Jack
My perfect little Polly. I’ve ruined her. Defiled her.
She doesn’t seem to mind. My cock spreads streams of pre-ejaculate inside of her, creating a slick sheath of binding muscle that’s far tighter than her cunt, and now nearly as wet. We move together, my growls and her harsh, high-pitched cries speeding me towards the edge. I can picture my cum flowing from this second opening and satisfaction fills me.
She is thoroughly mine.
In my own haze of lust, I try to remember my wife. My wife! My treasure, one perfect for me. My fingers spar with hers, inside her quim, across her bead, pressing her fingers deeper inside her tunnel so she can feel my cock moving against them, separated by thin, pink walls. “You are the very best wife,” I say suddenly. “A queen. My queen. And we shall have our own little kingdom, you and I.”
“Yes, . Yes! This house and you, that’s all I need. All I’ve ever wanted,” she whispers. She kisses me back, her tongue the aggressor, sliding into my mouth, taming me with one touch as much as I’ve tamed her with my words and my powers.
I burst inside of her and feel her walls dancing their familiar, convulsing dance.
“Now, you will be a good husband,” Polly says in a surprisingly firm voice, “and strip these sheets while I run a bath. We’re going to have a very busy day, Mr. Springton.”
“I look forward to it—Mrs. Springton.”
THE WORLD SEEMS A GLORIOUS place today. Polly tells me it is because spring has finally sprung and the sky is blue. Polly says she might even hear a cuckoo near our home, something that rarely happened near Bunson’s Home for Unwanted Urchins. She is so excited by this that I want to go out and buy her all the pretty birds in cages so she can hear them sing whenever she wants.
“That is a sweet thought, but the money you have would be better served by buying a few dozen pairs of good boots and shoes with thick soles.”
“I shall buy you any shoes you like,” I say.
“Not for me! For the little ones.” Polly puts her arm through mine and hugs it close to her breast as we stroll. She’s in lilac lace, a string of pearls at her throat.
My cum would look far prettier there, sliding between her soft, luscious globes.
“The little ones. Fine. Pick them out. I believe I saw a shoemaker somewhere south of—”
I stop.
Constables are everywhere in their dark blue-black uniforms, marring the end of the Grosvenor Road. Polly clutches my arm.
“.”
“Not my work,” I hiss, and I continue marching us past.
There is a crowd gathering, and the police disperse them as best they can, but gossip runs riot among well-dressed servants and the occasional matron and merchant.
“The old lady what’s sister fell out of the window. Did herself in.”
My keen ears hear whispers that Polly cannot. She’s pulling away from me, pushing through the crowd. “Polly!” I call, but she’s away, gloved hand tapping someone’s shoulder.
“Martha! Martha, it’s me, Polly!”
Martha turns around and reveals a stunned, tired-looking face that must’ve been quite stunning once, with gingery hair frizzing out from under a plain black bonnet. “It never is! Polly! I haven’t seen you in—”
“At least five years! Oh, you’ve found work in service.” Polly clasps the girl’s hands.
“I should say I did— finally . I worked at the button factory until last year, and then the manager thought I’d make a nice sort of helper for his old parents, now that they’ve moved up a bit in the world. I’m the maid of all work, and the cook bullies me and the gardener pinches my bum, but it’s a far, far sight better than old Bunson’s!” Martha giggles and squeezes Polly’s hands like she’s spotted a long-lost sister. “And you? What are you doing, dressed up so fine— Polly!” Martha gasps and lifts up Polly’s hand with a soft squeal. “Married! Clever girl!”
“Oh, I should say lucky and blessed more than clever,” Polly’s smile is tight. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m supposed to pick up the old girl’s dress, but the shop is closed. Both the old girls who run it are dead! One an accident, and one offed herself. I don’t know which is which, but I only hope it was the older one, the one with a face like a pig’s arse, what met with a messy end.”
“Martha!”
“She didn’t like gingers, or servants with a voice louder than a mouse’s. I’ve been wishing the missus would pick a different shop, and now she’ll have to.” Martha rubs her hands in delight. “But of course—”
Polly stiffens. “What? Both?”
“That’s right. Three days apart, tragic!”
Polly’s eyes land on mine and what I see is not the tender, docile Polly of earlier in the day, or even the timid yet brave victim I first “hired.” I stride over and link my elbow through hers. “Polly. Introduce me to your friend, dear.”
“This is Martha. She was at Bunson’s when I was younger. Much younger.”
“We grew up together, ‘bout the same age and all.” Martha’s vocal quality shifts, becomes coarser, and letters fall from words. “Init funny that you lasted longer with old Bunson than I did? He got his leg over and tossed me out the day after. Guess you escaped before all that.”
“Only just,” Polly says faintly, her arm rigid against mine. “Why are the police here if it was a suicide? Why so many ?”
