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Name: Cassie | Gender: Señorita | Posts: 4,083 | Roses: 185
Old 02-08-2011 at 06:16 AM
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Madeleine de Chandon

Ashton followed Madeleine’s gaze to the lone man at table four. Maybe Madeleine was being critical, but she was beginning to think “not” for this guy. He wasn’t unfortunate looking. Unfortunately, though, he looked like any other middle aged man. Average height, average build… Tragically average. Madeleine wondered if the suit was meant to disguise that fact. Surely Ashton wouldn’t be fooled by pretty wrappings and think that clothes really did make the man.

“Hot,” Ashton said, chuckling. “Definitely hot.”

“Ugh,” Madeleine said taking a swig of wine to wash out the taste building in her throat. “So not.”

She reached for the wine bottle they’d taken from the bar to refill her glass and—for a brief moment—Madeleine caught Ashton’s eye. She spilled champagne on her jeans. Ashton’s eyes had glazed over dreamily. And Madeleine knew that smile. Because that was how she smiled at Myron.

One day, Maddie, she thought, chiding herself. You will learn to keep your mouth shut.

“Erm… I mean… It’s all a matter of…. Um… Perspective.”
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Old 02-09-2011 at 05:47 AM
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Ashton Greene

Ashton smiled dreamily down at Lucian sitting alone in his usual spot. She could watch him do the most mundane, everyday things forever. If Lucian was just sitting there, sipping idly at wine, he was still that same, fun, thrilling, fantastic Lucian he was when he was doing productive things. Ashton sighed, her eyes glossing over slightly as she watched,

“Ugh. So not.”

Ashton snapped out of her smitten trance. Her face fell and her lips pursed together. Ashton couldn’t fathom Lucian being on the “not” side of “hot or not”. He was so handsome, so beautiful. Ashton would even go so far as to say “hot”, because that was surely how he made her feel. She felt hot, scorching when he looked at her, laced up her wedding dress.

Ashton gave a side glance at Madeleine. Maybe she was kidding?

“Erm… I mean… It’s all a matter of…. Um… Perspective.”

“Fine,” Ashton said, coolly. “That’s a matter of opinion. But there’s no denying he’s a fantastic kisser,” Ashton said, smirking at the thought of the moment their lips met in the dancing lights of the Note Bleue. Madeleine could think whatever she wanted about Lucian, but there was no changing Ashton’s mind, and there was certainly no changing her heart.

The more Ashton thought about it, the more the realized Lucian didn’t belong on the “hot” list. He wasn’t hot, he was perfect.


If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.
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Name: Cassie | Gender: Señorita | Posts: 4,083 | Roses: 185
Old 02-09-2011 at 04:44 PM
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Madeleine de Chandon

Why was Ashton eyeing some oldish guy like that? He wasn’t the worst looking the Rouge had ever seen but he wasn’t exactly some Greek god come to earth. Did she know him? Was he a lover? A friend? A crush? Madeleine studied the man. His broad shoulders were beginning to slope—but not yet prominently. No doubt his face and hands were lined from years. Surely that brown hair wasn’t [u]au natural[/i]. This was a man who may have once been “hot” but who had cooled over the years. Why did Ashton think otherwise?

“Fine,” Ashton said calmly. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

Good. She wasn’t defensive. Next, Ashton would point out somebody for Madeleine to proclaim “hot” or “not”. She looked over at the blonde, expecting her gaze to have shifted. It hadn’t. Ashton was now smirking at the man.

“But there’s no denying he’s a fantastic kisser,” she said underneath her grin.

Madeleine’s brown eyes widened. She blinked a few times, processing the thought. Ashton kissed this guy? Was he a patron who took a shine to her? Was he supporting her? Was Ashton easier than Madeleine thought? Or…

“Is that your scandalously older man?” Madeleine asked. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees to prop her head up in her hands. She studied him through squinted eyes.

“A great kisser, you say?” she asked, a soft lilt in her throat. “Have you slept with him yet?”
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Old 05-25-2011 at 09:01 PM
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ooc: let the spicy adventures of Chianna&Myron madness begin ! Click the link in the post, when you get to it, to get a better feel for what he's doing ;)


Myron Bolitar


Myron Bolitar's elbow hit against the jukebox, that everyone and their mom had told him made the Moulin Rouge look like something out of Happy Days, but all he had to say to that, in the words of the Fonz, 'eyyy'. He didn't want to have to play the card, but he would so pull out that he owned the place. Therefore, if he wanted a jukebox in the corner near the bar, that needed to be turned on by slamming your elbow against it, then so it was. Which, Myron really did request it be only turned on with a slam of the elbow. Myron Bolitar may or may not have been taking this Fonz role a wee bit too seriously.

