Smut for the Proper
The streets of London shimmered with mist, the gaslights casting halos against the cobblestones. Eleanor waited by the wrought-iron gate of the square, her gloved fingers brushing and adjusting the satin hem of her gown. Though the velvet cloak draped around her shoulders spoke of elegance, and grace instead of the simpleton “Lady of the Night” that she was.
Seven pence, she thought. Just enough to see her through another week.
When William approached, she straightened, her practiced smile softening her features. He was taller than most, his coat finely tailored, his stride confident yet unhurried. A gentleman, Eleanor knew, and the air between them hummed with unspoken intent.
Should he offer the seven, she’d take him to heaven.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, her voice smooth and warm in contrast to the chilly night.
His gaze lingered on hers. “Eleanor, isn’t it?” he asked, the richness of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ve heard whispers of your … talents.”
She inclined her head, the flicker of a smile on her lips. “You’ve heard correctly. Seven pence for an evening you won’t soon forget.”
Without another word, he extended his hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her into a nearby alley.
It was dark and cold, but their bodies would keep them warm and fight off the chill. The gas lamp’s flickering firelight playing across the face of Eleanor as she unbuttoned her petticoat.
Eleanor pushed the dress to the side with the grace of a queen, William’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gloved fingers brushing the bare skin of her collarbone.
“You deserve more than seven pence,” he murmured, his voice low.
“And yet, seven is all I ask,” she replied, her lips curving into a smirk.
He moved with deliberate care, unbuttoning his coat as though unveiling something sacred. When he leaned in to kiss her, his lips were warm and searching, a curious mix of hunger and restraint. She allowed herself to respond, her hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath the fabric.
As his touch deepened, trailing over her arm and down her side, she felt her professional poise slip, replaced by a surprising warmth. When he lowered himself to taste his prize. He murmured under his breath about beautiful and delicate rose petals. His hands moved with reverence, exploring her curves as though she were a rare and precious artifact.
For a moment, Eleanor forgot about her price, the dreary streets, and the heavy weight of her reality. Here, in this fleeting moment, she was not a lady of the night but a woman cherished, her body and soul ignited by his touch.
The moments passed in whispers and sighs, her practiced art meeting his genuine anticipation.
After the milk had been added and mixed with her honey, he stood, buttoned his trousers and withdrew and placed the coins in her palm. But as moved toward the entrance to the alley, William paused, his fingers brushing her cheek.
“Perhaps next time, it will be more than seven pence,” he said softly, before disappearing into the morning mist.
Eleanor stared back, her lips tingling and her heart inexplicably lighter. It had been seven pence well earned. Now she was starving and with the seven pence in hand she would go in search for a different type of sausage. One to fill her belly rather than the area betwixt her nethers.