Chapter 7

As dawn approached, the trio stirred. They donned their new attire, a blend of finery and practicality that spoke of their intent to blend in among the elite yet be ready for anything. Oscar checked the weapons once more, the cold steel of the Colts and the gleaming blade of his knife a comforting weight in his hands. Mrs. Blankenship fastened her corset, each snap a declaration of war against the tyranny of the Madam and her ilk.

Christelle sat at the small mirror, her deft hands adorning Mrs. Blankenship with the jewels they had pilfered from the Madam. The rubies, emeralds, and diamonds glittered in the early light, a silent declaration of their newfound wealth and power. The necklaces and earrings that once adorned the necks and lobes of the auction house’s patrons now served a higher purpose, a symbol of the stolen lives they sought to reclaim. Mrs. Blankenship’s eyes gleamed with a fierce determination as she studied herself in the mirror, the jewels a stark contrast to the dust and grime that clung to her from the previous battles.

The three of them mounted their horses, the animals snorting and stamping in anticipation of the journey ahead. The dappled gray stallion Mrs. Blankenship had named ‘Shadowfax’ was particularly restless, as if it could sense the gravity of the mission that lay before them. They set out at a brisk pace, the map to Galloway’s mansion in Oscar’s pocket a beacon of hope in the otherwise bleak landscape.

The ride to Border Town was a silent one, the only sounds the jingle of the horses’ tack and the occasional sigh of the wind. They traveled through the night, the stars above a silent witness to their determination. The town grew closer, its distant lights a beacon in the inky blackness. It was a place that bore the scars of a town that had once thrived on the edge of civilization, now marred by the greed and vice that had seeped in from the cracks.

Mrs. Blankenship, Oscar, and Christelle approached the town’s outskirts as the first light of dawn painted the sky. They could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation of the battle to come. The map was spread out before them, the X that marked the mansion’s location a grim reminder of what lay ahead.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Oscar murmured, his eyes scanning the horizon. “The town’s crawling with Galloway’s men.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Blankenship agreed, her eyes cold and sharp. “We come as buyers, not saviors. We play the part well, or we don’t play at all.”

Christelle nodded, her heart racing as they approached the mansion. The grandeur of the place was undeniable, even in the early light of dawn. Its sprawling structure loomed over the barren land, a stark reminder of the power and wealth that corruption could buy.

As they drew nearer, they spotted a group of black men toiling in the gardens, their dark skin glistening with sweat. Mrs. Blankenship’s eyes narrowed, taking in the scene before her. She nudged Shadowfax closer to one of the workers, an old man with a weary yet watchful gaze.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice as smooth as the whiskey that had fueled their earlier conversation. “Could you tell us a bit about your mistress?”

The old man looked up, his eyes flicking from one to the other before settling on Mrs. Blankenship. “You ain’t from ‘round here,” he said, his voice cracked from years of hard labor. “You ain’t the kind that comes to this place for the company.”

Mrs. Blankenship leaned down from her saddle, her eyes never leaving his. “You’re a clever one,” she said, her voice a purr. “My business is with Mrs. Galloway. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find her?”

The old man’s gaze remained on her for a long moment before he nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with a leather-gloved hand. “Mistress Galloway is usually in the west wing, madam,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “But she don’t take kindly to unannounced visitors.”

Mrs. Blankenship’s eyes narrowed, and she reached into her saddlebag, pulling out a small pouch that jingled with the sweet sound of gold. “A little something for your trouble,” she said, tossing it to the man. “And for your silence.”

The worker caught the pouch with surprising agility, his eyes widening slightly as he weighed the coins in his hand. “Follow the path ‘round the back,” he murmured, jerking his head towards a dirt trail that snaked away from the main road. “But beware, madam. This ain’t no place for the faint of heart.”

Mrs. Blankenship’s gaze remained locked on the man’s, a silent question hanging in the air. He met her stare, his eyes filled with a world-weary resignation that spoke volumes. “Why do you say that?” she pressed, her voice as sharp as the blade at her side.

The old man looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen the devil’s own work,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But if you go in there, you’re going to see a whole new level of hell.”

Oscar’s hand tightened on the reins, his eyes scanning the mansion’s perimeter. “We’re prepared,” he said, his voice firm.

