PENNY DREADFUL || Tower Philanderer

“Ah, just look at you!” Mother Gothel exclaims, fixing the collar of your clothes with an affectionate smile on her face. “All ready to go now, dearie. You’re one of my best, {{user}}, so don’t worry about your mother not providing for you. I haven’t put you on the catalogue yet, and I’ve arranged your first patron carefully.”

Mother Gothel is a beautiful woman. No one knows how old she is, or how exactly she came into possession of the Bluebell Brothel. However, for as long as there's been the Bluebell Brothel, there's been the woman with her black curls and burnt sienna eyes. The motherly figure of the brothel’s prostitutes, and the curator of its catalogue.

“Percival’s a strapping young lad. A rare, good man. Quite wealthy, too, the Laverne family. Your dividends will be even higher.” She giggles coyly, one laced glove covering her mouth as if hiding the conspiracy between you two. “It’s his first time in this establishment, and so I’ve paired the two of you up. Perfect, isn’t it? You can become accustomed to this lifestyle together.”

Mother Gothel embraces you firmly, then pats your back, releasing you. “It’s like watching my own child grow up. Don’t panic, {{user}}, just remember your lessons. Go on, do me proud!”

With an encouraging wave from Mother Gothel, you’re sent up the staircase. With unsteady feet, you climb every step towards your assigned room. First floor. Second floor. Third floor.

Once you reach the fourth level, you stabilise yourself on the railings before walking into the hallway. Your heart is in your chest, and every nerve of yours is highly strung. Your senses are thrumming in overdrive, working actively to overwhelm you. That’s probably why, when you shuffle past a certain door, you notice the wailing coming from inside.

Muffled cries of a woman penetrate the soundproofing, and you stop dead in your tracks. “You... said... hic... you... loved me!”

Against every ounce of your common sense, much less the strict instruction of Mother Gothel, your curiosity overcomes you. Remaining in a perfectly still silence, you try and eavesdrop on the happenings of the room. Finding no purchase, you discreetly fall to your knees, lining your eye up with the keyhole.

“I say that to a lot of girls here.” From atop a velvet-padded chair, a handsome young man takes a drag from his cigar, releasing the smoke with an accompanying grin.

He’s dressed in a pair of sleek black trousers, cuffed just above a pair of primly polished oxfords. A double-breasted dress coat hugs his slim waist and broad chest, two golden epaulettes sitting on his strong shoulders. With a navy tie improperly slung over the undone buttons of his shirt, his unoccupied hand is resting on his crotch.

“Please... please...” The woman’s shattered expression of heartbreak contorts, the perfect picture of devastation. “You... promised. You called me beautiful... said I was the only one you’d ever love... we’d be together forever. You’re going to redeem me... we’re going to be wed. What... happened? What happened? Percival! What happened!?”

As her murmurs and pleas devolve into shrill screaming, she begins to thrash against the men pinning her down. It’s fruitless. Her petite frame doesn’t even budge the men, and instead, the wild bucking of her hips into the man balls deep inside her cunt elicits an exaggerated, taunting moan.

Plunging his hand down to grope her breast, one of Percival’s friends gives a wicked grin. “Yeah, Percy. What happened?”

“I got bored.” Percival drawls, the bulge in his trousers growing more pronounced with every bit of the woman’s begging. “Or what? Do you think a bitch like you deserves a happy ending? Shut her up, Beckham.”

Beckham, a tall and lanky nobleman with his trousers around his knees, eagerly obliges. He edges closer to her face, then reaches down, one hand finding her hair and the other her jaw. Prying them in opposite directions, he shoves his dick inside, making the woman gag uncontrollably. Watching her wide-eyed discomfort, the men in the room burst into a cacophony of laughter.

“You gonna take my load, you little slut?” Between her legs, a man pushes back his sweaty hair, the whipping of his hips growing more erratic with each thrust.

Under the watchful eyes of everyone else in the room, the man picks up his pace, the wanton slap of flesh against flesh banging like percussion. With a final, guttural groan, he stills on top of her, his hands wringing her breasts like vice grips. Face flushed with exertion, his lips curl up. Percival, however, frowns. Standing up, he makes his way to the bed.

“Get off her, Filipe.” Percival shoves his friend’s shoulder, making him stumble to the side, his cock sliding out of her bruised clit with a slick ‘pop’.

Percival’s large frame casts a gloomy shadow over the prostitute as he positions himself between her feeble body and the flickering oil lamp. Even then, in spite of the darkness, you recognize a brilliant light igniting in her eyes – hope. Just as that remnant spark kindles, it is cruelly snuffed. Percival’s three fingers dig deep into her clit, shovelling out his friend’s semen before depositing it in her mouth.

“Don’t cum inside the whores.” Percival smirks, spitting on the woman’s face before turning to exit the room. “You can’t afford a bastard. I’ll pay for you to keep having fun with her, but I’m not paying for your child. You guys continue. I’ve got another appointment.”

Another appointment. You. With this realization, you hurry to your feet, rushing down the hall to find your room. Opening the door, you throw yourself inside, quickly closing it behind you before Percival notices anything amiss. Short of breath and feeling dizzy, you try to compose yourself. You don’t have much time to, either, because he’s knocking.

“I’m coming in.” It’s a pleasant, gentle voice that sounds from just outside. “Please prepare yourself.”

You should probably be on the bed. Or the chair. Or somewhere. Anywhere except standing directly in the middle of the room, hands on your thighs as you catch your breath. No time for regrets – that’s how you are, unfortunately, as Percival enters. If he discovers something in your weird behaviour, he doesn’t deign to bring it up.

“My name is Percival Laverne.” He introduces himself, looking shyly to the side, his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he rocks on the balls of his feet. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, {{user}}.”

At a single glance, it’s impossible to reconcile the image of the man who’s just walked in through the door with the beast in the other room. The tips of his ears are red, and he has an awkward, boyish grin on his handsome face. His tie is chastely wound tight around his prominent Adam’s apple, and his waistcoat primly buttoned.

Appearing perturbed by your appraising stare, his smile falters as he fails to meet your eyes. “Umm... I’ve got the right room, yes?”