Back Alley Cats

Chapter 8 - Taste of vanilla

Chapter 8 – Taste of vanilla

I retire in one of the Victorian Rose sofas in the Alley Cat Emporium as I leaf through the dusty pages of the Ruptured Myths. In the olden days, it is said that man got to lick the sun and the moon. Or so I was told by the book in my hand.

A chapter from the book narrates how man tasted the sunset and the moonlight atop a cone. The story tells of a sinful pleasure. It begins when one flicks their tongue around the juicy crown. The first taste can burn one’s palate, just like how the sun would to unprotected skin. The second lick is said to contrast the first. There is mention that it burns before it gets cold again. Interesting.

How I long to have the same delectable sap coat and streak my tongue. I can almost taste the flavors as they travel down my gullet. What is it they call it again? Wait, let me see here. Oh there it is. Oh yes … they called it ice-cream.

There is one passage here stating that ice-cream is so exquisite that it should be considered illegal. A timeless joke, yet surely I want to partake in such peccadillo. Oh the torment, if I can only have a taste of the Ruptured Myth. Even just a smidgen will do, just so I may claim that I got to taste the sweet nectar of Luna and Helios.

I relinquish myself of wayward thoughts as I return the book to its shelf. How I wish there was a way to replicate such Old World treasures. It has been fifty years and not one was able to recreate a freezing compartment. What is it they call it again? Oh yes. They called it refrigerator.

Surely the power grids of The Arc could allow us such pleasure. There is enough electricity in Goldenpond Island to last three lifetimes I hear. All that is needed now is for someone to pluck the courage to reconstruct all the mythical blueprints. Then it will be like 2027 all over again.

I walk out into the vineyard, hankering the day when the entries in the book will breathe life again. My footsteps cease at the sight of Rosemary, who is plucking roses from the flowerbeds. I wish to be like her someday. It is unfortunate that she remains a puss for hire. Poor, poor kitty.

She was very close to winning the distinction of becoming Madame. I know a countess is supposed to be merciful, but Gran says the best Madame is of the ruthless kind. Thus, Rosemary still dons her wench ensemble. There is still hope for her. There are only a couple more days before the Regent’s ball. She just might nab herself a blueblood. I just hope he fancies her puss.

Five years into the Rupture marked the hardest of times in Goldenpond. The rich believed that the plague would only sicken the poor. They were royally screwed, so screwed that they started falling one by one like wilting rose petals. And as their numbers thinned, so did the ones below the demarcation line. The idea of extinction was inconceivably vile. The wealthy wanted nothing of it, so they acted quickly. They needed salvation for they feared the kiss of untimely death.

It was not just death they had to contend with. There was also the prevailing aftermath of the Rupture. Aftershocks lasted for well over a year. One by one, the smaller islands collapsed and disintegrated. Their perimeters were either singed by molten lava or drowned by rabid waters.

It was a struggle for survival. Residents of Goldenpond were the first to react. Barriers were erected to keep the rising water out. The working men kept busy as they melded concrete with stone. However, just like an old coot, a leak started, rendering their creation to give out and fold.

They mulled over the desecration, but not for longer than they had to. Realizing how far they have come with their accomplishment fueled their desire to press forward. They would be damned if they stopped. And with newfound determination, they started again and succeeded.

The next year saw monstrous waves crashing over the base of the structures they built. Every piece of dumb muscle was looking for someone to blame for what happened. The torrent rose day after day, and one by one the men gave up their fight against ankle-high muck and salty water.

Their faith was tested as grief loomed over the horizon. Sorrow stretched as far as the eye could see. Bodies began floating above seawater. It was then they knew that there was nothing man could have done to avoid the Rupture. They had to go on. It was only fitting and necessary that they do.

Blueprints were laid, plans were made, and deals were struck. The men worked tooth and nail, day and night for the next five years. And so did the theoretical physicists, doctors, and microbiologists into finding remedy if not a cure. With faith their ally and strength their comrade, Goldenpond saw the rise of the Back Alley Cats Pub.

