CamillasConsequences Read Free

Aldridge shows signs of tenderness as he strokes Tewkesbury’s hair and leaves a line of soft kisses over the trail of bite marks. He pulls away, his cock now flaccid between his legs.
    “Face me,” he says.
    Tewkesbury turns around, and they kiss, long and slow, their hands roving over each other’s backs and buttocks.
    I have seen enough to carry on with my plan. It is best to leave while the men are still occupied and unaware of my presence. I depress the knob on the ’Scope to halt the recording process, giddy with the knowledge that I have proof of Lord Aldridge’s deepest secret. He is a Uranian. Oh the power this will give me over him. As quiet as a shadow, I place the Panoptoscope in my leather shoulder bag and tread carefully through the damp carpet of leaves.
    Aldridge needs to be in control. It is everything to him. In that respect, Lord Aldridge and I are quite similar. I must capitalize on this, turning his strength into his greatest weakness. He is a member of the House of Lords, no less, and as such he cannot afford scandal. Next week, he plans to vote against a proposed law that would give a woman control over her personal assets after she marries. According to the current law, a woman loses all of her possessions to her husband the moment the words “I do” fall from her lips. Aldridge wishes women to remain under a man’s control.
    Preposterous. Aldridge cannot be allowed to stand in the way of this new law, which would be an immense step forward for all married women.
    Now that I am farther away, I hurry through the dark, dank night, my boots making wet, squelching noises, the hem of my skirt completely soaked. Twigs catch my hair and scratch my cheeks. My Silverwing Aeroglider is still several minutes away, hidden behind a thicket a good distance from the road.
    Since I wished to remain unnoticed, I left my lantern by the Silverwing, and now I regret this foolish action. The moon is nothing but a sliver, and I can barely see my own feet. After all my effort, I fear becoming lost in this marshland.
    My boot suddenly sinks into the moss all the way to my knee, and my heart explodes in my chest. Blood races through my veins as I squat down, put all my weight on my right side and struggle to extricate my foot. After several attempts, where my boot threatens to come off my foot entirely, I shake myself free from a tangle of roots. My lungs are aflame, and I clutch my precious shoulder bag. The ’Scope is still safe and dry. I stumble onward with greater hesitation, testing the ground before placing my full weight on it.
    A bog is a dangerous, desolate place. In some areas, only a layer of moss offers support, and if a man were to break through that layer, he would find nothing but ten feet of thick muck beneath. No firm ground. Nothing to cling to. No possibility of rescue.
    One can easily die in a bog. I know this to be true.
    This particular bog holds many secrets.
    The darkest one is mine.
    It is best not to dwell on the past, so I push away the memories and concentrate on every step. The night is so quiet, I feel as if I am the only being left on Earth. Pausing, I look up at a sky aglitter with constellations. Several minutes later, I arrive at the dense underbrush where I dissimulated my Silverwing, one of the few licensed to operate over London. It is an ideal means of transportation for an amateur aviatrix such as myself, particularly one who wishes to remain cloaked in darkness. I pull the eight-foot-long folded contraption from the bushes and press a knob near the rear vertical stabilizer. The wings, lightweight skeletons of alumino-composite and copper alloys, snap open over my head. A synthetic fabric stretches between each metal support. To me, the Silverwing will always resemble the wings of a giant bat.
    Strapping my bag securely to my side and buckling myself into the harness, I press another knob that triggers the motion of the whisper-silent gears and cogs that will elevate me into the