One More Turn by Newton Webb

A Victorian Dark Short Story: In the gaslit streets of 1891 London, a Victorian courtesan in London endures the sadistic whims of a wealthy patron.

March 12, 1891, London

The gaslights flickered against the fog, painting dim halos on the damp cobblestones as Theresa strode through the narrow streets of Mayfair. Her pale-gloved hands lifted a parasol, and her crimson gown was cinched up to avoid touching the filthy stones. The rain had let up hours ago, but the air clung to a raw chill that bit through her woollen wrap. Charles’s home loomed ahead of her—a stately residence nestled between ivy-clad walls and iron gates. Its grandeur represented every dream she’d nurtured as she plied her trade in the back alleys of Whitechapel.

The butler greeted her with a curt nod, his eyes darting over her figure. This wasn’t her first visit. Charles was her most affluent and also, her most demanding client. Thanks to his patronage she now had respectable lodgings, though the steep price she charged was balanced against the physical toll of entertaining a lover with such dark passions.

Charles waited in the parlour, his right arm resting nonchalantly on the mantelpiece, his silhouette in the mirror sharp against the glow of the fire. A half-full glass of port rested in his hand. His eyes glittered as she entered. “Theresa,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Punctual as always.”

She smiled with professional skill, her eyes sultry as she masked her inner fears. Stepping into the light, she replied, “And you, ever the gracious host.”

As she moved further into the room her smile didn’t falter, though her heart skipped as she noticed a box on the table. Every night brought a different box, a new toy or garment for his courtesan to use. Suppressing her trepidation, she made a show of admiring his gift. “What delights await me tonight, my lord?”

Charles slipped behind her, pressing a kiss to her porcelain neck. “Please, open it and see.”

Her hands deftly unwrapped the black silk ribbon, revealing an ivory switch. Her heart sank as she recognised it. Tonight would be a painful night. “What marvellous craftsmanship.” She forced a smile, kissing him lightly on the lips. “A girl is lucky to have so many gifts.”

“Quite.” He stroked her cheek. “Let’s take it upstairs, shall we? I must confess to having limited time this evening—far less than you deserve. I’m racing Lord Jefferson on the Thames tomorrow.”

Taking his hand, Theresa meekly followed him upstairs. “Then we must do our best to ensure you sleep well, my lord.”

March 28, 1891, London

Theresa did her best to mask her limp as she approached Charles’s front door. Of all the narcotics she’d tried, money was by far the most insidious. Had she another sponsor, she would have left Charles weeks ago, but without his wealth, in a matter of months, she would be back on the streets again.

Charles greeted her with gleaming eyes and gestured to a new box on the table. It was wide and flat and wrapped in deep green velvet, its ribbon taut. “I have something for you.”

Theresa’s fingers trembled as she unwrapped the velvet covering. Inside lay a masterpiece. The corset shimmered in the low light of Charles’s parlour, its black silk adorned with silver filigree and seed pearls that caught every flicker of the fire. It was breathtaking, finer than anything she’d ever seen, a world apart from the garments she could afford on her own. Her fingers traced the intricate embroidery and the slender whalebone supports, marvelling at its craftsmanship.

“It’s exquisite,” she whispered, her voice filled with genuine awe. “Charles, you really shouldn’t have.”

His thin lips curved into a smile. “Nonsense. Only the best for you, my dear. My woman deserves to dazzle.”

She clutched the corset against her chest, the silk smooth and cool beneath her gloves. Gratitude welled up, tinged with pride. She’d worked hard to earn Charles’s favour, to climb out of the gutter and into rooms like this one, filled with opulence and possibility. Through pain and suffering, she had earned this reward.

“I can’t wait to wear it,” she beamed at him, for once her enthusiasm was barely feigned.

Charles’s eyes gleamed. “Why wait? Let me lace you into it now.”

---

She stood before the mirror in his bedroom, her chemise loose around her shoulders as Charles worked. His hands moved with practised precision, threading the ribbons through the reinforced eyelets. The corset hugged her midsection, its fabric stiff and unyielding.

“You’ll see,” he murmured as he adjusted the fit. “This will transform your natural beauty from its raw, earthy form to an ethereal delight. Every man will be jealous of me at dinner tonight.”

Theresa smiled faintly, watching her reflection. Her waist was already cinched, the curve of her figure dramatically accentuated. Charles stepped back, revealing the small winch mounted at the corset’s midline. His hand lingered over it, as though savouring the moment.

“Now,” he said, “let us achieve perfection.”

The winch clicked softly as he turned it, drawing the laces tighter. The fabric constricted around her ribs. Theresa’s smile faltered. A sharp pain shot through her abdomen, immediate and arresting, but she said nothing. Her face remained professionally placid.

“Charles,” she said, her voice lighter than she had intended, “That is quite snug.”

“Just a bit more. You can handle it,” he replied, twisting the mechanism once more. The laces hissed as they tightened further, pulling her body into an unnatural hourglass. “There. Much better. You look like the goddess Venus herself.”

She struggled to take a deep breath, her lungs meeting unrelenting resistance. The edges of her vision blurred momentarily. Charles looked so pleased—his expression was one of pride and savage lust. She winced briefly before forcing her face back into a smile. “This is the tightest corset I’ve had the pleasure of wearing,” she managed, her voice weak and strained.

---

At dinner, the pain was barely bearable. Lord Montgomery’s dining room glittered with crystal chandeliers and gilded mirrors. Charles led her in with his arm looped through hers, introducing her to his acquaintances as though she were a prized possession.

She smiled at each of them, enduring the men’s leers and the women’s pitying glances. The table groaned under the weight of roasted pheasant, truffled potatoes, and towering confections, but Theresa could only sip at her wine. Each movement of her diaphragm pressed her ribs harder against the corset’s unyielding boning.

