Rating = R
She, most vaunted of Night's Daughters, was bored. Ebony-lacquered nailtips clicked heavily upon the scarred surface of the circular bar table in front of her. The annoyed sound was denied audience, however, by the dark, pounding melodies pulsating in the air of the club. Cold jade eyes perused the available entertainment - the young, and not so young, bodies clad in the barest, sheerest clothes of midnight, crimson and a myriad of other muted tones. All were writhing on the dance space, competing for enough space and air to maneuver. All failed.
All, except one. A young Asian male approached her after parting the sea of dancers. Cautiously he approached, as though he feared the kohl-lined eyes could strike him dead instantly. 'They can,' she thought, smirking slightly, 'but better first to hear his message.'
"Lady Tenshi no Ankoku?" he questioned, asking the needed permission to address the dark princess. One eyebrow arched elegantly in assent, and he stated simply, "Lord Kurai."
"Very well," came the reply.
The delay between the single syllable and her movement from the stool made the boy shift his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Lord Kurai did not like to be kept waiting, even by his precious childe.
Especially by his precious childe. His only daughter among sons, his eldest and most favoured of childer. The bane of his many years and eternal test to rapidly declining patience. The only one to hold his interest longer than a decade, and unique in her ability to... well, dominate and manipulate those around her to her will. Including him.
Barely a minute had passed, an hour though it seemed, before she slid from her perch. She created a foot of open air around her frame, the used messenger trailing in her wake. The heated frenzy cooled in her path. Couples stopped briefly, knowing enough by her stature, her disdainful icy gaze to grant easy passage.
Midway across the floor, her bubble of emptiness shattered. Lightly she felt the hand rest upon her flank as an anonymous past lover fell in stride. 'The problem with mortal men,' she thought briefly, 'is the lack of patience and subtlety.' But instead of shunning him like most, an inviting smile flashed his way. 'He needs a lesson in protocol and court manners. Patience. And subtlety.'
A flick of her wrist sent her sire's lackey on ahead as the trio cleared the throng and entered a small, non-descript antechamber. Dimly lit, to conceal all manners of actions, lending itself wonderfully to avoiding a scene while making a point.
Removing the offensive member from her body, she twined their fingers before leading him to a heavily shadowed corner. Once there, she turned and pushed him none-too-gently against the wall. As forward as he'd been outside, behind the scene she reigned, and he was just another submissive. A shiver of part fear, part desire, shook him as she leaned in close to hiss briefly into the curve of his ear. "You touched me."
Cruelly she smiled, the diamond glint of fangs catching a stray light beam. She led up his left hand, the hand he's used to touch his better. Calmly she started to apply pressure on either side of his wrist. He gasped, the pain exquisite as, still smiling, she began to taste. The hot salt coated her tongue as she filled her mouth just a little. Drawing away, never swallowing the thick red gold, she watched as eyes fluttered open questioningly.
Simultaneously she spat his own blood in his face and crushed the slight bones in his wrist.
He crumpled, whimpering as though he was unsure of his reaction: bad pain? good pain? She turned on a black heeled boot and walked through the ivory door without a backward glance. Now he'd be further enamoured, completely a slave, never daring to approach without being beckoned.
She'd never look at him again. Where was the fun in that? He was broken, and one didn't play with broken toys.
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