Chapter 6: Ruthless

It was an oppressively warm late afternoon that Monday, and all of Paris yearned for a breeze to break through the stagnant air. Rose’s now perpetually cold skin, however, acted as a heat buffer, and so she wasn’t bothered by the heavy summer air anymore. Sweat, she learned, now only came from nerves, not from overheating.

Fortunately, the parasol Rose carried on her walks to work during the day did not look too out of place. A smattering of other pedestrians marching along Boulevard Saint-Germain carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the heat of the sun.

Her sunglasses, too, were inconspicuous as many other shaded eyes bobbed hurriedly along the streets. These were some advantages to the summer, despite the stark disadvantage of the long, seemingly endless daylight.

Grateful to no longer need these protections, Rose heaved a sigh of relief when she entered the windowless confines of Theatre La Chatte.

Rose sat beside Antoine, a fellow dancer, in the dressing area and took a deep breath. She felt pearls of sweat gather on her brow. She was apprehensive about acting out the plan she and Sophie had concocted.

“Is it still sweltering out?” Antoine asked her.

Rose looked at them and stammered, “Um—yes. Yes…it’s quite hot out. I nearly died from the heat.” She hoped she wasn’t overselling it.

Antoine approached her with a handkerchief. “Here, chérie, let me help you. Your forehead is sweating, you look like a whore in church!” They winked at her as they began to dab her forehead.

Rose got anxious about Antoine, who was not in on her secret, getting too close, so without thinking she grabbed their arm midair. 

Antoine let out a stunted shriek. “How is your hand so cold? Isn’t it a million degrees outside?”

Rose felt that her cheeks would have flushed bright crimson, had there been blood flowing through her veins. She was angry at herself for acting impulsively. Today was not the day to be reckless. 

“I was carrying a bag of ice,” she lied with downcast eyes, worried that the falsehood was glaringly obvious.

Antoine raised an eyebrow. They looked suspicious. 

“Well,” Aintoine drawled as they walked away, “I have to go on. You should go cool down, or warm up, or whatever it is you need to do. Ciao!”

“Salut, Antoine, merci,” Rose called after them as they left the dressing area. She let out a breath, relieved to have not been caught in an unexplainable situation.

“One more thing!” Antoine announced as they popped their head back into the dressing area. Rose started with a panicked little leap off her seat. She felt the phantom racing of a heartbeat that in reality remained eerily still.

“What is it?” she asked, trying her best to sound calm.

“There’s a guy here for you, he said you arranged a private dance.”
He’s here, Rose thought, it’s time. “Okay. Merci, Antoine,” she said through a forced smile.


Donning her satin robe, Rose peeked through the curtains into the main entry hall of Theatre La Chatte. There he was, waiting alone. The sight of her prey kindled some confidence in herself. She narrowed her eyes in on him and licked her lips.

She emerged through the curtains and felt a droplet form on her temple. “Don’t be nervous,” she instructed herself. “Keep it together!”

“You must be Igor,” Rose greeted him aloud. As he nodded she examined his face closely. She noticed his cheeks redden slightly at her presence. It stirred her appetite.

His brow, too, became burdened with tiny beads of sweat, and this calmed Rose. He was also nervous—as he should be, returning to the scene of his crime. His entitlement and desire must have outweighed any concerns, for he had accepted the invitation.

She watched as a droplet of sweat meandered down his ruddy cheek. It formed a salty glaze on that ripe, pink flesh. Rose felt her tongue run instinctively along the tips of her teeth. She was beginning to feel hungry, excited. 

Out of habit, Rose offered him a flash of her body through the slits of her robe before tying it back up and extending a hand. This quick flash revealed a champagne-colored lingerie set—bra, garter-belt, and panties—and chocolate brown thigh high tights. Gold heels crowned her legs. In an unusual twist, she had also put on long gloves. This was to conceal her cold hands.

“This way,” she instructed.

