Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... enough. There was a courtyard nearby where she sometimes took customers, with a low wall that provided a little cover...but it was a courtyard just like that the latest woman had been murdered in. Right here in the alley would do. This one was too deep in his drink to complain. She turned her back, leaned into the wall, hiked her skirts up and presented her backside to his rough hands. It was a very cold night indeed; gooseflesh was the instant result. The sailor fumbled with his breeches and allowed a stream of drunken Liverpool curses when they caught on something, but eventually he managed it. Rose felt something press against her cheeks as he gave it a few encouraging strokes. She parted her legs more. She worried at first that he might be too corned to find the right spot, but after a second he slid in, eliciting a squeak of surprise that she managed to turn into an appropriately encouraging half-moan. The rough face of the wall scoured her palms as he pushed into her, hips thrusting so hard that he all but bounced off her backside. Rose knew every kind of man--every kind who came to the East End, anyway, and she wasn't convinced that the ones anywhere else were much different. The sailor was what she'd call a showoff, but one interested only in impressing himself, which lucky for him wasn't a difficult feat. He wasn't bad, all told, but it wouldn't have made a difference to her if he had been. What mattered wasn't which men were good and which were bad but which were ...

... easy and which were difficult. The sailor was easy, enamored as he was with his own thrusting cock, swollen up to press against the confines of Rose's easily accessible notch. She winced now and then; he was short but wide and coming at an odd angle, making it seem like he was filling her to the point of stretching. She gasped and grunted and swore in the right places (keeping her voice down more than usual tonight) and when he finished she felt it immediately, a spreading wetness accompanied by a quivering pulse in his tackle, and that was it. She righted herself and let out the sigh of relief she realized she'd been saving up all night. It was over. She could pay for her bed and get off the street. She didn't have to die yet. She felt like laughing but was afraid it might sound mad, and the sailor was still with her. He was busy hitching his pants back up. "By the way, love," he said when he was done. He reached into his coat... Here it comes, she thought. She wondered what the knife would look like when he pulled it out? What would it feel like? She imagined the blade sinking into her windpipe and the sound she would make trying to suck a breath around six inches of metal before the blood choked her. She realized now why no one ever reported screams; she couldn't have screamed if the queen herself had commanded it, even though it was the only thing in the world she wanted to do. All she could do was watch, with eyes wide. This was it… But when the sailor's hand reappeared ...