L
luvablelilmonster
Guest
Original poster
It was yet another chilly night. Pamela Swynford De Beaufort- or Pam, as her johns and girls called her- strode through the cobblestone streets of 1905 London, on her way to the brothel she owned. It was getting dark and a mist was stirring gently in the thick air. She picked up her pace a bit to cross in front of a carriage, the sound of the horse's hooves and the wooden wheels on the street clacking in her ears. As she stepped up onto the stone curb and continued up the stairs, pulling out her key, she could sense someone following her. She had taught herself to listen for a second pair of footsteps over the past year or so because it was a useful trait for a working girl to have. It made her ready for anything. After a few moments, she spun in her tracks and eyed the man who had kept to the shadows with her stormy blue eyes.
"May I help you?" She tried to keep her tone steady, but her heart was now racing in her throat. Would she die tonight? What would this man do to her? She watched him step from the shadows, a plain grey suit and bowler hat adorning his stout figure. He reached up and tipped his hat only a fraction of an inch, his voice deepened and gravelly, almost as if he were trying to disguise it. The hand that he did not use stayed in his pocket, possibly concealing a weapon.
"Beg pardon. You are... quite lovely."
Pam took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice a bit more even, body tensing, ready to run or claw at flesh to fight for her life. "I'm off the clock. Come by tomorrow, we open at eight." She turned away, making the fatal mistake of taking her eyes off the stranger. Almost immediately she felt his rough grip on her arm and she was pinned to a cold, unforgiving metal lamp post with a gloved hand gripping her neck and fiery dark eyes glaring at her from under that damn bowler hat. The stranger growled at her, his voice menacing as Pam struggled and cried out, hoping for help.
"That's right, whore," he finally pulled his unused hand from the pocket of his jacket and flipped out a switchblade, the knife gleaming under the lamplight. "I like it when you struggle." He pressed the blade to her cheek, ready to cut her open when Pam relaxed, her eyes still wide, taking the man in. For a moment, they just stood there, staring at one another, then suddenly there was a whoosh of passing wind and the grip on her neck loosened considerably. The man fell away and Pam gasped for air, turning to where the man was now doubled over on the ground, blood pouring from his neck. Pam could feel the blood drain from her face as she slowly looked over the quickly dieing man, then her eyes slid up the body of her rescuer, a tall, pale man in a tophat, holding his bare hand up to his lips. His long slender fingers were covered in blood and Pam whimpered gently as she saw him slide his bloody thumb into his mouth, licking some of the blood off. She didn't know whether to be afraid or greatful, so she just stood there, watching him with slightly widened eyes.
(OOC: I must warn you, not all of my posts will be this long.)
"May I help you?" She tried to keep her tone steady, but her heart was now racing in her throat. Would she die tonight? What would this man do to her? She watched him step from the shadows, a plain grey suit and bowler hat adorning his stout figure. He reached up and tipped his hat only a fraction of an inch, his voice deepened and gravelly, almost as if he were trying to disguise it. The hand that he did not use stayed in his pocket, possibly concealing a weapon.
"Beg pardon. You are... quite lovely."
Pam took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice a bit more even, body tensing, ready to run or claw at flesh to fight for her life. "I'm off the clock. Come by tomorrow, we open at eight." She turned away, making the fatal mistake of taking her eyes off the stranger. Almost immediately she felt his rough grip on her arm and she was pinned to a cold, unforgiving metal lamp post with a gloved hand gripping her neck and fiery dark eyes glaring at her from under that damn bowler hat. The stranger growled at her, his voice menacing as Pam struggled and cried out, hoping for help.
"That's right, whore," he finally pulled his unused hand from the pocket of his jacket and flipped out a switchblade, the knife gleaming under the lamplight. "I like it when you struggle." He pressed the blade to her cheek, ready to cut her open when Pam relaxed, her eyes still wide, taking the man in. For a moment, they just stood there, staring at one another, then suddenly there was a whoosh of passing wind and the grip on her neck loosened considerably. The man fell away and Pam gasped for air, turning to where the man was now doubled over on the ground, blood pouring from his neck. Pam could feel the blood drain from her face as she slowly looked over the quickly dieing man, then her eyes slid up the body of her rescuer, a tall, pale man in a tophat, holding his bare hand up to his lips. His long slender fingers were covered in blood and Pam whimpered gently as she saw him slide his bloody thumb into his mouth, licking some of the blood off. She didn't know whether to be afraid or greatful, so she just stood there, watching him with slightly widened eyes.
(OOC: I must warn you, not all of my posts will be this long.)