High Score in a Victorian Slapfight

Dawn lifts the contours of your canopy bed from silver to blue and finally to gold. The French maid, a fat little hag who has given you stinkeye since you stepped through the marble foyer in your wedding finery, shlubs in to make the fire. You hear her wheezing as she bends over the hearth, her corset creaking like a fleet of fishing skiffs on a rip tide.

There’s no way she could know, not with the velvet curtains drawn around the bed, but your new husband, lord of the manor, is slowly cooling beside you. He died happy, the pervert, and you can still see the bruises faintly on his neck. Perhaps designating the safeword “manifest destiny” was a bad idea. Either way, he didn’t stop you and by the time the stars swam from your eyes, his had already glazed over.

And now, somehow, you must escape this fusty sepulchre, and get to the estate lawyers before his old bitch of a mother does. Never fear, young lady, for you are armed with the only two weapons a woman of breeding ever need bear: soft words, and slappin’ hands.

Victorian Slap Fight! [Frankie23 : Kotaku : selectbutton : ectotweeted by Brian]