Post by IRIS CLEMENTINE MARSHALL on Apr 16, 2010 23:19:06 GMT -5
The putrid smell of grime, sweat and cheap knut worth perfume loitered the air, the taste of bitter agony swelled against the heel of her strapless shoes as she passed each wizard and the heat of firewhiskey was temptingly blazing a revolting inferno inside the heaving chests of all the leechers that stared after her. She was bare, her pale white skin glistening against the dark lime lights of the brothel, the sheen of her body glitter lured the grimy men closer, wanting her, beckoning her, throwing handfuls of galleons her way. There was literally nothing working in the knobs of her mind—she saw the clear intentions, the seed of betrayal, even the hesitant innocence in some, but Iris could not relate to anyone of them, in fact, even lust, was unknown to her. All she saw was the haze of another night, another man and another few minutes on her knees before she moved on to the next wizard in line. What a life.
She wore a black corset, tightly wound against the line of her back, making her average sized bosom swell in the dark span of space. A vilely short skirt was wrapped her waist, only long enough to cover her most private parts. Most women would feel degraded seemingly being in front of men like this—but Iris really couldn’t care less. What was the point anyway? This was her job, as fucked up and despicable as it was—it had to be done. Sometimes, there was an odd desire or two, in the recesses of her mind during sexual intercourse—in which she would pretend to be far away, away from this degraded place. Even those were half hearted—perhaps the only fine thing about leaving this place would be the cure of boredom, but then again, what’s to say she won’t be bored the sole minute she makes a getaway. She’s tried, of course, to get away. Only the wards had gone off every single time she did—and Iris was brought back; silent, contemplative and amused as they beat her into submission and tossed her around like a ragged doll. The only burning thought that kept her smiling was the sole feat that one day, she was going to make them pay—one day—they would be in the receiving end of the malicious display of torture, but unlike her, they won’t be smiling.
There was a fresh mark along the side of her cheek—contrasting heavily with the lack of pigment on her skin—if one looked closely enough they can make out the imprint of five elongated fingers against her cheek. Disobedience. One thing Iris had always been good at—she liked to rile up her masters—until they had no choice but to strike her—and every time they did—that sole smile would stretch across her lips—and once again—she would be that much closer to feeling something---anything. A flirtatious smile greeted her thin lips, her bright blue eyes cautiously watching the men who seemed to show interest in her—but Iris made no move to go near any of them. Right now, she was content with just looking, unless one of them approached her—and she wished they didn’t. She had no desire (she never did) to taste cock this early in the night. Iris needed to drown a couple of more drinks to even consider such a thing. Her half-strewn bareback pressed against the splintered wood paneled wall—the bottle of firewhiskey at her hand as she scooted herself off to a corner, unnoticed, unwanted—sipping her drink with casual ease.
Iris watched with bored blank eyes as her collogues stripped down to their undergarments; their moves so ungraceful and rash compared to her own senile movement of sexual enchantments. They were unskilled in the art of seduction, they had no control over the situation, and even the slow tantalizingly erotic way that they stripped was marred by the distinct fear in their eyes. It was pathetic. Most of the time—Iris didn’t have to resort to sexual acts—mostly due to her power to manipulate men into thinking they were getting more than she gave, Iris purposefully took her sweet time undressing—shedding one item of clothing at a time—her eyes never left theirs, and by the time her almost bare flesh pressed against them and her legs wrapped around them—they were climaxing in their trousers, leaving Iris to gracefully pick up the rest of her clothing and her pocket full of galleons so she could move on to the other men.
Tonight was busy—far too busy for her liking, which was why she hid herself in the shadows—her eyes gleaming in the darkness—scanning for the least disgusting bloke. But then again, they were all disgusting; lustful men that came here to indulge upon the sanctuary of women because they were too revolting to find one that didn’t require money for servicing. Idly, she drank—a seemingly bored look plastered on her face as she peered through her black masquerade mask—giving her a mysteriously daft enigma that startled most men. Iris continued to lavishly sip her drink—hoping that tonight would pass seemingly quickly, she didn’t have the gusto to perform tonight.
`tagged;; cole vincit
`notes;; it kinda sucked
`words;; not much
`listening to;; sex on fire - kings of leon
`lyrics used;; use somebody - kings of leon
`graphics by;; rora @ cosmo
`credit to;; rora @ cosmo
