpless, while I teach him to respect me by taking it out on his woman. I fumble at the belt of my trousers, drawing the band of leather free from my waist completely so it hangs from my hand, before opening the button of my fly. I'm getting so stiff it's painful, and it's a relief to be free of the restraining denim. Tanja hasn't moved since she came back in. She stands with her back to me and her head down, silently looking at the loops of ropes. This is not a good start for her. She should be facing me, ready to obey orders, looking fearfully at my cock against my boxers, or perhaps even kneeling like a slave. If there's one thing I don't like in a woman, it's being disrespectful. I've only known Tanja a matter of minutes, and yet holding my belt with the buckle-end in my fist, I swing the loose end of the leather as hard as I can across her backside. A pleasing whipcrack sound of leather striking against female fills my ears. She falls face first onto the bed at my surprise attack, but as advertised does not make a sound. Good - if she can't call out to her boyfriend for help, I'll really have time to make her regret she was born. Stepping across to the prone woman and reaching to her waistband, I bare her rump completely, pulling denim shorts, and underwear down in one rough jerk almost to her knees. A red welt is already rising across the round feminine pale globes of her buttocks. Oh, this will do nicely - this woman has a beautiful ass, no flab here at all. Let's see how much better the bare skin reacts to my leather. While Tanja remains face down I rake the belt across her perfect cheeks a second time, and hear an even sweeter whip crack of noise. I am exultant. This is power, this is truth. Man dominates woman, and always will. Don't you believe otherwise. Once I was weak, the little boy who was bullied and beaten, but now I have become strong. I am Truth. Even the great fear me. Even the beautiful. Time to really get this party started. Grabbing the girl's forearms, I tow her up the bed, jumping onto her back at the same time to pin her place. Reaching to my side I pick up one of the coils of rope. Tanja remains utterly docile the whole time - even threading her own thin wrists through the bars of the bedhead so I can tie them together more easily. Silently she watches as I wrap rope round and round, and then bind her skinny arms tightly out my way. She squirmed that ass so nicely the second time I lashed her that I reckoned she must be hurting, but there's still no sign of her trying to defend herself. What's the deal here - is she into this shit? I don't want to do it with a girl that likes it. She might even be mentally defective, the way she's been walking round as dumb as a robot. Whatever, it was her second offence - the instant surrender pisses me off even more. Just being in charge of these bitches is not good enough for me. I want to see fear. I want to see I'm getting to her. All Tanja is doing by giving in is showing me she's another typical woman, as unresisting as my mum was, never once intervening while I took those leatherings from dad. Laura stood up for me as often as she could, (that's my sister, by the way, and the only female in this whole universe worth any respect) but back she was too small to do anything. Dad would just move her aside, and then never lay a finger on her, or mum. A real man doesn't beat women, he said, and all those years he was hammering me this I'd be learning how true it is that women have easier lives than men, just because they're women. Well fuck him, and fuck womankind. I don't know why I'm even thinking of them right now - they don't deserve that much respect. Tanja is secure now, arms trapped tightly together above her head, not that that seems to matter when she's so unresisting. Returning to her lower body, I tug the clothing down the rest of the way, leaving her nude below the waist. I've been watching her the whole time, deciding whether to take her from the front or the back. I'd like to watch her tits shake while we fuck, but that delicious rump is too nice to ignore, and there's something special about the way girls only do anal to please their boyfriends. I make up my mind - back it is. Grabbing the woman's slim left ankle I pull it out towards the bottom left corner of the bed. Taking a second coil of rope I loop it around her foot and then knot it in place, securely stretched towards the corner. It is only a matter of moments to secure her other ankle in the same way. Her body now forms an inverted "Y" shape, head face down on the mattress and arse presented upwards. Viewing from where I stand, between her widely spread limbs I can see right to where a neat strip of dark pubic hair is growing on her pussy, before her bush disappears underneath and out of my sight. Even my boxer shorts are getting uncomfortable now, so I free my cock and balls from any restraint. Then I mount the bed, climbing over her helpless form to sit in