Orange and red. Yellow and Blue. Green. Violet. Magenta. She moved through the lights of the club and the dancefloor, dancing beneath cages, waving to her girls, blowing kisses to her boys. The lace sheath, black elastic and woven wonder. In the orange and the yellow light... so dramatic. Nothing beneath the lace. Nothing at all.
     And as she moves toward the iron stairs, to head upward to the exclusive lounges and lofts, the laces that hold the sheath in place are slowly undone. By her fingers. By the fingers of others. Samantha James reaches up to the velvet choker collar of her outfit, unsnapping. And the lace falls away. She feels so free...
     She's a bird in a cage. She doesn't even know it. The cage is so large. It seems like the world...
     She follows you, but she puts on a show as she moves. Showing your guests how the catwalk should be used. Henna hands grasp the ladder of the Fire Escape. The ascension becomes a dance. And as she reaches the third level, she turns and waves to a cheering newfound audience...
     The third level of Phantasmagoria contains The Icicle Lounge, among others, where the rainbow drinks cost a premium. And doors with cardkey entrances lead to private lofts. Some of the dancers stay here.
     They're birds in a cage. They don't even know it. The cage is so large. It seems like the world.
     Samantha raises her arms, a hip swiveling slow stride. "I feel so .... good. I could just..."
     She sighs, "Fuck." She is smooth reeling, an echo of an earlier kiss. Her mind holds the information, but her body is distracted.

     He's removed himself from play up here, but in truth, he still commands the floors below. Even when he is not there, Julian remains the center of all things.
     He turned about when you arrived, wondering who would enter his private box. Of course, it should have been you. Only you. No other would have gotten away with such violence.
     "Who was it?" Julian grins, standing at the one-way windowfront. He has a large glass in his hand, certainly filled with something aromatic. No tiny martinis for him. He's barefoot now, and his velvet hiphuggers hang dangerously low at his hips, a button or two undone.
     His glass tinkles as he tips it up, taking another swallow. Julian licks his lips, arm extending as he expects you closer. Ever so closer.
     How could he be without you?
     "Having a good time, hmm?" he asks and teases simultaneously. "You look like it...I'm glad."

     She closes the door by pressing against it, and she laughs. Soft, so soft. Hmmm...drinking? Not exactly. "An amazing time, sweet Jules..." Samantha pushes off the door and comes to your beckon, the opening arm. As if she would keep a polite distance? There is no distance between the two of you. She adores you. "Mmmm... they will talk about this night for a long time, I think," she mouths at your ear, and then tugs at the lobe with her teeth. But before you can get a handle on her, she is moving to the music, lace pulled at her hips. There's a glimpse of Pussy Galore, in the wrinkling of her nose as she grins, and settles on the sofa. Stiletto ankle boots removed, black velvet, and then the rest of the lace sheath is pulled, leg by leg, until it pools on the floor. "The girl..." she begins, uncurling from her seat to move back to you, fingers tugging at your velvet hip huggers, "... works for an undground punk 'zine. Online," Samantha whispers at your mouth. "Attitude in all the right places. The man..." Brown eyes sparkle. "...amazing...his name is Guillaume... William..." It's easier to say.

     "Who?" Julian pulls back faintly, but not so far to stop your hands. Who are we talking about? His mind has wandered since you parted, engaged in other topics. The drink tinkles again, but he twists to set it upon the table near him. Vodka that, fairly undiluted.

     Barefoot, she stands five-eight, toenails painted the same shade of burgundy as her hair, slightly more metallic. And she has a henna design around her navel and across the curve of her mons venus. As Samantha tilts her head, her straight burgundy hair falls against the side of her face. The X-rated Veronica Lake.
     "The guy you wanted me to talk to," she reminds. "The one in the violet silk and the leather...you pointed him out." Remember? "...his name is Guillaume d'Anjou, he said," well, she gets the last name wrong but there was a 'd' and an 'a' in it. Da something. "He's an artist. Smokes some sort of ... illegal blend. He gave me a ...taste..."
     That explains her stream-of-conscious explanation...
     Fingers free the remaining buttons of your trousers and Samantha drops to her knees. "He must be famous. He draws a crowd..." And her breath is warm against your stomach.

