Beggar

Prologue

30, August 1890

The walls of the inn were fragile, and the frail wallpaper vibrated against the wall with every rumble of thunder from the storm. The man inches inside me didn't hear, these men never hear when they're horny. Only the sound of my breathing and their grunting. For me, it's hard to ignore, much less focus. The storm reminds me of the long walk I have to take back home in the rain, and the turn off made the sex dry and drawn-out. The man's cock started to feel like pulling a tight sleeve repeatedly over your arm, but the grunts he made made me think that he might somehow not mind. 

Or that somehow, like the thunder, he didn't notice the friction either.

In my head I thought of other small and pretty things for my own pleasure. Laying my head on his stomach, his blood in my hair with my dagger between his ribs. Perhaps begging pleas in my ear, sobbing breaths. The skin between my thighs slowly soaked and warmed, and the man was stroking in and out of me quicker. I moaned his name to fill the quiet in the room where the storms rumble did not. Finally, his hips bucked in ecstasy, and he got that stupid look all men get when they're about to cum. My back pushed against the dagger tucked away in my skirt as I was fucked against the wall, and I cringed as the look on the mans face hardened when he reached his peak.

Finally. I just had to finish the bastard and I could go home.

"Cum for me, Briar." I gripped his shoulders and traced my teeth against his neck. Those pretty broad shoulders rolled as he threw his head back and groaned.
My client released, and didn't protest when I gripped the velvet on his suit, wrinkling the plain material for the after sex conditions my men make their bitch wives iron over, just for them to come back to me.

My breath synced with my heartbeat as he slid out of me, buckling up his pants and resting a polished hat back on his head.

"You were slow tonight." He said.

Perhaps before I though of my bare breasts covered in his blood as I lie on top of him, tucked away where nobody would find my knife dug into his groin,
"You're always a rush to keep up with, darling."

Men are hopeless. Really: hiring a whore for their pleasure and expecting the same in return. For me, fucking for pleasure is fucking for blood; there's no enjoyment to he had unless I have free roam of the body.

I stitched up my corset.

His moist palms popped against the leather on his wallet as he pulled out my money.
"I'm going to ignore that and assume your focus watching the storm had an impact on our session."

Well, I suppose he was right in a way, I had a craving that the storm urged on. The lighting would cover me, the rain would wash me, even with these thin walls the mattress was thick enough to choke down screaming.

No, not this man. If I killed my regulars I'd be struck by debt much faster than any lightning could hit. My little apartment is barely standing on its own, not with the help of my earnings. Briar dropped his money in a roll and watched when they landed at my feet.

Asshole.

"No tip, then?" I traced my lips with a gloved hand.

"I'll start tipping again when you stop faking our sessions." And that was that.

Bastard. Ungrateful bastard.

"I've seen your wife around, that bitch you carry on your arm through the streets, grazing her backside. Do you ever think of the rhythm in my voice when you fuck her slowly? Maybe I can ask her, thats what marriage is about, truth. She must know you come down here." I slowly inched my hand to the hilt of my dagger. There would be no harm in removing regulars I did not value.