the triangle between her open legs. "Let's see if you really can't make a sound," I tell her, and picking up the belt again I properly work her over. Each time I swing that lash into Tanja's defenceless flesh the image of my father looming over me with the slipper in his hand, or his belt, or his naked fist, gets a bit further away. My mother also fades, standing by weakly, like she did every single time. Laura is the last to go, watching from the corner in horror, and at last it's just me and the hooker. (Lash, lash, lash) I think if I could punish every woman (but Laura) for having it so easy, I might be able to finally push those memories away forever, but I'm not dumb enough to think closure will ever happen. I fully expect to spend the rest of my life needing this rush of power to turn me on. The damage has been done to me, I'm too old to change, and now it's time to spread the love. I can tell Tanja is hurting, because she's beginning to tense and struggle. But I show no mercy, continuing to tan her cheeks from that Mediterranean colour to an angry scarlet. She doesn't like it, but still she doesn't give out a peep of noise. I have to give her a bit of credit - if she's putting this mute act on, she's really tough. You might be one of those pussies that doesn't like hearing about abuse, in which case this description probably seems like it's gone on for a lifetime. Actually, we've only been playing together for a few minutes and I've done nothing to her that won't fade in a week or so, so get real. I was hoping to entertain myself for longer, but I'm just getting too horny for words. I'm already light headed with the approaching orgasm. I want to see what her big tits feel like in my hands before I cum, so I roughly tug her top up to under her arms, baring her back and spilling her breasts free. They spread out sexily underneath her torso, making her look even more like a woman from my beautiful viewpoint. My libido is distracted for a moment by a mole on her lower back I've just revealed. It's a little off to the right of her spine and almost far enough down to be on the curve of her ass. The mark is about an inch long, and it's formed in two kidney bean shapes - a bit like a camel toe or maybe even the hoof print of a deer. No matter - most girls have their disfigurements. Back to those tits. She's maybe been thinking her hooters were safe sandwiched there between her torso and the mattress, but I show her she was wrong by pulling her hair with one clenched fist, forcing her spine to arch until I'm able to explore underneath her with my free hand. At one point I pinch her nipples hard enough that any woman who could do would be weeping for mercy, but Tanja only shows she feels the pain by the slight movements of her body. Looks like she really is a mute. A warning wave of pleasure from my groin tells me I'd better get on if I don't want to shoot my load early. Okay Big Truth, it's your turn to join in the fun. I'm speeding up in my urgency as I tear the foil wrapper from a condom and roll the sheath down onto my engorged cock. I don't like wearing these, but no telling what this girl has caught. Then there is barely time to anoint my protected dick with the lubricant. That slight touch of my oiled hand nearly triggers the onset of orgasm. I'd feel pretty dumb if it was my own touch that made me cum after handing over 200 euros to make Tanja do the job. "Here it comes," I warn her, and I ram myself savagely in between the woman's buttocks, penetrating into her arse only just before the orgasm rips right through me. It's exquisite. When I climax I cum like I've never cum before. My head reels and everything goes faint, as if my whole life force is being sucked out from me and absorbed into her, and it's probably because it's so special that I get light headed and see the vision. Because as I orgasm I blink, and suddenly I'm not fucking the girl, but a decayed corpse. Her flesh is nothing like smooth and succulent like Tanja's was, but she's rotting and green, more wrinkled than a prune, as if she's risen from centuries in the grave to fuck me. The cadaver is not lying on her front any longer, with my cock between her pale cheeks, but she's looking up at me from on her back, grinning with a face full of black teeth and bulging eyeballs while I fill her rotted pussy. Maggots crawl in her hair, and clouds of flies rise up, disturbed with each small movement she makes. This ancient female corpse opens her mouth, cackling "Seven Days!" at me like a gypsy curse, and while she talks a centipede takes the chance to escape from between her black teeth. My gorge rises at the revolting sight. I think I'm going to scream and I narrowly avoid puking there and then, right over Tanja's back, but I blink, in the process of fighting to hold back my last meal, and thank Christ the image is gone and the dark haired woman is still there, face down and splayed underneath me. But then I see that the dark