     His hand stops you, drawing you up to him again. Here, first. Stand. "Make sure," Julian's all business for some reason, "...that we get that interview, alright?" Not an angry comment, just directed. "And thanks," he smiles, putting his fingers into yours as he steps out of the sliding velvet and turns towards the like sofa nearby. He must always thank you. Without you, his job would be so much more difficult.
     The divan creaks as he settles his undressed weight upon it. "Here," he smiles, a lap open. "I think I could use another drink," Julian chuckles. It's not if he's had only one. But variety is the spice of life. Or something, they say.

     It won't be a problem. She always comes through, Samantha James. For you. Have you had as purely dedicated a servant? Smiling wide and warm, Samantha straddles and settles on your lap. Her arms lace and lay against your shoulders. Lightly. Softly. Her fingers moving through your hair, massaging your scalp.
     "I will... I have a series of interviews in the works. I'll get them lined up tomorrow." She pulls at your mouth. "Promise...and it's my pleasure, Jules," she murmurs. Another kiss. I love you.
     "And I was thinking of doing a little dancing sometime. Maybe a private show in the lounge for.... some special guests? What do you think..." Her arms lift and she can't stay still. She begins to sway...
     Her legs stretch to the sides, slender barefeet finding purchase against the cushion of the divan, splits. "I was so tempted to get in a cage tonight," she laughs. You can take the dancer from the stage, but you can't take the 'stage' from the dancer. "Maybe tomorrow," her legs curl back beneath her and her dance in miniature goes from swaying to rotation. Hands in her hair, she lifts the dyed strands of it, letting them loose with a shake. "Hmmm... maybe even this morning." And Samantha laughs. "I can't retire!"

     He laughs, the knot loosening. Hands reach to hold your waist instead of a drink. "And what happens when I don't wish you to dance anymore?" Julian wonders, head to the side. He lets his eyes close, massaging fingers encouraging it. "When I decide that...you're too wonderful for the rest of them to see?" A violet eye peeps open; humor and truth upon his lips.

     "I will still dance," Samantha's arms return to your shoulders and she kissed the tip of your nose. "I will just have an audience of ...one." You. "You can get a cage for our bedroom," she laughs, brown eyes sparkling. "Hmmm... might be interesting. Even better, a little swing... " Samantha smiles, sighing and nestles against her. Her skin, warm, soft...supple. It melds against you as she presses there. "I love that you want me just for you," she whispers. "I love you, Julian Kane..."
     Samantha straightens, "You're so amazing. I'm ...so lucky..." She has no idea. But she believes what she believes with all her heart, and she extends her soul for you. Even if she knew... at this point... she's a done deal. "And... you drive me wild," she whispers at your mouth, her lips capturing your ear. "Especially right now, times like these when you're ...all mine..."
     "I want you. Right. Now."
     And again, your Word is served. Perhaps strongest of them all, fed by everything. Lust for everything. Love was once everywhere. Now, Lust permeates the whole of Existence, on all its levels...

     Julian smiles, something almost bordering on sweet. And I love you, he thinks. But I cannot say that. That is not what we are. It is not what we do...
     "You're a doll," he whispers, "...my doll." Just so you know, Samantha. There is no other as close to my heart as you.
     But I have no heart. That has gone, since The War. Shattered, they say, on the floor of a now-empty citadel. I have no heart...that's what I am told.
     But you want me. As I want you. That is what we're allowed to have. "Hey..." Julian whispers, "...if we're done here...how about we go home?" That place you share sometimes.

     "Mmm...yes... let's go home." Samantha kisses you. Kisses you slow and sweet, and she stands. It does mean, however, that she has to get dressed.
     She smiles to you, she takes your hand. Fingertips squeezing, swinging. "I'll get my fur coat...and then I'll be ready." Her burgundy-brown mink. Bending, she takes her velvet ankle boots, slipping them on one by one. Then bending to zip them up, bending right in front of you. Such a vision. Samantha glances around her hips to you and winks. Instantly four-inches taller.

     Oh, Julian...
     That is the myth of it. That is the damnation of it. We have hearts. They have merely been broken...
     And in our pain we have become masters...
     Of forgetting...

Posted by rowan at May 09, 2003 10:06 PM