Speak

Francesca Demos. Blood red hair. Busty. Ivory skin. Sharp eyes. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t going to pretend that this brothel was a complete fucking waste of her time.

Seriously. This was easy. Make the whores dance. Reap the gold. Easy.

She stood at the top of a large hall. Floor covered in a rich patterned rug. Pink and blues mixed in a kaleidoscope of rings. Sparkling pink curtains. Lamps and incense.

The rest of the room was filled with dozens of beautiful young prostitutes. They looked anxious. Especially as Francesca had a small gun in her hand.

They weren’t slaves. But bound by shame, there was no other life for them.

“Okay… Listen now… I won’t repeat myself…” Francesca said.

“I am not your Madam. I am your boss, and I’m not your friend. You work for me. You fuck. You get paid. Sleep. Eat. Whatever. And then do it again.”

There was an eerie silence.

The Blue Bitch stepped forward.

“My name is Kirah. We appreciate your guidance as our boss… We won’t let you down…” she bowed. The rest followed — they followed Kirah.

But at least Blue Bitch was bowing and grateful.

Francesca shot a bullet an inch shy of Kirah’s toe. Kirah was unharmed but fell to her bottom.

Francesca stepped forward and spun her pistol around. A smile.

“Speak when spoken to…”