It was obvious that the whore needed love, and just as obvious that I was the only one who could bring this gift into her life. My gentleman friends enjoyed the women for minutes. I savored their images for days afterwards. In our top coats and stiffened hats, we ate and drank as the dandies we appeared to be. But later on in the evenings, we were but beasts humping our purchased prey. How could souls have been attached to these drenched animals in rut?
Molly was the small one with the brown eyes and large hips. Very good childbearing material, had she but chosen a path without disease and degradation. I always made sure, well into the middle of the afternoon, that she would know when I would be needing her services later on in the evening. As time wore on, she was the only one I used. I also paid her for her time those days prior to our meetings so that I could feel reasonably comfortable that she was clean when I arrived.
The thought of what she did for a living disgusted me, and yet I was one of her customers. Actually, I was her best customer. This irony was not lost on me. However; I've never been one to accept nature at face value. This was part of my occupation. Even though it had never been proven and perhaps never even suspected, I had plans to alter what I called "genes" found in each and every organism. If I could aspire to make changes that dramatic in the very fabric of nature, why could I not imagine I could change a common whore into a wife and mother?
Thus, it had become my dream (nay, my purpose!) to integrate Molly into the world in which I lived. I'd danced around the topic with her in the reverie after our damp interludes. She assumed I was giddy with arousal and did not take me seriously. At first, this did not annoy me.
As time passed, it did.
I began to spy upon Molly during the day. She lived in a second-story flat on Knight's Bridge. I rented a small room across the street, on the fourth and topmost floor. I could go to the roof and situate myself so that I could see her comings and goings. My friends began to wonder at my absence from their daily affairs. One of them gifted me a new volume by Maugham. I didn't take the time to read it. I told them that I was involved with a new approach to my work. I implied that I was on the verge of a breakthrough. They demanded details, but I was caustic in my proclamation that details would lead only to my competitors’ enthusiasm over what would surely wind up being failed projects of their own.
That very evening, as Molly and I were tidying up after a particularly energetic tryst, I asked her to leave her old life behind and let me make an honest woman of her. She was standing beside the bed, pulling her undergarments up over those hips which had my full attention. "You are a silly, silly man," she said in that tone which she used when trying to end our fleeting time together. I came to a decision that there would be no escape from this room without a final resolution.
"You despise me, don't you?" I felt this statement coming out of my mouth as a sort of last resort; a sort of request for pity. The idea of my asking pity from her, the common whore, congealed in my mouth as the last word fell out. I felt as if I'd experienced a distinctly sulfuric aftertaste. My emotions immediately turned to anger.
When she turned to face me, with her bodice still hanging below her smallish breasts, she said the words which sealed her fate.
"Those times you pay me to wait on you . . . Do you know what I'm doing during those times? I'm takin' it up the bum for twice again your pittance fee, from your friends in your 'gentleman's club.' You want to see 'ow large my second 'ole has grown? 'ere, 'ave a looksee."
As she turned her back to me, I took the corner of the sheet, still damp with our sweat, and rolled it up. As she was dropping her bustle, I wrapped the sheet around her neck and cinched it with all the force I could muster. Her head fell backwards and I could see her beautiful brown eyes bulging from their sockets, as if they would jump out at me and attempt to defend her. I saw myself in those eyes and the realization of what I was doing slipped over me like a casual nightshirt. This realization did nothing to delay or alter the fact that the deed was complete.
Once she was no longer breathing, I laid her on the bed and spread her legs. I turned the lantern up as high as it would go and put it under her crotch. Who can say what led me to this final earmark? I held it there until the flame had singed and then burnt off the hairs on her pubis. I left the flame until it succeeded in turning her genitals black as soot. I then tied off the bed sheet to the bedpost and flung her body out the window, where it hung just above street level.
A few weeks later, just after my bowels had evacuated completely into my gentleman's britches, I would catch just a slightly darkening glance of my own hanging feet, dangling below me at exactly the same level above the final ground.