Hugo and the Maiden

in a decade.
Hugo stripped off the sheath and discarded it in the small brass rubbish bin tucked unobtrusively beneath a gilt-edged nightstand. Unlike the streets, or in some of the seedier brothels, you never needed to re-use such things at The White House—or Solange’s, as it was now called.
Hugo pulled the bedding up over the duchess’s slender form, once again impressed by her vigor. For a woman in her late fifties, she was far more active—and adventurous—than many of his younger clients. Sometimes she wanted him two or three times during an evening. Sometimes she wanted him and another man. That was fine by Hugo, she paid a packet for him, and he had no qualms about working tandem.
Hugo padded across the room and poured water into the wash basin. He took his time bathing the sweat from his face and neck before wiping down his chest and groin. He disliked leaving sweat to cool on his body and despised feeling sticky.
He cut a glance at himself in the oval mirror that hung over the tallboy dresser and then wished he hadn’t. Every time Hugo saw his reflection it surprised and disappointed him. For some reason, he always looked different in his mind’s eye: his nose smaller—aquiline and elegant—his lips fuller, his eyes a sky blue instead of the color of peat. In effect, Hugo imagined himself handsome. Or at least marginally attractive, and certainly not the dark-eyed, dark-haired, harsh-featured, and vaguely sinister looking man he saw in the mirror.
He would have liked to be taller and have the slim, graceful build of an aristocrat, but he was only of medium height and his hard, muscular body was sculped with brutal precision rather than sleek elegance.
Still, for all that he was such an ugly sod, it seemed that scads of women—and not a few men—couldn’t keep their eyes or hands off him.
That was fine by Hugo. If somebody offered him enough money, he would fuck them—female or male, it made no difference to him.
They could beat him with birch switches and ride him as hard as a willful hack; they could have him beat them; they could dress up in a nappy and call him Papa, Hugo didn’t give a damn. He only drew the line at anything involving children and animals.
Yes, even a soulless, damned-to-hell whore like Hugo had his limits.
He knew that most men, including several who worked in the brothel, believed that taking it up the arse was effeminate—not to mention dangerous and illegal. But Hugo didn’t give a damn about any of that. He was in this business to make money, not to impress anyone—certainly not other whores or the punters who paid them.
Besides, male customers paid even more than women like the duchess did—both for what Hugo did with them as well as what he did afterward: which was keep his gob shut. Hugo kept mum as much for himself as anyone else. After all, if he were caught with another man, it wouldn’t be just his client’s neck in a noose. Being a sod was cause enough for death; being a poor sod was almost a guarantee that you’d get the rope.
Hugo poured fresh water over the soft cotton cloth and wrung it out before wiping down his arms and legs.
His popularity among their clients had never stopped mystifying him. There wasn’t a night when customers weren’t lining up for him. Of course, his appeal was limited to sexual attraction. Hugo’s thin lips twisted with derision; people didn’t flock to him for his sparkling conversation or lively wit. And none of his faithful clients ever made the mistake of imagining that they’d fallen in love with him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the duchess—not that he was supposed to know her name or rank, inside these rooms she was plain Mrs. Ellen Fletcher—to offer her a fresh cloth, but she was a silent lump on the bed, so he tossed the cloth aside.
The false names were another holdover of Melissa Griffin’s—the prior owner of Solange’s—many rules. But Hugo had been born to break rules and he made it his business to know exactly whom he was sticking his cock into. Why the hell would he put almost every penny he’d ever earned into Solange’s unless he could control the variables of his whoring?
Hugo went back to the bed to snuff out the candle on the nightstand and check on Her Grace. He’d worn her out and knew from experience that she would sleep until it was time for her to go if he didn’t wake her. Some nights he let her sleep, others he gave her more than she paid for—it was only good business. Besides, he didn’t mind fucking her, not that he got any relief from it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t climax with a client, it was that he rarely let himself take that ultimate pleasure because all it did was fog his brain and make him feel like he was something other than a paid servant.
He was especially careful around such a rarified creature as a duchess—which were about as common as unicorns, in Hugo’s experience—and always kept in mind that she was paying him for her pleasure, not his.
Hugo paused a moment to study her features. The duchess wasn’t what you’d call beautiful, but she had a face that drew a man’s gaze and held it. Even now, with mostly gray hair and deep lines around her eyes and mouth, she was a handsome woman.
She was also exactly twenty-five years older than him. Today was both their birthdays—although he’d not shared that information with Her Grace. While Hugo made it his business to know whom he was servicing, he also made sure his clients didn’t know a damned thing about him. At least nothing but the bits of information he’d carefully created and provided.
The Duchess of Beckingdon reminded him of a horse with impeccable bloodlines. You could tell just by looking at her that she was the product of