Christelle nodded, her eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve. “Let’s not waste any more time,” she said, urging her horse forward.

They followed the dirt trail, the mansion looming larger with each step. The path grew narrower, the tall grass whispering secrets of past deals and desperate cries that had been swallowed by the earth. As they approached the back of the mansion, the sounds of the town faded, replaced by the mournful song of a single bird, its melody a stark reminder of the freedom that was so close yet so far for the captive women.

The back of the mansion was guarded by a trio of rough-looking men, their eyes hard and their hands resting on the butts of their holstered pistols. Mrs. Blankenship rode up to them, her posture regal, her voice dripping with the sweetness of a poisoned apple. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she called out, her smile never reaching her eyes. “We’re here to see Mrs. Galloway. We’ve heard she has some ... unique merchandise for sale.”

The men exchanged glances, their suspicion palpable. The one in the middle spat a wad of tobacco on the ground. “You should wait here and watch the entertainment?”

Oscar’s hand hovered near his gun. “We ain’t here for no show,” he said, his tone even. “We’re potential buyers.”

The men exchanged another look, their eyes lingering on the gold that Oscar had let slip from his pocket. “Alright, but you best be prepared to wait ‘til the entertainment’s over,” the leader drawled. “Madam Galloway runs a tight ship. No deals get done ‘til she’s had her fill of ... fun.”

The trio’s stomachs twisted at the implication, but they held their ground. Mrs. Blankenship nodded graciously. “We understand the protocol,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “We’ll be patient.”

The guards escorted them to a side entrance, where they were met by a stern-faced butler. He led them through the opulent halls, the scent of fine whiskey and expensive cigars mingling with the faint whiff of fear. They could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and music from a distant room, the discordant notes of a party in full swing.

Mrs. Blankenship’s heart hammered in her chest as they approached the grand ballroom. The doors swung open, revealing a scene of depravity that made her blood boil. Noblewomen, their once fine clothes tattered and stained, danced with leering men who held them close, their hands wandering without restraint. At the far end of the room, a raised dais held a throne-like chair where Mrs. Galloway presided over the debauchery, a smug smile playing on her lips as she toyed with a fan made of peacock feathers.

Her gaze fell upon the trio, and a spark of interest lit her eyes. “Ah, fresh meat for the games,” she purred, her voice carrying over the din of the room. She clapped her hands, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the vast space. The music ground to a halt, and the dancers reluctantly parted to reveal the makeshift arena.

Mrs. Galloway waved a bejeweled hand, and two finely dressed women, their expressions a mix of terror and resignation, were pushed into the center of the room. Their clothes were torn and dirty, their hair matted with sweat, yet there remained a flicker of dignity in their eyes that spoke of their once-noble birth. “Let the entertainment begin,” she announced, her smile cold and predatory.

The trio’s eyes widened in horror as the two black servant women approached the noblewomen, their faces a mask of practiced indifference. With efficient, almost mechanical movements, they began to strip the women of their remaining garments. The room grew quieter, the anticipation palpable as the fabric fell away, revealing the soft and smooth skin marred by the hands of their captors. Mrs. Blankenship clenched her fists, her eyes never leaving the women as their dignity was stripped away along with their clothing.

The air grew thick with the cloying scent of oil as the servants poured it over the trembling forms, their hands gliding over the curves and hollows of their bodies with a disturbing intimacy. The noblewomen’s faces contorted with a mix of shame and anger, their eyes downcast as they endured the indignity. Christelle’s hand tightened around the handle of her riding crop, the urge to lash out at the scene before her almost overwhelming.

Mrs. Galloway’s smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with malice as she surveyed her ‘guests’. She stood from her throne, the feathers on her fan fluttering like the wings of a predatory bird. “Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice dripping with mockery, “today’s entertainment will be a contest of wills. A testament to the superiority of the strong over the weak.”

The two noblewomen in the center of the room looked at each other, their fear-stricken gazes speaking volumes. They had undoubtedly suffered unspeakable horrors at this woman’s whims, but this was a new level of degradation. Mrs. Galloway sailed closer, her skirts whispering against the polished wood. “One of you will be spared the brothel tonight,” she announced, her eyes glittering. “The other ... will not be so lucky.”