haired woman is not still there. Some other kind of crazy shit is happening to me. I'm not sodomising the hag, but it's not Tanja either. This new girl is exactly the same size, but younger and therefore a little more beautiful than Tanja was. The rump I withdraw from is tighter about Big Truth and she's squeezing instinctively with the pertest little buttocks, and her skin has got firmer and smoother with youth. When the new girl twists her neck to try and see behind her, showing me the side of her face, all the signs of approaching middle age have gone. Tanja was at the far end of her use-by date, but this much fresher one is still in her teens. What kind of sick trick have they pulled on me? Even in my panic I can see enough family resemblance in the shape of the younger girl's face to know the two have got to be related. Is it that the gangster was so protective of his woman he was willing to switch Tanja with her daughter, and the mother went along with it? Not even Truth is twisted enough to think it's okay sneaking away a woman who's seen enough of life to understand what she's in for, so you can substitute a young one that's vulnerable and barely legal. "What the fuck?" I say, recoiling down the bed. I should be pleased - I've just fucked a sweet young thing in the arse, instead of a woman at the wrong end of her prime. But like always when I'm not the one with the power, being at the butt end of that familiar status-quo makes me feel weak. I've been the victim of some kind of trick, just like I'm always the one that gets ripped off. "What happened to your mother?" I demand to the roped teenager. I'm not expecting a reply from the teenager - I was asking myself rather than her. But because I've got so used to Tanja's unbreakable silence, the daughter nearly makes me jump out my skin when she answers. "Perhaps you'd oblige me by releasing my wrists," she calmly says in an upper class English so perfect the princess would be impressed, "and then I will explain everything." Prague, Czech Republic, 2013 "You can talk," I state, hearing the shaking in my own voice. "You were acting dumb, but all this time you could talk." I'm so freaked out with suddenly hearing the bitch speak my mind has gone into some kind of shutdown. Nothing is making sense - especially not how they've done this, or why they'd want to. I'd swear on my life that I walked into this room alone with a woman in her late thirties, but the one busily trying to turn round and look at me from her spread-legged place on the bed is a teenager. "I can indeed talk," she agrees in her expensive voice. "But those like me can only speak for a short time after we bring someone to orgasm. It's part of our punishment. Now if you'd be so kind?" The girl lifts her roped hands a second time. She's acting like we should be all polite, but I'm mad as hell with her. I've been conned. They're trying to take advantage of Truth like everyone does. This should have been my victory night and they've ruined it. Well I still have the power here, and I'm not taking any more. "You're not getting loose until I hear some answers," I insist. The sound of my voice just then makes me more pissed off - even I think it's weak and pathetic. So I pause, and force myself to get a grip before I speak again. "How did they switch you with your mother?" "Just release me, and then I'll tell you everything," the girl says in a deliberately steady voice, as if I'm the problem here, like a wild horse she's trying to calm, rather than her. "Collingwood only had one minute to talk to me," she continues, before I can answer, "so I learnt most of it the hard way, straight from the Scold, but I promise I'll make things much easier for you if you'll only let me help you. I'll even tell you where the Maiden's Lament is, as you'll need to hurry if you intend to find it before seven days have passed." Maiden's Lament? Scold? What is this shit? This little bitch is making me angrier and angrier. I know for sure she must be messing with me, because she said "seven days", just like the cackling crone. Yeah, now it's starting to get clearer. They've pulled a stunt, giving me a fake vision so the teenager can get her own back by scaring me, in return for what I did to her. Well she shouldn't fuck with Truth when he's got her tied up on a bed and she's naked below the waist. "Tell me what's going on here," I demand sternly, feeling stronger now. The teenager frowns and sighs like she's giving up. Then her ribcage heaves as she inhales deeply. Realising I've only got a second before she screams for the protection I leap back on top of her, gripping her head and clamping my hand across her mouth just in time. She didn't complain one bit when I sodomised her and lashed her with my trouser belt, but now the hard part is over she stupidly struggles as ferociously as an animal, biting the flesh of my palm so hard that I shout out, and almost have to release my grip. I have to inch forward, sitting