8. SOME MEN PAY IN COIN, THE FOOLISH ONES PAY IN BREATH
SOME MEN PAY IN COIN, THE FOOLISH ONES PAY IN brEATH
One of the quiet joys of owning my own business is choosing the hours.
We don’t open our doors to customers until late afternoon, giving Nell and I time to clean and stock the place.
It’s one of the few times of the day when I feel like the world slows down just enough for me to breathe.
The rest of the time, it’s a blur of bodies, money, and pleasure; an endless parade of raw, needy energy.
“Good morning, sweets,” I call out to Nell as she walks through the front door. The rhythmic clicking of her heels across the floor is oddly comforting, a signal that another day is about to begin.
“Mornin’,” she says with a tired but warm smile.
She looks like sleep barely touched her—just like me.
I glance at her from behind the bar, still focused on the whiskey glasses I’m washing, the scent of soap mixing with the burn of alcohol.
I meet her eyes for a moment and know she feels it too—that bone-deep weariness, the kind that clings to you when you live a life that’s always one breath ahead of empty.
“Did you get much sleep last night?” She asks while moving through the brothel, already knowing what my response will be.
“Not much, no,” I reply, keeping it light.
No use trading tired stories. If I were to ask her that question, I know the answer would be the same as mine.
“The sheets are hanging in the back,” I say, nudging the conversation forward.
“They should be dry by now. Could you do a quick run-through of the rooms upstairs for the girls and make sure they’re fully stocked on supplies? ”
As she nods and moves toward the stairs, I spot the bundle of newspapers she’s brought in and left on the counter—editions from New York, Chicago, San Francisco.
They’re always a few days behind, sometimes weeks, but they’re a little indulgence I allow myself: headlines from far-off places, stories of lives I’ll never live.
Most mornings I read through them before I touch a bottle or mop, grounding myself in someone else’s chaos before diving into my own. But today, I’d come in later than usual, worn thin and slow-moving, so I hadn’t had the chance.
“Mind putting those in my office drawer, Nell?” I ask, nodding toward the stack.
She reaches for them, and as she folds the top one in half, I catch a flash of bold type—SHOCKING SCANDAL—hovering above a blurred photograph of a gentleman in what looks like evening wear, mid-stride or mid-shame, it’s hard to tell.
My eyebrows lift, and I smile to myself. “I do love a good scandal,” I utter under my breath, more to the room than to her. “Remind me to read that later.”
She doesn’t look back, just chuckles softly and disappears upstairs.
By four o' clock, our tasks are done, and the girls start trickling in for what we half-jokingly call our pre-fuck ritual. This sacred rhythm we’ve carved into the bones of The Oily Cat feels like something holy.
A final exhale. Our last little moment of sisterhood before the lights dim and the real performance begins.
Violet is the first to arrive, her lace dress floating around her as if it were a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. It’s less a dress and more a statement, and Violet never misses the chance to make one.
I have a soft spot for her. She’s wild in all the right ways, a creature of instinct and impulse, the kind of girl who doesn’t bend for anyone. And in this line of work, that kind of defiance is more than charm—its armor.
Maeve follows soon after, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination as she slides onto one of the barstools.
Elona is last to join, tossing her coat behind the bar as she hurries over to meet the others, her eager energy contagious.
I pour five shots of whiskey, sliding them down the bar with practiced ease, making sure not a drop is wasted.
With the shot glasses set before us, I raise my own, my chest swelling with quiet pride.
I can’t help but drink in each of my girls, taking in their beauty, their grit, their fierce resilience.
I’ve watched them all rise from the streets, each one claiming her throne, queens of their own wild, unyielding domains.
And every time I take a moment like this to stop and look at them, I’m left breathless and in awe of the strength they carry.
“Here’s to the dicks, tits, and lips that you’ll ride tonight. May they know just how lucky they are to get a taste of this.” I say, with a playful wink.
“Whoo!” the girls yell in unison, their laughter filling the room like music. We slam our drinks back, the whiskey scorching our throats, lighting a fierce fire beneath our skin.
Maeve slams her palm down on the bar, steadying herself, her face snapping back to that cool, composed steel she wears so well. Next to her, Violet throws an arm in the air like she’s swinging an invisible lasso, a wild grin on her lips.