“You’re the picture of elegance,” Charles whispered in her ear. “I can barely wait to take you.”

Theresa smiled weakly, her lips barely parting. Her stomach churned, empty and resentful. She could not swallow even a morsel of the lavish spread before her, not without risking collapse. The evening blurred into a haze of small talk and shallow breaths.

March 29th, 1891, London

It was early in the morning when they returned. Charles took her hand, leading her up the stairs towards his bed. Theresa felt lightheaded, her body wracked with pain. She was barely aware of him as he helped her to undress, leaving her in just her corset. He manoeuvred her onto her front.

“No, please,” she called out as she heard, then felt, the winch’s clicking sound. It echoed in the quiet room as he tightened the corset still further. Theresa clutched at the bedpost, her knees trembling, her head swimming. She tried to speak, to beg him to stop, but the words lodged in her throat.

“Just a little more,” he murmured, his voice soft but unyielding.

The next turn of the winch did it. A sharp crack reverberated through her chest, and white-hot pain tore through her side. She cried out, collapsing onto the bed. Her hands flew to her ribs, where the agony burned like fire.

“What is it?” Charles asked, his brow furrowing in irritation. “It’s not that tight.”

“A rib,” she gasped, her words choked and jagged. “You’ve broken—”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he snapped, waving her off. “You’ll recover.”

Recover.

The word hung in the air like an accusation. He watched her with cool detachment, his displeasure plain as he turned away and poured himself a glass of port. He didn’t help her one iota. He offered her not one drop of comfort. She was, in his eyes, a doll—valuable only when pristine. A doll that had disappointed him with what he deemed her weakness.

Something in Theresa shifted. The profitable façade she’d worn for so long had been blasted away by the pain. While the pain itself didn’t fade, it provided her with a singular level of clarity, an inner strength, which sharpened into a deadly resolve.

As he unwound the winch several notches, she sat up slowly, her breaths shallow, watching him sip his port, oblivious to her pain and fury.

“You might as well go. This—” he gestured at her broken body, her waist less artificial and more natural than he would like, “—won’t do anything for me.”

Theresa’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, a smile of hatred curling at her tormentor. “But Charles, I cannot have the night end like this, not after all your generosity. I wouldn’t be the woman I am without you.” This man had the power—but not the will—to raise her from the alleyways. “I’m sorry my body didn’t fit your beautiful corset, but please don’t dismiss me just yet. After all, the crack of an ivory switch, the screams of submission… is there any greater music of the night?”

His eyes rose. His attention sharpened. The toll of the long night faded as her words caused his breath to quicken. “I suppose I could treat you to a few rounds with the cane.” A sinister glimmer crossed his face before blossoming into a full-grown smirk. “Yes, yes. I shall do that.”

He crossed to his cupboard and opened the ornately carved doors, admiring his collection.

While Charles was distracted, Theresa reached into her reticule. The laudanum had been her companion long before Charles entered her life. She carried a small vial at all times—a remedy for sleepless nights and frayed nerves. She had relied on it ever more since meeting Charles but tonight it would serve a different purpose.

She emptied the entire vial into his port, swirling the bitter tincture invisibly into the ruby liquid with her finger before sucking the residue. The small amount would help dull her own pain.

She assumed the position on his four-poster bed, ignoring the searing agony in her chest as her ribs protested her arched back. She heard, rather than saw him drink the port.

“To the music of the night.”

There was a heavy thunk as the glass was returned to the nightstand. He gave no sign of noticing any difference in flavour.

Crack.

She gasped, her sharp intake of breath causing her ribs to flare with fresh pain.

Crack.

Crack.

…

Crack.

The final blow seemed almost gentle, a loving stroke with the cane. Then there was a thump as his body hit the floor.

Theresa rose to stand over him, watching as his breathing slowed but remained steady.

She undressed him, peeling off each layer of clothing as if it were his armour, leaving him completely exposed. The next part was the hardest—she had to get him onto the bed. Theresa almost blacked out from the pain in her ribs as she levered his corpulent body onto it. Turning to his cupboard of tricks, she found ropes and used them to suspend him between the bedposts. His head hung down, gently murmuring, briefly waking before falling back to sleep again. She gagged him, pulling the leather tight with practised fingers.

The corset lay on the floor, its intricate embroidery glinting under the lamplight. She worked quickly, manoeuvring his limp body into it with some difficulty. The winch clicked softly as she tightened the laces, each turn giving her a grim satisfaction. His chest rose and fell with increasing difficulty, his breathing became more shallow and laboured.

Charles stirred. His eyes fluttered open. Panic flashed across his face as he realised what was happening. He struggled weakly against the ropes.

She tightened it, one turn at a time. “What a wonderful shape,” Theresa said, her voice cold and steady as she gave the winch another turn. “The artisan who made this corset was a true master.”

She turned the winch again as his muted, breathless scream sounded through the gag. “Shush now. We must achieve perfection.”

She waited, watching with satisfaction as his struggles slowly diminished.

She smiled at him.

“Just one more turn.”

His eyes bulged as his body collapsed under the corset’s tension. The light in his eyes dimmed as his struggles ceased. She watched until he went still, the room falling silent save for the distant hum of London’s streets. The gaslight flickered, casting long shadows across his lifeless form, still suspended.

Theresa poured herself a fresh glass of port, the bitter liquid warming her throat as she stood over his body. The pain in her ribs flared with every breath, but she welcomed it now.

She dressed carefully, wrapping herself in her cloak. Taking his wallet and the valuables within reach, she knew it was time to disappear.

Theresa left the house without looking back, her footsteps steady on the rain-slicked cobblestones.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.