Martha shrugs, then whispers, “I suppose it seems worth looking into when two sane, respectable sorts keel over like this, so close together. Although, I did hear that young constable over there—the one with the floppy ears like a spaniel—he said there were two cups and saucers found on a little table near the window.”
“Those could have been left there from the other day. People might not clear up when they’re grieving.”
“And someone else said a man was asking for the shop and that they heard screaming. I say she went mad, off her head, but the merchants down this end of the road are all in arms. Say it’ll hurt the trade. Never will!” Martha scoffs. “Never seen this quiet bit of town so bloody packed.”
Polly pulls her arm from mine. “It was good to see you, Martha. Steer clear of Bunson’s, won’t you? Eric Bunson must be in charge now, and he’s just as dangerous as his brother to my way of thinking.”
“I’ll never set foot near that place, not for a thousand pounds!” Martha declares, then groans. “I suppose it’s home again and a devil of a time explaining that the shop is shut and the owners have popped their clogs.” The redhead waves and strides off.
“The shoemaker is further ahead,” I murmur, guiding Polly along, but she doesn’t reply.
I didn’t mind her cheerful silence when I first brought her home, and then I found I quite enjoyed her fearful, breathless quiet as she learned who and what I was. This silence is a pestilence and a plague. It eats me.
Is she going to be like this every time I eat an old lady?
I quite prefer the beefsteak... although her steak and kidney pie will always be my favorite. “Can we have steak and kidney pie again?” I ask.
“Whatever you like,” she answers in a flat voice.
I shake her. Only ruffians shake their wives, I’m sure, but I’m so much worse than a common ruffian. “None of that. What good is my sparing your throat if you won’t use it.”
“Did you kill the other one?” Polly demands in a rushed whisper, stopping and pulling her arm from mine with a fierce glare.
I love it. I love when she shows that rebellious spirit. The spirit that ran from her “lord and master” Bunson, the spirit that stamped her food at the rudeness of the dressmakers, the spirit that dares to look a killer in the eye and challenge him. “I told you I didn’t. When would I have had the chance?”
“When I slept.”
“But I don’t lie to you. Why would I tell you that I ate the one and not the other?” I ask in an undertone.
Her glare softens. “I... I don’t know. You wouldn’t, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” It is my turn to glare. “Have I ever lied? I told you I was a beast, a killer, that I wouldn’t take my boots off lest you see my hooves. Whether you believed me or not, I didn’t lie. I may have been somewhat economical with the truth. Even the night I rescued you from that loathsome oaf, I told you I had a better position for you. I did. In small pieces, resting in my stomach.”
The fact that Polly doesn’t run, scream, or slap my face for the horrors I say to her shows that she has more mettle than most humans on this foul plane.
“I know,” is all she says. “You didn’t lie. I’m sorry. I just thought... I think it seems odd, that’s all. Two cups? A man asking for the shop and then she dies so shortly afterward? People hearing her screams...”
“She might have been murdered, Polly. Humans kill each other, too, and not for sustenance, for petty things like jealousy and drunkenness. In my defense—not that I need one—Flameheels have no other natural prey in our realm. We don’t eat often, nor could we, even if we needed to. Imagine starvation being all you know, and then you enter a realm full of plenty, where food surrounds you, where the papers report the killings of humans every day, where you hear of deaths daily. All you think at first is that the food is going to waste. And then... Then, you begin to live among them. Then, you learn that you can live off of other beasts, the cows and sheep and pigs that you never see in my world.” My steps are fast as my words pour out, and I drag Polly with me, my heels clicking, spurting, raising me up in the air on every other step, bobbing us through the crowds and past cabs and horses. The horses see me as I truly am and whinny, starting in their traces, but the rest of humanity stares right through me as if I don’t exist. When I stop, we are in an alley that leads to a lane of grander shops, and Polly’s lips are trembling and her cheeks are flushed from running to keep up with me. Only belatedly do I think of how sore she must be from all we’ve done for nearly all of the last three days. “Then, I met you. A fighting spirit, a trusting nature, and a superb cook. I... I give myself to you as thoroughly as you’ve given yourself to me, Polly. These teeth and claws are yours, as much as I am loathe to say so. I will be your tamed beast so that you never doubt.”
Polly leans forward and kisses me hard, until I’m breathless, dizzy, and don’t know if I truly need air to breathe, as I don’t need food and water to exist. “I give those teeth and claws back. I am sorry I doubted. Only promise me that you will never kill unless it's needful. That’s all that I ask. I couldn’t bear it if they took you away from me,” Polly’s cheeks are damp against mine. “If they catch you, they’ll hang you, .”
“And I will rip the rope from the gallows, Polly, and fly to your arms. We’ll escape somewhere far across the sea if we have to, across the world.” My heart thrills that she loves me. Loves me still.