Den of Serpents: Sin City

Just as the last errant rays of sunlight flickered from view over the horizon and day lost its battle with the coming night, Justine’s eyes began to flicker open. Slowly, lazily, she rolled her neck from side to side. The stars began to appear in the sky – one by one by one – and their tinkling arrival helped wake her. By the time the moon began to shimmer a full silver smile on her city of sin, her covers were pushed aside and the intercom was on.

“Quintin…” she stated lethargically, relishing the feel of her naked flesh against the silk sheets. There was work to be done. A never ending uphill battle over the trite and ignorant masses content to stroll the neon-lit streets. Her family had been playing the game for ages, though, and a few moments spent in slow appreciation of the flesh couldn’t hurt. You could only use a weapon you knew biblically. Sin was hers and she wore it like a musky perfume. “I’m hungry.”

The room was no more than a den of plush pillows and silks sheets, rich colors and scents filling every corner like a far away sultan’s lair. Last night’s dinner had already grown cold a few feet away when Justine sat up. What was once something beautiful lie as limp as an old rag doll – just as used, just as broken, just as forgotten. Her limbs were sprawled in various directions, left arm bending in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. Her face was frozen in a masterful contortion, obviously pain but with the undercurrents of something more. Something that, even with her dying scream, young Amber would never have understood.

Justine understood.

The girl’s lips were a delicate tint of blue and her pale blonde hair held distant remnants of something dark. It tainted her pale, frigid skin the color of smeared lipstick. Stolen kisses. Her thighs and wrists wore deeper marks. Slashes and bites mixed with huge holes where chunks of flesh once were. The smell, even a day old, helped fully awaken the stretching creature and she called again.

“Quintin.”

Perhaps it was the tone in her voice, the slight razor’s slice playing at the edge of his name. Her ghoul was there almost immediately, filling the doorway and then some. It took a step above for most men to tower over Justine’s tall frame but physical size had never been an area lacking for the ex-rugby fanatic. His honey colored hair was meticulously groomed, complementing a tan that only accentuated his master’s lily complexion. He wore a well-tailored black suit with silver cufflinks. Even his shoes were shined.

She was pleased though she hid it well. “You kept me waiting” she commented slowly.

Justine rose herself up to her full height like an elegant puppet being pulled on invisible strings, muscles moving with an inhuman grace that was both frightening and beautiful. Her skin shimmered in the soft colored light of her den and, as Quintin’s brown eyes took in her form with something akin to wonder, she rewarded him with a wry smile. “Business downstairs.” He then added as an afterthought “It can wait.”

Without being told, he shut the door behind him and moved to kneel at her feet. Even on his knees, the man’s head rose to meet her breasts. Justine laid a simple yet lingering kiss on his forehead.

“Good evening, Justine” Quintin said in reply, face still expressionless. No matter what she did to his flesh, how earnestly she twisted his mind, that mask rarely wavered. It was a trait that she’d come to appreciate in her slave turned apprentice, no matter how frustrating it could be at times.

He stood and crossed to a side door, soon returning with a golden silk robe and a small black bag. The robe he laid gently to the side. The bag he sat at her feet. Again he kneeled, stony resolve intact as she floated a pale hand to brush against the side of his face. With a sort of ceremonious respect, Quintin began to take each item from the bag. A heavy gilded brush. A few small vials of perfumed oil. And finally, a leather collar. Quintin returned his eyes to his master, a privilege that cost him no small deal of sweat and blood, and spoke. “Shall we?”

And so the dance began.

Justine held out her hands, palms up. Quintin placed the collar in that makeshift altar with much reverence, though only his eyes truly betrayed him. His face remained a little bland, hinting at something strange at the edges. She slowly wrapped the collar around his neck, fingers trailing tenderly across the exposed skin under his jaw as the latch was closed. Goosebumps rose on his flesh at the slight touch, prompting Justine to move further.

It had been far too long since she’d adequately spent time with her favored servant. Business had grown fierce in the streets, both in the mortal realm and the grander scheme that doomed men could not comprehend. She could taste the blood lining the gutters as she stepped out of her apartment. Those who hid spoke of an attack. A year from now. Tomorrow. While such petty distinctions mattered little to those with infinite futures, Justine’s reliance on the mortal world demanded knowledge. The rebellious, children without a side, had little more to say on the matter. Save the come of another pointless battle. She agreed with the anarchs on very little; however, her business could do without her city in shambles.

Best to think on such things later. When Quintin’s warm body wasn’t so close. When his blood didn’t pulse just beneath the surface of his skin, taunting her with each delightful beat of his heart.