With an arm propped, Myron began scanning through all the tunes. Because, you know, it was one in the morning and no one was around. Why not listen to some good ol' tune-age? Especially since life seemed to suck tonight. Not to sound like an overly gothic teenager, who every second needed some sort of attention, so claimed they were depressed and oh-so original. It was just, every contact in his telephone- (yes, it's telephone, let no one tell you different) had some excuse to not hang out with Myron Bolitar. Not to have a persecution complex or anything. But, Madeleine was doing something, that he was sortive' afraid to call her, because it may have something to do with a certain wedding that involved certain planning, that he really did not feel like doing tonight. Oh, Stand By Me by Ben E. King? ... Nah, romantic song by himself would make him feel masturbatory. Gross. Toddy St. James, was no longer returning his calls, because he was a five year old princess. Francesca didn't really want to 'hang' with Uncle Myron; apparently he didn't get the memo that he wasn't hip enough to hang out in the teenaged gangster secret clubhouse. Try a Little Tenderness by Otis Redding! Nah, that was Ducky's thing- it'd be a hard act to follow. Santiago Ortiz was sleeping, because he obviously needed beauty rest- Psh, seriously, who slept these days? It was tempting to go over and gonk his best friend in the head and force him to play with him- like, in the dollhouse sense, not the sexual sense, but it seemed a little desperate, and Myron Bolitar didn't feel like getting his ass kicked by a grumpy Ortiz. Jennifer- well, Myron Bolitar didn't even want to think about the insults he would get for calling her so late at night; she probably would think he had a crush on her or something, and Madeleine would have totally freaked out. Because, you know, he liked to assume and stereotype women in a tizzy box. It was the American thing to do. So, this was his life tonight. Just, remaining in this building that he was in most of his days, stressed out to the max, and not able to find a freaking song to-

"Ah, yesssss!"

Myron Bolitar's hands gripped the sides of the jukebox, his eyes wide with excitement, and mind reeling. Since he was a goober, or whenever the movie had come out, he had always wanted to do this one thing. If he had a bucket list, or wasn't lazy to get the energy to make one- this would probably be in the top five. The song, the scene, the movie- was box office gold. Pure gold. It was quite the challenge, to attempt to do this. Maybe, it was why Myron had been a dancer- all his years of training, training him for this one lonely night, and this one amazing song. It was his destiny for tonight. Screw his so-called friends, screw being stressed, and screw it all. Well, if he did that, he would be quite the town whore now wouldn't he? But this is just what he needed. Myron Bolitar's finger was so close to hitting the play button, but he chewed his bottom lip. Nah, no one was around. Who cared? It was about time to stop being professional- everyone was gone. Not that, he was one hundred percent professional all the time, but whatever. This was his Moulin Rouge, dammit.

And Myron Bolitar would dance like Pee-wee Herman if he wanted to.

Pressing the play button, the music began, and Myron knew it was so on. Kicking the jukebox, because when music came on, that was the thing to do- kick thousand dollar equipment. With a spin of his heel, he turned around, beginning to flick his head up and down, just like Pee-wee Bolitar. He felt the music in his pelvic muscle, feeling his old professional dancer self come back to him. And that's when the infamous Pee-wee arm movements in front of him, to the back of him, began taking place. Myron Bolitar did this with feeling, and did a kick twirl until he managed to get himself all the way to the bar.

Without even thinking, Myron climbed a stool, and did a jump so he was standing on the bar, not really giving a crap at this point just how zany it was, but just completely sold into this routine. Because, everyone knows the bar part is the best part. Myron Bolitar spun around, doing the moonwalk all the way to the other side of the bar, feeling his dress shoes slide flawlessly against the shiny top of the bar. And then, miraculously without killing himself, Myron took all the dancing skills he could muster up, and propped up on his toes, beginning to walk forward. He grinned madly, shoving his hands forward and backward while doing this.

When the song began to fade away- it being the short version from the movie- Myron Bolitar let out a howl, standing at the edge of the bar, and pumping up a fist-

"Tequila!"

Pee-wee Herman aint' got nothing on Myron Bolitar.


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Old 05-26-2011 at 06:06 AM
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Chianna Mimieux

The late shift. The last shift. It was her favorite one. Especially when it was really late - closing time. It was quiet. The hum of people everywhere grated against her insides. Sometimes she liked the noise. Sometimes she didn't. All the tables had been cleared off. The tables tucked away, under, on top of tables. On the last shift, when she was by herself, she could drop The Act. The act that made her fit in everyday. When she had first started doing The Act, she had a lot of trouble. She had to get the dosage right, like when Tante and Oncle forced her to take her medication. It was a lot of experimentation before she got the dosage of The Act right. This way, people would think she was normal and would leave her alone. They'd stop looking at her and they'd stop laughing and shouting and talking about her. She could tell when she was slipping; people laughed and shouted and talked about her when she slipped up. She could tell. These days, it seemed like someone was always laughing/shouting/talking at her.

