FicWad

Author's P.O.V.

The cool morning air slowly nudged London awake, slipping through windows left ajar and beneath doorways. Summer had passed and now Autumn was wrapping upon every door to start the day. The trees had begun to change from a vibrant green into a sickly yellow. The upper class of society roused first, putting on their best seasonal wear and enjoying their luxury. Noble women elaborately dressed in slightly thicker gowns, adorning their hair with the latest accessories and pins. Powdered faces and painted lips reflected in many mirrors as modest necklines were adorned with fabulous jewels and ribbons. The men dressed in the finest three-pieced suits, tucking scented handkerchiefs in their jacket pockets and combing their hair back in a respectable manner. The rest of London awoke with aching backs and rough hands from the previous days work. They began tidying up their shops; Women began sending their husbands or children off to work with meager lunch pails of simple but tasty food cooked with love, kisses on their foreheads and secure hugs keeping them warm.



In the red light districts, however, prostitutes of both genders were just going to sleep. Unloading the few or many pounds they'd earned that night, they let themselves drift off into a dreamless sleep. Brothel owners shooed drunken stragglers off their doorsteps, collecting their keep and locking their doors for the morning. Free agents, prostitutes without pimp or brothel retreated back to their ramshackle homes careful not to wake their children or just plain bombarding through the door to an empty house to face the sins that the day brought to light.

Diticia was no different. She been awake all night tending to the needs of clientele and whore alike, bringing alcohol and changing bed sheets soiled in excrement of all sorts. She worked quickly and soundly, staying out of everyone's way as she carried out endless tasks. She didn't want to risk another flogging for spilling a drink or not tying a corset tight enough to conceal the milky fat of a courtesan further into her years. She often found it ironic that her name derived from the Latin word for fertility when that was the absolute last thing any woman in the house wanted. They went to vast extremities trying to prevent children ranging from risky abortion procedures to anti-conceptual remedies proscribed by shady doctors and folklore alike.



The girl was more than happy to work her fingers to the bone, however, if it meant she would never have to bed even a single one of the disgusting men that frequented her mistress Andromeda's brothel. She despised them, not just because she was well aware of the sinful occurrences behind closed doors, but because she was appalled that they could betray the loyal families that awaited their return with trust and love that she so craved. And yet, here the men of London came to satisfy their sick desires or get a quick fuck between their wives pregnancies. It made her almost sick with rage when she would go to town for supplies and see the very same men happily carrying on with their lives and families as if they had not just been inside of a filthy slut mere hours before. Personally, she would rather never be with a man, never to experience the sickening sensations of being used repeatedly. She didn't hate men, but merely was put off of the idea of ever being with one, as she wasn't exactly one a man would choose to marry.



In her eyes, her appearance wasn't one that would turn many heads for a good reason. Though, she was beautiful, the abandoned child of some mulatto whore and a foreign man along his travels. She had often been asked to join the harem, her exotic looks sure to make a sum: dark and thick ebony locks that fell to her shoulders in a mass, childish heart-shaped face, doe-like almond eyes, light brown skin, full pink lips, large breasts, shapely backside, curvy waist and wide-set hips that were hidden beneath her skirts along with her welcoming legs. At nearly eighteen years of age, she only became more graceful with the passing year. She was neither hated nor loved, skimming along the fringes of society and never asking for more.



Kneeling on sore knees before a wooden bucket, Diticia began to wring lukewarm water from the bedsheets she had spent hours scrubbing blood and semen stains from. Droplets of the water gathered around the knees of her slightly damp dress, the faded red cotton fabric of the simple gown absorbing a few. Her tawny brow was damp with a familiar sweat, the exposed skin of her upper back prickling as a cool breeze blew past her. She rose stiffly, her back aching as it always did after a long night of work. Walking slowly to her stepping stool, she positioned it and began to hang the sheet on the clothesline. She smiled fondly at her work, stepping down carefully as the thin petty coat she wore would often trip her.



