Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12158265.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Michael_Fassbender_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Michael_Fassbender/Original_Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Original_Female_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Blood_Kink, Violence, Rape, Alternate_Universe_-_Victorian, Circus,
      Stripping, Mild_Gore, Jack_the_Ripper_-_Freeform, Abuse, Forced_Orgasm
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-22 Words: 8365
****** His Freak Show ******
by Miss_Hush
Summary
     Little Miss Charlotte, her cousin and friend stumble upon an
     interesting man that was about to be famous for murder. And
     unfortunately Charlotte is his favourite.
                                        

It had started quite simply, really. First, Charlotte and her cousin Teresa had
come over and told of the circus in town. They had gone to call on their mutual
friend Katherine, and then all three of the ladies had gone down toward the
edge of Hookshire their home town.
The circus only came through once a year, and it was a thrilling place of
twisted freaks and daring acrobats. The animals were amazing to look at, fierce
African lions and wild Amazonian monkeys.
The three ladies clustered close together, but it was clear from the way they
interacted that Charlotte was the fearless one. She was the one who convinced
the other two to walk through the funhouse, and though Teresa and Katherine had
wanted to skip the hall of mirrors, Charlotte had linked arms with them and
merrily danced down the avenue of twisted, misshapen reflections. Nothing could
scare her, not even the craziness of the circus.
As the night wore on, Katherine and Teresa and even Charlotte found themselves
tiring, each one carrying a small packet of popcorn, and Teresa also carrying a
cone of cotton candy. All three of them pulled little pieces from the spun
sugar cone, though Teresa would probably get the lion's share.
Exhausted but laughing, the three ladies turned their backs on the circus and
began to head home once more. The torches were being lit in the streets and it
was much later than a lady of decent repute should be out, but the circus was
also in town, and that made these things forgivable in the minds of the three
young ladies. Their excited chatter and happy laughter rang out down the
cobblestoned streets along with their boots clattering together.

But what these three girls didn't know was when the circus was in town, it
means easy targets, marks that could be picked off and forgotten and their
captors and tormentors could melt back into the shadows from whence they came.
The bizarre and the unique brought goodly folk from all around the country, to
gaze upon earthly wonders that they would never see from the safe, comfortable
confines of their locked and guarded havens. As the excitement seemed to turn
all common sense on its head and dumb down the populace, one particular man
found three easy little targets walking down his cobblestone street, linked arm
and arm without a care in the world and no worries floating through their
pretty little heads.
A pity that they weren't paying more attention.
Michael stood on the corner of the street, dressed finely for a man who was
walking alone in such a part of the town. Nightfall had come and from the gold
gilding on his cane to the silken, tailored cut of his gentleman's coat, he
certainly looked out of place but not at all disrespectful. It was all part of
the ruse, the stalking of his prey and the luring of them into his clutches.
With the right apparel, a fresh shave to his otherwise handsome, youthful face,
he could convince even the most decent women to do his bidding.
Having money and a small revolver on hand also helped the job.
Tonight, he was going to enjoy himself and start things off simply, a quick
flash of a few pounds, an easy offering, and see which of the three little
women took him up on it.
He waved to them and whistled low, approaching them slowly, seeming no threat
at all. He did look like a gentleman after all, just out from enjoying the
circus no doubt.
"My dear ladies, a fine evening if I may say so. I am Michael Fassbender the
great illusionist and you pretty little ladies have the fortune of hearing a
deal, a game, that I am playing. Would any of you care to play?"
All three of them were surprised when the strange man hailed them and
approached, though none were frightened. There was safety in numbers, and they
weren't overly worried. It was golden-haired Charlotte who answered him,
however, returning his greeting with a smile on her ruby lips.
“Good evening, sir," she greeted in a gentle tone. "I'm Miss Charlotte Collins.
This is my cousin Teresa Howard and my friend Katie Meyers... we've just
finished with the circus so I'm not certain how much luck we'll have with
games." She laughed merrily, her green eyes twinkling. The other women were not
quite so forthcoming, not quite so interested in meeting a strange man on a
desolate street in the middle of the evening. But Charlotte, Charlotte didn't
worry that much. This man seemed politely kind, after all, clean and well
groomed and courteous.
His smile showed a mouth full of perfectly white teeth, his eyes gleaming like
those of a serpent in the glow of the torchlight overhead. He bowed politely at
the waist to the trio of young ladies and took up Charlotte’s hand, kissing it
with warm lips. He released her hand and leaned back on his cane, giving the
ladies a quick once over. The straight forward and brashness of the golden
haired Charlotte was certainly peaking his interest but he would make the offer
to all three ladies, to see which one was the easiest target. They all had
something to offer, even if it was just a few moments of awkwardness and a
chuckle on their behalf.
He pulled from his coat pocket a ten pound mark, holding it up between both of
his hands so that they could all see it in the fiery light of the street lamps.
It looked genuine enough.
