Scarlet Sins
The young prostitute looked no day older than fifteen. However, age did not matter. To Jack the Ripper, a whore was a whore, and London feared their hidden performance, their medium where they worked with blood liked other artists worked with paints or oils. Madame Red ripped off her bloody gloves and replaced them with new ones. She couldn't stand touching the body of a worthless strumpet. As Grell marveled at the shimmering rubies dripping from his chainsaw, Madame Red dragged the freshly mutilated corpse by her long ponytail, tangled with dirt and caked with mud, and dumped her in a ditch near a great sycamore by a pond. This particular murder happened in a back ally, a hidden corner where the petite harlot probably did business with a young soldier boy or a mere street dweller. Either way, her business was closed down, never opened again.
Madame Red stared into the ditch. She walked away after a moment, without a word, her boots clicking in tiny echoes. A few feet across cobble-stones roads and a climb of a small knoll, and Grell greeted her return with a glint in his eyes. His face, so handsome and effeminate, struck a warmth in her cold cheeks, a feeling she knew would forever remain distant from her. How wrong she was.
"Why, Madame," Grell asked, walking closer with a handkerchief stretched out towards her. "Are you blushing, or is that just the blood upon your pretty face?" She accepted the cloth, wiping her face swiftly before the constables began doing their rounds in the area.
"Enough, Grell," she said, the fabric hiding her growing blush. "Let us go home."
Grell bowed like a proper butler, grinning even more. His lavish red hair fell over his shoulders, looking like flowing red ribbons in the rainy wind. "Your wish is my command, Madame. You must sure be in need of well-deserved rest after a full-night's work." He took her hand, his teeth slipping the rubber glove off with a seductive smirk. "A full night's work," he repeated. "I wonder, are we to work more tonight?" He leaned closer, placing a chaste kiss upon her hand. When he moved away, standing erect, his hair was fading to a dark brown, his teeth less sharp, his face more soft. "M-Madame," he stuttered, looking shy and unsure. Madame Red took her hand from his, scowling.
"Escort me home, Grell. Now. That's an order." The human Grell nodded, looking like a scolded child who knew they got caught at something.
"Y-Yes, M-Madame." He offered his arm; she accepted. Under the full moon, in silence, the two criminal master minds walked down the road, toward the mansion where they lived in their shared solitude.
Under the sheets, the heavy taffeta blankets with intimate detail of classic Victorian patterns, a soft glimmering azure light leaked through the crevices of the window, shining shyly through the drapery of Madame Red's sleeping quarters. Her bed, a massive canopy of red, deep burgundy dancing with gold designs, a carpet of ruby desire, a bed curtain surrounding her future slumbers. Grell laid there, warm and comfortable in the soft comforters, all curled up like a kitten. He blushed heavily, watching behind the curtain as the black shadow of his mistress undresses herself, down to her corset and garters.
Ever since he began serving as Angelina Dalles' butler, Grell always slept in the same bed as her. She would almost always clutch to him, making him turn more red than the shade of her hair. One night, in the dead silence, she scooted over to him and began to touch him under the sheets, softly. Like a virgin, Grell had never been touched by a woman. His meek whimpers fueled her desire to touch him more. From what Grell recalled, he came in her hand, but nothing more took place.
Madame Red unlaced her corset. It fell, and Grell blushed, blushed at the exciting fact that just past the bedpost curtain stood his Madame-nude, innocent, and alone with him. He sank further under the covers. The lowest region of his stomach felt a tingle of dull, coiling thrill, all after Madame Red pulled the curtain back and crawled into bed dressed in a partially see-through red nightgown with black trimming. She cuddled into her pillow, facing Grell with a soft smile.
"I apologize for acting unlike myself this evening," she said quietly, as if she was telling her butler a well-guarded secret. "You know how I get sometimes, Grell. I look at those women and...what they have, I should have...it makes me feel inferior to them, those whores who have done nothing for society, nothing for anyone else, nothing for themselves..." She became misty-eyed, looking away. "It's not fair, Grell. It's not fair." A tear traced her cheek, a silver line in the pale moonlight. Grell's heart began to ache, for he hated seeing his Madame sad.
"M-Madame...p-p-please weep not," he begged while his shaking hand brushed her tear away. "You are better than they are...better in my eyes at least. I-I may...I-I mean..."
An awkward silence hung between them. Madame Red stared at her butler long enough to miss the memo that their lips suddenly were mere inches apart from touching. Grell's deep chocolate hair sprawled across his pillow, making him look ironically angelic, glasses absent. He could feel his heart pulsate in his chest along with an erect cock covered by blankets, a nightgown, and the dark.
'S-She's so beautiful...red lips, red hair, rosy cheeks, pale skin, so c-close, so close, close to me,' Grell thought, whimpering her name. "M-Madame-" she hushed him with a quick kiss on the lips.
"Call me Angelina." Without another word, she covered his mouth with hers, his eyes wide with shock, her eyes closed, ready for pleasure, ready for him.
Ready to feel the love that can snare even the most bloodiest criminal minds.
Midnight.
The cathedral bells tolled one after another, and with each toll that struck in the dead air, a piece of clothing hit the floor.
TBC...