Crimes of Passion : An Erotic Romance Story

      Crimes of Passion

       By: Emmy Rogue

The gentleman followed the lady of the night down the dark alleyway, removing his top hat and tucking it beneath his arm. She slinked forward in front of him, her heels splashing in the puddles, until she came to a full stop in front of a brick wall lined with crates.

“Is this alright love?” she asked, leaning back on one of the sturdy boxes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer one of the rooms upstairs?”

“This is perfect,” whispered the gentleman, stepping forward to kiss her. She wrapped her legs around him and took the hat from underneath his arm, placing it beside her, so his hands could roam free. His mouth slowly kissed a trail to her neck and he pulled her in closer, spiking her arousal.

“I’ve seen you here before,” she said, tilting her head back so he could have his way with her neck. “I always thought you were a devastatingly attractive man.”

He slipped his hand in between her legs and he could feel her mounting excitement.

“You have the most beautiful mouth,” he said. “I’d love to feel all of the wonderful things you can do with it.”

She giggled and stepped down off of the box, “Well then stand against that wall. It would be my honor to show you.”

The gentleman did as he was told and slowly began to undo his belt. The whore kneeled before him, her knees getting dirtied by the grit of the street and the wet pavement.

“Would you like my jacket to kneel on?” the gentleman asked.

She looked up at him and took his large erection in her hand. “A true gentleman. What a breathtaking rarity. Thank you for your very kind offer, but I’m used to it.”

The whore ran her tongue across her lips and took him deep into her mouth, salivating all over his member, providing the gentleman with a euphoric, frictionless sensation.

He arched his back and twisted his fist in a chunk of the prostitute’s long, dark hair, guiding her head back and forth, pulling her deeper with each suck. She looked up at him with her dark, flirtatious eyes as she took him in, and the gentleman let out a soft moan.

She pulled back and continued to stroke his erection, “You’re so big, I can barely fit you in my mouth. I can hardly wait to see how you taste.”

She ran her tongue up and down his length, stopping to nibble on the head, before taking him in again. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, placed it over his nose and inhaled deeply. The intoxicating scent of ether filled his airways, and he smiled as the psychoactive properties of the drug took their effect.  A deep, gurgling laugh formed in the back of his throat.

The gentleman’s voice transformed, employing a more gruff tone, “I want to see you choke on it.”

The prostitute stifled a laugh. “Maybe you aren’t the gentleman I thought you were.”

“Stop talking,” he said and pulled her head back into him. Her mouth wrapped around his length, and this time she gripped his shaft with her hand, causing his foreskin to glide up and down over the head of his penis as she sucked. The gentleman’s hand tightened on the back of her head, and the prostitute matched his aggression, taking him faster.

The gentleman struck the nearby crate with his fist, moaning louder, and the girl pulled away again, playing the role of the devious tease.

“Is that good for you love? Do you like that?”

“Shut up you stupid bitch,” he shouted, and yanked the back of her hair.

The prostitute cried out and he struck her across the side of her face.

“Suck my cock you filthy whore,” he said and he forced himself back inside of her mouth. He grabbed her head and began thrusting faster and faster. The prostitute began to choke on his erection, but she was powerless to stop it; eventually, tears welled up in her eyes and she prayed for an end.

The gentleman grunted as he penetrated her, and he thrust harder and harder until his orgasm came in a violent wave.  Hot, wet semen oozed from the sides of the girl’s open mouth, and when he was done with her, he threw her at his feet.

The girl spit out his ejaculate and began to cry, holding the side of her face. The gentleman turned away from her and buckled his pants.  He stepped over her writhing body and grabbed his hat from the crate, before throwing money at her feet and heading off into the dark alleyway.

The girl slowly collected the crumpled notes, her body still trembling from the assault, and she wiped her soiled face with the edge of her tattered skirt--- although she couldn’t remove the streaks of mascara that ran down her face. She stood and lifted her skirt, brushing the dirt off of her bare knees, when she heard the sound of
footsteps coming down the alleyway.

The whore jumped when she saw the shadowy figure in the distance.  She sobbed and straightened her dress, “Did you forget something
love?”

              A few days later, in another section of White Chapel, five young law students filed into a small university classroom and took their seats. They were greeted with a solemn and somewhat frightening question scribbled across the blackboard:
Has the White Chapel Murderer Returned?

             
“Do you really think he’s back?” the fair-headed gent Avery Nichols asked, handing the day’s newspaper to the university’s most promising pupil, John Kelly. The headline of the post matched the ominous question written on the board. “After all, it’s been nearly twenty years since the last Ripper victim was discovered.”

             
“The last known Ripper victim,” Kelly replied, setting down the paper and taking out his books. “But I’m not sure. I was reading over a few of the details from the latest crime scene and a few things don’t quite add up.”

             
“And to think, it was starting to get dull around here,” the brawny bloke Marcus Eddowes joked, stealing the newspaper from Kelly’s desk and examining the crime scene sketches.

             
A few moments later, the heavy-set frame of the elderly law professor, James McGint, came bumbling through the classroom door, and he set his briefcase down on the large wooden podium. He was out of breath, although it was difficult to determine whether it was from the long hike across campus or the excitement of the day.

“Good morning gentlemen,
” he said.

             
“Good morning Professor McGint,” the scholars replied.

             
The tired old professor opened his brief case, removing a heavy, black, leather-bound book and a set of notes from its contents, as well as an additional copy of the day’s post. 

