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The razor is cool against her skin, a balm to the fever that’s been tormenting her since Sweeney came home. Nellie's breath hitches as she squirms in that pretty little chair; the leather is rough and stained, and she reminds herself to clean it later.
“Shhh,” Sweeney whispers, looming over her. “You wouldn’t want to distract me from my work, would you?”
No, no she wouldn’t. She loves him and his crimson-edged masterpieces far too much for that. Nellie holds herself obediently still, letting the knife travel along her throat and past the ruffles of her open blouse. The flat of the blade rubs against her breasts, teases her nipples, and she bites her lip so hard it almost bleeds.
No matter how hard he pushes, he’s far too skilled to cut her by accident. But if he did, if he chose to cut her…the prospect leaves her breathless. He could end her if he wanted to, throw her down the chute with all the others, leave poor stupid Toby to try and make one last meal out of her remains.
He won’t, though. At least, she’s fairly certain he won’t (and isn’t it a little touch of uncertainty that makes the world so very exciting?)
Up under her bunched skirts, now, tracing the round curves of her thighs. She’s gained weight since finding him, and she likes that, likes playing the little wife growing fat on her man’s kills.
Sometimes Nellie will pooch out her stomach deliberately, like a child playing mummy, imagining his child swelling inside her. A little demon baby, all razor teeth and clever eyes, plumped up on the finest meat in London. Warm and fed and safe, safer than any other child in this wretched world. She’d never let her Sweeney mourn for a child again
Perhaps such a baby would sprout from the blade he’s currently brushing over the hair of her cunt. She’s so damp for him, now, dripping like a fine, juicy pie. Nellie lets out a wanton sigh at the brush of steel a heartbeat away from her tenderest bits.
He could put it in her, couldn’t he? Bloom sweet vicious red into her guts, a monstrous child worthy of a demon barber and his devilish lady. It would hurt so much to give birth to such a thing, but she’d do it, she would. She’d bake it into a pie and eat it herself if that’s what her Sweeney needed.
But instead, he pulls the razor back, flips it skillfully around in his hand, and pushes the cold handle up and in. The unforgiving steel rubs against her clit and Nellie can’t help herself--She wails like the cats she used to sell before she found finer meat, her fingers digging into the chair.
So many poor souls have scrabbled for purchase here, but she’s special, isn’t she? Of course she is. She has to be.
Sweeney fucks her as patiently and skillfully as he does any task, the steel growing warm between his busy fingers and her hungry pussy. P ussy, ha ha, perhaps he’ll eat her next, sink his teeth into her flesh, eating a great big hole in her so that a baby can be popped into her oven.
His lovely eyes blaze down through a sweaty tangle of dark hair, sparkling with the kind of light that she usually only ever sees after a nice long day of killing. A devil's light, she knows, a light more than willing to burn anyone who stares too long alive--but oh, it makes her feel alive. It's why she wanted to make love in the death-chamber in the first place.
He’s good at this; she knew that, of course, ever since the good old days, when she’d hover outside his door and pleasure herself to the sound of fucking poor, sweet Mrs. Barker. He knows how to draw it out while still taking care to build the pressure, until the proverbial pie is quite ready to be taken out of the oven.
When she comes, it’s the kind of earsplitting scream he so rarely gives his patrons time to make, although she still flexes and twitches on her seat just as they do. The world flickers black and for a second, she wonders if she really is falling down the chute...but no, he pulls out, pulls away, leaves her slumped over and panting.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, Sweeney, darling, that was marvelous…”
But he’s not looking at her. He’s turned, but not far enough she can’t see the significant bulge in his trousers, or the guilty grimace on his face.
Ah. The martyred wife rears her head again, it seems. Really, it’s not like Nellie is trying to spoil the mood with her dead spouse (granted, she killed him years ago, but still).
She huffs, pushing upright and putting herself to rights as best she can (the seat’s stained, if not with blood this time, and she’ll have to give it another good cleaning), before tottering over to Sweeney on semi-jellied legs. He blinks at her oddly, almost like he doesn’t recognize her, but doesn’t pull away when she sinks to her knees at his feet, or when she puts a hand on his hip.
“Relax, love,” she croons, freeing his cock from his trousers. “You’ll never get through all of life’s misery without a bit of pleasure along the way.”
Nellie slips him into her mouth and oh, it tastes so very good, better than the very best of her pies. For a heartbeat she contemplates biting down, chewing him up and swallowing so that a part of Sweeney can live in her forever (how sweet, how very sweet would his blood taste).
But she contents herself with sucking him down as far and hard as she can without gagging, savoring her demon barber’s cock like a good meal. He quivers in her mouth with a little groan, hand coming down to rest in her hair.
At some point, she thinks he garbles out a name, and she tries not to think too hard about who it might be. In the end it doesn’t really matter: she’s the only one here, after all. The one who will stay to the very end.
When her Sweeney comes, Nellie makes sure to drink down every drop. The sweet bright heat of him fills her stomach, warms her blood, sets her heart free.