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 dying
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.
You fall to your knees after her sweet perfume. 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 eyes and long
flowing ebony hair. She really was an angel adorned with innocence and
everything money can't afford. Offer her the rum 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.