Igor followed her speechless, looking almost possessed. Rose led him up the narrow, winding flights of stairs to the only showroom on the top floor. “We’ll have the most privacy up here,” she explained with a wink. He grinned.

The room on the top floor was a converted attic and retained many of its attic-esque features. The ceiling slanted on one end, and the only windows were peekaboo squares with small shutters. The heavy attic door was made of thick wood adorned with intricate carvings, a relic of a former age that prized beauty and excess.

Rose led Igor to the chair in the center of the room. She dimmed the lights and set her phone to play music.

“Ready?” she turned and asked him. He nodded.

“First we must go over the rules,” she said with feigned seriousness. “Rule one: your hands are free to touch yourself, as you like, but they can only touch me when I guide them. Understood?” He nodded.

“Rule two: you must stay in that chair until I tell you that you can get up. Understood?” He nodded.

“Formidable,” she said through a smile. She turned back to her music and pressed play, and the song lilted in.

Rose twirled herself around to face him. She strutted closer to him and dropped her robe with a flourish. She danced her fingers along his thigh, up his arm, and across the back of his neck. She gripped his hair tightly, then mussed and released it.

A blue vein that twisted along his temple jumped to her eyes. She felt wetness fill her mouth. 

Rose girded herself. Moving behind him, she ran her palms over his chest.

She then whirled in front of him and fell to her knees. Parting his thighs with her palms, she edged herself in closer. She felt his eyes glued to her. She glanced up and gave him a coy little open-lip smile and batted her lashes generously.

Her hands traveled upward over his thighs until they reached the pinnacle. She caressed the bulge in his pants that had grown since he first sat down. Her fingers reached for the button holding everything in.

“Ça va?” She looked up at him as she waited for consent. (It was a gesture he hardly deserved!) He nodded. Her gaze darted past his eyes—that blue vein had started pulsating visibly. Rose unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, but left the rest to him.

She got up and turned to give him a good view of her ass. Framed by the shimmering champagne of her lingerie, the two mounds of her backside looked like an upside down heart wrapped like a gift. 

Facing away from him, she caressed her ass cheeks and gave herself a slap with both gloved hands. She glanced back to ensure he was relishing this show, but also to inspect his progress.

He had gotten his cock out and was stroking it in undulating motions. His mouth was agape, and new beads of sweat had emerged on his temple. The sweat spotlighted the pulsating blue vein.

Rose smiled, satisfied. Her nervousness had melted away. She felt the moisture in her mouth intensify and a ruthless hunger begin to percolate within her.

In a conscious effort, she focused her mind on her dance and away from her quickening saliva in order to avoid getting too distracted. She couldn’t act too hastily. And she needed him nice and aroused—and distracted—before she acted.

Whipping her head down between her spread legs, she grabbed her ankles. Slowly, she slid her hands across the backs of her calves, up her chocolate-clad thighs, and to her ass where she squeezed her cheeks tightly, pressing her fingertips into her flesh. The touch of her own skin delighted her, and she closed her eyes briefly to savor it.

She opened her eyes and glanced back at him. He was losing himself in the moment, as planned.

Pulling her panties to one side, she traced a wet finger slowly along the outer contours of her pussy. She was watching him, upside down, like a bat from a rafter.

She slid her wet finger into her pussy and moaned. For a moment she was able to forget the dreadful task at hand and simply enjoy the softness of her ass cheeks, the tautness of her calves, the wetness of her cunt.

But that was only a momentary treat, for herself and for her undeserving client. Arching her back, she raised her head up, then turned to face him. His strokes were getting faster, his dick was getting harder.

There was precious little time, so Rose rushed through the rest of her striptease. Where she would normally linger on the tease, she focused instead on the stirp.

She needed to stick to the plan she and Sophie had devised. So she removed her bra and then promptly took off her garter-belt. She teased the release of her panties just a bit, as her eyes caught a glimpse of his cock that now looked like it was glowing red.