It took ten years to build the monumental constitution, with prior years dedicated to perfecting the system of power exchange through experimentation with kinky fuckery. The Rupture was not some devious plot to encourage the ever-prosperous to Goldenpond. Rather it was a twisted scheme of fate. Besides, men grew fond of the carnality, and so did their bodies. So, it was not all that bad. Coin just happened to be a necessary consequence.

It has been forty years now, and living in an island such as this has its perks. Indeed, I am Lucky.

‘If he only had enough embers, then he would spark a fire that could equal his brother’s brilliance’, Moreau’s thoughts as she furtively examines the Royal Regent from head to crotch.

With a blank face that does not give anything away, he turns to look at Lady M, “Can you tell me more about my brother?” he solicits.

M fusses with the décolletage of her cerulean ensemble. She is like the ocean in her blue day dress, with a dangerously low-cut neckline. Her cleavage parts two massive orbs of plumpness that not even the Gods can surmise. She lifts a sculpted eyebrow, “Why the sudden interest in your brother?” she speaks with tact.

“The same reason for your interest in me,” he rebukes.

Moreau gestures toward the Victorian Rose sofa near the window’s expanse. It offers a view of the vineyard as well as the open-air market, “Please, sit.”

He motions for her to sit first, a gesture of a true gent.

“If you please,” M responds, and then sits idly in one corner. The Royal Regent does the same, taking the other corner away from her.

“It will be to your benefit to sit closer if you wish to hear what I have to say,” she invites, patting the middle of the Victorian Rose sofa.

He nods curtly then obliges her offer.

“Now, listen. And listen well, for I am no broken record. I shall only tell you this once. Should the story fade in your memory, then you have yourself to blame,” she forewarns.

“Fair enough,” he agrees to her condition.

And so she narrates the tale of the High Regent ~ “I have passed this along from one of my servants through another who knows another onto one of yours … May we never cross paths again,” says the Overseer to Harkidte Setkas.

The soon-to-be High Regent bows in reverence. He is an obedient dog. If there is something one must know about Setkas, it is neither his wit nor his intelligence that got him to where he is now. Oh no, not those two, certainly not. You see, Harkidte is a rare breed of man. He has no soul.

He was an assassin, often paid hefty to drive a knife into some rich bastard’s heart. The same blade would then splice the throat of the person who ordered the kill. He then robs both hunter and prey, amassing their riches for his own. Stealth was his cloak, and darkness was his knife.

There came a time when he was ordered to persecute a big fish. Neumann Sconce was the name, High Regent to Merrilea, the island where I come from. It was in that event that I met Harkidte. He was a lovely specimen, and still is. Women piled at his feet, wanting a taste of him. I remember it fondly like it was yesterday.

Anyway, he gutted and grilled the biggest fish known to the New World Order. His success was rewarded with bars of gold and bags of coin. The Overseers even wrote him a letter of gratitude, the words of which hail his approach and improvisation as exemplary. His discretion simplified matters greatly. He need not write back to them. All they needed was his silence and the continuing sound of moans from kittens.

Harkidte was a persistent bastard, and still is. He coordinated with those in power to help with his own transition. He made certain that Audiographs and the best of wines were sent to the High Overseers. His efforts were rewarded with praise … and the title High Regent of Goldenpond.

Now, under the circumstances, he fades in the memory of those he killed. The only question is … does his mind permit the same? ~

“The High Regent’s paranoia has reached unreasonable levels,” Lannec protests.

“Do not get your panties in a bunch, Lannec. Your brother is in complete control. Defiance toward him in any way, shape, or form is punishable by exile, death the extreme.”

“Moreau, you know as well as I do that this cannot go on with every chapter. We are near the end of our supply of whale oil.”

“Lannec, Lannec, Lannec … It is you whose paranoia has reached unreasonable levels. Whales are being carted as we speak. Not even God can stop this operation. And do not take me for a fool either. I know how to cultivate whales just as much as I know how to masturbate cocks.”

