I tighten the garrotte around Hilden’s neck. I’m sitting on his back, riding him like a mule, my legs tight around his hips so he can’t bring himself off against the bed. He’s fighting me, but he knows I know best. I am more powerful than him anyway. His body, pale and unsubstantial, squirms below me but I keep him under control. The cord has cut of circulation to his brain and he’s suffering mild hypoxia. He’s also experiencing an increased blood flow to his little tool (believe me, it’s nothing to write home about). His prick will be swollen, agonisingly so. His head is red and puffed up and I see his eyes close, the lights going out, so I loosen the garrotte and let him sink to the bed. He moans, begs. I lean in and let my lips brush against the back of his neck. He smells nice, which is something, at least. Bankers are usually well turned out. They spend money on themselves. I tease the lobes of his ear with my mouth, then I proceed to pour in the poison, the sweet poison, taught to me by the Madame herself, the poisons that are the source of her power… rituals, mantras — magic some might call it, but it’s a very simple and natural thing. Words have power. And whores with words are the most powerful of all.
Extract from ‘A Whore’s Song’, from Black Tarn Publishing. Please note: flash fiction, nonfiction and all other content is the sole work of Black Tarn. Ask before republishing