"Well you see, my dears, I am a man who practices the boundaries of our polite
society and seeks to test it in you. Ten pounds is a handsome sum, is it not? I
have ten pounds here for the first lady who is willing to take off her gloves
for me. Who will it be?"
Charlotte blushed a little as he kissed her hand, perhaps just on cue. She
watched the other two out of the corner of her eyes. They seemed just a little
more hesitant than she felt.
'Meek little doves,' she sighed mentally. Of course, they thought her foolhardy
as well, quite so. It was a point of ribbing between the three of them. Of
course, if anyone had asked Charlotte whether it was wise to converse with
strangers in a dark street as the lamps were being lit and the circus was
emptying, she certainly would have told the asker that no, it would be quite
foolish. Even more foolish would be to start stripping articles of clothing off
in that street, at the behest of said stranger.
However, certain things seem more permissible when caught in the moment, and
the game caught Charlotte's fancy just then. Perhaps she was a bit punch-drunk
from being up so late, or perhaps she felt a little adventurous after being
exposed to so many strange things. Whatever the case, she grinned at the man,
this Mister Fassbender, and reached for the buttons at her wrists.
"Well, that's hardly a game at all," she chuckled. "More like a fleecing. Do
you take an especial interest in hands, sir, or is there a catch here?"
Carefully, she slid the fitted cloth from each dainty finger, the calfskin of
her gloves tight enough that it contracted as it slid from her flesh. Once both
of the gloves were off, she draped them nicely across one hand, then quirked
one arched eyebrow at the gentleman.
"Oh no, my dear, it is merely the testing of the boundaries of society that I
am interested in. There is no harm or foul in paying a lovely lady for her time
and troubles, is there?"
The ten pound mark was placed firmly in those dainty, lovely hands of hers with
another bow and a wink that could mean a plethora of things.
The smile remained and the serpentine gleam in his dark eyes was tempered by a
hint of amusement. So, this flaxen haired beauty would be the compliant one
tonight, while the other two would probably linger to try and draw her away to
safety. A problem, perhaps, but one that was easily rectified by another trick,
another game. He leaned forward on his cane, appearing to be pondering and
considering his next phase of the game.
"Now, the next part of our game is for only those who would participate. Are
you two fine lovelies going to join us or does the evening see you off?"
Charlotte laughed as she collected her spoils, tucking gloves and note into her
little handbag. When he seemed to want to continue, it was to Katherine and
Teresa's slight alarm. The two women tugged at Charlotte's arms, urging her to
come home, to move along.

Charlotte laughed and pulled her arms away. This man had caught her curiosity
now, and she did not feel threatened at all.
"We may certainly change our minds if we dislike the nature of the next step,
might we?" She did not even wait for him to answer, turning to assure her
companions, "Of course we may. I'm certain he's not looking for anything
untoward, and most definitely he's not taken us for the kind of women that we
are not, isn't that right?" She paused long enough to glance at the man, then
inclined her head.
"I'll hear out the next part, yes. My friends will as well," she added,
laughing, "because they certainly are not going to leave me alone with a
strange man in the streets like this." Her eyes twinkled with amusement, and
she could tell by the redness in Teresa's cheeks that she was right. As long as
Charlotte stayed, they would all most likely stay, and Charlotte would not be
forced away. She would have to be convinced, perhaps bribed a little. For as
long as this man seemed reputable and did not spook her, anyhow.
His lips twitched slightly, but that reassuring smile remained on those
bloodless lips. He nodded, one hand snaking around to the front of his white
coat to retrieve yet another ten pound mark. This one was slightly crumpled but
the note was spendable either way. Only the most discerning and trained eyes
would have noticed that slight inconsistencies of the high class forgery.
Worthless money was worth spending on ladies of worth after all and the
deception was lost on them, or so he hoped.
The small revolver in his other pocket could reinforce his demands should money
fail to intrigue them any further. Michael had been at this long enough to know
that sometimes money was only of use for so long before the game ended and the
real bargaining, one dealing in the currency of lives and threats, began.
He spread his arms wide once more, hovering the note in front of Charlotte's
beautiful eyes. The softness of her hands gave him an idea of what lay beneath
those layers of clothing she wore.
"Ah, yes. The game can stop when the ladies decide, but why let it when there
is much fortune to be made? Ten pounds, my dears, for two things, as the game
goes on but the price gets higher. First, you tell me everything you are
wearing and then, you remove your jackets. Harmless fun, but profitable fun!"
Of course they wouldn't recognise the fake note, and why would they? None of
them have probably ever seen a forgery in their life. All three of the women
listen to him as he presents his case, and two of the three look scandalised.
While Teresa and Katherine muttered and stuttered about the situation,
Charlotte flushes a little, then glances aside inncocemtly. She might have
allowed herself to be dragged away, but it was only a little bit of fun and she
felt a little bit responsible to see it through, since she had convinced the
others to stay.