“And that is why you are the Madame,” he derides standing up, leaning against the heavy curtains of the expansive windows. M joins his contemplative state.

She whispers close to his ear, “Finding potential is something I know I am good in. I have studied what makes people attractive. I have looked and eyed over a thousand girls. I have measured their faces, their arms, their waists, their legs and feet … and most especially their cusps. I know my merchandise. I too have been scrutinized as well.”

Lannec lets out an amused chuckle, “Is that Rosemary?” he points to the lady in the vineyard.

“Yes, a very dear friend of mine. Look at her. Watch her. Drink her in. Remember that the truth is in her actions. The way she starts in the vineyard, making her way through the crowded streets of the open-air market. The way she moves toward the fruit baskets. From there, find her eyes and the truth will be revealed to you,” Lady M rubs Lannec’s crotch.

“Save your hands for my brother. I have no use for them,” he mocks, pushing her hands away.

With a look of disgust in his face, he walks off.

Moreau’s voice echoes, “Lannec, in this trade they spend their minds just as much as their bodies. Do well to remember that!” she lectures.

Lannec keeps walking and does not look back.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

Input Client Specification: witty [match]

Service No.: 15001

Wench Name: Rosemary

Birth Island: Norston

Attributes: Ice blond from head to toe; sharp, witty, and catty.

PROVISO: Blueblood.

Client Name: Lannec Setkas, brother to High Regent Harkidte Setkas

Designation: Royal Regent

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): None.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

“Hi Rose,” waves the secretary cat.

“Hey Feli, what do you have for me?”

“Your biggest fish so far, here,” she hands her the Formica clipboard.

“When did he arrive?” Rosemary asks with eyes doing Client Review.

“Yesterday.”

“How long will he stay?”

“A week.”

“Oh. I am number two in seven days. I guess I can live with that.”

Felicity pouts, “You fancy him.”

“Opinion. Not a fact.”

The secretary cat smirks. She knows that Rosemary fancies Lannec from head to toe, “Same difference, Rosie.”

Rosemary’s eyes gleam with hope, “It has been years since I last saw him. Can you divulge information beyond this chart?” she muses with an adorable pout.

Felicia simpers, “Most his knowledge is gained from maid-servants he beds. He is well traveled. He had been around every inlet in this New World, eyeing prospects from island to island. It is safe to conclude that he has not found what he is looking for.”

There is a glint in Rosemary’s eyes, “I think he’ll find it here.”

“Okay girlie. Now, that’s your opinion, not a fact … Oh, paddle my fanny. I almost forgotten. The Regent’s ball is tomorrow. You have anything to wear?”

“I have several. You know that I cycle through the same clothes annually. I’m basically going to wear what I wore the year before last,” and indeed she will.

Felicia wheels herself outside her confines, “Well lucky you, coz you see … I don’t get to be in those parties anymore,” She tilts her wheelchair backwards like a rocking Adirondack, “And besides, I have to keep this place running. A lot of horny men out there pay good crap for a good wank,” she snaps her fingers.

Rosemary frowns at her. She knows the story behind her accident, “Feli, you’ll be okay. You hear me?” she consoles her.

“It just sucks, Rosie. What I would not give just to be in one of those parties,” she glowers and blinks away foreboding tears, “Crap. You know I don’t do drama. Now go. The Royal Regent is waiting for your tight puss.”

Rosemary gives a smug face, “You mean Lannec?”

Felicia gives a cautious smile. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Lannec paces around the Prussian Room. The words that Moreau fed him with do not settle well in his stomach. ‘In this trade they spend their minds just as much as their bodies. Do well to remember that,’ M’s words loops in his head.

He looks distraught as he paces in his black cotton suit with Jacquard silk vest. His fists ball inside his Victoriano tardio pants that taper over black leather shoes. He is a vision of opulence despite his distraught and panicky demeanor.

