Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... would burn her. When it was done he went off with what felt like the pop of a champagne cork inside her. A feeling like a giddy hiccup fluttered up, as if she were drunk. In the panting aftermath he looked unsure what to do, so she unspooled herself from him, kissed him underneath the ear and, after a few seconds to catch her own panting breath, said: "Put your pants on. Run home. And look after yourself." When he was gone Rose straightened herself up. She did not know why she'd done that, except that at the time she'd wanted to. It was not because he'd "saved" her from anything, although there was a certain charm to his stammering heroism. She had just felt the desire--fleeting but pronounced--and acted on it. It left her bemused now, but she reminded herself that it was a natural thing. And anyway, it's not as if she was going to do any real business tonight. In the end, she felt pleased. The man with the beard had not been the killer. It had been weeks since the body in Hanbury Street and, though the neighborhood had been a roiling cauldron ever since, nothing had really happened. The sun would come up soon and Rose was still alive. Maybe it was time to-- And then she heard it: A hysterical voice crying in the dark. It said: "Murder! Murder! Murder!" *** Two in one night this time. The first had her throat slit on Berner Street. The second was cut apart in Mitre Square, and again the killer had apparently taken some pieces with him. Every square foot of the East End had ...

... been crawling with policemen, but as usual no one had seen a thing. A ghost might as well have been doing the murders. The buzz around the neighborhood became a rumble. People grabbed up newspapers so fast they almost took the newsman's arm off. The killer--or someone claiming to be the killer--was writing the news agencies letters now, even little poetry that every man and woman and child soon knew by heart. Sales in locks, knives, and clubs went through the roof. Men of the neighborhood, as angry with the police as the killer, took to wandering in semi-organized mobs, armed and prepared to set on anyone who looked halfway like someone they thought was behind it all. Sometimes they found someone. Sometimes more than one in a night. The vigilance committees offered a reward of 1,200 pounds (Rose‘s jaw dropped when she heard the sum) for any information leading to an arrest. The police offered a full pardon for any accomplice willing to turn the killer in. No one came forward. Things got worse. A butcher's apprentice in the neighborhood cut his own throat, explaining in a letter that he was afraid the police or the mobs were "after him for the murders." A housewife only a few blocks away hanged herself in despair. Her griefstricken husband said that she'd been able think about nothing but the murders since news got around, and these latest were too much for her. Some were quick off the mark: A man who owned a waxwork nearby took a bucket of red paint to a few of his figures and ...