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| The Flesh Showroom; ATTN: CC - NSFW | |
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| Topic Started: Tuesday, 10. March 2015, 03:51 (425 Views) | |
| Tsar Ilya the First | Tuesday, 10. March 2015, 03:51 Post #1 |
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Claiming Tsar
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NOTE: Comes from here. The van stopped. It wasn't smooth. CC was sitting in a cushioned car seat, with the seatbelt on. Still, the break made her shake a bit too much. She heard the door opening and closing, and Ilya walking around the van to open the side door. In a few fast movements, she was out. His hand guided her gently, but firmly. He did not allow her to take a bad step, or to stumble upon any obstacle. He guided her like a good father guiding a good daughter to the good man who has paid him to take her virtue. Dangerously. With confidence. They stopped a few steps afterwards. She heard some rattling of keys, and the unmistakable sound of Ilya's fingers punching a code in a very old keypad. A door opened. From inside, the smell of cabbage, sour milk, and beef stew, assaulted her. Russian gastronomy. Ilya took her hand again, and guided her inside of the building. The door closed behind her. They took some steps inside, and he guided her upstairs. A few steps further, and after another door, he sat her down in a cushioned surface. "Thank you for your patience. We have arrived." Those were the first words he said since putting the rag on her head. He carefully unwrapped her. The room was dark. A faint bluish light came out from a laptop's screen in a distant table. She was sitting on a bed. The room was just that: a table with a laptop, a bed and a rug. Nothing else. "I'll bring the merchandise up in a moment. Hold on." He stood up, and walked towards the door. Just before leaving, he turned around, and studied her once again, as if he was trying to decide what to feel about her presence there. |
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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| Cressida | Friday, 13. March 2015, 13:19 Post #2 |
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Gorgon
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Fear was a distant luxury reserved for the sensible, lost to the scathing embers of the eternal sandstorm that was time and discarded foolishly- or perhaps necessarily- by the Serpent Queen that night. Normal, rational, human thought would have never even entered the train of 'accepted blindfolding from potentially murderous psychopath' and nor would it taper off into the realms of 'get in his van, go on chick, there's candy!' yet there she was, a pillar of peacock blue scintillating even in vulnerability, confidence palpable and unaffected in her posture, which was as tall and as dignified as ever despite the lack of ocular stimuli. She was completely blind, the absence of light a potent reminder of that which dwelt within her soul- the darkness, the abyss, the beast. She found herself compelled to dangerous thought as they rode on through London, every jilt an annoyance that bobbed her head out of it's glass bubble of revelry. She'd already thought of a number of ways in which to use the moving vehicle to her advantage should her captor attempt anything untoward, ways in which to use his loose-fitting garments against him. She'd counted seventeen possible points of advantageousness in close combat, unless he carried beneath that blood red tracksuit a plethora of weaponry. That would render her musings mute. Nonetheless her thoughts continued to dance to the tune of Fugue, feeding from the decadent melodies of violence and destruction, her body the perfect instrument to carry out these horrors. But the door had opened; his hand in hers. They were large, his hands, strong, masculine, lined with hair upon their backs and accustomed to death. Shorter fingers than Cressida's were near double their width. Masculinity; pure, unadulterated dominance. This man was a predator- apex, alpha, daddy. Cressida's own hands- unnaturally smooth, like marble- gripped delicately, effortlessly. She used the direction of his body to guide her footsteps, and walked with majesty, every stride confidence, every sashay sex. She wouldn't let simple bindings disorient her too strongly. The façade must remain impenetrable. Cool, hard ice. After shutting off the use of scent following the assault, Cressida's inert body sat in a position of dominance and stature, her spine straight with steel, her legs crossed with nonchalance, and her posture oozing command. It was true that when Cressida Cholmondeley entered a room, she inhabited it, usurped it. The bed became her throne, the light became her halo, the Ventrue became her chamberlain. She returned the volume lost on the rag to her hair, a few quick ruffles and a parting, before blinking once, twice. She stared at him just as deeply as he returned his gaze upon hers. She shivered, but it was internal. "Please, take your time. I'll enjoy the ambiance." She grinned her signature grin and gestured to the door with her eyes. This isn't a social call, bring in your toys... |
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Languages English Russian She was loneliness itself, covered in greed, bathed in sarcasm, sprinkled with anger, topped with syrup of aggressiveness, all of that presented in an elegant, incredibly beautiful manner. A bitter dish best served frozen- Graham Mason on CC | |
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| Tsar Ilya the First | Tuesday, 17. March 2015, 01:33 Post #3 |
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Claiming Tsar
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He turned around, shaking his head. Something was off, and it was not something happening outside of the walls of his mind and his body. Something was off in him. Reality felt as if it was dissolving around him. Not because he was following the script very tightly; the situation itself cried weirdness and lack of probability, but the image of that scaly creature, sitting in that crappy bed where flesh machines fornicated in front of a webcam for money, staring at him with that deep dignity... Something was terribly off, and it was not her, or the place. He was off. He walked downstairs, trying to recompose himself, but it was useless. Bringing her here had been a terrible mistake, and now he was paying the price. The smell of goat stew with cabbage was slightly overpowering, and this was probably the first time he noticed that it was the constant smell of that place. He approached the kitchen area, where litres of that stuff were boiling in a massive pan, heated by the electric warmth of the cheap cooker, and stared into the stew. He made a decision. In a series of quick movements, he removed his shoes, his socks, and his pants, ending up effectively naked from the waist down. He grabbed the pan with the stew, and poured it on top of his left foot, feeling the terrible burning pain, and letting that pain convince him that he was not just surfing inside of a memory imposed from the outside. The pain was quite convincing, and some terrible monster inside his soul woke up just enough to show Ilya it's gruesome fangs. Only thanks to a feat of willpower, he was able to drop the pan, and get dressed again. It was nearly unbearable, but the feeling of reality escaping him was not going anywhere. After five long minutes, he reappeared in the reptilian glammonster's presence dragging behind him seven girls in their underwear. He herded one of them inside, and stood by the door, awaiting for the snake to finish her inspection to introduce her to the next one. Not a word was exchanged at this instance; Ilya thought that it was better to let the bodies of his meaty products do all the talking. |
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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1:15 AM Jul 11