Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... passed them off as reproductions of the crime scenes. People complained, but they still paid to see it. When they held a funeral for one of the new victims, the footways were crowded five deep to see her elmwood coffin (a gift from the funeral home) make its trip to London Cemetery. Some of the women carried infants in one arm and strewed flowers on the grave with the other. Even the roughest looking men doffed their caps as she rode by. Weeks passed without another murder, but no one relaxed. This wasn't the end yet. It couldn't be. This was about the time Rose came to stay with Mary. Mary lived in a room on Miller's Court, a place with just two windows (one of them broken), a table, a bed, and a fireplace. It wasn't much, but warmer than a corner. And, more importantly, it had a door that locked. Mary's young man had walked out because of her drinking and her going out to work, so she took Rose in. "I feel safer with someone else here," she explained. "And you're not like the other girls who work." Which meant that Rose did not drink, unlike Mary. Two drinkers should not live together, but one was fine if the other person allowed for it, which Rose did. It would be winter soon, after all. There was another reason too: The rent was four sterling a week, and Rose could work for it. Customers came knocking (Mary didn't go out at nights anymore--no one did if there was anything else they could do--but her men knew they could come find her) more often if there was more than one ...

... girl to choose from and they wouldn't have to wait until the last fellow was done. Most of the men came for Mary, of course, as she was the young one and the pretty one, but there was enough for both. More than Rose had seen even before the killings, truth be known. And here, behind four walls and a door, they felt safe. The killer always did his work out on the street. Tonight's final customer had a particular request. Rose was unsure about it but Mary was game, and anyway he was paying extra. He sat in a chair by the fire (which was burning low despite the cold night) while the two women sat on the bed half-dressed and, tentatively at first, kissed. Rose wasn't sure what she'd expected it to be like, but in the end it was little different from kissing a man. Mary's body (shortly pressed against her own, drawing an approving hum from the customer) was soft and lithe, true, but Rose had been with men whose bodies felt little different in that regard. Hard ones, soft ones, fat ones, short or tall, young and old ones: she knew it all. What was different were the curves. Whenever she put her hands someplace expecting to feel one thing she instead felt something a little bit different. It was strange, but not unpleasant. She'd thought at first that she would simply close her eyes and imagine she was kissing a man, but that turned out to be harder than it sounded (particularly since, when the time came, she could think of no man she wanted to kiss). Instead she let herself think ...