Only rarely did Rose lose control of herself while dancing. The dance usually took hold of her like a trance, her own arousal taking the reins and guiding her through the motions. The pleasure and power she felt through dancing became her animating force, and she flowed as if possessed by the most libidinous and sensual cachés in her mind.

Once in this state of mind, it took a lot to shake her. She had gotten adept at handling grabby clients, was keen to move through any trips or technical difficulties, all the while keeping her act on track and not breaking the erotic spell for herself or for her audience.

So it caught her off guard to be stalled in her steps by the sight of a cock of all things. After all, how many had she seen in this very room? This was no special cock, aside from it being attached to Igor. But that was the important difference.

That veiny thing in his hand was turning pink with the attention and blood flowing into it. It pulsated, palpitated, pleaded. A desire filled Rose, but not a sexual desire. Her mouth continued to lubricate itself with saliva. She felt her eyes fixate on that writhing cock, blooming with fresh thickness and redness.

She felt her breath quicken, but notably her heart didn’t race. Where a pounding hammer may have been, there was only silence, starkly apparent despite the music. She clocked the profound nothingness in her chest once again, but could not linger on it.

Rose shook herself back to attention. Igor didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. He kept stroking away, not bothered by her temporary distraction.

She was back in control of herself, albeit tenuously, for her eyes would not peel themselves away from that red, throbbing cock in his hand, now stroking with furious intensity. The tiny blue vein in his temple had become a distant thought, a discarded garnish overshadowed by the main course. 

Her legs walked herself closer toward Igor, who was still obediently sitting in the chair. Her eyes locked on his cock. Red. Pulsating. Throbbing. It was filled to the brim with fresh blood.

Rose felt herself pounce. Hardly a conscious act, it felt more like an animalistic instinct that erupted inside her. Igor was taken aback, but he let it happen without protest. 

She clutched his dick in both hands and thrust it into her salivating mouth. Igor was stunned; this had never before happened to him here, not like this. It had been years since his last visit to Theatre La Chatte, but he remembered his previous visits vividly. Never—never—had a dancer consumed him so thoroughly with her mouth, not by her own choice anyway.

Her eyes were watching him. He looked elated, like he was experiencing a fantasy unfolding in realtime. His eyelids started to close, but he snapped them back open to watch the show that was too good to miss. 

As she enveloped his cock with her mouth, she felt a tingling sensation in her teeth. The taste of skin was not the goal. She felt the tips of her teeth jut forth and press themselves into the thin skin of his hard penis.

Her eyes never left his visage. He winced, but his smile widened. You like that, huh? she thought. Deeper her teeth sank, piercing through the stretched skin and reaching the bulging veins of blood beneath.

He let out a groan. Was it pleasure? Pain? Sometimes these sounds are indistinguishable. Her teeth went deeper. This, too, was something other than a conscious choice. It was as if they—the protruding, dagger-like teeth—were now in control, and she was just the vessel catering to their desires. 

“Wait, stop—” he panted as he brought his hands to her head in an attempt to move her away. In response, her hands clamped down on his, securing them to the chair’s armrests. He struggled but couldn’t budge. He looked baffled by her strength. 

Holding him down, her teeth sank deeper, drilling into a thick, quivering vein. Instinctively, she began to suck, to pull forth the blood that gave this previously limp appendage its girth and rigidness. Blood can be transformative in that way. It gives life, strength, power.

His scream startled her but it did not shake her resolve—quite the opposite. Her mouth gorged itself with one last deep pull from that withering vein in his now shriveled cock. Satisfied, she pulled herself upright. She felt invincible as she knocked him and the chair over with one swift kick. She watched him struggle out of the toppled-over chair and immediately collapse next to it, his penis bleeding profusely. He held his soggy member in hands and writhed in the fetal position on the floor. 

