Chapter 3

The Whispering Dame was nestled in the shadows, a nondescript building that blended in with the rest of the decaying structures. Above the door, a faded sign swung lazily in the breeze, the paint peeling away to reveal the raw wood beneath. It was the kind of place that looked like it had seen better days, but the whispers of gold and depravity kept it standing.

Billy followed Juan, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and dread. He’d seen the worst that Dreadworth had to offer, but something about the whispers of the Whispering Dame sent a shiver down his spine. As they approached the door, Juan stopped, his eyes flicking to the bag of gold at Billy’s side. “Remember,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You’re on your own from here. I’ve done my part.”

With a nod, Billy watched as Juan melted away into the shadows, leaving him standing before the infamous saloon. He took a deep breath, the smell of dust and desperation thick in the air. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, the warmth of the candlelit room wrapping around him like a suffocating embrace.

The Whispering Dame was smaller than he’d expected, with a dirt floor and walls lined with red velvet curtains that whispered of secrets and sin. A bar, scarred with the marks of a thousand elbows and forgotten whispers, stood at the back, manned by a stoic bartender who barely glanced his way. A few patrons lounged at the tables, their eyes following him as he made his way through the dimly lit space.

In the center of the room, a makeshift stage had been set up, surrounded by a ring of wooden chairs. Two naked women faced each other, their bodies glistening with sweat, bruises already forming on their skin. They circled each other warily, fists up, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. The tension in the air was palpable, a living, breathing entity that made the hairs on Billy’s neck stand on end.

He watched them sharply, his eyes assessing their every move. One was tall and lean, her muscles rippling with the promise of unbridled fury. The other was shorter, her body soft and curvy, but her eyes held a cunning that spoke of a mind as sharp as a knife. The bets were already flying around the room, a cacophony of greed and anticipation.

Billy approached the makeshift betting table, his hand itching to place his gold on the woman who’d give him the best return on his investment. The bookie, a squat man with a greasy mustache, looked up at him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Looking to get in on the action, old-timer?” he sneered, eyeing the bag of gold with naked lust.

Billy’s gaze slid over to the two fighters. “I’ve got fifty on Mrs. Mildred ‘Painkiller’ Bender,” he said, his voice firm. The bookie’s eyes widened at the sound of the fighter’s name, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Mildred Bender was a legend in these parts, known for her brutal fighting style and the screams of agony she could elicit from her opponents.

“You sure about that, old man?” the bookie sneered, his eyes narrowing. “Her pussy’s tighter than a miser’s fist, and she’s got the claws to match. Not many walk away from her with their pride intact.”

Billy felt a twinge of doubt, but the memory of Mrs. Kelly’s screams and the feel of gold in his hand was too potent to ignore. He nodded firmly. “Fifty on Mrs. Bender,” he repeated, slapping the coins onto the table. The bookie’s grin grew wider, his stubby fingers snatching up the gold with a greedy twinkle in his eye. “Your funeral,” he cackled, scribbling something onto a scrap of paper before shoving it at Billy.

The crowd grew restless, their whispers turning to jeers as the fighters continued to circle each other. Billy took a seat at the edge of the ring, his heart hammering in his chest. The woman he’d just bet on, Mrs. Mildred Bender, was indeed a sight to behold. Her lean, muscular body was a canvas of scars and tattoos, each one telling a story of battles won and lost. Her eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the room as if daring anyone to question her dominance.

The other fighter, a plump brunette named Miss Daisy, was not to be underestimated. Despite her soft exterior, she had a look of steel in her gaze that made Billy’s stomach clench. The room grew quiet as the two women approached each other, their naked forms a stark contrast to the grimy saloon. The air was thick with anticipation, the smell of sweat and desperation coating the air like a heavy fog.

The fight began with a flurry of punches, Miss Daisy’s curves bouncing with each impact. But Mrs. Bender was quicker, her fists a blur as she danced around her opponent. The crowd roared, the sound echoing off the walls like a stampede of wild horses. Billy’s eyes never left the two women, his mind racing with the potential outcomes. If Mrs. Bender won, he’d double his gold; if she lost, he’d be back to square one, broke and broken in the heart of Dreadworth.