She toyed at his pulse for a while, using her innate charms to warm his blood. He didn’t show it, he never did, but she could taste his desire on the air. It was thick on her tongue. “Are you ready, Slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Justine held her arms to either side, fully exposing her nude body for the first time. He opened the vial and rubbed the oil between his hands to warm it before starting on her feet. Extreme attention was spent on the delicate arch of each foot, the gentle round of each heel. Every toe was given special care. He moved up to her ankles, laboring there as well, before going to her calves. Quintin worked her lithe muscles as the oil was massaged deep within her greedy skin. He had eyes for only his work. As he moved beyond her knees. As his hands touched her thighs for the first time that evening.

His fingers massaged and worshipped her hips. Her inner thighs. His thumbs grazed against the fine red hair covering her crotch and, with the same attention as before, he worked the scent there as well. The craving was growing strong enough to draw his attention but his labors didn’t dare show the want boiling deep within. His hands moved around to work her buttocks, relishing in the gentle curve from her long legs to the small of her back. Fingers almost toyed where they should have worked but he kept going.

Quintin moved to her flat stomach, palms stretched broad against the taunt flesh. He could feel himself growing hard, bulge thankfully hidden by the gentle tailoring of his slacks. But she knew. Justine always knew. Knowledge was power, or something like that, and she held it all in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand. She was the Mistress and there could be no secrets from her eyes.

At least while she was the Mistress.

When he finally stood to oil her breasts, the smile on Justine’s face had grown. He pretended he didn’t notice but his eyes, always rather cold, flickered just slightly. Just enough. His fingers rubbed her nipples, cupped and kneaded the weight of each breast as the oil shone from her skin and its scent filled his nostrils, leaving him a bit unstable.

Pulling away a bit sooner than he normally would have, Quintin moved to her back. Forced his eyes from line of her shoulders and neck. The bend of her small waist. Her inviting hips. He’d always liked her best from behind. They both knew it. Her shoulders. Her arms. He worshipped each part as best he could but he found himself growing lightheaded. Time was going incredibly slow for some reason. A trick of his mind or of his Mistress’, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

His large hands wrapped easily around her neck, oil applied quickly. She seemed so frail and feminine – no matter that he knew the truth – and each touch only heightened that perception. On to her face. Quintin carefully brushed the tips of her fingers across her brow and beneath her eyes. Down her nose, along her cheekbones. His touch tremored a bit at her lips. Her jaw line.

Quintin bowed but only briefly. He placed each oil back into the bag and picked up the brush. Moving behind her again, torture it was becoming, he began to brush her long red hair. One hundred full strokes as was required before his hand ventured to smooth the crown of her head. He could feel himself pressed against her back, hard and ready. Such a display would have been horrendous once before but he was no mere whipping boy any longer. He’d finally learned what Justine wanted, no matter what she’d once screamed at her slaves (including him). His mistress took relish in knowing that he desired her, that he wanted nothing more than to throw her to the floor and take her like a bestial thing. And they both equally delighted (fear was so close to delight, pain so close to pleasure) in the knowledge that they both knew it would be the last thing he ever did as a breathing creature. One way or another. They were in Vegas after all. The stakes didn’t get any higher.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Quintin bowed again. The den was filled with pregnant silence, the singular sound of his breathing the only music for his ears.

“My brush, Slave.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He offered her the brush with both hands, not bothering to hide the small sigh that dared escape his mouth. Every inch of her body glistened and her hair was a flowing halo around her beautifully sculpted face. Quintin looked deep into her green eyes as, rather unceremoniously, Justine struck him full in the face with the back of the brush.

The large man flew halfway across the room, immediately thankful that she’d restrained herself as he shook his head to fight the stars. Quintin stood as soon as he was able, no matter the collar at his neck. She’d explained things very clearly to him from the beginning. You earn what you are willing to take. What you are willing to bleed for. He was still hers but they were a step or so closer to being equals. He wouldn’t have that ruined by a moment’s lust.

“Come here, Slave” she purred.

Quintin walked slowly to face her, hiding the limp. He bowed at her feet again, hiding behind his mask. The slight tingle of pain only made his erection throb harder.

“Do you know why I did that, Slave?”

“No, Mistress.”

Justine leaned forward, breasts teasing him as she moved her mouth to his ear and reached behind his neck. He could feel her grazing touch again as she slowly began to undo his collar. Not knowing what else to do, he closed his eyes. He could feel the barest brush from her lips as she spoke.

“You ran from it. You tried to push it deep inside as though I wouldn’t see. As though you could calm the fire that I kindled.” A low laugh that made him shiver and the collar was gone. She dropped it to the floor but didn’t move from his ear. Not yet. “I called you because I wanted you. Do you understand that? I would have let you take me, Quintin. I would have let you fuck me until the first hint of light dared spill onto the streets.”

She straightened, tossing her hair behind her shoulders as her eyes seemed to at once pierce through him. “And you ran from it.”

Justine snatched up her robe, synching it around her slender waist with one final and mixed look to her ghoul. While Quintin’s eyes seemed forever cold and untouchable, Justine’s were just the opposite. Deep and inviting at the first, prisons if one dared stumble. A man could lose himself in those eyes. Quintin had long, long ago.