on her upper back and sandwiching her head between my thighs, before I can free one of my hands from the job of gagging her mouth. Grabbing the trouser belt I used to thrash her, now I thread it between my legs, under her neck and back through its buckle, so it surround the girl's throat in a choker like dog leash. Before she has a second to shout I pull the loose end, dragging it brutally tightly into her windpipe. That's better. Not so much talking now, eh? I temporarily lost it when they pulled that trick with the vision of the old sow, but I'm in charge again. Normally such sadism as I'm inflicting throttling this nubile daughter would have given me a second boner - yeah, it would be a kick to fuck her again while she's reliant on me for her very breath, but for some reason my cock is remaining obstinately limp and small. Perhaps it's the shock of the vision, or maybe it's just too soon to try again - I am getting older. Meanwhile the girl's face is getting steadily redder with trapped blood, and for the first time I see what I always wanted from her - some fear. "Promise not to call for help from the meathead and I'll let you breathe," I tell her. She twitches one of her hands to show me her surrender, forming a thumbs up. I carefully release the belt, enough to let her take in a huge gulp of oxygen, but I maintain my hold on the free end. The daughter gasps, ribcage heaving as she inhales and exhales lungfuls of the precious oxygen. When she talks again her voice sounds hoarser than before. I've crushed her windpipe. "Quite a nasty piece of work, aren't you?" she croaks. "I'm not surprised you were unrighteous enough to earn me another minute. That's forty six of them I have now, and you don't even have your first." For a roped-up slut with nothing on but a vest hitched under her arms, she's not helping herself by trying to talk to Truth in riddles. "Who are you?" I demand. "What happened to the older one that looks like your mother?" "She wasn't my mother," she lies straight away. "Like I keep telling you we're one and the same. Who I am is somewhat more complicated to answer, and who I *was* is the most important question. But I promise you, I am the Tanja you saw in the kitchen." "You're talking crap," I insist, and to encourage a bit more co- operation I cinch the belt tight again. This time I give her a full thirty seconds, long enough to see her eyes bulge in panic, before I let her speak again. I decide to try a different tack for my next question, seeing as she doesn't seem to want to answer the simple one about what happened to her mother. "Why is a girl that sounds like she went to England's most expensive school working as a dirty hooker on the back streets of Prague?" She croaks out her answer immediately. "You won't believe me, given you're not even willing to accept I'm still the same Tanja, but the answer is that I've been stuck in this country since the Russian invasion in 1968," she says. "You could come and go without a passport before then, but not afterwards." I scoff. "That would make you at least fifty years old. Not even the other woman - your lookalike mother, was that age." "I'm a hundred and eighty three," the young girl moans, "unless you count the Scold's spirit possessing me, in which case I'm something close to four hundred. We've never found out her exact age." She's mocking me with all these lies, mocking me and mocking me, and I don't have any idea why. "This is bullshit," I tell her. "Give me a reason why I don't just strangle you right here instead of listening to you talk crap?" "Lord, you're stubborn," she says, as if she's pissed off with me. "What about the corpse? Didn't you see the corpse when you had your orgasm? If I'm not telling the truth, how could I know you saw the corpse?" Yeah, so I did see the old bag, and I don't think I'll ever forget that gruesome sight. "The reason you know I saw the hag, is because you set the whole thing up, you little bitch." But instead of disagreeing or begging for forgiveness, the girl starts rambling on again. "Seven days, she said to you," so-called-Tanja insists. "You've only got seven days to find the Maiden's Lament. There you must cut off your cock and balls, and throw them into the river where it all happened. Once you've emasculated yourself you will have to live your days out as a eunuch, but it is better than unending punishment by the Scold." Her little speech fills me with terrible vengeance. Oh yeah, Truth finally sees where all these magic tricks have been leading. A sucker comes along to have his nasty way with this girl's mother, and the whole family try to get some payback by conning him with this clever party act into cutting off his meat and veg. There's no way I'm falling for it. This dumb teenager is not going to lie there under me, roped up to the bedframe with my cum still dripping out her arse, and think she can trick me into cutting off Big Truth. "Everything you've said is