His eye was determined, and his hair floated about him with a purpose, as Sweeney walked briskly along the uneven, cobbled road. It was dark, close to midnight, and only someone naïve or someone crazy went out in the rough streets of London at this ungodly hour. This tall, disturbed barber, however, seemed to group in the latter.
Street lamps gave out warm, amber light, but instead or warming the atmosphere, it seemed to do the opposite, and could send ice shooting down the spine, or the back or your neck cringe, or sweat form on your brow. Sweeney's path twisted and turned around many corners, so anyone following, if they were insane enough to, would have lost their orientation very quickly.
His destination turned to a broken down old bridge, clearly wasting away from rot and abuse, that was smeared with moss and dripping with a rancid, liquid substance. Shadows played with the mind, and anyone who had no idea what lurked underneath the bridge, would have too many nerves to enter it now. But Sweeney walked on. He had no fear of black shadows or shapes in the dark. He knew what they were.
An almost sweet voice echoed from under the dank bridge. 'Sweeney?' it called, and from the blackness a slim, dressed up figure walked forth. She was a pretty thing: her ebony hair reached all the way down past the base of her spine, and her eyes glittered a heavenly blue. Her complexion was pale, which in conjunction with her other features, people would think she was a witch on their first sight of her. A corset, also as black as the night, held in her curves, and started down on the long, trailing velvet skirt behind her.
Sweeney smiled on their eyes meeting, but the smile did not give out a comfortable feeling, more like he would want to take advantage of this fair eyed maiden. She lifted the trails of her skirt and walked towards him. 'Sweeney! I've been waiting…' she started, throwing her arms around his neck. He did not react.
'Ella, stop.' He said, bluntly. Although after he had said that, he lifted her up off the ground by her waist and put a forceful kiss upon her lips. She retaliated slightly, but was helpless as he pushed her back to the wall, and carried on.
If one was viewing, one would be quite stunned, as Ella started to play as viciously as Sweeney, pushing him to the floor, dominating over him. Still, Sweeney didn't seem to mind, as long as her seemingly innocent lips were close to him then that's all that mattered. That's all she was being paid to do.
During the rush of endorphins, she enticingly pulled off his shirt, leaving him bare to the nasty nip of the cold. He produced then, a small straight-bladed silver razor, and seductively plucked at each string lacing her corset together, until it was just a few ribbons of material strewn on the ground. He could tell she was as excited as he was, and with no hesitation, forced her onto her back and drove inside.
Prostitution is a sin in Victorian London, and a last resort for many greedy men who want to gain the orgasm minus having to commit to a relationship with a loving wife, and bearing her children. This way, the child would be fatherless, and not his problem. It may be an escape, from a wife who is too tired from working around the house and unable to pleasure her husband.
Ella's squeals were building up, as the tension inside themselves released into each other. Sweeney placed the silver blade upon her lips, and told her plainly to 'Shh' as the rhythm continued on. In the twisted way that Sweeney found exciting, he drew the blade across her chest, leaving little beads of blood to swing down a crimson ribbon wrapped around her tiny body.
One last loud breath between them, and the rhythm slowed, the endorphins stopped firing, and the pleasure was over. Sweeney got up immediately and dressed, leaving Ella to shiver in just a skirt with the tattered remains of her top to the side. She got up, still semi bare, and walked to a rock which had a spare corset lain upon it. She must have known Sweeney liked to cut his women during intercourse.
'So,' she said, 'You owe me.'
Sweeney reach into a pocket and drew out a crisp five pound note. He pushed it down between her bosoms. 'Tell no one of this, Ella. I'll be a dead man to Lovett, and you'll be flogged as a wench. If you so much as speak a word of what I do… they'll all know who did everything else I'm guilty of.'
Her lips curled into a smile, that's wickedness could be comparable to Sweeney's. 'I'll see you.'
His eye's darted about - he did not expect her to make such an offer from someone so innocent looking.' As he gazed a little closer, he noticed she did not mind the cuts, and did not flinch when he placed the note down her push-up corset. Her eyes shone an evil kind of midnight azure, and he left in the same manner as he arrived - determined, with a purpose.
When the wind of the night whispered curses, she put a spindly finger next to her poisoned lips. 'I won't tell anyone. You know I get off from what you do to me, as much as you do yourself.'