“Lannec…” a sweet voice severs his trance.

His eyes widen at the sight of a flower, “Rose.”

Her chest tightens at the sight of him, “How have you been?”

He feels the same, “I’ve been better. Listen, I—”

“No need to go there, Lannec. I understand,” she cuts him off.

Lannec moves with careful strides. He meets her eye to eye then encases her waist with his arms, hands feeling around the small of her back, “Rosie, I didn’t want any of that to happen. I was powerless then. The decision was made poorly. It was just as hard for me as it was for you.”

She examines the dark orbs of his eyes with her radiant blues, “I told you. No need to go there. I understand. Goldenpond needed to survive. Your vote to sit me as Madame is null and void the minute I said no to Decree 69,” She cups his face in her hands, “Hey, look at me. It’s alright.”

He molds her hands in his and kisses her knuckles amorously, “Rose, I never wanted it to be this way. You know I fought for you, right?”

“Hush. No one is to blame. Majority rules, minority concedes. That’s how it’s always been,” her voice comforting, her words ever kind.

He furrows his brows and feels the weight of guilt burden his shoulders, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t have enough to buy your freedom.”

“Hush now, my love,” She palms his Lannec’s cheeks, and then kisses him with what feels like their first kiss. Their lips lap with ardor, tongues exploring the cavernous domes of their palates.

She takes his hands to cup her breasts. He responds by squeezing them rabidly, “Oh, Rosemary. I long for your touch,” he rasps with hands skimming the rim of her corset, “Let’s take these off.”

Her body language is an invitation as she leads him towards the opulent Prussian bed. She trails her long fingers over her breasts, squeezing hard at the exposed skin as if coaxing him to undress her. And so he does, ravenously. Ribbons unfurl and fabrics pool at their feet as they tenderly remove each article of clothing. It is a sensual dance that the two of them are familiar with.

Many a women desire the man that is Lannec Setkas. He is of Italian descent. A unique bloodline originating from the richest of the rich, yet he decided to leave the wealth of his family to acquire independence. His handsome features are atypical: strong brows suggestive of male s****l potency, almond eyes that are slightly farther apart, a well-stemmed bulbous nose, and lips that are curt yet could spread generously into a generous smile. His body is no push-over, he is herculean: broad shoulders, sparsely haired chest, deliciously ridged stomach, strong pelvic muscles, and an intimidating bulge.

She gives a look of concern as she catches a whiff of him lived-in, “Your suit is heavy and stale. Some acrid powders still linger in it.”

“It’s gunpowder … Hard to come off,” he murmurs against her flushed and sensitized neck.

“What were you doing with guns?” she grates her words as Lannec mops her neck with overheated lips. Her arousal is thick.

He pulls back to look at her bright blue eyes, “Wolves prowl near the beaches where the men cart whales. We need protection.”

She pulls him in to resume his attacks on her collarbone, “I see—” She moans as Lannec leaves a trail of hot wet steamy kisses down the sides of her succulent bosoms.

Lecherous hands palm and knead the mounds of her buttocks, “When was your last pill?” he mouths along the crevice of her breasts that separate against his cheeks.

She is in a fight for dominance as she skims her fingers through dark locks of hair, “A couple days ago. I skipped enough to get us pregnant,” she giggles with mischief.

Lannec’s erection is knocking dangerously at Rosemary’s door. It wants in to deposit its seeds. She grabs his vehement bulge, “You have such a huge ego. Does it require constant stroking? I can give you a hand,” she menaces as her deft fingers cup his enormity.

Moans of dark pleasure seethe through clenched teeth as he pushes into Rosemary’s hand. She jerks him like a scandal, tugging furiously at the crown. He bites back a yowl as he moans his approval. He lifts her like she is her bride, and then drapes half her body over the bed, leaving her legs to dangle. His greedy hands part her to give him an appetizing view of her mounds, “Just close your eyes,” he commands as his face plunges into the heat between her legs. The titillation causes her to scream. Her back arches higher the deeper he goes down.

