Prologue

 

"And there was mounting in hot haste."

Lord Byron

 

You won't find it on any ordinance map, the National Trust will deny it exists, yet crouched on a hill in south-west Scotland is a twin-towered manor house and estate where the infection of shame and self-righteous censure has never festered.

 

One bright morning this Spring, the post brought a letter from today's Laird of Blackthorne House. Having read my books, and sharing a fondness for such stories, he invited me for a visit, and a look at the diaries kept by each Laird in turn since its beginning. Enclosed was a ticket to a remote destination by rail. I was instructed to arrive after dark, and wait in the station for a motor-car to complete my journey.

As I waited, a tall, auburn-haired man who called himself Edgar Nodens (all names are fictitious), came in and asked for me. He escorted me to an ordinary black sedan and we got in the rear seat. The window shades were drawn and an opaque screen rose between us and the driver.

"Now, Sir Fagan," he said, "I must ask you to swear that you will neither touch the curtain, nor make any attempt to see or memorize our journey, for secrecy is the only protection that preserves the many places in the world like our Blackthorne."

I gave him my oath and assurance, and he placed a blindfold over my eyes as a double surety. The gravel crunched under the wheels, and my miles-long ride to that secret paradise began.

I have done my best in the pages that follow to convey the spirit and events that occurred at Blackthorne (and are still happening today!), so the reader will enjoy the pleasure of reliving its history. My host kindly supplied me with the nightly comforts of the pretty young maidens I found chained in my bed.

I swear that I have not added to, nor ignored, any event in the lives of the Cailean family (again, all fictitious names), or their staff and servants. All that follows is a record of what I found written in those diaries, as unlikely as our inhibited society might want to believe. I can only protest the believability of my story by quoting Lord Byron once more;

"Tis strange but true; for truth is always strange-Stranger than fiction."

 

Roger Hastings

Chapter One

The Heritage

 

What men or gods are these?

What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle

to escape?

What pipes and timbrels?

What wild ecstasy?

John Keats

 

In the late springtime of 1912, on the day of my 21st birthday, I, Sir Richard Cailean, inherited my father's land and mansion. It was, and is still today, a towering, heavy-stoned mansion crouching like a rapacious beast on a craggy hilltop. Alone, ruthless, surrounded by the lonely moors and forests of south-west Scotland, it gazes into the distance, eager for the arrival of its next lovely victim.

An arm of the sea snakes in to form a small bay at the foot of a cliff behind the mansion. Two massive round towers on opposite corners give it the aspect of a sinister fortress. That, and the tall thorny hedge surrounding the borders of the estate, inspired my grandfather to give it the title, 'Blackthorne House'.

"How did my father die? There was no funeral," I asked.

Aunt Caroline sat on the carriage seat next to me, not trusting the decision of the driver, Blanford, to let me handle the reins alone for the last mile. "He was a passenger on the Titanic. He was going to America to purchase a cargo of... well...we call them lovestock. There is good money in the buying and selling of their services, what with all the rumors of a coming war, and shortages. His body was never found." She was silent for a moment, staring in a far memory. "He was a good brother-we are closer than most families. We all shared the delights and pleasures of Blackthorne's deep secrets."

Aunt Caroline rarely smiled, but one flickered across her lips now. I noticed her slim hand absently slip between her legs, caressing her long slim thigh through her black dress. "He enjoyed his work here so very much. The bevy of beautiful lovestock he procured, he shared with all of us."

"What secrets?"

The smile instantly vanished. "Here now, mind your horses. There's the entrance gate, between the... "

A brawny middle-aged man stepped out of the hut just inside the iron-barred gates and opened them for us. He touched the forelock of his disheveled black hair with the fingers of his beefy right hand. A long scar crossed his face diagonally from his forehead to his chin. Where it crossed his eye, it was concealed with a black patch. He wore a shaggy brown shirt with its laces loosened, opened half-way down the front to reveal his hairy chest. A thick black belt with an iron buckle held up his Black pants, worn tight-legged to his beefy, muscular thighs and calves, and tucked into heavy boots. He unlocked the high, black iron gate of close-set bars and swung it open

I glanced back at him as we passed. "How did he get that scar?"

"The Boers did that to him, in the war."

"The Boer soldiers?"

"No, their women. When he was captured by the soldiers, they bound him to a pole in their town and invited their women to cruelly abuse him. Don't ask him about it, he will waste hours of your day talking about his military adventures, and especially his thirst for brutal revenge against young girls.

"Then he is a hero?"

"He is to us. His name is Crom, and he's a good man, and an expert at training our...lovestock."

"What does he do here?"

"He watches the gate; keeps out the uninvited. During the evenings, he assists us in our work." She smiled again, this time more openly. "He enjoys disciplining the new girls, and all our female servants are terrified of him."

"Do you think he might agree to teach me how to treat young ladies?"

Caroline lifted one eyebrow. "I'm sure he will. His title is 'Master of Discipline'."

