ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ| Dark Erotica ⛓

And Now For The Rules

Holy crap, hot damn, so that wasn't the most difficult thing I've ever wrote at all. Phew, I'm fanning my face. It's a chonker of a chapter, but I found it impossible to cut it down, next ones will be bite sized :) I'll come back and edit this in the next week or so, so sorry for any mistakes ;)

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Let it be known, 

that I, 

Holly Quinn, 

will unabashedly admit, 

like facts. 

Now, that ain't particularly queer, 'cause everyone loves a good fact.

There ain't no such thing, as a useless fact. 

No, ma'am.

They didn't call me 'the factoid' for nothing,

although now I think on it, I'm not too sure if that was a compliment. 

Anyway, thought aside;

In the year of 1719, prisoners in Paris were offered freedom on the condition they would marry a prostitute and move to Louisiana.

A little later, Marie Antoinette was guillotined, in 1793, I'm sure, and after her bouffant plopped wetly into her still squirting fountain, a fella picked it up and showed it to the crowd, crying "Vive la République!"

If you know what that means, 

well done, 

'cause my Momma would have beat me if I spoke a word of French. 

I existed somewhere between those two pieces of information Alan The Enormous told me.

His witticisms cost me four pieces of fudge and invigorated my fear of mushrooms. 

Point in question, never listen too closely to men in togas, especially when you find 'em at the race track. Those grape eating assholes. 

But you're not here to read about Alan, are you? Heh. Twisted little shit. 

Or learn about the Latrine Disaster of 1184.

And no matter what mundane truths bounced around my brain, existing only to distract me, there was no escaping Mister Vordens introduction into the rules of his whoredom.

My back hurt, blame almost three decades in the saddle, biting splinters shooting through my ankles, blame walking from Galveston to North Dakota. 

Still, 

would you be dumb enough to not stay down? 

 I was a glutton for punishment, but I've never been stupid. 

So, despite his rigorous fuck yous that left me feeling a little throat fucked, I had kneeled.

I was still kneeling while tit—swinging naked. 

Sand in my throat, pulse scuttling, assuming a supplicant position supported by the knees, all for an act of submission.