“HELP!” he shrieked. Rose approached and kicked him onto his back. The sole of a sparkling gold heel clamped down on his mouth and muffled his screams. She knelt beside him and glared into his eyes. He was helpless, pathetic. Her hand gripped his jaw and yanked it forward, the points of her nails digging into the flesh of his face.

“Help?” she laughed. “Who helped Sophie when you assaulted her? Do you even know her name? Is she part of a long list of lives you’ve tarnished? Who came to their rescue? The same who will help you now. No one.”

Rose’s teeth, now longer and sharper than ever, bored into Igor’s throat. She gulped and sucked until she was fully satiated and he was completely emptied of life.


Moments passed and Rose became herself again. She sat on the floor, nearly naked and drenched in this dead man’s blood. It covered her mouth and chin, streaking down her neck and torso. Her gloved hands were sopped through with the viscous liquid.

Rose wasn’t totally sure what had just happened. Her instincts must have taken over, she assessed. And now a dead man lay in a dark, glossy pool of his own blood at her place of work.

His body lay motionless, but the spilt blood was slowly expanding its circumference. Wet and black and menacing, it creeped ever closer toward her. She inched herself away as if it were about to claw at her. She stopped only when her back hit the door.

Leaning against the solid wood of the front door, Rose took several deep breaths and tried to steady herself. She took stock of what had just transpired, of what steps to take next. There was little chance anyone had heard Igor’s screams up on this floor, behind the heavy door and whirring music. But this crime scene could not be kept secret for long.

Things hadn’t gone exactly as she and Sophie had planned. The original plan was for Rose to seduce him, to convince him to go home with her following the private dance. She was meant to lead him to the storage cellar in Sophie’s apartment building, which was pretty much always deserted and could be locked from the inside. Sophie would be waiting there to assist Rose in the grisly task at hand. But that plan was now dashed.

With daylight still prowling the streets and casting watchful eyes over the city’s every move, a stealthy recovery to this botched situation seemed direly out of reach. Rose could only think of one thing to do.

She grabbed her phone and with shaking fingers sent a beseeching text. “Sophie, I fucked up. I need your help. Come to the attic showroom ASAP, don’t let anyone see you. I’m so sorry.”

Striptease: Ruthless

Sophie flew to Rose’s side. She entered the attic showroom without a word of judgment.

They stared side by side in silence at the motionless body splayed on the floor, corpulent and stained with patches of brown and red.

“We need to call Zari.” Sophie uttered these words matter-of-factly.

“No!” Rose protested. “No, we can’t get anyone else involved in this—”

Sophie looked at her and crossed her arms. “We need to call Zari,” she repeated.

Whenever the words “we need to call Zari” are uttered, you know you are in trouble. Something has gone terribly wrong. But, at the same time, you are eternally grateful to be able to utter those words, because without fail Zari will come through for you. No matter how dark or twisted the request, she’d be there for you.

Zari—another dancer at Theatre La Chatte—was equal parts beauty and danger. Equal parts Mother Teresa and Mata Hari. Equal parts fairy godmother and mob godfather. She was loyal to a fault and staunchly trustworthy, and also had a seemingly endless list of shady connections. She could get you the best designer drugs, find you a fake passport, or help you launder money. She was a getter, a fixer. And her silence on the matter was always guaranteed. In short, she was a badass.

They called Zari.

Zari arrived in record time and assessed the situation. They all agreed this could be kept secret until Theatre La Chatte closed for the night. It would take some lying and finessing, but they could keep other dancers from taking clients to the attic showroom for at least the rest of the day.

They further agreed to meet back at Theatre La Chatte at 2am. Zari, inexplicably, had a set of keys and could let them in.


For Rose, the following hours were filled with anxiety, intense fear, anticipation, and wild elation. She had killed a man. Not only that, she had killed a man for the sake of drinking his blood, which she did with ravenous pleasure.

