Re: Promenade; Elevator
"God is up," the concubine insisted. Serve, she was made to serve, to be used. She yearned for bruised knees and salt upon her tongue, but she would not deny. Had not Lucifer acknowledged God? Had Lucifer not loved him? She was no Lucifer, because she had no such importance being one of many, but she came from that realm where hatred of God had made the ash burn brightest with viridian envy. Acknowledgement was their existence. Every single one of them knew that there were others who lived in light and bright and had free will. Those were for God. God was not for her, but God existed.
She did not need to take him in her mouth to know.
The strands of her hair hissed. This time, she parted her lips willingly for the sinuous suffocation to come. She tolerated it without fingers that grasped at black strands, her throat bulging obscenely from within as she strangled down the punishment. Once the strands retreated, she leaned forward and spit upon the match, intending to render it damp and useless.
"We do not speak of it."
"We please."
"Let us."
The concubine knew desire did not nest beneath the sternum of this woman that smelled of Hell, but that was not of that place. She itched, and she scratched the tips of her toes bloody against the floor of the elevator.
"Do you want my mouth?" the concubine asked. "Do you want my fingers?"
The questions would have been different for a man, and they would have been asked with soft curves and a body in offering. But the authoritative woman that smelled of flames did not smell of male. There was no androgen scent of musk to her, and the concubine knew she would find only hair and smoothness beneath the rose of that dress.