The crowd of leering men leaned in, their anticipation thick in the air as Mrs. Galloway continued. “You shall fight,” she said, her voice a sultry purr. “One will show us all the superiority of her feminine wiles. Whoever can first coax a climax from her opponent shall be declared the victor. The other ... well, she shall be sent to the brothel to entertain the common rabble.”

The two noblewomen exchanged a look of horror and desperation. The room grew so quiet that the sound of their racing hearts was almost audible. They knew the stakes, knew what was expected of them. The woman on the left, a redhead with fiery eyes, took a deep breath and stepped forward, her chin held high despite her nakedness. The blonde on the right followed suit, her eyes downcast, her body trembling with fear.

Mrs. Galloway, her own eyes alight with sadistic glee, nodded to her servants. The two black women approached the noblewomen, each holding a large wooden phallus that gleamed with oil in the flickering candlelight. They were forced to take the objects, their hands shaking with revulsion and fear. The crowd of leering men grew restless, their eyes ravenous as they took in the humiliating scene.

The match began with a snap of Mrs. Galloway’s fan, the sound echoing through the tense ballroom. The redheaded woman, her pride a shield against her horror, stepped towards her opponent. The blonde took a step back, her eyes wide with terror, her body shaking. The crowd jeered, their laughter a chorus of depravity that seemed to fuel the redhead’s determination.

Christelle’s hand clenched around her riding crop until her knuckles whitened, her eyes never leaving the blonde’s desperate gaze. In that moment, she made a silent vow to save her, no matter the cost. Oscar and Mrs. Blankenship shared a look, the unspoken agreement passing between them. They had come for all the women, but this one had found a place in Christelle’s heart.

The match grew intense as the redheaded woman closed the gap, her movements precise and calculated. The blonde’s trembling grew more pronounced, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The crowd roared, the men’s eyes gleaming with the same hunger that had driven the town to this monstrous spectacle. Yet amidst the depravity, a spark of courage ignited within her.

Mrs. Blankenship’s hand tightened around the hilt of her concealed dagger, her eyes never leaving the blonde’s face. Oscar’s jaw clenched, his mind racing with scenarios to end this nightmare. The trio watched with bated breath as the battle of wills unfolded before them, each second stretching into an eternity. The air grew thick with the tension, the foul stench of male entitlement and greed suffocating the last vestiges of humanity in the room.

The redheaded woman’s movements grew more aggressive, her face a mask of fiery determination. Yet, even as she approached the blonde with the oiled wooden phallus, a strange expression flickered across her features. It was not the hunger of a predator but rather a silent apology, a plea for understanding. The blonde, reading the unspoken message, took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted her chin.

The crowd’s cheers grew to a fever pitch as the two noblewomen began their macabre dance of degradation. The air was electric with anticipation, the very walls of the mansion seeming to lean in closer to witness the spectacle. Mrs. Galloway watched with a smug satisfaction that made Mrs. Blankenship’s blood boil. Oscar’s hand hovered over his gun, his eyes never leaving the blonde as he silently willed her the strength to endure.

Christelle, her eyes flashing with an unspoken promise, couldn’t bear to watch the unfolding horror. Instead, she scanned the room, her gaze locking onto the faces of the men who had paid good money to witness this atrocity. They were all monsters, their leers and catcalls a testament to the depths of their depravity. Yet, amidst the sea of ugliness, she saw something that gave her pause. A flicker of doubt in one of the men’s eyes, a hint of humanity not yet extinguished by the fires of greed and lust.

Mrs. Blankenship, her own rage simmering just beneath the surface, took in the scene with cold calculation. Her mind raced through possible scenarios, each more violent and satisfying than the last. She knew they couldn’t simply charge in, not without endangering the very women they sought to save. They needed a plan, a way to flip the script and turn the tables on their captors.

Christelle’s gaze remained fixed on the blonde, her thoughts racing. The horror of what was happening before her eyes was almost too much to bear, but she forced herself to watch, to understand. There had to be a weakness here, a chink in the armor of this twisted game. And as the match grew more intense, as the dildos were raised and lowered, she saw it. A flicker of something in the redhead’s eyes that spoke not of triumph but of desperation.