The blows grew more vicious, the women’s bodies bruising and bleeding before his very eyes. Miss Daisy had a surprising amount of strength, her punches leaving Mrs. Bender staggering. But Mrs. Bender was relentless, her eyes never leaving her opponent’s face. She lunged forward, her fingers digging into Miss Daisy’s flesh with a ferocity that made Billy’s own hand ache in sympathy.

Miss Daisy’s eyes widened, a scream building in her throat, but she never had the chance to let it out. With a sickening crunch, Mrs. Bender’s hand closed around her throat, squeezing until the brunette’s eyes rolled back in her head. The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers and jeers as the smaller woman crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Billy’s heart raced as he leaped to his feet, his hand tight around the paper that held his fate. The bookie’s expression had turned from amusement to respect as he handed over the winnings. “Looks like you’ve got a knack for this,” he said, his voice gruff. “Mrs. Bender’s a tough one, but she’s got a pussy that’s tighter than a noose around a thief’s neck.”

The vulgarity of the statement didn’t escape Billy, but he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. He’d won, and he had the gold to prove it. He pocketed the coins, feeling the weight of them, heavy with the promise of a future beyond Dreadworth’s dusty streets.

The bookie’s words echoed in his ears as he looked down at the unconscious form of Miss Daisy. He knew the implication was clear: she was part of his winnings. A twinge of guilt stabbed at his gut, but he pushed it aside. This was the life he’d chosen, the life that had chosen him. He bent down, scooping her into his arms with surprising gentleness. Her body was warm and soft, a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground beneath her.

The changing room was a small, cramped space, barely big enough for the two of them. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, the candlelight flickering shadows across their naked forms. Billy laid her on a dusty bed, his own body aching from the night’s exertions. He stared down at her, the bruises already blossoming like dark flowers on her pale skin. She was beautiful, in a raw, untouched way that made him feel like a monster for his intentions.

The bookie’s leering face swam before his eyes. “Take your time, old-timer,” he’d said, handing over the key. “Miss Daisy’s all yours for the next hour.” The words echoed in his head, a taunting reminder of the transaction that had just taken place. He’d paid for the right to claim her, to use her body as he saw fit. It was the kind of deal that was made every day in Dreadworth, but it still turned his stomach.

But as he looked down at her, something shifted within him. Maybe it was the vulnerability etched into her features, or the way she looked so small and fragile against the backdrop of the grimy room. He couldn’t ignore the stirring in his loins, the hunger that had been gnawing at him since he’d stepped into the Whispering Dame. With trembling hands, he reached out to touch her, his rough fingertips tracing the contours of her body.

Her skin was velvety soft, unmarred by the harshness of the sun or the grime of the town. He felt the curve of her breasts, the swell of her hips, the heat of her sex. Despite the horror of the situation, he couldn’t deny the allure of her body. He lowered his head, his mouth finding her nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips, and he felt his cock harden in response.

He took his time, savoring every inch of her, his hands moving with a gentle insistence that belied the brutality of their meeting. Her body was a map of pleasure points, and he explored them all, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses and bites in its wake. He felt her respond, her breathing growing ragged, her body arching into his touch. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment, as if she’d been bred for it.

And maybe she had been. In a town like Dreadworth, where life was cheap and hope was a luxury, maybe Miss Daisy had learned to find pleasure in the pain. Maybe she’d come to crave the touch of a man who could give her what she needed, even if it came at such a high cost.

Billy didn’t know her story, didn’t know what had brought her to this place. But as he sank into her, feeling her warmth envelop him, he knew that for this one hour, she was his. And he’d be damned if he didn’t make it count.

He took her hard, his hips driving into hers with the force of a man who had nothing left to lose. Her cries filled the room, a symphony of pleasure and pain that only served to spur him on. He watched her face, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, her mouth open in a silent scream. And as he felt his climax approaching, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever felt this way before.