bullshit," I tell the girl, and before she can reply I cinch the belt brutally tight once more. But this time I don't release the choking band. Instead I thread the leather through and back on itself, so I can release my hold and the noose is still held tight. I get off the bed and casually leave the girl thrashing futilely in those bonds, her face going red while I pull up my pants. Between you and me I don't really want her to die - I just want to give her the fright of her life, so I dress fast, but act like I don't give a shit at the same time. I can play games too. When I saunter into the living room the goon looks up at me. He has been watching the TV with the volume turned up loud, so he heard none of my exchange with either mother or daughter. "You'd better go in there if you want to save your girl's life," I tell him nonchalantly. He is up like a shot, not stopping to question anything as he runs to the bedroom. Before I went in he said he'd damage me if I messed with her, but I'm the one who is victorious. I've outwitted him and the girl, and he's left me here where I can just walk out the door. I usually like to take a trophy to remind me of the few encounters where I can really teach a lesson to a woman. Most often I'll cut off a lock of her hair while she is restrained, a long enough lock that will be noticeable on her uneven fringe as a badge of shame for some months after our encounter. They don't forget a meeting with me in a hurry. With Tanja's daughter, I've left her before I had the chance. I can't go back and get something now - I don't fancy facing the pissed-off gangster one he sees what I've done to his woman. But I'd like some souvenir all the same. Ignoring the pistol (which would be very cool to own but difficult to explain in customs) I snatch her book off the table. That tattered thing with its green cover is the only personal item of hers I can see. It will have to do as my memento. As soon as I'm outside the front door I start to run my second time tonight. The muscles in my legs have got sore from the effort of escaping the bodyguard, and I'm moving like an old man, but this time I don't have far to go. The taxi driver is faithfully waiting, sleeping in his reclined seat, but he wakes up as soon as I tap on the window glass. I am relieved when he pulls away and there is no sign of pursuit from the irate minder. No bullet holes appear in the windshield glass, not like they do in movies. I've given a woman a dose of Truth, but it's not been satisfying like my usual sessions with a hooker. So half an hour later, when I'm back at the hotel splendid I sit on the bed feeling uneasy, instead of the euphoric calm that usually fills me after the discharge of sexual rage. It's partly the irrational fear the gangster will turn up at my door, tracking me down somehow, but also I can't stop thinking back over the image of the decaying crone, and the switch between Tanja and her daughter. What was that all about? I know I've been tricked, but I can't see how they did it, or why they'd want to. They didn't ask for more money - nothing bad happened at all apart from them giving me a fright with that vision. It seems like a lot of work for the small chance I would have fallen for it and cut off my dick. After a whole hour of pacing and thinking I realise sleep isn't going to come. So I fire off a few emails to tabloid editors, asking what kind of money they would pay for photo evidence that the princess is a dirty slut. Even once that is done I'm still not tired. On the counter in my room is that ancient book, my only trophy of Tanja. I pick it up and look at the cover, which says "Journal" in a text that looks like it started out as gold leaf, but over the years most of it has rubbed off. Inside it, the whole thing is full of neat and old-fashioned looking hand writing, dated entries which looks as if they were done with a proper fountain pen. Going to the inside cover I see the author has written: "The Diary of a Rake", and in a footnote, "being the personal journal of Anthony de Quincy, Baronet". What is Tanja doing with this relic? You judgemental pricks have probably been thinking I'm dumb and uneducated as Tanja was, just because of what I do for a living. Well that shows you're the bigoted ones. You'll find I'm very well read, and I even quite enjoy a little historical drama. Tess of the D'Urbervilles is my favourite. Good rape scene. Anyway, I don't need prove myself to you. Curious, I take the book and relax back on the bed. A bunch of pages at the start have been cut out, as neatly as if someone censored the book by slicing them with a razor blade. The first entry left in place is this: November 14th, 1881. Collingwood has been missing for nearly two weeks now, and his absence causes me the greatest concern. I've known the man for nearly two decades, and in all those years, this evening has been the first occasion he's missed our regular rendezvous at the Libertine Club