He pulls out to allow her rest, “You’re soaking my face down here.”

Her body shudders with insidious ease, “Please. Enter me. I want you inside me. Please. Stop only when I can no longer breathe,” she beseeches. And so he does.

He positions himself to enter her. His thickness is a perfect fit, and with one swift movement he is in, parting her, stretching her, possessing her. Her legs anchor around his waist, pushing him ever deeper into her depths. She crucifies herself onto his big, hard, super thick, and nicely veined shaft. All the crazy descriptions are not enough to describe how potent he is.

He groans each time he presses inch by inch. His thrusts are so powerful that skins keep rolling. All Rosemary can do is to accept every blow with her mouth hanging open.

Lannec pulls down to ravage a n****e in his mouth. The assault resonates through her body, igniting electricity. The pulse awakens and spreads to every hair follicle in her body, making them stand to attention. Her body sings as her skin blushes a bright color.

“Lannec. I’m really close. Go faster,” she pleads as tendrils lash at her few strands of control.

He speeds up and goes into overdrive. She loses herself in heated frenzy as Lannec pummels her with demolishing pumps. The tension builds, causing their breathing to get louder. Her voice is an expletive as she erupt a torrent of love. Her walls shatter as her mind fogs.

“Come for me, baby,” He growls as he finds his own release against her tight heat. He keeps on pumping her, wanting her to get pregnant.

Overcome by the s****l aftermath, Lannec forgets to feed on her. He abruptly pulls out, making her wince in pleasurable pain. He buries his face between her overheated mounds. He laps at her gift, “You have my gratitude,” he clobbers.

“And you have my baby.”

He finishes, and then plops over the bed to lie astride her. They are side by side with their chests heaving rickety breaths, “Rose…” he pants.

“Yes?”

He takes her hand, “Be my plus one in the Regent’s ball?”

She looks at him with love in her eyes. “Yes. Yes I will.”

Wealth, finery, and decadence are just a few words to describe the gala. The Regent’s Ball.

Walls are the oldest green, boxed and framed with gold trims. Looking up one will find the ceilings covered with white-gold shells. They give a magnificent bird’s eye view of what umbrellas look like from above. Thick golden filigrees curl and hang from every junction in the high ceiling. It is like a Prom night for middle-aged f***s.

Looking down one will find sausages, apples, pears, and grapes. They spread on a long table with gossamer sheets and opulent drapery. The tables rest on maroon carpeting with dark teal lining. Everything is exquisite, a supreme touch of class.

Now, this ball is no ordinary gala. Behind the shiny filigrees and bountiful festivity, there are putrid souls that writhe and make themselves happy. They abuse themselves in the dark. There is coupling behind curtains. Their bodies engage in power exchange, where the dominant physically and or mentally controls a submissive. It is as good a guess as any that moans are being shared in every corner of the estate, a proud display and a nod to the New World Order.

“You don’t need to do this anymore. I’ll have you as queen in my bedchambers. Day and night I will worship you,” Lannec’s tone is placating, a mock to Rosemary’s intelligence and guise.

She bats the crudity aside and leads him to a quiet corner in the checkered room. She kneels to undo his zipper, “I won’t become a housewife. Are we in agreement?” she haggles strongly.

“Y-yes—” His voice breaks as he mentally prepares for Rosemary to service him.

She sucks him hard and fast in the privacy of the dark room. His hands fist in her hair as he oscillates against her mouth, “Damn, Rose. Stop it. Fuck.”

Rosemary stops to stand, giving him a coquettish look before turning her back. She bends over the shoulder pads of a sofa. The view of her flushed fanny spikes his blood. And like a spear that travels quickly, he rams her with a fullness that is heavenly.

Lannec does her with sharp, sweet thrusts. She clamors with every pound. Their bodies singe as they move behind the shadows, along with the other lecherous beings in the Regency Hall.