"Well. Oh my." Feeling a little caught, she temporises, "Well, I certainly
don't remember every single little thing that I put on this morning, but as you
can see there is a skirt, a jacket, a blouse. There were gloves." She laughs,
and the other two titter softly. Peeling off her jacket, Charlotte drapes it
also over her arm, revealing a tastefully tiny waist and a lovely blouse
buttoned to the neck. With her golden hair twisted back into a chignon, even
with the jacket off she looks quite the nice young lady. "What is the purpose
of your game?" she asked, laughing.
One out of three was not a bad catch for the evening, he decided, and he leaned
forward enough to present the young, comely Charlotte with another ten pound
mark. The other two women seemed scandalised, perhaps even a touch fearful of
the trouble and ruin they might encounter by associating with a stranger who
seemed to make a game out of undressing young women with a good amount of
money. Michael smiled softly to Charlotte, deciding it best to focus his charms
upon her and not the two nitwits that were her companions.
He steepled his hands together, encased in a pair of fine white gloves with
brass buttons, and chuckled, nodding his head with its tastefully brushed and
parted auburn hair up and down. His characteristic serpentine smile remained
plastered upon his lips.
"The purpose of the game is to see just how far you will go with the game. The
sake of the game is the game itself. Is that not the truth in any pursuit of
fun? Well then, we should continue on. The next phase is not for the weak of
heart, no indeed, but it does have its higher rewards!"
A twenty pound note, fresh and crisp, appeared from his pocket and he made a
big show of presenting it to the waiting eyes of the ladies.
"Twenty pounds, certainly a princely sum, for the first lady to take off her
skirt."
Oh, the skirt was just too much for the other two, and Charlotte herself balked
as well. Invested as she was, even she found herself unwilling to do much more.
"I-ah- no thank you," she said, trying to be polite even as her two companions
turned and stormed down the street, herding her off. Since they had played
along, it seemed utterly boorish to just march off without a proper goodbye,
but bothTeresa and Katherine were having none of it.
Charlotte herself hurried down the street with her two companions, struggling
to pull her jacket back on as they went. She dropped a glove and paused,
turning to scoop the garment back up before it could get too soiled by the
cobblestones underfoot. In the meantime, she had to suffer a muttered sermon
from Katherine, scolding her for her impulsive behaviour.
"Well, you were standing there, too," she grumbled under her breath, hoping to
head off a night-long lecture. Glancing back behind her, she paused and thrust
an arm into the jacket. Her companions got a few steps ahead before pausing and
turning, looking impatient. "Will you come on?" demanded her cousin.
"Just a moment, I'm trying to get it on," Charlotte sighed back exasperatedly.
The decline was a sorrowful note in his ruse but he offered her nothing but a
smile and a polite bow. He had played one avenue available to him tonight and
the other one, weighing three pounds and carrying six shots of a high caliber,
was about to come into play. It was a more brutish method but with the staunch
upper lipped women of the conservative society they dwelt in, it was usually
more effective, much more effective. He watched as they faded from sight and he
took to shadowing them, going down darkened alleyways that he was intimately
familiar with. The streets were mostly deserted, giving him more leeway on how
he approached them once more. Now, it was timeless to wait for the opportunity
to present itself.
The falling glove and the staggered hesitation to retrieve it on Juliet's part
was more than enough for Michael.
He moved quickly, quietly, to the edge of the alleyway he had stepped into that
ran parallel with the cobblestone main street. From his pocket, he produced his
pistol and trained it on the gorgeous Charlotte. He tried to remain out of
sight of the other two women. He hissed her name, making sure she could see the
firearm.
"You scream and you die. Now, lose your friends and come with me." He gestured
towards the alleyway, his face a mask of threats and anger. The glint of the
street lamp off of the barrel of his pistol startled Charlotte, and she froze
at first. Her heart stood still in her chest, and she went a little pale. For a
moment, she thought that she might swoon, leaving herself to the dubious
mercies of this rapacious man, but she managed to rally her senses and steel
herself.
"I..." Her lips felt stiff, and her voice came out as a bit of a nervous
squeak. She cleared her throat, the sound soft in the dim light of the street.
"I believe I shall need to catch up with you, Teresa," she managed to tell her
companion in a much stronger voice. "I've ... I've lost my glove in the dark
and I must find it. It's my favourite." She moved to lean down, as if still
trying to retrieve her glove.
"He's gone now, hurry along. I'll be along in a moment, my dear." Her cousin
was older than her, but that didn't stop Charlotte from addressing her in a
slightly patronising fashion. Once her hesitant cousin and their friend had
moved along, Charlotte straightened and drifted on graceful feet into the
alleyway. Gone was his smiling face, gone was his charm.
"I suppose you would like your money back," she murmured rather angrily,
reaching for her handbag. What a cad.