“Let’s stir up some trouble, girls—like a goddamn cattle stampede!” She hollers, earning an impressively theatrical eye roll from Nell, who mutters something under her breath about how it’s going to be a “long night,” though the corners of her mouth betray a smile.
At that moment the front door creaks open and Emil steps inside, boots heavy on the floorboards, his silhouette framed in sunlight.
“Emil!” Elona greets him, her voice sweet as honey, hands immediately on his shoulders for a quick kiss on the cheek.
Violet, Maeve, and I follow suit, each of us sharing the same affectionate greeting.
Nell’s the last to share a kiss, but it’s not on his cheek.
She presses her lips to his in a kiss that’s familiar and tender, full of the kind of love that blooms between soulmates.
“Evenin’, ladies,” Emil says, tipping his hat and depositing his coat behind the bar. “A man could get used to this treatment. Don’t go spoilin’ me now.”
Nell laughs, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “You’ll be begging for more soon enough.”
We spend the last hour running through our plan for the evening.
In the corner, the grandfather clock chimes, the melody resonating through the room, a gentle reminder that it’s time.
Emil makes his way toward the door, boots echoing softly on the worn floorboards.
He pauses, hand on the handle, before turning back at us. “You ladies ready?” He asks.
The answer is a resounding “Yes!”
Each of the girls has taken their position by now: Violet perches on the windowsill with her leg dangling off the edge, her lace dress rising to reveal the soft curve of her thigh.
Maeve lounges in her favorite chair, legs spread wide enough to send a clear message to any man brave enough to approach.
Elona stands, one strap of her dress teasingly hanging off her shoulder, ready to pounce on the first man who walks through the door, while I’m leaning against the banister, silently observing the strategy of it all, watching my girls prepare to do what they do best.
The first wave of men floods in, the ones who work down in the mines: regulars with familiar faces. We greet them all by name, our voices sweet and inviting, guiding them to the bar, where Nell waits with a smile and a stiff drink.
The music begins next. In the corner, a man settles at the piano and coaxes out a soft, soothing melody.
The sound fills the air, and Violet glides across the room, a drink already in hand.
She offers it to the man at the piano before easing down beside him on the cushioned bench.
Her fingers dance over the keys, each stroke seductively slow, a show of pure temptation.
She arches her back just enough so that the strap of her dress falls a little too far, her breasts pushing up and straining against the lace.
The man almost chokes on his beer, and I catch the look in his eyes, the same one I see in the eyes of so many men who walk through these doors.
It’s a hunger, an overwhelming desire to claim something that’s just out of reach.
Meanwhile, Elona is locked on to her target, a tall, broad-shouldered man whose abs, though sadly hidden beneath his shirt, are legendary enough to earn a reputation of their own.
Abs that look like they were carved from stone.
But it’s not his abs that we all talk about.
No, it’s the way his cock can go for hours, never tiring, never failing.
Why any woman would want that kind of endurance, I’ll never know.
But indeed, he’s a rare breed. A man who takes as much delight in giving as he does in taking.
Elona’s eyes glint with a knowing desire.
She’s been circling him like a cat for weeks, and today she’ll have her turn to claim him .
. . and she’ll most likely be walking gingerly for days after.
I take care of the business between them, making sure the price is agreed upon before Elona leads him up the stairs, a small, satisfied grin on her face as she takes him by the hand.
I’m about to return to my post when I feel a hand on my ass, followed by a pinch, and I sigh, already knowing what’s coming. Turning slowly, I face the man with the lusty eyes and the stupid confidence of someone who thought the rules didn't apply to them.
“Are you up for grabs?” He asks, voice dripping with arrogance.
I point to the wooden sign by the staircase. “Sir, can you go on ahead and tell me what rule number four says?”
He squints, brow furrowed, like reading was suddenly a monumental task. “A-and . . . n-no touching whiii—without pe-permission.”
“Good,” I say, my voice still sugary sweet. “Say it again, like you actually mean it.”
“And no touching without permission,” he repeats, a bit edgier this time, his voice losing that lazy slur.
“And below that, we have our consequences, Mr. . . . ?”
“Mr. Tiddly,” he says, puffing out his chest like the name means something.
“Mr. Tiddly,” I repeat with a razor-thin smile. “It’s clear that you’ve broken one of our rules. And we take rules very seriously at The Oily Cat.”
