Post by Alayne Lombard on Jun 12, 2011 14:04:25 GMT -5
The bath house was closed. Frankly, it was a good thing. The place smelled of shit and of death, and rightfully so. It seemed the hot vapours had beckoned more death than any other place, though perhaps it was simply my twisted perception.
Erika was lying on a couch, her shirt open. I could see the awful rash developing on her skin, spreading to her generous breasts, to everything that was her. I'd have called her “mother”, and it would have been a lie, but a true lie. I know what I mean when I say this – and I don't care that others don't.
They took her away like they did so many others, putting her body atop a hearse that went so slowly it seemed that Lady Death herself was sitting atop the pile of dead bodies and smirking. Inside, I seethed. I could feel myself shaking with anger and sorry – it was as if a part of me had died too, and though I loved the old bath girl dearly, I never thought her death would hurt me so very much.
Well and good. I'd not love anymore, and that would be that. It didn't matter, I decided. It didn't matter because I was nothing but Alayne the bath whore, Alayne whose mouth and cunt and ass was open to any who wished, Alayne who could be beat, if the client payed enough. Alayne who said no, and bit, and scratched, and cussed, and who was fucked nonetheless, because that was the way of the bathhouse.
But it was Naamah's way, too, and every time a cock used me, I found pleasure in it, no matter now much I spat in the john's face. Besides, they liked it. Made them feel strong, made them feel like they could own me. Bastards, all of them. They knew nothing.
Still, the plague had given me one thing. It had brought death and stench, but it had also given me a long, very much desired break from the bleak vapours of Beatrice Moreau's establishment. I'd been exposed. I'd touched the rashes on Erika's face and cried bitter tears, and I lived, still.
Slowly, life resumed its course without the meek comforts of friendship. In the bathhouse, every day feels the same. Tiles are scrubbed, pails are carried, and smells arise, sometimes strong enough to be a stench, rather. Patrons slowly returned and I found my pleasure where I could. I never thought of taking my own life.
Instead, I sang as my arm ached, kneeling on the wet tiles and scrubbing, and dreamed of green pastures, rolling hills, of a family I'd never had, and of a future brighter than anything I'd known.
Erika was lying on a couch, her shirt open. I could see the awful rash developing on her skin, spreading to her generous breasts, to everything that was her. I'd have called her “mother”, and it would have been a lie, but a true lie. I know what I mean when I say this – and I don't care that others don't.
They took her away like they did so many others, putting her body atop a hearse that went so slowly it seemed that Lady Death herself was sitting atop the pile of dead bodies and smirking. Inside, I seethed. I could feel myself shaking with anger and sorry – it was as if a part of me had died too, and though I loved the old bath girl dearly, I never thought her death would hurt me so very much.
Well and good. I'd not love anymore, and that would be that. It didn't matter, I decided. It didn't matter because I was nothing but Alayne the bath whore, Alayne whose mouth and cunt and ass was open to any who wished, Alayne who could be beat, if the client payed enough. Alayne who said no, and bit, and scratched, and cussed, and who was fucked nonetheless, because that was the way of the bathhouse.
But it was Naamah's way, too, and every time a cock used me, I found pleasure in it, no matter now much I spat in the john's face. Besides, they liked it. Made them feel strong, made them feel like they could own me. Bastards, all of them. They knew nothing.
Still, the plague had given me one thing. It had brought death and stench, but it had also given me a long, very much desired break from the bleak vapours of Beatrice Moreau's establishment. I'd been exposed. I'd touched the rashes on Erika's face and cried bitter tears, and I lived, still.
Slowly, life resumed its course without the meek comforts of friendship. In the bathhouse, every day feels the same. Tiles are scrubbed, pails are carried, and smells arise, sometimes strong enough to be a stench, rather. Patrons slowly returned and I found my pleasure where I could. I never thought of taking my own life.
Instead, I sang as my arm ached, kneeling on the wet tiles and scrubbing, and dreamed of green pastures, rolling hills, of a family I'd never had, and of a future brighter than anything I'd known.