"That's a strange title. What does it mean?"

Caroline inhaled a quick breath and jerked her eyes back to the path. "You just watch your driving, Richard. You will be told everything when we decide you are ready."

The long, winding drive from the iron-barred gates to the manor house was flanked by close-set, stately beeches, their blue-gray bark glittering with dew in the morning sun. Thick, gnarled branches intertwined overhead to form a curving, twisting, and shadowy green tunnel. "Aunt Caroline, I noticed those trees nearest our mansion have brutal iron rings bolted to the trunks. They're too high for tethering the horses, higher than even I can reach. Why are they so high? And there are pairs of rings on opposite sides at the foot of the wide trunks. How the sunlight glints on the bright metal. There's not a sign of rust on them. Are they polished by frequent use?" When she didn't answer, I glanced at her. She was gazing at the mansion as we approached the entrance.

Picture in your mind a lofty, dark-stoned, square Scottish fortified manor with two huge towers added at opposite corners, their dun-shingled conical roofs soaring up into the sky. My first sight of Blackthorne House, towering black against the thickening clouds, awed me.

Blackthorne's entrance, by contrast, was almost pleasant. There was a low, dark-green oaken door flanked by even lower, leaded-glass windows. They were deeply-inset into the thick stone wall, with their antique lace curtains to defeat the curious. They were protected by close-set iron bars to keep out the unwelcome. I glanced up at the few windows high in the walls, staring out at the world. They all were small, and jealously confined by more thick iron bars.

"Thank you, Blanford," Aunt Caroline said to our driver. We stepped out, and a bald, aging gentleman opened the mansion door. The deficiencies of his short, sinewy body were artfully camouflaged by well-tailored clothing.

Aunt Caroline gestured toward him. "This is Selby, our butler,"

"Sir Richard," he trilled. "A pleasure to have you as our laird."

I took his hand, surprised at such a strong grip for his appearance.

The wooden floor inside was stained dark, almost black, and as we crossed over the flat stone threshold, I felt as if I had stepped down into a beguiling world below ground level.

"My father was rather short, wasn't he?"

Aunt Caroline took my hat and coat and handed them to Selby. "I'm surprised you remember him, Richard. You were very young when he left Edinburgh to...to begin his work here at Blackthorne House when your grandfather died. Fortunately, you inherited your mother's height."

"I wish he had brought me here with him, instead of sending me away to school."

"You were too young then. You would not have understood the...unusual nature of our business." She looked at my body, measuring its maturity. "By now you have developed the endowments that will enable you to enjoy what we acquire."

I looked around the shadowed foyer. I jerked, startled by the sight of a life-sized bronze sculpture next to the archway leading into the wide hall. "What's that?"

A bronze statue, so realistically personified it seemed alive, yet so bizarre such a being shouldn't exist, was positioned so prominently and obvious, it seemed to be a member of the family. The golden-russet patina of its skin seemed almost to ripple and quiver with life. The brawny muscles and sinews spoke of a healthy, bold carnality and vigor. I would not have been abashed if it had leaped off its low pediment and danced a jig around me.

Its head was lifted and turned slightly to the side, the mouth open in a boisterous laugh with a long, sensuous tongue slightly extended in an impish gibe. The curved horns on its head rose boldly up out of a tangled thatch of wild hair. A matching goatee flared out horizontally from his chin. His legs were the strangest of all, being human at the hips, but a few inches below, covered with a rough fleece and changing into the legs of an impish goat, with handsome cloven hooves.

"It is a satyr," Aunt Caroline said, "and he is set here to remind us all of the source that our family draws power from, and controls our destiny." She circled her fingertips around his horns. "Beautiful, isn't he?"

My eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and now I could see, clasped in both the satyr's hands, his long male penis, lifted up and protruding upward as a trophy, with shameless exhilaration. Some mystical force throbbing inside my mind, perhaps envy, impelled me to reach out and caress the highly polished bronze tip of his manhood. I caught a glimpse of Selby smiling.

"None of us can resist doing that," Aunt Caroline said. "Men with their fingers, women with their lips."

My face warmed with embarrassment. I tried to hide it by changing the subject. "This entryway needs more light. I shall see to it in the morning."

"Your father favored this shadowy atmosphere, and light is expensive," she answered. "His work required costly and unusual custom-made apparatus to control and train our lovestock. He could ill-afford to spend foolishly on personal comforts for his guests."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline, he's gone now, and I have my own plans for Blackthorne; dancing, socials, shooting parties..."

"Young man, just you hold back your ideas until you learn more about our unique way of life. When we feel that you are ready, you will be allowed to discover your father's achievements here at Blackthorne. When you learn all its secrets, you won't have time or any interest for such frivolities."

"But Aunt Caroline," I flushed scarlet at my confession, "I want to meet pretty young girls, and savor the...er...delights of their feminine charms."

The smile returned to her face, and for the first time, I saw her radiant. "That," she said, "is exactly why we chose you to continue the heritage of Blackthorne House."