Babe In Jello
Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2003
- Posts
- 43
Lilith
Lilith leaned on the door frame, tapping one spiked heel against the cold stone floor, examining the festivities from afar. A few of the newest mortals seemed tempting, but she hardly dealt with them any more. They couldn’t stomach her taste for pain – better to leave them with the less ferocious.
“You’re late,” a throaty voice hissed at her from the shadows, “fashionably though.”
She could feel the Montague John Druitt's eyes, their faint glint reflecting the blazing fires of blue and gold that added to the sinister ambiance, roam over the black skin that entwined itself tightly around her figure. It was the latest from her own fashion line, Asphyxia. If it doesn’t take his breath away, it will surely steal yours the tags read coyly in blazing script.
“Black always did suit you. Better than it looked on Black Mary, that miserable old wench. Pity she was my last victim – I had so hoped to go out with a blaze of glory, not a whimper,” he continued, searching again for her empathy.
Lilith had listened to John’s speechs many times – only 5 victims, why hadn’t he done better, why hadn’t he left better clues, why hadn’t he gotten the credit he deserved … oh how he could ramble on.
“Darling, I’m sure you can do a world’s worth of damage in just this one night. Forget 1888. Live in the moment,” she chided, coaxing him out of the darkness with a crooked finger.
“Shall we dance?” he inquired.
“Slash me, savage me, & devour me.” Lilith spat back, “I’m not in the mood to dance, I’m in the mood to party. And in Hell, my favorite Ripper, those two words have little in common.”
Tracing a line down the side of his face with her claw, she flicked her tongue out to lick the blood from his skin, kissed him roughly, and pushed him aside. Stepping onto the thick, black carpet that was rolled out down the center of the floor, she surveyed the demented festivities.
Only one way to properly start one of these parties, and that was with a bite to eat. A tender morsel should be crawling its way towards her any minute now, on hands and knees, begging for the gratification of pleasing its Mistress. And after that, perhaps she’d follow the unwritten law of searching out her host. He was already sure to give her Hell for being late…maybe she’d ignore one of his golden rules and let him find her. She'd so hate to tarnish her rebellious reputation.
let the games begin… she laughed throatily to herself.
Lilith leaned on the door frame, tapping one spiked heel against the cold stone floor, examining the festivities from afar. A few of the newest mortals seemed tempting, but she hardly dealt with them any more. They couldn’t stomach her taste for pain – better to leave them with the less ferocious.
“You’re late,” a throaty voice hissed at her from the shadows, “fashionably though.”
She could feel the Montague John Druitt's eyes, their faint glint reflecting the blazing fires of blue and gold that added to the sinister ambiance, roam over the black skin that entwined itself tightly around her figure. It was the latest from her own fashion line, Asphyxia. If it doesn’t take his breath away, it will surely steal yours the tags read coyly in blazing script.
“Black always did suit you. Better than it looked on Black Mary, that miserable old wench. Pity she was my last victim – I had so hoped to go out with a blaze of glory, not a whimper,” he continued, searching again for her empathy.
Lilith had listened to John’s speechs many times – only 5 victims, why hadn’t he done better, why hadn’t he left better clues, why hadn’t he gotten the credit he deserved … oh how he could ramble on.
“Darling, I’m sure you can do a world’s worth of damage in just this one night. Forget 1888. Live in the moment,” she chided, coaxing him out of the darkness with a crooked finger.
“Shall we dance?” he inquired.
“Slash me, savage me, & devour me.” Lilith spat back, “I’m not in the mood to dance, I’m in the mood to party. And in Hell, my favorite Ripper, those two words have little in common.”
Tracing a line down the side of his face with her claw, she flicked her tongue out to lick the blood from his skin, kissed him roughly, and pushed him aside. Stepping onto the thick, black carpet that was rolled out down the center of the floor, she surveyed the demented festivities.
Only one way to properly start one of these parties, and that was with a bite to eat. A tender morsel should be crawling its way towards her any minute now, on hands and knees, begging for the gratification of pleasing its Mistress. And after that, perhaps she’d follow the unwritten law of searching out her host. He was already sure to give her Hell for being late…maybe she’d ignore one of his golden rules and let him find her. She'd so hate to tarnish her rebellious reputation.
let the games begin… she laughed throatily to herself.
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