And so readers, as my carriage heads London-ward, I can recount the fantastic secret that I uncovered at Bertie's - a secret both repulsive and financially invigorating.
On Friday night I waited grimly in my chambers, listening for the first footfall upon the Parquet. Like clockwork, Bertie slipped from his room and passed by mine towards a destination of unknown pleasures. This time, however, I was to be granted a ringside seat.
I removed myself from my bedroom window (yes! adventurous Augustus!) and passed along the ledge (damned pidgeons!) before making myself above the scullery window. I then grappled a drainpipe down to ground level. There, ensconsed among the shrubbery in my silks, I made good my observance.
However, as yet, my observance was limited to a hubbub of debate between two out-of-sight gentlemen. A curtain obstructed my view, so I interred myself through the open window and hid there behind said drapery. The debate continued within and I pulled aside the curtain for further instruction.
The scene I took in before me was of such a surprising and complex nature that it took some moments for my rivetted brain to assemble the elements into a continuous whole. The room was large and brightly-lit by some unknown source, sparely-furnished but for a chaise longue that sat in the middle of the room, and some equipment which I will describe further. These environs lent the following scene a surgical clarity.
On the chase longue sat two gentlemen. One I recognised as the old school pal of Berties, the fellow who I had last seen at the house of fallen women in Marylebone. This chap was blind drunk, and was entreating upon a fellow by his side in a most unbecoming manner.
This other wore smart tweeds and had an air of responsibility. He remained stony-faced and provided the odd clipped reply, his deeply-muscled features contorted into an expression of barely-hidden distaste. Clearly he would not be there, were it not for some uncontrollable drive within him.
This drive I surmised to be pertaining to the scene on the other side of the room. There I saw Bertie, standing like some factory foreman intent upon the management of an unholy machination that stood before him. It was bronze in nature, and stood ten foot high, some five feet across. Its purpose was not yet apparant, but clues included strong leather straps which suggested human ensnarement. The construction was clearly steam-powered, as Bertie was shovelling coal into a furnace connected.
After adjusting a number of devices about the machine for some minutes, Bertie seemed satisfied and walked over to the group at the chaise longue for a short briefing. I saw the respectable man's eyes twinkle with evident pleasure at whatever was discussed.
Bertie then removed himself from the room and was gone for some four minutes. He returned with a fallen woman, naked and clearly purloined on the streets of Brighton earlier that evening. The woman showed her evident disatisfaction with the scene and pulled a sarcastic face at the two on the chaise longue. However, she leant herself to being enslaved within the machine with no struggle.
There followed some moments of calm, as if before the storm: the two gentlemen stood and calmly walked over to watch; Bertie again checked a number of instruments upon the machine; the harlot waited with vacant eyes.
Then Bertie pushed a switch and the following scene unfolded:
The machine slowly started churning into action - the rack upon which the slattern was stretched undulated with an alarming rhythm, bending her spine this way and that. 14 arched prongs then slowly ejected from poles at each side, which splayed out to the side before bending back inwards toward the streetwalker. At the end of each was a delicate-looking porcelain hand.
The machine then started to spin around as if on a highly powered fulcrum. It was then then that it became apparent that both sides of the woman were exposed by the machine, and as she span around, the porcelain hands landed delicate spanks upon her person. Her buttocks, thighs, abdomen, arms and breasts all received these thwacks as she circulated, looking on, somewhat bemused.
The gentlemen analysed the scene, Bertie with no little pride at his marvelous contraption. And it was then that I took a number of photographs with the digital camera I had upon me. One thing confused me, however - the respectable gent, although interested by the technology showed no satisfaction for the scene itself.
After some ten minutes, the scene seemed to be reaching a climax, and the tiny hands began to strike the maiden with such an alacrity that she began to wince noticeably. Finally, the machine ran out of steam and slowed to a finish.
The maiden was removed from the machine looking a little tired, was handed some coins and then pointed towards the room from whence she came.
Then the respectable gent took into some deep conversation with Bertie, and a heated debate ensued. Finally, Bertie held aloft his hands and accepted the gent's entreaty.
The machine was fired up again. By this point, Bertie's school chum headed back over to the chaise longue where he fell asleep immediately. When the machine was revved up, the respectable gent began to undress. And, dressed down to his long johns, he clambered aboard the machine. Bertie tied him in.
Again, the machine started up, and the spinning, undulating and spanking went into operation. But the gent looked disatisfied and barked orders at Bertie: 'More!', 'Faster!' were the words I made out over the machine's deafening judder. Bertie adjusted dials and increased the machine's ferocity, a barrage of slaps reigning down upon the gentleman, whose specialist interests were now becoming apparent.
But still, the gent shouted for further engagement from the contraption and so Bertie pushed it further. Only now, as the porcelain hands barraged the gent horribly across his black and blue body, did he look at peace. It was then that I noticed that the man's skin was not just being spanked by the hands - they were slashing into his sinning flesh.
A torrent of cuts appeared across his body, bloody gashes forming, particularly across his buttocks and thighs. And yet as Bertie desperately tried to stop the contraption, blood flinging across him, the gent remained in silent serenity. So horror-struck was I that I could barely hold the camera before me to record the scene.
Finally, the machine's hands sliced right through the gent's jugular and he let go one final gasp of satisfaction.
It was at this point that I thought it wise to remove myself from the room, and made my way back to my chambers. There, I quickly dashed off a letter of my financial demands (substantially more than I had previously hoped for) and packed. I slid my black-mail under Bertie's bedroom door and made my silent escape to the capital city.
What a fortuitous visit, dear friends! No wonder they say Brighton is a centre of rum practices!
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