First class; swimming bath - upper level
By the time this particular little adventure was through, she was going to have a very stern word with a certain captain about the joint he was running around these parts. She had only just begun to explore the upper levels (as was just fitting for a lady of her aspiring means, get with the picture ladies and gents, goddamnit), but already her list of mental notes for improvement was about as long as the milk-skinned legs that held her six-foot frame up off the ground. Wrapped in leather that was as soft as warm butter, those legs carried her towards her most inevitable of destinations; the ballroom was her calling in every version of life, darling, haven’t you read the newsletter? (She printed each issue on all those blank pages at the back of the Bible, and they arrived in the mail stinking to high heaven of patchouli and those little gummy candies made in the shape of children.)
Regardless, her search for a stage was just about as utterly pointless as nipples on a straight man – that is to say, laughably futile and nearly offensive in their pink, puckered existence. The place was darker than any dive bar and smelled only marginally better, since it was the tang of briny water that pricked at her nose rather than the aromatic bouquet of dried semen and vomit. No band in sight, either – just that ridiculous excuse for music, with the Stradivarius strings and the ho-hum horns and the fucking flutes that couldn’t sound any more queer even if they were made of actual cocks and shot minor scales across every face in their audience.
She tipped her head to the side as she listened at the door of the ballroom, curls the color of a peeled banana falling across her face and clinging to the gloss painted on her lips. (Lovely. One more sticky substance to clean out of her wig when the first fingers of dawn clawed their way over the horizon and she finally managed to stagger home in her tap-tapping sequined stilettos.) The music rose, and swelled, and rose some more, filling the room with an all-encompassing cry of haunting sorrow. “Well, that’s just fucking depressing,” she muttered under her breath as she backed out of the room, clucking her tongue. The whole thing left a bad taste in her mouth, and not even an orgasm to show for it.
And so she went, onwards and inwards to the place that echoed with lilting laughter and the soft lap of water against tile. The door to the baths was thick and heavy against her palms – like all pleasurable things in life and love and interior design – and its hinges sang as she pushed it open, a hum that echoed across the surface of the pool. Now that - talk about music to her ears, darling. But she did not descend the steps to the cool surface of the water, not just yet. No, she was the sort of dame that liked to climb, get up on top before she sank down, down, down to the delicious bottom where she thrived. No, it was up the steps that she directed her dainty little heels, click-clacking on the tile, all the way up to the level that overlooked the bathing area. Each echo struck some chord inside her chest, and she could do naught but answer in a deep, throaty purr of a voice – more hum than snarl, for once in her goddamned life. It was an oldie, but a goodie if ever such a thing existed.
“Gimme danger little stranger, and I feel with you at ease,”