The other two girls were swiftly on their way at her insistence and he was
thankful for it. He only wanted one tonight, perhaps he would come back another
evening for the others. She was the prize of the trio, to be sure, with her
soft, feminine curves, tiny waist, and flaxen blonde hair. The thought that she
had enough resolve, steely determination, not to faint at the sight of a gun
impressed Michael, as he reached out and pulled her completely into the
deserted, darkened alleyway.
He shook his head, knocking her purse away from her gloved hands and into a
puddle of collected rain water.
"No, it is not money I am after tonight, my dear, but rather a conclusion to
the game we started earlier. This time, the wager is your life."
His tone left little room for argument as he tossed her bodily against the
crumbling brick wall of one of the buildings that lined the alley way, with
enough force to jar her into compliance and believing his threats of violence
were real.
"I do believe we were up to your skirt, yes? Strip off that outer layer, now,
or I'll put a bullet between those lovely eyes of yours."
She had hoped that her cousin and her friend would not abandon her, that they
would insist on coming back this way. But no, they were used to Charlotte's
brash ways and they left with only a little bit of grumbling about her
reputation. Oh, if they only knew. Her emerald coloured eyes glanced almost
frantically around her before they settled on him, seeming to abruptly lock on
his gun.
The frightened woman murmured, "Yes, yes, my skirt." But she didn't plead,
didn't say much more in fact, not for the moment.
Instead, she draped her jacked back over her arm and reached behind her with
shaking fingers, searching for the clasps of her voluminous skirt. One by one,
she unfastened them, and bit by bit the tight, high waist of her voluminous
skirt came loose. She fumbled around until all of the clasps were undone, then
swallowed hard. It was impossible to slide the skirt off down her legs, not
with the lacy, starched petticoats she wore underneath. Instead, she gathered
the fabric in her hands and carefully pulled it upward, around her coiffed hair
and off of her body. There she stood in her buttoned white blouse tucked into
the topmost of three petticoats. Under the blouse was still a corset, under the
skirts were still a pair of short, lacy bloomers and finely crocheted silken
stockings. And boots, of course, side-laced and made of soft ivory leather.
"And there you are," she whispered fearfully, bundling the skirt up in her
hands and feeling dreadfully exposed.
Her voice was hardly a whisper, born of fear and it stirred his blood, as hot
as it already was at the undressing strumpet before him. She was dreadfully
exposed now, in a state that only her nanny or her future husband should see
her. But, no this was only the first boundary that was going to be crossed this
evening and there was no stopping the momentum of his urges, his demands, now.
He gestured with the gun towards a pile of broken down wooden crates.
"Put your things over there."
As they worked their way over to the spot, he could smell the faint scent of
her perfume. He closed his eye momentarily, enjoying the softness of her figure
and the lingering tinge of her embarrassment and humility that hung in those
malachite orbs of hers. His smile returned but it was a darkened cousin of its
previous one; the grin of the Cheshire cat, all knowing and demanding of things
best left in the bodice rippers of the age or the drawing rooms of private
estates.
"Our game continues, dear Lottie, why stop there? Your blouse and petticoats
should come next."
She cringed at the childish nickname he bestowed for her. He wanted much, much
more than she ever wanted to give, quite a bit more than an innocent game
should demand. Charlotte set her jacket, glove, and skirt on the indicated
crates, her heart still pounding in her chest. Her stomach twisted at the
thought of taking more off, and her porcelain skin got quite pale.
"I." She fumbled for the words to say, wanting to do little more than writhe
with mortification. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can," she told him, her
voice faint. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, her eyes fluttering
between his eyes and his gun. Even the thought of baring more in this dark
alley made her head spin.
Now, now she pleaded. "Please. Mister Fassbender, I cannot." She folded her
arms rather protectively around her midsection, hugging herself. "I beg you,
for goodness' sake, please just take your money and go. I've, I've no more
entertainment for you now, and I fear anything further might be too much to
bare.”
His smile twisted upward, the promise of pain and torment obvious in their
depths. He was a sadist, there was no doubt about it, and pain was something he
was hoping he would have a chance to inflict this evening. She had given him
the opportunity in her defiance and now, with the moment at hand, he would
deliver it.
The gun rose and fell, a heavy hand behind it, smashing into her precious,
porcelain face. He struck her twice, the pistol butt leaving angry, red welts
on her left cheek and forehead. He kicked her savagely in the midsection,
staining her lily white corset with mud from his boots and her own blood. He
longed to hear her draw ragged breath through broken lips, to watch the fire in
her eyes dim out and cloud up with tears of pain. There would be no release for
her torment as he knelt over her, the smooth, cold metal of the gun barrel
pressed against her forehead. His voice dripped with venom, dark and
threatening.
"You have much more entertainment to provide for me this evening, my little
dear, and I intend to take it. You will come out of this much better if you
comply. Or I'm going to end not only your life but those of your two little
friends. Your little cousin, Tessa, first perhaps? I can cut her open, from
liver to lights, bloody my blade on her innocence. Or maybe your sweet friend
Katie? I'd love to fuck her while she squirmed with my hands around her perfect
little throat. What road do you wish to embark upon, Little Lottie dearest?