His eyes narrow. “C’mon now, it was just a little pinch. You’re really gonna get your knickers in a twist over that?” He huffs, rolling his eyes like a brat denied dessert. “You work in a whorehouse. Thought you girls liked a bit of rough.”
That earns a few sidelong glances from the other patrons.
I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a low simmer. “Isn’t it a bit extreme to touch a woman without her permission, Mr. Tiddly?”
“What’s extreme is you acting like some kind of queen,” he mutters, loud enough for the room to hear. “You think because you’ve got rules on a wall and a fancy bar, you’re better than the rest of us?”
I squared up to him. “No. But I know I’m better than you.”
His cheeks flush red, but he keeps going, digging in deeper. “What, you get one little business and now you think you’re some untouchable bitch?” He sputters. “News flash, sweetheart, underneath all this, you’re just another hole.”
Then he spits in my face and the room stills.
I don’t flinch. Instead, I wipe the saliva off with the back of my hand, then drag it across the hem of my skirt like it was nothing more than dust, never breaking eye contact.
His smirk is gone and that’s when I know, I’ve already won something he doesn’t even realize he’s lost. “Tsk-tsk, Mr. Tiddly,” I whisper, voice low and lethal, every syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ve just broken rule number three.”
I lean in, close enough for him to smell the metallic edge of my perfume. I say it slowly, savoring the moment like the first bite of something forbidden. “No. Back. Talk.”
His eyes dart, panic blooming on his face as he starts shaking his head, lips fumbling. “I didn’t mean, look, I didn’t know . . .”
“Oh, hush now,” I coo, my voice syrupy sweet. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
Behind him, Emil appears, as if summoned by the scent of fear.
Mr. Tiddly’s breath hitches, his fight folding in on itself like paper in fire, and I step back just slightly, giving them space. Leaving him to face his consequences.
Because that’s the thing about rules. They don’t mean much until someone pays the price for breaking them.
Emil’s hand wraps around Mr. Tiddly’s neck, his grip tightening until the man wheezes, eyes bulging.
“Second offense,” I say with cruel calm, “you’ll be left broken and bleeding in an alleyway.
” Emil nods once and drags Mr. Tiddly through the back door like he weighs nothing at all.
The door slams behind Emil and Mr. Tiddly, the final punctuation to a lesson well learned.
For a moment, the room is still, suspended in silence. Glasses pause in midair, jokes are left half finished, and even the music halts, the pianist’s hands frozen above the keys.
But then, like a wick catching flame, life returns.
The piano picks up again, soft at first, then swelling into a sultry, bluesy rhythm that breathes warmth back into the walls.
Violet gives a little shimmy where she stands, her smile curling like smoke.
“Well, that was exciting,” she purrs, swaying back toward her piano man, who looks appropriately terrified and aroused.
Elona cackles as she reappears at the top of the stairs, adjusting the strap of her dress with a satisfied glow. “Did I miss the fun, or was that just foreplay for the rest of the evening?”
Maeve lifts her whiskey glass, half full, untouched through the whole ordeal, and tosses it back in one smooth motion. “I give the whole show a solid eight outta ten. Points lost for spitting . . . too predictable.”
Nell leans over the bar, casually wiping down the wood like nothing happened. “Don’t worry, ladies, he won’t be returning. Emil doesn’t take out the trash unless he means to leave it somewhere far from our doorstep.”
I give a small smile then: my girls didn’t miss a beat. Storm or no storm, this house belongs to them. To us.
I pull a fresh bottle of whiskey from beneath the counter and refill everyone’s glass with a generous pour. The liquid splashes gold under the low lights, catching the glint of sequins, skin, and power.
“Alright, ladies,” I shout, raising my glass once more. “To soft beds, hard bodies, and a night that pays more than it takes.”
“Cheers!” They chorus, the room once again crackling with warmth and wickedness.
The Oily Cat slips right back into its rhythm, hips swaying, laughter reverberating, drinks flowing like sin in a bottle. More men pour in, all smiles and desperation, none the wiser that the fire they feel between their legs is matched only by the fury and grace of the women who run this place.
Outside, the world might be hard and cruel. But in here? We make our own rules.
And God help the man who dares forget them.