I didn’t have a granny to tell me fairy tales when I was little. No, I had a father, who was a killer by nature, but had a soft spot for love. When he actually told me stories, they were old…and always bloody. Sometimes I wonder when he got to the point of realizing that he didn’t want this life for me, and maybe blamed himself for it being too late to change it. I remember one in particular about an old Irish woman who died in Belfast, that lived to be over a hundred and no one found out about how many men she’d murdered until they found her diaries years later.
Old Agnes Murphy.
She sold herself to men and poisoned them for their money. Sometimes she’d sleep with them…sometimes she’d spike their whiskey before they even had a chance to sit down on her bed. She didn’t get rich quickly enough for it to be noticeable…she played it safe. And played it well. Well enough that she got away with over eighty murders in her long life…and died with a smile.
So…tell me how I didn’t make it twelve hours before Romanov found me out.
I’d plugged my curling iron up in the wall behind my headboard and set it on the floor under the bed. When my first patron came knocking, I sugared it up well. Walked a circle around him, trailing my fingertip over his skin. Showed him the crotch of my red, lacy thong while I arched my back and slid down the adjacent wall. He didn’t suspect shit when I slipped my dress off and clacked over to the bed to climb on top of him. I leftmy crimson lipstick all over his neck—right before I wrapped the cord around it and pulled both ends to the point of snapping.
He was a pretty one.
Even prettier when I shoved the curling iron into his open mouth and listened to it sear the meat off his fucking throat. This one will live rent-free for a while.
Mikhail barged in once the hour was up, and I was sitting at the vanity that got delivered, primping in the mirror. He threw a fit, said some stupid shit in Russian and then asked me why the hell I did such a thing.
As fucking ever.
I very kindly asked himwhy the hellhe cares? He got his money. What does it matter if I didn’tactuallysleep with the prick? It had seemed to calm him down a bit, but…I got sent to bed without supper.Booooo. I also got denied breakfast and lunch today. I’m fucking starving, and the sun is down. He’s no doubt gonna expect me to play nice tonight…on an empty stomach as my punishment. Guess it could be worse. Way worse.Whatever.
“Did we learn our lesson,moya zaika?”
Oh, great. He’s shutting the door behind him. Guess I’m about tofind outhow much worse.
“Yes, Mikhail. Is this the part where I get my ass spanked for being a bad girl?” I stood up from my vanity, and he stared at my tits, raking his eyes over every inch of me. Now I wanna puke.
“Pickle…was better than you expected, yes?”
“Pleasantly surprised,” I lied. Lied myassoff.
He unbuckled his belt and wore a sick smirk while I tried not to let him hear my teeth cracking. “Tonight…you work. And you start with me. Tonight, you will ride myxuj, until I think you learn lesson.”
“You’re not so bad.” I put on a pretty smile, relaxing my eyelids. Another lie. Motherfucker is like an ingrowntwathair…ugly…painful…infectious, and hard to get rid of. “I really found you fucking disgusting before…but seeing as I’m known to be a spoiled little princess with daddy issues, you can see how little it takes for me to attach myself to someone like you.” I sauntered toward him and traced the waist of his slacks, pulling his buttoned shirt out of it while I fidgeted with the baubles.
“You think I’m stupid?” His eyes suggest he’s not buying it. I’ll try again.
“Sometimes,” I giggled. “But sometimes you get it right. Look around you. Healthy girls…healthy profit.” I took his hand and flattened it to the swell of my tit. “You think I look pretty, don’t you? That’s all you…trustingme. That’s what gets me off.That…and getting whatever I want.” I popped one button open at a time, and looked down, finding a little Russian ink here and there, and a battle scar that I’m pretty sure…wasappendicitis. Not some knife fight like a real man.
What a fucking geezer.
“You like red, yes?”
I smiled and shrugged his shirt down his shoulders, kissing his neck. “It’s my favorite.” My mind flashed back to a stubbed toe, a bag of Bugles, a coffin with too many pillows and a girl that might as well be my own blood.
“Color of passion, sex and blood. I like it. Continue.”
The only person in the world that’s ever cared to know the real me…without all this. I have to get outta this place. I have to make it right.
I wanna go home.
I helped Mikhail out of his pants and gripped his cock, easing him onto the bed and straddling him as I draped my long satin train around us. “I find myself having to ask this a lot, but…do you forgive me?” I asked, kissing him and trying my best not to vomit into his mouth. “For the curling iron incident?”
“Perhaps…if you make it worth forgiving.”
“I think I could swing that.” I dragged my nails lightly down his chest and he shivered, taking me in when I sat up straight. “Roll over onto your belly. I’ll show you what my mother used to do to soothe me.” Let’s see if Romanov’s done his homework…or if the haze I’m putting him in makes him forget I’ve never had a fucking mother.
“I don’t need soothing. I want you to fuck me.”
“Ah, but see…Jonas wanted to sell me to you because he knows I’m the best. You think you came hard in my mouth? Imagine all the other shit I can do. You do need soothing.You just don’t know it yet.” I leaned down and bit one of his nipples, smiling when he hissed and cringing when his cock rubbed up against my twat.“Roll over, Daddy,”I whispered.
