A TRUE GENTLEMAN KNOWS WHEN TO DIE QUIETLY #3
He’s sprawled out in the center of the bed while he slowly strokes himself, eager for my return. Eager to meet his maker, I think as a devious smile spreads across my face, a smile that he misinterprets entirely.
“I thought we could really have some fun tonight, Mr. Cromwell. Maybe test our limits a bit?” I suggest, reaching down to grab his ankle.
With swift, practiced fingers, I tie it to the bedpost using the first rope from the sack.
He kicks his feet in excitement, wild and eager, while I quickly mask the wave of revulsion that threatens to spill across my face.
Once his hands and ankles are securely bound to the bedposts, I climb on top of him, pulling the skirt of my dress up as I reach around to guide him into position before sliding down onto him. He lets out a satisfied moan when the entirety of him enters me.
“Pull down your top so I can see your tits,” he growls, and I tug the satin string cinching my bodice until it slips free, falling softly to my hips.
He watches my breasts bounce, licking his lips in desperation to bite them. “Do you want these?” I ask while letting him slip in and out of me.
“Please?” He begs, and I lean down in front of him just out of reach so he can feel the soft skin brush against his mouth.
He lets out an annoyed laugh that tells me that my teasing is making him angry. “I said please! You stupid bitch.”
I pause my rhythm and look down at him with displeasure on my face. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Cromwell. That is no way to speak to a lady. Especially one who has you in such a vulnerable position,” I scold.
“You are no lady!” He spits. “You’re just a whore!”
I nod in agreement. “You’re right,” I purr, letting the words linger. “Now, how about we make good on our arrangement . . . and have a little fun? I’ve got a trick I’ve been dying to try. If you don’t like it, I’ll untie you—no harm done, full refund. Deal?
He nods, curiosity flashing in his eyes as he runs through every possible way the night could end. But I’m betting there’s one possibility he hasn’t considered, the one that’s about to become reality.
“Good.” I keep riding him, even though he’s already starting to soften from the lack of stimulation.
My hand slides up to his neck, fingers curling around the spot just beneath his jaw—right where the pulse flutters.
I press there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who’s in control.
“Do you like that?” My voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s steel beneath the softness.
He nods slightly, a small, hesitant motion that only fuels my intent.
“The neck’s full of pressure points,” I murmur, fingers gliding along his throat.
“Delicate little switches, tucked beneath skin and bone.” I drag my hand lower.
“Higher up, it’s comfort. Lower . . .” My fingers find the spot.
“And it becomes something else entirely.” I shrug, casual despite the grip tightening around his neck.
My tone flattens, almost clinical. “It’s all about where you squeeze and how long you hold.
Most men never realize how easy they are to unravel.
Just two fingers and a little nerve.” I press down harder, letting the full weight of my body settle into my grip, squeezing tight enough to cause his body to twist in panic. “How about now?” I ask, voice cold.
He shakes his head, his eyes clouding with worry.
A subtle, but unmistakable, crack in his confidence blooms before me, and to my surprise, it brings me a quiet thrill, a burst of satisfaction that warms the edges of my cold, dark heart.
I release him slowly, fingers easing away, giving him just enough space.
Then, I refuse him even the mercy of a glance away as I reach behind me for the burlap sack—its coarse fibers snagging lightly on the fine weave of my silk gloves—right where I left it, nestled at the foot of the bed between his legs.
“Did you happen to notice the rules posted around the brothel?” I ask, my tone almost offhand.
He hesitates, throat working before he mutters a rough, reluctant, “Yeah.”
“Good!” I say, voice encouraging. “Just wanted to make sure you knew what was comin’.”
I don’t give him a chance to scream. I throw the sack over his head, the rough fabric suffocating his words before they can leave his mouth.
My palm presses hard under his chin, forcing his teeth to grind into his tongue as the poison begins to work.
A faint, blood-tinged foam starts to seep through the fabric as his body jerks in desperation, but it’s already too late.
I tighten my thighs around his hips and torso, locking him in place beneath me as his breath turns ragged, then shallow, then still.
Finally, the struggle fades, leaving only silence as I exhale and relax my hold, give myself a moment before standing.
I survey the room, taking in the all-too-familiar scene before setting to work.
With the help of Emil, my bouncer and good friend, Mr. Cromwell is out of The Oily Cat just as quickly as he entered it.