She squeals as her loins spiral and shatter. The satisfaction is blinding, wringing her out, and leaving her spent and breathless. He follows suit as he erupts.

“Aah, Lannec,” she smiles, savoring the aftermath, basking in the afterglow of their illicit tryst.

They retire on the Victorian Rose sofa. He sits her on his lap to finger her. Lannec massages her pearl down below with his right hand while his left travels upwards. She struggles against the pulse of titillation, biting back scream after scream after scream.

His fingers wriggle inside of her, scissoring her, “How many times in a day do you get booked?”

“One the least, three the most,” she pants as he thumbs a n****e.

“Do you tire of it?”

Her loins dribble, wanting to combust yet again, “Yes. Most of the time … aaaahhhoGod! Ungh … God, your fingers … sometimes I wish our minds were spent more than our bodies. I, ah, I cannot help but feel that we are being reduced to s****l objects.”

He speeds up. Three fingers. “It is normal to think that because that’s what most of you are.”

“I know. It’s just that … ahh~! Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

He slows down, “I can buy your freedom. Drake stroke a deal with M to release Cotton … I can make the same deal, especially now that I’m earning a lot.”

Her body moves in response to his fingers, “I do not doubt that you have the coin, but why?”

“First off, you’re worth more than coin. You will probably cost me more than fifty gold bars. Second, it is a waste to have your mind rot in this hellhole. And third, I kind of like you a lot.”

She impales herself onto his thick finger, “Like is a big word, Mr. Setkas.”

“I want you out of here, away from Moreau’s prying eyes,” he murmurs.

She rocks back and forth on his finger, “You will be tied to Moreau if you are to release me.”

Beads of sweat pepper his forehead. He swallows hard as Rosemary wets four fingers, “Drake says its nothing. He just needs to watch over the welfare of Cotton, and make sure that Moreau knows of her state of affairs. God, why are you so wet … what are you doing to me woman?”

She fastens her arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for support as her body sags at the touch of expert fingers, “You all pine over the Madame. Do you even know her at all? She and I have history. I know her very closely. Intimately even … God, your fingers … aaahhh~! f**k. Oh God, Lannec … will she … will she succeed in seducing you into becoming a despot too? Well … that I’d like to see,” she whines as Lannec’s fingers sensate.

“I’m not my brother. They can burn in hell for all I care,” he grunts.

“I’m tired of being afraid, Lannec. When I become Madame, I will show them what it’s like to be afraid,” she hisses with wrath. Being a wench has made her jaded.

He squeezes her taut breasts, “Don’t. You’re not Moreau. Leave them be. She and my brother…their hands do violence, but I know…I know there’s a different dream in their hearts.”

“Aah!” She releases a deluge in the hands of his soon-to-be husband.

“Very good, baby … Now, I will feed,” He laps at her cream, coating his face with her essence. With a furtive smile, he invites her, “Come, let’s have some wine.”

It is the month of rain. Lannec brings out effervescent wine from the cellars. He pours Rosemary a glass, as well as his attention. They play twenty-one questions with every clink. Each answer they give fills a gap, a way to catch up with all the years that passed.

Lady M comes up behind them uninvited, “You should know by now that it is not what you wear from head to toe, Rosie. Oh no. It is what you wear from ear to ear that count, my dear friend.”

Rosemary eyes the Madame, “I’m not here to stir trouble, M. Excuse us, Lannec.”

The ladies scuttle to a private corner, “Your lack of vigilance caused you your heart once, Rose.”

“I know. Don’t remind me,” she says weakly. But she gives no mind to getting hurt again. She is willing to take the chance this time with Lannec. No matter the consequences. Good or bad.

There is a look of intrigue in Moreau’s eyes, “Do you still fancy him after all these years of perpetual misery?”

Longing paints brushstrokes of sadness on Rosemary’s face, “You know I do. Why do you ask the obvious?”

“No reason. Just want to reaffirm an existing truth,” she pouts cynically like she knew her dearly.