She feared the aftermath that was approaching—Zari had promised to bring a couple burly guys to drag the body down and dispose of it, but how would this gruesome endeavor play out in realtime? She didn’t doubt that Zari would bring the right closed-lip goons to get the job done. But still, how could she not worry, not agonize about what was going to happen? About what had just happened? About what she had done? About what she would do next?

And yet…She was also giddy with strength, high on power, drunk on dominance. She desired to feed again, not because she was hungry necessarily, but because she enjoyed the rush of killing. And this worried her even more.

He was a bad man who did terrible things, she reminded herself over and over. He deserved it. That made what she did okay.


It did make it okay. It had to. At least, this is what she told herself. She tried desperately to convince herself of it. It half worked. These thoughts kept swimming around in her head, but never quite settled.

In the murky waters of her mind, countering thoughts lurked beneath the surface and popped up every now and then. Thoughts like: Is this strange form of vigilante justice really condonable? How long before she runs out of “bad guys” to feed on? Was this a sustainable way for her to exist?

She pushed these nagging thoughts down, attempting to drown them, but their buoyancy proved stubborn. What kind of life was stretching out before her? Would she be able to live with herself like this?

And yet…A part of her couldn’t wait to kill again. She yearned for that rush.

She sat alone in the dancers’ dressing area, so she was free to smoke her vape with the soothing marijuana liquid within. (Some of the other dancers didn’t like indoor smoking of any kind.) As she inhaled a deep stream and released a pillowy cloud of white vapors, she appreciated that—while she had lost her ability to consume, let alone enjoy, food, wine, and the like—she could still consume and enjoy the pleasures of weed. What a miracle drug, she thought to herself. She felt instantly calmer after a series of puffs.

The door to the dressing area creaked open and Rose instinctively waved the cloudy vapors away with her hand to dissipate the odor. But, to her relief, it was just Sophie and Margot, who wouldn’t mind the smoking.

“Salut, Margot,” Rose greeted, attempting to sound composed. “Ça va?” 

Margot didn’t respond, but looked instead to Sophie. 

“Margot isn’t working today,” Sophie explained. “But I’ve brought her here because, well…”

“Because?” Rose prompted.

“J’ai mes règles,” Margot offered. “It’s actually why I’m not working. I have such a heavy flow on the first days. Sophie explained everything to me—”

Rose’s eyes widened and darted to Sophie. Her look implored, without words, how could you tell yet another person? Rose’s head collapsed into her palm. “You’re being reckless!” she lamented aloud. “We’ve already dragged Zari into this. Are you going to tell all of La Chatte? All of Paris?”

“It’ll just be three of us, I promise—Zari, Margot, and me,” Sophie assured hurriedly. “We are all on the pill, so we can space out our periods and cover about half of each month. Between us, we can give you fifteen or so days!”

“And the rest?” demanded Rose.

“We’ll figure it out. We can fill in the rest by finding you…special clients,” Sophie responded. “I know it’s not perfect, but at least it will reduce the number of times you will have to…rely on finding special clients. And next time, all future times, we won’t be sloppy like today, we’ll do it wisely. We’ll game plan and figure out a smart way to do this. We can make this work.”

Sophie’s “we” was always comforting. Miraculously, it somehow managed to be calming even in a context of serial murder.

Rose glanced at Margot. “You’re okay with all this?”

Margot smiled wryly. “I’m intrigued. A little excited, even.”

Margot was the Suicide Girl of Theatre La Chatte. Her body boasted a wealth of tattoos and piercings, and you could never predict what hue her hair would take on next. Margot once hosted a midnight tarot reading party at a cemetery that ended in an orgy. She knew where to find the secret passages that led to the chambers of the Parisian catacombs unseen by tourists’ eyes. Her dances were typically performed to the sexier sides of alt rock, punk, and post-punk. She readily supplied other dancers with music recommendations for their darker or edgier acts, and Rose herself had borrowed many songs and artists from her. So, Margot’s penchant for the dark and macabre made her enthusiasm for helping Rose in this rather unique predicament somewhat unsurprising, or at least less surprising.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Sophie said with a wink on her way out.