without sending me apology or explanation. They have a fresh new coquette there, Mary, driven from her native Ireland and into the arms of the oldest profession, who would be particularly to his taste. Collingwood always likes those hungry little misses with their big eyes. When I took Mary to one of the bedchambers on his behalf, the wench timidly told me she was a virgin, but I didn't believe a word that passed her soft lips. So I spanked some righteousness into her before taking her between the sheets, and I made certain personally that she was indeed deflowered. All in all I have had an excellent evening. Claret and conversation flowed freely in the gentleman's lounge, and I made an agreeable new acquaintance in the person of Wilkin, a veteran of the Crimean conflict. And yet I could not shake my mood of disquiet, feeling continual unease at Collingwood's unexplained absence. "I will never grow tired until I've bedded every handsome woman in the world," he once told me. I can confirm (by going back through the earlier volumes of my journals) that he has been true to his word in attempting this endeavour, and furthermore that this information was revealed on the memorable evening we celebrated his charming his way into the skirts of that dancer from the opera. Eight years ago, the night of the dancer. And a decade before that it was that I met Collingwood. My sentiments towards the fair sex being similar to his own, we were thrown into easy companionship from our first encounter in the salon at Mme Chirat's - the finest bordello in Paris. I digress, however, wasting ink dwelling on history already known to me. Brigadier Wilkin was that new member of the Libertine Club into whose company I was thrown. I made free to educate him that with the finest feminine fruit that can be purchased in London being found exclusively within its walls, only the best clientele are permitted membership. He is joining an elite group. Collingwood and I have long been among the Libertine's regulars. Our history of patronage means we are favoured with a certain droit de seigneur over the freshest flowers. The madam of the house, Mrs Jackson, is entirely in our confidence and through the years we have formed a great affection for her. My notes tell me that last time I saw Collingwood, twelve days previously, he had just received news of an exceptional sounding trollop, the rare breed of girl who enjoys her lords and masters making free use of the riding crop about her person. This intriguing creature was rumoured to be traveling in the company of one of the roving gypsy bands, those vagrants having happened to pass close by to Collingwood's country estate. My friend's intelligence on this subject came in the unlikely form of a letter from Lady Collingwood, his wife of all people. She was bemoaning the lawless state of the countryside that permitted such a willing flagellant to pass through the neighbourhood without the magistrate raising a hand. We had laughed at Lady Collingwood's expense, certain she would have never revealed the information had she known it would motivate her husband to investigate the matter personally. Collingwood and I are also acquainted with said magistrate, and it further entertained us that he would be more likely to apply the hand of justice to discipline the gypsy girl's backside than use it to drive her away. Nearly two weeks ago my friend departed to seek the wench. It would not have taken Collingwood twelve days to find the girl, take his pleasure and return. His home is barely an afternoon's travel from here, so even if he were detained by other interests in the country he should have appeared back in London by now. At the end of this evening's entertainments I took my leave from the Libertine Club, gathered my hat and coat and caught a Hansom cab to Collingwood's rooms on Grosvenor Street. The place was in darkness - no sign of Collingwood or his manservant. I shall make a further call there in the morning (which I expect to be fruitless) but only en-passant while I make my path to the station. I am fully resolved to travel to Collingwood's ancestral home and seek signs of the fellow. The Romani are an untrustworthy lot, and I fear he may have come to harm, but I will effect a rescue if they hold him somewhere. Even if there is no information to be found at the Hall, I can make my trip worthwhile by resuming my so-far unsuccessful attempts to bed his very fetching wife. Collingwood is not a jealous man, accepting that his spouse must ease her discontent by being permitted some of the same liberties he enjoys. Their agreement is - as long as she follows two rules - firstly to use discretion, and secondly to warm only the marital bed when he is at home, all will be well. Were our positions reversed and if I had ever succumbed to marriage, I am sure I would have been an equally obliging host in sharing my wealth. However, although she is a fine woman, I must declare that in spite of