The boy was pretty, six feet of chiseled grace laid out by absinthe. Madam prefers supérieure to green. I’d not find out which he was.
I favor wormwood tea, better to prolong my passions, if a bitter taste for the men.
Parched lips parted with a plea.
I could not grant him any release, however fine that act might be. Under Madam’s ministrations, I’d chirp for mercy, confessing all.
I kissed him though, enjoying the rise. “Fear not, young buck. After a jab or two, she’ll leave you whole.”
He relaxed, poor fool.
I never said she’d let him live.