The year is 1870. The Masoch revolution begins.
The Scene. The girl. The dark horse.
You're a man. Wealthy, calculating, with an insatiable lust for power and everything indulgent. The estate is built from your fathers' exports of the exotic and alcoholic. A trade in demand made famous by carrying the body of Admiral Nelson in casket of rum. Time hasn't waited, it's dark and the day has been long with torrential downpours, a sigh of relief upon your return to the manor in the English countryside. Sodden and exhausted you open the door, every step a newly formed puddle on the parquet floors. A dark, smokey, dim lit room with your favourite rum awaits. Mans' ruin. Put the coat on the hook, hat on the stand and drink in the hand. Light the kindle and watch it go up. The leather squeaks as you sink back into the chair to stare at the dancing flames in the fire. Home at last and you're reaping the rewards of your hard work.
But nearly napping, there's a rapping at the door to disturb your comfort, unappeased you open the door to find an angel in tears. Without question you usher the girl in. She speaks of woe and tells you of her struggle to get home through the thick mud on her weak horse. Finally the horse collapses, desperate and in shock she tries to move the horse in vein. It was a long way from home and that's when she saw the light from the fire.
In awe you fall to your knees after her sweet perfume and her sorrowful tale. Like the opportunist you are you comfort her and lead her towards the fire to dry out. Your heart is pounding, it must be her piercing eyes and long flowing ebony hair. She really was an angel adorned with innocence and everything money can't afford. Offer her the Nelsons blood and watch her sip from the crystal, after all a girl like that deserves the finest.
The angel is warming up, no more words are exchanged as the two of you are at ease in the silence. She turns to the fire and you slouch behind her in the chair eyeing up her silhouette. Your usual nasty ways are hindered to stop and think that an angel shouldn't be looked at in such a way, turn your attention and pour yourself another.
Taken by surprise she is more brazen you thought, the opportunist returns. Angel rings out her hair and she takes off her cloak, the poor girl is drenched, her clothes were filthy. She slips the dress to her hips, the rest of the water running down her full firm breasts. Try to keep your breathing from a heavy sound, should you be the gentleman and leave the room or stay if you know what she really wants? You choose to stay. She asks for another rum but the words distort when her portrait perfect pink lips move, imagine what to do with them. Still you get up and serve her again, maybe she's not an angel. You return to her side to smell her perfume once again, her eyes make you feel uneasy and irresponsible. You see her nipples through the mesh of curly black hair. Fuck, she's a goddess and you can't hide wanting her soft skin on yours. She smiles at you in a way that makes the blood rush down. 'Thank you' says the angel, you laugh and retire to the chair. She's on her knees, the silhouette continues, the haunting sounds coming from her wet finger running around the lip of the glass. She bends over to not get out of the heat of the fire, the dress goes past her ass. She arches her back to flick her hair behind her.
She could make you do anything right now. Stroke your moustache and look down on her. She knows what she's doing. Thorough voyeurs entertainment and you've made no advances... She must be a Courtesan.
The Scene. The girl. The dark horse.
You're a man. Wealthy, calculating, with an insatiable lust for power and everything indulgent. The estate is built from your fathers' exports of the exotic and alcoholic. A trade in demand made famous by carrying the body of Admiral Nelson in casket of rum. Time hasn't waited, it's dark and the day has been long with torrential downpours, a sigh of relief upon your return to the manor in the English countryside. Sodden and exhausted you open the door, every step a newly formed puddle on the parquet floors. A dark, smokey, dim lit room with your favourite rum awaits. Mans' ruin. Put the coat on the hook, hat on the stand and drink in the hand. Light the kindle and watch it go up. The leather squeaks as you sink back into the chair to stare at the dancing flames in the fire. Home at last and you're reaping the rewards of your hard work.
But nearly napping, there's a rapping at the door to disturb your comfort, unappeased you open the door to find an angel in tears. Without question you usher the girl in. She speaks of woe and tells you of her struggle to get home through the thick mud on her weak horse. Finally the horse collapses, desperate and in shock she tries to move the horse in vein. It was a long way from home and that's when she saw the light from the fire.
In awe you fall to your knees after her sweet perfume and her sorrowful tale. Like the opportunist you are you comfort her and lead her towards the fire to dry out. Your heart is pounding, it must be her piercing eyes and long flowing ebony hair. She really was an angel adorned with innocence and everything money can't afford. Offer her the Nelsons blood and watch her sip from the crystal, after all a girl like that deserves the finest.
The angel is warming up, no more words are exchanged as the two of you are at ease in the silence. She turns to the fire and you slouch behind her in the chair eyeing up her silhouette. Your usual nasty ways are hindered to stop and think that an angel shouldn't be looked at in such a way, turn your attention and pour yourself another.
Taken by surprise she is more brazen you thought, the opportunist returns. Angel rings out her hair and she takes off her cloak, the poor girl is drenched, her clothes were filthy. She slips the dress to her hips, the rest of the water running down her full firm breasts. Try to keep your breathing from a heavy sound, should you be the gentleman and leave the room or stay if you know what she really wants? You choose to stay. She asks for another rum but the words distort when her portrait perfect pink lips move, imagine what to do with them. Still you get up and serve her again, maybe she's not an angel. You return to her side to smell her perfume once again, her eyes make you feel uneasy and irresponsible. You see her nipples through the mesh of curly black hair. Fuck, she's a goddess and you can't hide wanting her soft skin on yours. She smiles at you in a way that makes the blood rush down. 'Thank you' says the angel, you laugh and retire to the chair. She's on her knees, the silhouette continues, the haunting sounds coming from her wet finger running around the lip of the glass. She bends over to not get out of the heat of the fire, the dress goes past her ass. She arches her back to flick her hair behind her.
She could make you do anything right now. Stroke your moustache and look down on her. She knows what she's doing. Thorough voyeurs entertainment and you've made no advances... She must be a Courtesan.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
Awesome writing, wicked band photo!!!
Hope you are doing well.
I hope you will continue to write more often!
x