I had found myself a most wonderful whore.

Her name was Carmen, and I must say, she is, perhaps, the most delightful girl I've come across. The mademoiselle de Courval had truly outdone herself at this time. I had asked for a pretty that would not only dazzle me with her beauty and charms, but with intelligence as well. I was growing excessively tired of having to spend my nights in the brothel for want of female company without having to resort to molesting the kitchen staff. If I had told my father I would never sup with harlots, well and so, why not I make one for my wife?
Courval had seen to these arrangements in the manner she always did, but informed me that she would be having to seek a girl outside of the house in order to get me what I needed. I did not care, she had done just as much before for others.
But, I am not here to discuss Courval, as an immaculate woman as she was, with a seeming meek disposition and bountiful blonde locks she kept in an uptight bun. Oh no, I am not discussing Courval.
"You are right, monsieur," Carmen told me, her plump lips the color of fresh blood spilled onto virgin snow. "You are here to discuss me, non? Or rather, what we can do for each other."
Ah yes, Carmen! Her hair slid over her shoulders in a lush thickness, a shade of brown so dark it was almost a perfect ebony. Her skin was slightly tanned, like a woman of Spain's, and she had slender brows with a seductive arch that seemed to compliment well with the prominent widow's peak she sported above her forehead. Her breasts were quite voluptuous, indeed eye candy for myself, the contour of the nipple obvious beneath the silken shift she was wearing.
"Fine stuff for a whore, is that what you're thinking?" She asked as I continued to paint this portrait of her.
"Perhaps," I chuckled, and continued.
Her thigh line was high, her flesh like cream. Her form was so divinely curvaceous I was tempted to throw whatever guise I had of being a gentleman away and having at her right then and there.
"But then again, I am indeed a beautiful whore, and one that looks regal enough to take for a wife. That, is what you are thinking, monsieur? But you have so artistically described me. Allow me now, to so artistically describe you." She said these things in a melodic voice that dripped with cynicism. I must profess, I was intrigued.
"You are a rather ugly man," she said, "That would opt for coprophagia and the joy of having unbathed whores if you didn't fear how it would make you smell in public, both in the social circles and in the streets. And despite how you would appreciate Madame Courval to not breathe a word to me of your libertinely exploits, ah! I know it all, Courval. Yet I do not despise you for it."
"And so you approve?" I asked, leaning back against the headboard. Oak, strong stuff. I ran my finger over a curve of it and chipped something dark off of it, paint perhaps, or dried blood.
Carmen did not answer my question just yet. "Your hairline is receding, and perhaps it would do better for your face that's plump with baby fat that you'll in time go bald. Your hair, after all, is the color of shit, which is probably the same matter that's darkening up the white of your nails. Your member is unwontedly small, being four inches long and one around. A shriveled, dark little thing. The hair on your body reminds me of a foreign creature from Africa. And your anus, why I'm sure I wouldn't even have to spread your buttocks to see it, you having been embuggered so many times! Yet you've had your share of women, I mean whores. Your tastes are none so ecstatic, indeed you are a voyeur, monsieur. A voyeur with a taste for the sweet throats of women.."
"So indeed, Courval informed you of quite a many things," I said, clearing my throat as my cheeks darkened unwontedly. "Although I must admit, your libertine attitude.."
"Ah! A ha! So you think me a libertine, then monsieur? I wouldn't think I dared go so far. There is really only one thing I am interested in."
It was then that Carmen walked over to where I lay on the bed and put one leg over my side, straddling me quite effectively. "I would like you to please me."
"Please you? And to think I was going to ask you to be my wife, yet all you whores can think of is your cunts."
"Oh monsieur. It would have never worked between us. You say you can never sup with harlots, well then, we could never dine together. Your guests would wonder where your wife was instead of at the foot of the table."
I laughed then, she was a clever tramp after all. I began to speak, but she said instead:
"Please. Have some wine. I'm afraid I've put you in a fuss with all this talk of harlots and past conquests."
"Indeed, and you drink as well. Your tongue is flapping far too much for a whore."
"But am I a whore or your future bride?"
I had nothing to say to that, and I began to pour the wine in my goblet. She only held hers patiently, and said, "It is a chardonnay, monsieur. I hope you enjoy it. I hear it is very sweet."
I took a small swallow. "Indeed, my little tramp. It is very sweet."
"Drink, monsieur! Drink. You look so tense."
I followed her directive only because the chardonnay was sweet, and much to the enjoyment of my palette.
As I continually downed the refreshing nectar, Carmen told me, "And to set the record, I am Inot/I a whore who thinks only of my. cunt, as you so elegantly put it, monsieur."
It was at that time that a flash of steel glinted before my eyes in that dimly lit brothel room, and flashed across my throat. I felt nothing, initially, until a sputtering amount of blood mixed with chardonnay began to pour out of my throat. She placed her goblet next to the hole holding the stem of the glass with her fingers, as her other hand worked with tearing that flesh, more liquid pouring through.
"Ah! You are pleasing me so well!"
I struggled to get up, alarmed, fully aware that I was dying. But the steel flashed more and more. Stab, stab.. Stab. she was stabbing me, this whore was stabbing me.!
"I too, am a voyeur, monsieur. And I have watched you long enough."
She stepped away from the bed, and began to sip from her goblet, rivulets of red streaming from the corners of her mouth, like twin.. crimson rivers.
"And so he gives up the ghost, which in this case does not take very long."