"Almost done.", she whispered with a grimace as she turned to empty the bucket into the gutter. She jumped and grabbed the rim of the bucket to stop the flow of water as some seeped out to slosh onto the worn black dress shoes of a man passing bye. She panicked, immediately pulling a rag from her apron and kneeling to quickly dry his shoes. "I'm so so sorry, sir! I didn't see you walking and...I'm sorry."



"It is...alright.", he voiced from above her, clearly startled. She finished drying his shoes, hoping he would not yell at her or tell her mistress. She had no energy to defend herself from the feared wooden cane. Looking up at the young man, she waited for him to say something that hopefully put her mind at ease. "It's fine. It was just a splash. You do not have to worry so much."



"Thank you. Thank you and I apologize again.", the young man watched her quizzically as the strange girl got to her feet and curtsied to him before averting her eyes from his gaze to empty the bucket of water a ways away from him.



"Ah...miss?", the raven haired man warily approached her, grabbing her attention immediately.



"Yes, sir?", her voice was small and guarded.



"Why are you cleaning so feverently? I mean no disrespect, but this is a brothel.", there was curiosity and eminent disgust in his deep voice.



"I must. Mistress will bludgeon me fiercely if I don't finish my work by mid-morning.", she seemed fearful at the mere thought of it.



"I don't mean to pry, but are you a prostitute?"



She was taken aback by his bluntness, but shook her head no.



"Then why do you slave for your mistress?"



"She took me in when I was but a babe. I owe her my life...I'd much rather work than be a courtesan anyway.", she still avoided his gaze, her hands clasped tightly around the hem of her apron.



Beside himself, he smiled at her answer. He liked that she was one of the few beautiful women who would not sell themselves for a price. Her timid and fidgety behavior gave away that she was not unaccustomed to punishment, her shoulders were hunched defensively at his close proximity. He felt for her, taking a step back not wanting to frighten her.



"If I may be so bold, I appreciate your choice. Sorry if I have inconvenienced you. Good day, miss.", he bowed, taken aback as their eyes finally met.



She gasped softly at the startling blue of his gaze, looking down quickly and returning his gesture with a deep curtsy.



"Good day..."



She collected her bucket, hurrying into the doorway and closing the door behind her softly. After waiting a moment behind the door, she reopened it, peeking her head out to see if he was still there. He stood, waving his fingers in a gentle gesture, his head turned to the side with a teasing smile. She yelped, closing the door back securely and locking it before hurrying away to finish her chores with a heavy blush.



Ryan felt almost disappointed that the girl didn't check to see if he'd left again. She was quite the interesting person. He felt a pleasant warmth that he had rarely ever felt toward another human manifest in his chest. He remembered how frightened she'd looked when he'd first approached her, odd giving that she lived in one of the most popular whore houses in London. She seemed all too happy to get away from him...that is, until she had peered around the doorway like a child would to see if the sweets cart had visited their street yet. He smiled, and shook his head as he continued on his way to town.



Perhaps today the dice would be in his favor, his reward a few pounds and a full stomach. At nineteen years of age, the bar patrons knew him well as a master cards player and a man that could hold his liquor. Involved in several hustles and an errand boy for several small business drug lords, Ryan lived freely how he wanted. That is, until he had to return home to the vile woman he had the misfortune of calling 'Mother'. He spent as much time as possible outside of his home, using his wit and cunning to feed himself as she had forgotten that he required sustenance long ago. He really just didn't want to have to hear her forced moans of pleasure as she was fucked by her numerous clients. It literally made him sick to his stomach to have to hear them through the thick cement walls of his tiny room.



He came to the alley where a man with the popular handlebar mustache and a top hat waited patiently, his dingy dress shirt and brown slacks making him almost completely blend with the dark atmosphere. He put out his rolled cigarette as Ryan approached, his eyes flickering off into the distance to check if the coast was clear.



"Nice to see you again, Kuhn. Thought you weren't going to show up. What kept ya?", he patted him familiarly on the shoulder.



"Whorehouse.", Ryan shrugged handing the man a small tin filled to the brim with opium without much thought.



The man smiled a yellow-toothed grin, taking the tin and tucking it into his trouser's pocket, nodding knowingly. "You sure do have a way with the ladies, mate."



(So? You like it? Stay tuned for the next!)