“Two nights ago, a prostitute,
Miss Ella Monroe, was found murdered outside of a brothel in west White Chapel. According to the forensics division of Scotland Yard, she died after her throat was slit from left to right, causing her to bleed out on the street. There were no eye witnesses in the area at the time, and the only shred of evidence from the crime scene was a trail of a man’s semen found stained along the victim’s bodice and skirt. At this time, authorities are unsure as to whether or not Miss Monroe was simply the innocent victim of a mindless attack, or if the most feared is true: that the infamous serial killer known as Jack the Ripper has indeed returned.

“
I trust as eager students of the law you can recall the details of the original Ripper case and that you have read over the current issue of the post, so we will begin this morning’s discussion with your thoughts on the matter. Mr. Kelly, why don’t you go first.”

             
Kelly shifted anxiously in his chair, and pushed a lock of his tousled brown hair out of his eyes.  Although Kelly was a boy of great intelligence, speaking in front of his colleagues about his personal theories still made him self-conscious. Eddowes slipped the copy of the post back to Kelly’s desk.

             
“You’re up,” he whispered.

             
Kelly took up the paper in his hands. “In my personal opinion of the current case, I feel as if a few of the details of Miss Monroe’s murder don’t align with the original Jack the Ripper’s assumed Modus Operandi.”

“Very good Mr. Kelly. Please proceed
,” McGint said, leaning forward over the broad lectern.

             
“Bloody wanker,” mumbled the handsome delinquent, Edmund Stride, from the other corner of the room, looking down at his hands and lighting a cigarette. Eddowes slapped him across the arm. Kelly turned and met Stride’s antagonistic gaze, before redirecting his eyes to McGint at the front of the room.             

             
“While it’s true that the Ripper targeted ladies of the night as his intended victims, and slit their throats, his traditional slit on his victims was from the right side of their necks to left, suggesting that the killer used his right hand and that he sat on top of his victims as he cut them. This was also supported by the victims’ blood pooling along the base of their necks behind their heads.”

             
McGint intervened, “Mr. Nichols, would you expand on Mr. Kelly’s present thesis.”

             
Nichols cleared his throat and retrieved the paper from Kelly’s desk, scanning the first few lines of the report, before proceeding. “According to the post, Miss Monroe was found with blood trailing down the front of her dress, leading authorities to believe that she was standing at the time of her death, and that she was attacked from behind. If Mr. Kelly’s theory is valid, the stroke would’ve been the opposite of the Ripper’s---left to right.”

             
“Excellent, Mr. Nichols. Mr. Chapman, did you come across any evidence in your research to support or refute the current theory?”

             
Peter Chapman leaned back in his chair and drummed his hands on the desk--- he wasn’t necessarily in the top of his class. “Um…well…” he cleared his throat. “I read that Miss Monroe didn’t have any bruising around her neck. Didn’t the Yard think that the Ripper’s victims’ preliminary cause of death was strangulation?”

             
“Indeed it was Mr. Chapman.” Chapman slapped his desk for a job well done.

“
Mr. Eddowes continue.”

             
Eddowes quickly borrowed a light from Stride, shaking out the match when the first puff of smoke cleared his lips.

             
“Today Mr. Eddowes…,” Professor McGint implored.

             
“No trophies--- the Ripper took visceral trophies from the bodies of his victims in addition to slitting their throats. Uterus here, intestine there. He cut with all the finesse of a surgeon’s hands. Investigators concluded it was highly likely that the Ripper suspect had his medical license.”

             
“And last, but not least, Mr. Stride.”

             
Stride extinguished his cigarette on top of his desk, “They found a card.”

             
“I beg your pardon?” McGint asked, caught off guard by Stride’s unusual response.

             
Stride looked down at his hands. “The Yard never officially reported it, but I heard it as a rumor circulating around the card tables in the nearby pubs--- they found a playing card stuffed in the dead girl’s bodice.”

             
“Which card?” Nichols asked, leaning towards him, giving voice to the room’s unspoken curiosity.

             
Stride looked around at his colleagues with a stern countenance, baiting their interest, until he finally answered: “A Jack.”

             
The room broke out in loud whispers, and McGint slammed a gavel on the podium to reestablish order. Even John Kelly, who had familiarized himself with nearly every detail of the original murders, was surprised at the new discovery.

             
“Order, gentleman. I’ll have order now,” McGint spoke, as the room went quiet. “While Mr. Stride’s answer is certainly an intriguing twist in the event that it has actual merit, as of now it can only be classified as laymen speculation. However, based on what we have discussed so far today, what does the current evidence reveal about Miss Monroe’s killer as it stands? --- Back to you Mr. Kelly.”

             
Kelly swallowed hard, recalling the terrifying reign of the original Jack the Ripper and how news of the killings frightened him as a small child. “Based on the evidence found at the crime scene, only one of two possibilities is true: Either Jack the Ripper is back and has evolved his method of operations, or---“

             
“Or there’s a new Ripper in town.”

McGint and the others turned to look at the detached expression of
Mr. Edmund Stride.

Once the initial excitement over the Monroe investigation died out, Professor McGint continued with the previous day’s lecture on the psychology of murder. The boys, who were formerly enthralled in conjecture, leaned back in their seats, fading in and out of consciousness. Chapman’s head fell back on his shoulders, and a trail of drool fell from the corner of his lip.  Nichols stared vacantly out the window at the falling snow collecting on the sill, while Kelly was deeply engrossed in his textbook, furiously scribbling down notes for the upcoming exam.