Lady Collingwood's virtues, rather than arriving tomorrow to find his lady alone and welcoming I would prefer to find the lord of the manor at his ancestral seat, recovering from some sickness or injury that has prevented his return to the city. My course is decided. November 15th, 1881 I commence this entry by updating that my first evening at Collingwood Hall has drawn to a close, with no sign yet of the building's master. However there is progress to report, and some observations of almost equal importance that do not relate to my missing friend. By the light of the oil lamp provided to me I record them here, committing them to reference as they are the notes which will direct my next few days' activity. My journey was tedious as travel always is, and need not be described. I pick up the history of my enquiry when the horse and trap I engaged from the station pulled up in front of Collingwood Hall, where the lady of the house emerged to meet me in person. I had not seen Lady Collingwood for several seasons, so I can report with pleasure that after ten years of marriage she is still an exceptionally handsome woman. Furthermore she is one who knew how to carry herself in such a way as to make the best of her assets. The tight corsets of her expensive silk dress lifted her bosom delightfully, the bustle complimented the shape of her rear, and I took a long look at the figure before raising my eyes to her head. My own hair has thinned over the years and I need to apply tincture to maintain its blond shade, but Lady Collingwood's has remained as lustrous as polished oak. Her curls are rich and full, and would no doubt smell very pleasant if one were permitted to press one's nose to her throat. Even in the privacy of her own home she was wearing her hair tied high, prepared for a society dinner. This elaborate styling flaunted that same graceful neck. "Lady Collingwood" I greeted her. Coolly she extended a gloved hand for me to kiss. "Sir Anthony," she returned. "I trust you had a good journey?" she asked me politely, leading the way into the house. Lady Collingwood didn't seem at all surprised to see me, and sensing the enquiry that had motivated my journey she went straight to answering the topic. "If you have come here looking for Elijah, you've just missed him," she said casually. "He was here one week ago, before moving on. He'll be somewhere in the company of whores, if he's following his typical regime." This intelligence confirmed she was as unconcerned as usual about her husband's whereabouts. The Collingwood's was a marriage of pragmatism rather than being one blessed with mutual love. Elijah's constant infidelities had quickly frozen any affection that ever existed between them, but rather than becoming one of those defeated women who wither from neglect, the estrangement gave Lady Collingwood an inner fire. I found this passion most attractive, however my lust for her had always been unrequited. Lady Collingwood's dislike for her husband was extended to include myself as a co-conspirator in his misdemeanours. And yet this afternoon, she seemed quite delighted to see me. In fact my presence provoked an air of anticipation in her that was almost malicious. This altered temperament was most exciting to me. I speculated that her wish to spite her husband had grown so great that she would seek any man's embrace, and I finally had a chance of seducing the lady. It was going to be an intriguing visit. The Collingwood's housekeeper, an ageing spinster, whose cunny is probably as starchy and dry as her manner then came running up. "Mrs Wren, Sir Anthony will be staying with us," Lady Collingwood said before I had the chance to contradict. "Please see his bags taken to his usual room, and prepare an extra place at dinner." Mrs Wren obliged with a curtsey. I know full well the shrew dislikes me, but she dared not countermand the will of her mistress. "Your arrival is timely, Sir Anthony. Hopgood is joining us for dinner, as is Mrs Moss, so you will make a convenient fourth for bridge." The inclusion of both of these parties came as another piece of interesting news, confirming further that the master of the house was entirely out the picture. Hopgood first. The manager of the Collingwood estate, I can vouch I have never witnessed him invited to dine at his employer's table like an equal before. The main reason for this is his unappealing character, which has changed not a jot over the years - he has always been an unctuous little man. This evening I found him no different, but despite his gauche social nature Hopgood has been long retained in his role as estate manager, because of his capacity and efficiency in his trade. Hopgood's elevation in social status must have come at Lady Collingwood's invitation rather than her husband's, with Elijah being of the same opinion as myself. We two find him loathsome, but the lady finds his obsequious flattery pleasing, a sure demonstration of the intell