Rose diverts cunningly, “Why did you vouch for Cotton?”

“That’s an isolated case. Besides, she is a rabbit, not a cat.”

Her impatience grows, “That does not answer the question.”

“Fine … I did that for the same reason why all of you do not have last names. You think I have forgotten about love just because there is a decree? Heh, you think so low of me, Rosie. I expected as much from a puss like you.”

“It still does not answer the question.”

“It is to keep the rest of the cats on a tight leash. There needs to be an illusion, my dear. A façade, a portico, a veneer that hope exists. The thought of a knight in shining armor keeps them alive. Obviously, you’re excluded, for no dog leash can restrain a cat such as you,” she hisses.

“And what about Parsley?”

“What the f**k about her?”

“You released her too.”

M squints menacingly, “She got pregnant not because she f****d, but because she made love.”

“We should not be relegated for loving!” is what Rosemary wanted to say all this time. It pains her to even speak the words she knows are deeply etched in her heart.

“Well then. Maybe you are right. You absolutely are, Rosie. Always have been … But what would you do if you were to bring life into this New World Order? What if your daughter says the same thing, nine or fifteen years from now? All girls surrender to the trade. Parsley is a good girl. I loved her dearly, but I cannot see another girl from our island become a slave in another.”

“It’s her daughter! Have you no heart!?” Rosemary chokes back tears.

Moreau forcefully grabs her arm as if to make her next point very clear, “You know I do not. Why do you ask the obvious?” she fires back using Rosemary’s words.

“It is an endless cycle. And I am extremely uncomfortable. This is not the life I wanted,” Beads of sorrow stain her face, yet like a rose, she remains just as beautiful.

“No. I do not think you are physically uncomfortable. I like to think that you rather enjoy it, Rosie. It is your perception and interpretation of the matter that is making this hard to accept and communicate. Never has been a world that thrives on kink and invests on trust. The New World Order offers a banking system that I find pleasurably profitable. As the bankers, we take care of our clients, and we do that by giving them control … control over us, their assets. Just imagine yourself bound and with a ball gag in your mouth. Yes, you will not be able to communicate nor complain, but you cajole trust from thy client. A man knowing that you trust him gives them comfort as they defile your being. We derive their loyalty from that trust, my old friend. Just imagine the wealth we can coax from them. They do the most work if you look at it in my perspective. There is great comfort in the thought that their life depends on us, that is our rapture. Also, we need to act that we depend on them – that is our sales pitch, while their control over us is the bargain they thought they paid, but in reality is an illusion into getting them to submit. Think of it as role-playing, my dear. They think they play Dom when in fact they are the Subs.”

Rosemary processes what is said but her mind reels and rejects Moreau’s advertising and sales pitch, “But I— I don’t want this anymore. No more.”

M’s eyes widen, “You are just going to give up on us are you? Is that how this is going to end?”

“I cannot do this anymore M. I do not have a choice!”

“We always have a choice. And I’m making one now.”

The Lady Madame walks away to leave a bruised Rose.

“Rosie…” Rosemary immediately breaks into tears as she falls into Lannec’s embrace. ‘Just close your eyes’ his words play in her mind in a continuous reel. It is the only voice she trusts.

“Gran, what happens to bad kitties?” asks the young lady whilst watching debasement and harlotry along the outskirts of the Regency Hall.

“They die on earth then burn in hell, my dear.”

“Will the same happen to us?” she fears.

“No. We are the good kind of bad.”

“Good kind. What does it mean?”

The woman brushes the girl’s hair with a prized clamp made of crocodile bones, “It means we are not going anywhere, my sweet, sweet child. We will stay right here till our wings grow and expand like butterflies.”

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

Service No.: 15001

Wench Name: Rosemary

Session: A+

Result: Customer Satisfied

Status: Sold to Lannec Setkas for 80 golden bars.

Update: Released.

Approved and signed, Headmistress Madame Moreau Verseilles

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~