Page 15 of House of Sin
Violet is the first to arrive, her lace dress floating around her as if it were a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. It’s less a dress and more a statement, and Violet never misses the chance to make one.
I have a soft spot for her. She’s wild in all the right ways, a creature of instinct and impulse, the kind of girl who doesn’t bend for anyone. And in this line of work, that kind of defiance is more than charm—its armor.
Maeve follows soon after, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination as she slides onto one of the barstools. Elona is last to join, tossing her coat behindthe bar as she hurries over to meet the others, her eager energy contagious. I pour five shots of whiskey, sliding them down the bar with practiced ease, making sure not a drop is wasted.
With the shot glasses set before us, I raise my own, my chest swelling with quiet pride. I can’t help but drink in each of my girls, taking in their beauty, their grit, their fierce resilience. I’ve watched them all rise from the streets, each one claiming her throne, queens of their own wild, unyielding domains. And every time I take a moment like this to stop and look at them, I’m left breathless and in awe of the strength they carry.
“Here’s to the dicks, tits, and lips that you’ll ride tonight. May they know just how lucky they are to get a taste of this.” I say, with a playful wink.
“Whoo!” the girls yell in unison, their laughter filling the room like music. We slam our drinks back, the whiskey scorching our throats, lighting a fierce fire beneath our skin.
Maeve slams her palm down on the bar, steadying herself, her face snapping back to that cool, composed steel she wears so well. Next to her, Violet throws anarm in the air like she’s swinging an invisible lasso, a wild grin on her lips.
“Let’s stir up some trouble, girls—like a goddamn cattle stampede!” She hollers, earning an impressively theatrical eye roll from Nell, who mutters something under her breath about how it’s going to be a “long night,” though the corners of her mouth betray a smile.
At that moment the front door creaks open and Emil steps inside, boots heavy on the floorboards, his silhouette framed in sunlight.
“Emil!” Elona greets him, her voice sweet as honey, hands immediately on his shoulders for a quick kiss on the cheek. Violet, Maeve, and I follow suit, each of us sharing the same affectionate greeting. Nell’s the last to share a kiss, but it’s not on his cheek. She presses her lips to his in a kiss that’s familiar and tender, full of the kind of love that blooms between soulmates.
“Evenin’, ladies,” Emil says, tipping his hat and depositing his coat behind the bar. “A man could get used to this treatment. Don’t go spoilin’ me now.”
Nell laughs, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “You’ll be begging for more soon enough.”
We spend the last hour running through our plan for the evening. In the corner, the grandfather clock chimes, the melody resonating through the room, a gentle reminder that it’s time. Emil makes his way toward the door, boots echoing softly on the worn floorboards. He pauses, hand on the handle, before turning back at us. “You ladies ready?” He asks.
The answer is a resounding “Yes!”
Each of the girls has taken their position by now: Violet perches on the windowsill with her leg dangling off the edge, her lace dress rising to reveal the soft curve of her thigh.
Maeve lounges in her favorite chair, legs spread wide enough to send a clear message to any man brave enough to approach.
Elona stands, one strap of her dress teasingly hanging off her shoulder, ready to pounce on the first man who walks through the door, while I’m leaning against the banister, silently observing the strategy of it all, watching my girls prepare to do what they do best.
The first wave of men floods in, the ones who work down in the mines: regularswith familiar faces. We greet them all by name, our voices sweet and inviting, guiding them to the bar, where Nell waits with a smile and a stiff drink.
The music begins next. In the corner, a man settles at the piano and coaxes out a soft, soothing melody. The sound fills the air, and Violet glides across the room, a drink already in hand. She offers it to the man at the piano before easing down beside him on the cushioned bench. Her fingers dance over the keys, each stroke seductively slow, a show of pure temptation. She arches her back just enough so that the strap of her dress falls a little too far, her breasts pushing up and straining against the lace. The man almost chokes on his beer, and I catch the look in his eyes, the same one I see in the eyes of so many men who walk through these doors. It’s a hunger, an overwhelming desire to claim something that’s just out of reach.
Meanwhile, Elona is locked on to her target, a tall, broad-shouldered man whose abs, though sadly hidden beneath his shirt, are legendary enough to earn a reputation of their own. Abs that look like they were carved from stone. But it’s not his abs that we all talk about. No, it’s the way his cock can go for hours, nevertiring, never failing. Why any woman would want that kind of endurance, I’ll never know. But indeed, he’s a rare breed. A man who takes as much delight in giving as he does in taking.
Elona’s eyes glint with a knowing desire. She’s been circling him like a cat for weeks, and today she’ll have her turn to claim him . . . and she’ll most likely be walking gingerly for days after. I take care of the business between them, making sure the price is agreed upon before Elona leads him up the stairs, a small, satisfied grin on her face as she takes him by the hand.
I’m about to return to my post when I feel a hand on my ass, followed by a pinch, and I sigh, already knowing what’s coming. Turning slowly, I face the man with the lusty eyes and the stupid confidence of someone who thought the rules didn't apply to them.
“Are you up for grabs?” He asks, voice dripping with arrogance.
I point to the wooden sign by the staircase. “Sir, can you go on ahead and tell me what rule numberfour says?”
He squints, brow furrowed, like reading was suddenly a monumental task. “A-and ... n-no touching whiii—without pe-permission.”
“Good,” I say, my voice still sugary sweet. “Say it again, like you actually mean it.”
“And no touching without permission,” he repeats, a bit edgier this time, his voice losing that lazy slur.
“And below that, we have our consequences, Mr. ... ?”
“Mr. Tiddly,” he says, puffing out his chest like the name means something.
“Mr. Tiddly,” I repeat with a razor-thin smile. “It’s clear that you’ve broken one of our rules. And we take rules very seriously at The Oily Cat.”