Pain for yourself or death for all three?"
The fact that he would even strike her was stunning, but that he would do so in
such a brutal manner was shocking as well. She flinched as he struck her with
the butt of the pistol, then cried out as he kicked her, crumpling to the
ground with a bootmark directly in the middle of her blouse. His reaction
frightened her badly, and it only frightened her more when he pressed that icy
metal to her forehead. It was so cold, it seemed to sear a circle of frost on
her forehead.
The visions he induced of her friend, her cousin, being tormented to death were
horrible. Charlotte cringed and squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, trying
to block out the visions of such pain from her imagination. What had they done
to deserve this beast of a man in their lives? Only a night of gaity, nothing
more, had brought them to this. Certainly a little bit of fun wasn't such a
grievous wrong as to deserve such a punishment. But there was no use in those
thoughts, not really, since he was here and he had asked her a question. A
dreadful question.
"No, no, leave them alone, leave them be." She wasn't sure they would have even
made it home yet, to be honest. Her shaking hands, bare and a little cold in
the night air without her normal gloves, rose to the buttons of her blouse, and
she tried to sit up a little. Her petticoats were stained, her blouse was
muddied, and her hair had been knocked askew by his attack, wisps framing her
purpling face as she hastened to remove the shred of fabric atop her corset. It
joined the rest of her clothes, and then she reached for the ties that held her
petticoats in place. It was with stilted gestures that she managed to peel them
free, one at a time, baring herself to him by layers. Finally, she found
herself in little more than hose, chemised corset, shoes and frilly drawers.
Certainly nothing a stranger should see.
If the physical violence didn't break her spirits, certainly his open threats
against those she loved would. Compliance was the only sane road available to
her, and to his sadistic delight, she took it with alacrity. Her beautiful
little fingers worked down the many pearl coloured buttons of her dirty,
tattered blouse, exposing more of her alabaster flesh to the open night air and
his prying, hungry eyes. There would only be a few boundaries left before he
could consume her wholly in his lust for the soft flesh of her body.
He smiled at her softly, a mockery of affection, as he circled her, like a pack
of wolves smelling the scent of wounded pray. He enjoyed watching the
goosebumps form on her exposed skin, the nervous, fearful darting of her
malachite eyes, the angry, crimson welts that were rising on her cheek from
where he had struck her with his pistol. Yes, this was the prize worth the
conquest. He would enjoy shedding her innocence completely, plainly in the
sight of those who might pass by. She would appear as nothing more than a
common street whore to them, perhaps, enjoying her work for a coin or a warm
bed. Such sights were common in the city of London not so far away.
As he stood behind her, he raised his pistol once more and savagely struck her
between the shoulder blades, forcing her to her knees. He moved to be in front
of her, the gun once again pointed at her forehead, hovering there like the
Reaper.
He used his other hand to unbutton his trousers and pull out his semi hard
member, a thick specimen that promised to hurt if it ever entered her most
intimate of places. He waved it lewdly in front of her face, pressing it
against her lips.
"Put it in your mouth and suck it, you little bitch."
Green eyes trying to follow him as he circled him, while she ducked her head
slightly. The strike on her back pulled a sharp cry from her lips, and she
managed to keep her balance for a moment before tumbling to her knees. The hard
stones bruised her knees, and she winced. The mouth of the gun was a constant,
always returning to her, always on the edge of her sights and the back of her
mind. Charlotte quivered a little.
When confronted with the, the fleshy appendage that he waved at her,
Charlotte's face turned scarlet and she looked up at him from her knees to see
if he was serious. She caught sight of the look on his face, glinting like the
edge of a knife, dangerous and determined. Her hands fluttered in front of her,
and she threw a longing glance at the pile of her clothing, sitting off to the
side and just waiting for her to pull them on and flee homeward. Alas.
Despite the varied thoughts running through her fevered mind, it was only a
moment after his request that she leaned forward, squeezing her eyes closed as
she placed soft lips timidly on the- on that. She saw no other way; he had
given her no other. Her fingers laced tightly in her lap as she timidly mouthed
at him, all the while trying not to see or smell or hear or taste him.
He didn't give her the luxury of not tasting him however, as his hardened
member entered the tight, pouty confines of her mouth. He tasted of sweat and
salt, musk and aggression. The warm invitation of her lips and tongue greeted
him timidly, a denial of pleasure that he was not going to allow. He struck her
hard across the face with his free hand, cocking the revolver's heavy hammer
back and again, making sure that she understood the danger that she was facing.
