Marriage. A synonym for prison if you ask me. My mother loved her station, her title, her trinkets. But she hated my father and he her. They never spoke unless at a party or a tea. They had separate wings of the house and only met to due matrimonial duty. Which means fuck to produce an heir. They were blessed, and I use the term losely, with three girls or like my father called us debt.
My older sister was married off after her first bleed at the age of 12 to a 40 year old land Baron in France. Caring not what would happen to her but the pretty penny she afforded my Father. She was beautiful. Long blonde ringlets tied with blue bows to match her eyes. She was quite small and slender from being sick as a child. She died in child birth the following year. Scared out of her ever loving mind on her wedding day. The man was a brute and very large. He was loud and boisterous at their wedding getting increasingly drunk and groaping my sister at the table. She ran to her room refusing to go screaming and crying. He followed picking her up over his shoulder and carrying her out to his carriage. My mother's advice was to pray for a boy while he lays with you.
My middle sister died of fever the year after. That left me. Lady Pamela Swynford De Beaufort Ravenscroft. After the deaths of my sisters my parents ignored me and I was left to be taught how to be a proper young lady and wife by the governess who was only 3 years older than me. And fucking my father. But back then who wasn't fucking someone. Me and I wanted to. Our estate was filled with mostly women to service the master and mistress of the house and old men with one foot in the grave. My governess suggested I be sent to Cheltenham Ladies College and of course through rounds of vigorous negotiations (fucking) Father complied.
Mother wasn't feeling well and took a sabbatical in Bath with her ladies maids. I guess she needed new pussy. For 2 long years I have watched these strangers who have comeplete control of my life fuck there way through staff and neighbors all the while preaching to me I needed to be pure and marry, I needed to be a proper lady who could draw, and paint, embroider and manage the estate of what ever man they can sell me off to at the highest price. Well fuck that. I was planning my escape and it couldn't come fast enough.
That evening I would meet my betrothed. Duke Richard Covington III. A 68 year old encephalitic pedophile paid a whopping 40,000 pounds and 1875 that was alot. Today $400. Really you can't get decent shoes for $400. So that evening after I was groaped and kissed by an ederly man with rotten teeth and smelled like 3 day old pig placenta I took my mothers jewelry and the silverware from the kitchen packed 2 dresses and made my way to the new world.
At 19 I had enough money left over to open my own business. I rented a room with a young woman I met on the train west and within a year we owned the house. The Mrs. wasn't happy I fucked her out of her marital bed and her house but the bay says thank you for the offering.
If those hippocritical bastards could sell me and not care then I could too. But with these girls I would care and teach them they are worth more than the money left on the dresser. I lived free of contolling costraints. I set the rules. I fucked who I wanted and they paid greatly for my talents. I chose how I lived and fought for that freedom.
But nothing lasts. My body wasn't as young anymore and even though I added new kinks to my repetiore I could not stop the ravages of time and the disease eating away at me. Such is the life of a whore. Not to mention my business was being threatened by oppurtunistic thugs to lazy to get there own knees dirty to make a living. Shaking me down for pussy or money and they weren't getting either. What they did get is a cold soak in the bay but you can't prove it was me.
Then some fucked up psychopaths reenact Jack the Ripper all throughout my place. I was almost ready to drink my tincture of laudanum and say fuck it all. The rashes were coming back and sores were appearing. My cough was bloody and the fevers were worse. I really didn't have long but fuck it if I didn't look damn good doing what I wanted on my way out.
Then like an angel he appeared licking blood off his fingers having saved me from a lazy fucking hood. He did it with his bare hands and all I could think about was maybe if I had that brute strength I could save my girls and die knowing I didn't sell them off to the highest bidder, to drift into the unknown without giving a flying fuck.
That fateful night ten years after I ran from the prison of marriage, of a life not of my choosing I changed my life again and I made the only choice that meant anything to me. He came back looking for my attentions but I wasn't for sale in my own brothel. A certain few could afford it but not while I'm having a flare up and the sores inside are starting to bleed.
While there those bastard crazy fucks struck again and killed a girl. He flew into the room brandishing fangs and menace. I wanted that, to strike that fear in another by mear presence. Just the mention of his name has them praying for death. I was in awe of his power and wished to be the same. I relented after. I needed this memory of being with death incarnate before mine was upon me. And dispite my disease ridden body he brought me to heights I could never imagine and If he saw fit to end me with his bite or fist then so be it. I had lived my life my way, and my girls were safe. It's all I had in the world but I made it and it was mine. I could say goodbye knowing I lived for me.
So when he was ready to depart I wanted him, this moment to be the last of my conscience thought. I reached for my jewled dagger I wore in my thigh holster and let the blade slide through my skin spilling my life to dusty floorboards. The pain was exquisite knowing that even in this moment I am in control. A sudden snarling growl interrupts deaths intimacy.
"You wish this. To die. Here. Now."
"I am already dead, but I have lived for me. Free."
"You wish the end then. Is this all you can do with life."
"Bastard. It is everything of me, mine."
"Could you wake tommorow what is it you would do."
"You taunt an old whore who wishes to die dignified. At her own hand."
"The only dignity in death is fighting to die another day. If you give up you should not have been."
"I have fought and won. My body is of no use anymore and soon my mind will go. I will see my end my way."
"Again I ask you. If you rose another day after this farce you call a dignified death, what is it you would do. Would you spread your legs and lips for the next vermin with enough cash. Spend said hard rode money on new dresses, more rouge, tincures of laudanam to soften the rutting filth pounding away at your used up cankcerous gash. What. Would. You. Do."
In tears as he described her life to minute detail she thought deeply. Looking down at the stain her life was making on the new silk robe she had bought after spending an evening entertaining the mayor and his cabinet. They had tore her good that night. She was not yet ready when he took her and he didn't care. No one did. No one asked what she would do as if she a choice. She did. She had a choice and made it . She ran away from servitude and sychophancy. She ran to fucking to eat. Letting men do unspeakable things to her. Wanting her to do vile things to them. Selling young girls barely dressed to do the same. It needed to be done to live free. Now what. Used, broken, dying. What would she do?
"Live. With all the piss and vinegar in my veins, with all the cold and heartlessness I could possibly possess. Live."
It wasn't a marriage but I was provided for, loved. I love my station. I love my title. I love my trinkets. And I love my Maker.