1. Whitechapel


    Date: 3/15/2017, Categories: Fiction, Coercion, Consensual Sex, Death, Exhibitionism, Female/Female, First Time, Horror, Lesbian, Masturbation, Murder, Prostitution, Virginity, Voyeurism, Author: BlackRonin, Rating: 80, Source: sexstories.com

    like swimming in a river of tar. Rees thought of himself as a class apart now that he had money and a house elsewhere, but his business was still here, and the East End was a mark you couldn't wash off that easily. It was the same for everybody: the butchers, the builders, the sewing girls. Whitechapel Road was in their skin and blood, Rose's most of all. The killer, too, whoever he was. Maybe he lived somewhere else, but he kept coming back to this place because he belonged here. They all belonged… Suddenly the crowd all changed direction, turning and going at once, like a flock of birds. Someone was calling out, and then everybody was calling out. Rose tried to go the opposite way but the wave of humanity threatened to crush her. Out of necessity more than desire she ran with them. All at once they had ceased, she realized, to be a crowd and become a mob. She‘d lived here long enough to taste the difference in the air, although what everyone was worked up about she didn‘t know until they approached the corner of Flower and Dean Street and she saw that they were chasing a group of policemen. No, she corrected herself: the police were chasing someone and the mob (herself included now) were on his tail as well. A voice shouted: "It's the killer! They're on him, they're on him!" Rose's heart leapt into her throat. That was how they all ended up surrounding the old house on Flower Street while the constables lurked in the doorway, apparently torn between their desire to go in ...
    and capture their quarry and keeping the mob at bay. Every third voice was a shout of "Bring him out!" and "Get a rope, a rope!" Tools were wielded as clubs. Those without any found stones or sticks. A few people even brandished their own shoes. The policemen shrank further back into the doorway, trying to get the frame between themselves and the mob. Pulse racing, Rose looked at the woman standing nearest her, an old thing with a grey bun of hair, and said, "Is it really the killer?" The woman set her jaw and nodded. "Saw 'im myself. Took one look at those police and scarpered. It's him, all right." And then, with an arm thinned by age but not much weakened, she raised a stone and let it fly. It bounced off the side of the house. Soon the air was filled with clanging, clashing, battering missiles, pelting the walls like the volley of a siege. Then came the rope, tied into a hasty hangman's knot and passed from person to person like a holy relic, until it reached the front line and the tallest man in the crowd raised it up to chants of, "Bring him out, bring him out!" Rose was surprised to find her voice joining in. The words built up in her gradually, like a long piss she could hold only so long before the guttural cry pushed its way up and out of her and into the morning air: "Bring him out! Bring him out!" Her hands found a stone. Its weight reassured her. The crowd surged forward and the police fell back, and somewhere in that house the killer was waiting--frightened? ...
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