"Open your eyes. Use your hands to cup my balls and to stroke it. I want you to
look up at me with those pretty little eyes of yours and let me know how much
you hate it." A shudder went through her as he cocked the pistol. Tears that
had collected at the corners of her eyes spilled down her cheeks in little
rivulets, nearly invisible in the lamplight. Her eyes were damp, however, as
she opened them and looked up at him, disgust swimming in them. Her hands came
up, both of them, and though the naive woman didn't quite comprehend his order,
she ran her palms desperately along the length of flesh still protruding from
her lips. Her fingers fluttered along the top, and her tongue danced almost
daintily over the tip. She didn't dare pull her mouth free long enough to ask
him for elaboration; instead, she did what she thought he wanted and prayed it
was enough. Her eyes squeezed closed again for a moment, displacing more tears
down her cheeks. She didn't keep them closed for long, though. She did not dare
not to look at him, though she wished she could close them again.
Even as she was half naked, on her knees in front of him, she still had her
little rebellions. She would not look up at him as he had ordered and it drove
his rage over the edge. Her timid, unskilled mouthing of his cock was enough to
make him spasm a bit under her warm lips and cold hands but she was doing a
half hearted attempt in his eyes. He inserted his free hand into his coat
pocket and pulled out a straight razor, like the one her father might have used
to trim away the whiskers on his face. No, this one was going to be used for
much darker purposes. He pulled his cock from her grasp and forced her to stand
once more, the blade raised.
His hand was swift and steady as he unfolded the shiny, sharp blade and slashed
across the ties of her corset. He cut the remnants of the garment, forever
ruined, and tore it from her shivering, trembling body. The blade sung as it
slashed through the straps of her chemise, shredding the delicate lace into
useless strips of cloth. The razor kissed her pale skin, just above her naked
breasts and drew a shallow cut, her blood welling up to the surface. He paused,
holding the blade before her panic stricken eyes.
"The next cut goes for your throat Lottie, if you don't do what I say and do it
with effort. Now, get your boots and underthings off. Leave your hose on,
though. It really helps your legs look worth the effort."
Charlotte yelped as he pulled himself from her hands and mouth, flinching as he
yanked her to her feet. Terrified, she was sure that he was going to kill her.
When she discovered him h olding a blade, she shuddered and held up her hands
in front of her. That didn't save her, of course, from the ravages of the blade
on her clothing. Her milky skin stood out against the pink nipples on her
breasts, the pert mounds hardly needing the support of a corset. In point of
fact, her waist was not entirely much thicker, and the appearance of her hips
diminished only by a little with the removal of the garment.
She brought her arms up and hunched her shoulders, trying to cover her
nakedness and sobbing openly now. She felt a smattering of glances from
passersby, but they certainly did not stop to help her. A strand or two of hair
clung to her damp forehead by the perspiration there, and she shivered in the
cool air, having little to help her guard against it. With shaky hands, she
stripped off both boots and drawers, shedding the last strips of her chemise
with the motion, exposing her pleasantly plump thighs and the nest of curls
just below her navel. "Please," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, please don't hurt me."
he vulnerability he had inflicted upon her made his blood sing. His smile was
nothing short of brilliant, that damning mockery of affection, as he forced her
against one of the brick walls of the alley way. He was behind her, his fleshy
penis pressed up against her backside as he shoved her legs apart with the flat
of the straight razor. His other hand had returned the gun to his coat pocket,
content to work with blade and brawn, a far more intimate threat than the cold,
surgical practice of putting a bullet in someone's head. It felt more personal
when he brought blade to bear on her pale, sobbing body and he indulged it a
few more times, drawing straight lines down the middle of her shoulder blades,
causing little nicks, angry and red, to appear in the wake of the razor. He
loved hearing her sobs, her little sharp intakes of breath as he pierced her
skin, the shudder of relief the moment the blade stopped kissing her flesh like
an obsessive, angry lover.
His cock throbbed as he completed his craft and he forced it between her legs,
one heavy hand reaching around the front of her and starting to massage her
clit in slow, delicate circles while his dick probed for entrance.
"Spread your fucking legs wide, because I'm going to fuck you, right here,
while anyone that walked by can watch. I'm sure your a beautiful actress
darling."
Each time the blade bit into her skin, she let out a soft cry and her body
twitched a little. The rough brick felt horrible against her front, and she
felt the awful swell of his sex against her buttocks. She could feel warm
little lines of blood dripping their way slowly down her back, and she could
feel the itch of another drop from the cut below her collarbone. He was crazed;
she knew that now. He was crazed but he seemed to have her directly where he
wanted her.
She yelped when his fingers found her clit, and she sobbed harder when he
ordered her legs apart. She should be fighting him more, she should be
struggling harder, but she was frightened. People would say that she had wanted
it, that she hadn't fought him because she was secretly longing for his brutal
affection, but she was truly just terribly frightened. Still sobbing, she
pushed her legs apart, and in her mind a whole crowd of onlookers had gathered
at the mouth of the alley. This was not the case, of course, but it still felt
that way in her mind. She yelped again when she felt him probing at her
entrance, crying too hard for anything but incoherent pleas, now.