No stranger to undressing in front of an audience, Margot instantly commenced unbuttoning her jeans. She slid them down her ornately inked legs and tossed them off. For good measure, she removed her t-shirt as well, pulling it off over her head. 

Rose hesitated. So Margot took over. She approached where Rose was sitting, bent in a 90 degree angle, and pressed her auburn-lacquered lips against Rose’s. The kissing started softly, tenderly, then slowly transitioned into a turbulent dancing of tongues. Their hands were in each other’s hair as they reclined along the sofa, never interrupting the intertwining of their lips and tongues.

Rose’s hand clutched Margot’s breast and felt her nipple piercing grind into her palm. Rose delighted in the warmth and softness of Margot’s tit coupled with the hard coldness of the metal ring. The contrast highlighted the heat of Margot’s flesh.

Margot put her finger lightly against Rose’s mouth, indicating a “wait a second.” 

Margot then slipped that same finger into the black panties she still wore, and glided her fingers around for several seconds. Although hidden by the black fabric, these motions released a wafting scent of copper and plum. Rose heaved with desire, her appetite whetted.

Margot lifted her finger, now covered with a thick red coating, and slid it gently past Rose’s parted lips. Rose’s lips and eyes closed in simultaneous ecstasy. Just this small hit sent a hard, immediate rush through her entire body.

Rose had fed mere hours before, and she had not been feeling especially hungry. Yet, the sight and smell of Margot’s blood triggered Rose’s salivary glands, as well as something much deeper. She wanted it, she needed it now that it was in front of her. She felt her body take over her mind. The animal took over the rational. She felt her muscles tighten and make ready to pounce.

Before she knew it, Rose found herself on top of Margot, who lay supine on the velvety sofa. Rose’s mouth made its way to Margot’s pussy, which was decorated with its own glittery piercing and crowned with a tattoo of two cherries.

Rose pulled down the black panties and hurled them off Margot’s feet. The cherries, the piercing, and the hint of blood like strawberry syrup made Margot’s cunt resemble a decadent ice cream sundae.

Rose gorged herself, licking every last drop of syrup, using her finger to release more. She gnawed delicately on the clit beneath the piercing, as her finger, deep inside Margot’s canal, made come-hither motions, imploring the fluids to come out and see daylight. Bringing her mouth lower, Rose thrust her tongue into the exquisite, treacly realms of Margot’s pussy.

Margot released a guttural moan and writhed as if in pain, her nails digging into the sides of the sofa. Her lower back arched upward, thrusting her pussy forward, grinding it harder against Rose’s mouth, whose tongue whirled maniacally within.

Rose’s hands reached up and grabbed Margot’s pert breasts. The hardened nipples protruded forward like tiny masts hoisting their metallic flags. Margot’s lips parted at the sensation of her tits being kneaded, and instinctively her knees fell to either side, widening her gap.

Rose lapped up the fruits of her labor, sucking down every drop. She felt in Margot’s body the early signs of an oncoming earthquake. She felt Margot’s body begin to clench and tighten, gearing up for the trembling thunder that was approaching.

Bit by bit, little by little, the build-up gained steam. Rose’s hands and tongue went harder and deeper in response. The crescendo was gaining force, the point of release was approaching inevitability. And, finally, the rumbling promises of extreme pleasure erupted through Margot’s body, starting from her core and released through a tremendous explosion of moans and contractions and shivers.

Margot’s hands gripped Rose’s face and brought it to her own. Margot kissed Rose deeply, passionately. The taste of her own blood mingled with Rose’s saliva gave Margot a tiny aftershock of an orgasm. When they finally pulled away from each other, both of their faces were smeared with bloody streaks. 

“That was hot as shit,” Margot exhaled through heaving breaths.

“I feel amazing,” Rose concurred.

“I’ll be here all week,” Margot said with a wink, biting down on her blood-stained bottom lip.


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