Her crying was certainly the main source of his excitement, the holding of her
life in his callous hands. She had shed every last part of her dignity, much of
it cast about in the shredded remnants of her clothing or the tears that fell
from her lovely green eyes. There was no fighting fate as his cock was shoved
unceremoniously between her legs, the tip of it entering her sex and breaking
through the slightly damp folds, to brush against her inner most passage. He
was not some generous, caring lover though and soon, his entire length, thick,
was between her legs, his hot breathing coming in grunts against her bare neck.
His cold fingers worked up and down her clit, rubbing and molesting her body
into compliance.
He would fuck her up against that wall while people trickled by, some casting
weary glances of disapproval while others couldn't bring themselves to look at
all. They heard their rutting though and it caused their cheeks to turn
crimson, either out of a secret lust or more likely, a feeling of disgust at
such a public display. One women even paused at the entrance of the alley way,
her eyes watching and peering. One hand brushed against her crotch, hidden away
in so many layers like Charlotte had once been. The strange woman's partner was
quick to tug her along, away from such "filth".
Yet no one came to help her. No one cared. Charlotte sobbed aloud as he speared
her with his flesh, crying out in pain and anguish. He seemed to fill her
impossibly full, and then some, making her feel as if he'd split her in two
with just a few thrusts. Didn't anyone care that she was obviously crying as he
took her? No. She hid her face, humiliated, trying to keep any passersby from
recognising her. She didn't dare call out for help, not even a little. Instead,
she simply stood there, trying not to cry out too loudly, her whole body
shaking. She swore that at one point she felt a pinch on her rear, or possibly
it was a grope. She tried to ignore it, or to tell herself that it was her
attacker; she couldn't bear the thought of onlookers feeling so welcome as to
take part.
Her whole body tingled from the strokes of his fingers on her clit. She could
feel his fingers pressing her toward a swell of unwanted pleasure, and that
disgusted her, too. Her whimpers took on an erotic tone slowly but surely,
until her body was on fire and her sex was throbbing with each thrust. She was
beyond begging, beyond asking him to stop or to have mercy. All she could do
was try to endure it, and to try to resist the devilish climax that loomed
within her flesh.
Pain. Anguish. Like an incubus, he feed off those emotions and it thrilled him
to no end. The sins and pleasures of the flesh paled to the all consuming lust
and sick, twisted gratification that came from watching his victims break upon
his will. His dick throbbed in her tight little cunt, stealing away what was
left of her perceived innocence with each violent thrust. His razor trailed
over her lower back, the flat of the blade resting just above her ass. He
twisted his wrist and the edge snaked out again, kissing her flesh and drawing
another fine, thin line across the canvas of her body. He bent down to lick the
blood that welled up, a sinister gleam in his eyes.
He then turned his free hand's attention to her small, perky tits, cupping each
one before assaulting them with a steely grasp. His balls tightened as he
worked himself towards orgasm, teetering on the edge and trying to force her to
experience what might have been her very first, robbed of its meaning and
pleasure by his raping of her body and mind.
She let out another whimper at his cut, then shuddered when she felt his tongue
on her back. She moans softly in fear and unwanted arousal, glad only for the
small mercy that she could not see his face, and he could not see hers. She
panted softly against the brick wall, gasping, her fine hair clinging to her
forehead as her body clenched and shuddered and twitched and squeezed around
him. She felt the physical pleasure wash through her, and it ripped through her
mind like an accusation.
Loose.
Trollop.
Whore.
All of these things she called herself in her mind while small puffs of her hot
breath steamed against the cold mortar. The tears had dried up a little, her
eyes sore and swollen and red from crying. Her lashes stuck together, creating
wet little arrows in the corners of her vision. Still, she all but held her
breath in an effort to keep quiet, trying to will herself invisible,
unnoticeable, beneath recognition.
As her sobbing abated, to be replaced by the soft sounds of her moaning, he
thrust his hardened length inside of her violently. The razor was quickly
becoming a second extension of his rape of her; drawing up and down the ivory
flesh of her back, leaving bloody trails in its wake. They were but shallow
cuts, scratches but his tongue flickered across them, spreading the severed
flesh open in an effort to maximise the pain she was feeling from them. He
wanted nothing more than to flay her alive while he fucked her but he
refrained, for such an act even in this closeted society, in public view, would
garner some sort of unwanted attention.
The prying eyes of said society were enjoying the show however. Her cries and
his grunts had capture the imagination of several folks, who stood in the mouth
of the alleyway, watching and whispering the scandalous act to one and other
like it was some sort of fevered dream they were experiencing and not watching.
Michaels tormenting of her breasts started and as he glanced over to see the
people staring, he shifted her away from the wall and forced her on all four,
pointing her face towards the crowd while continuing to fuck her.
"Look up and see your audience, little Lottie."
As the tremors in her body subsided, she heard his order to raise her head. But
what could he do to her if she didn't? Kill her? She hardly was worried about
that now; she might die of shame anyway. The stripes of pain down her back and
across her breasts reminded her that this was not a dream, not some horrible
vision that she had managed to dream up while asleep. She felt the hard stones
scrape her knees and the palms of her hands as he forced her down like an
animal, still rutting behind her. She started to sob again, raising her eyes
miserably and scanning the ... 'audience'. She only raised her head for a
moment, however, before she lowered her gaze to the ground again, her breasts
dangling from her body, quivering with each thrust.
 
 
The pain of death was certainly paling to the horrific reality in which she had
become entangled in, with the flashing razor, its stinging kiss across her pale
flesh, and the roughness of her rape. It was almost a release then, was it not?
The audience watched in silent horror and twisted fascination as he lowered
himself into a crouch, to resume fucking her from behind, like two rutting
animals in heat. The razor was poised over her bloodied wreck of her back, its
work forgotten for the moment as his hands assaulted her round little ass
instead. The ringing of the palm of his gloved hand against her bare bottom
filled the ears of those gathered, as did his callous laughter.
"Tighten up, you little bitch, I'm going to fuck your quim raw."
And his thrusts became even more violent, if such a thing was even possible, as
he slide in two fingers into her pussy, to hold it as far open as it could go
as he fucked her.
Oh, god, she could have died from those words alone. Her whole body shuddered
with revulsion and she winced when he struck her. How far she had fallen from
the start of the night, how awful it had turned.
"I-I, what?" The words came out weakly, and she couldn't figure out what he
meant. The fingers that invaded her along with his flesh made her cry out in
pain, and each subsequent thrust drew another yelp from her.
And yet, she could feel climax creeping up on her, again folding her in its
silken embrace. She felt it wash over her, felt her whole body release with the
only orgasm she has had, something that women her age seldom feel at all. Her
flesh throbbed around his hard, full cock and around his fingers.
"Please," she whimpered. "Please stop, please, for the love of God, please
stop." She begged him, outright begged for him to be done with her. All she
wanted to do was crawl into a corner and die.
"Not until I'm done, little one."
His hardened cock slapped against her wet folds, burying itself up to the base
each and every thrust. He rammed in another finger, spreading her as wide as
physically possible. He could feel her tearing under his assault, the warm
wetness of her burst cherry and pussy juices, mingled with his own, running
down his fingers and onto the cobblestones. As he finally reached climax, he
released every last drop of his seed into her waiting, unwilling pink hole. In
his ecstasy, the razor unfolded once more and began cutting deep furrows in her
back, ass, and shoulders. The blood flowed like rain, splattering across the
cobblestones and the brick walls of the alley way. A cry went up over his
laughter from one of the women watching, sending her into a faint and one of
the other men ran off, possibly to get help.
He didn't care, carving her up as he rode the waves of orgasm was worth any
punishment and the razor rose and fell again and again.
Poor Charlotte, already bleeding and sore from so much more abuse than a body
should ever have to take, could do little more than weep as she felt the heat
of his seed filling her battered pussy. Her eyes rolled back in her head and
she sank against the stones underneath her, fevered and bleeding flesh pressing
against cold, hard stone. She felt the world spinning around her as she
crumpled, unable to support herself even on hands and knees any longer. Hot
fluid ran down her thighs, and though she took most of it for blood, it was not
all red.
Crumpled like an old handkerchief, she lay there and wept, praying that he
would leave her be now that he's taken his pleasure.
And strangely, as she crumpled to the stones, battered and bleeding, he did
stop. The razor was wiped clean on one of her discarded petticoats, streaking
its stark whiteness with the crimson lifeblood which was flowing so freely onto
the worn cobblestones. He put the razor away into his pocket and turned as he
felt the heated stares of his audience upon him, soft gasps coming from the
pressed lips of the ladies and few gentlemen gathered there. He laughed at
them, fishing the pistol out of his pocket and pointing it in their direction.
"Did you enjoy the show, ladies and gentlemen? Perhaps I can entertain you
further when I fuck your daughters or perhaps your wives?!"
His hoarse voice echoed in the alley way as the audience, finding nothing but
derangement present, scattered down the streets, leaving Charlotte alone once
again.
He leaned down close, to whisper in her ear as he started to leave.
"I hope you remember every moment of this, Lottie dear. If you live, you will
bear not only the physical scars but those in your mind as well. And I will be
watching you, forever. Dream of me each time you close your eyes."
With that, Michael Fassbender the great illusionist positioned his top hat on
his head, took up his walking cane, and headed south down the cobblestone road
towards the next town and when once again, all eyes would be on him and his
chosen victim. Unbeknownst to the girl lying in her own blood and fluids, she'd
be the only living victim of a man that is still well known today as….Jack the
Ripper….

                                   The End?
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