Empty chairs in an empty room. Chianna unbuttoned part of her blouse and stretched. She was alone. She could get comfortable if she wanted. This routine. When it was closing time and it was her turn to close up, she took down her hair, kicked off her shoes behind the counter (yes, I am running around barefoot in a bar. F*ck off.) and did her work. It was freeing. This quietness wasn't something she got very often. It was good. For half an hour of her life every once in a while, Chianna got to feel sane.

Chianna entered the kitchen for a final check around. Everything seemed okay, so she made for the bar again.

A clang made her jump. "Merde!" She shot under her breath. What was that? She was alone. What was that? The rest of the place was locked. What was that? What was that? What was that?

Her chest twitched with her heart. It flopped and she breathed shakily, but quietly. Were they coming for her? They were coming to get her, weren't they? They were finally coming to lock her up in those white suits and those padded rooms. Had Tante and Oncle tracked her down? Mon dieu... She could hear them. She could hear...

Music?

Chianna blinked and stopped breathing so she could hear. She shook her head. This was her mind. The music was in her mind. She walked toward the door between the kitchen and the bar and the music got louder. De quoi? She looked through the door's window and then straightened. Oh. La. Vache. What was she looking at?

On the bar was some lunatic - and Chianna knew lunatics - having some upright seizure on the bar. He was waving his arms in front and then behind him. And then repeating the... dance? There was music. The man was moving to the beat. Sort of. So he was dancing? Was this what sane people did? Jump on bars and... dance? Chianna pressed her face nearer to the glass and squinted. Mon dieu. She knew that face. She stepped back and then let out a barking laugh, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching her stomach and her sides. She fell against the door, flinging it open onto the scene on the bar. It just busted through her throat and out of her mouth. She fell to the floor and the door lightly closed on her back, so that she was laughing with her head in the bar area and her legs in the kitchen. She just couldn't help it. It was... It was... absolutely insane.


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Old 05-29-2011 at 12:07 AM
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Myron Bolitar

Sure, there was an audience cheering wildly in Myron Bolitar's head, but he really didn't expect to hear real life sound effectage. But, what was that cliche' saying? Expect the unexpected. Yeah, so it was cliche', but Myron had just done the Pee-wee Herman dance, there wasn't much dignity leftover that could have been hindered at this point. So when Myron Bolitar heard a roaring laughter, it scared the living hell out of him. Because, for once in his life, Myron had a normal reaction to something. Well what was expected? It was one in the morning, and the place was cleared out and closed. Hearing someone else besides himself in an empty Rouge was suppose to make him giggle with excitement? Myron Bolitar will take wanting to crap his pants for one hundred please.

After a jolt, a double take- the usually taken aback business, Myron walked a few steps across the bar, that he was professionally still standing on, and found the source of this burly laughter. He grinned and tiled his head, when he saw what he saw. It was one of his workers, Chianna- the last name he would not even attempt to pronounce. Yes, that was it. Myron Bolitar knew all his workers by name, but didn't really know her personally. She was a pretty thing, no doubt. Myron was an engaged man, but it didn't mean that he couldn't notice when women were attractive, and when their blouses were unbuttoned; the lying position she had complimenting that very much. What? He was a man. Myron Bolitar still knew to look at their eyes when they talked. It wasn't anything new; the Rouge had pretty people trotting around everywhere flaunting their prettiness. It could serve as annoying. But, Myron could appreciate the loud laugh that made her land to the floor. Women who giggle politely or rolled their eyes bugged him.

The site made him very amused, as she lie sprawled out on the floor, laughing hysterically, and being cut in half by the kitchen door. Myron could appreciate it, even if it was all in making fun of him. Sticks and stones, ladies and gentlemen.

"Oh, you like that, huh?" Myron Bolitar laughed, jumping off of the bar.

He suddenly wondered what the hell the poor dame was doing here so late? And, alone? Myron Bolitar checked over the schedules, and made sure that there were a few people at the last shift. It was sketchy so late, and especially for a woman like herself to be walking out alone. Myron figured either she liked the aloneness that came with the Rouge as much as he did, or he had to fire a few people.

A still smirking Rouge owner, made his way toward her, when another song on the jukebox turned on, and it happened to be one of Myron's favorites. And then, he decided on something for his laughing employee.

"You think you can do better?" Myron asked, now at her side, outstretching a hand to the sprawled out Chianna. "C'mon and twist. Show me up."

Just, don't file for sexual harassment. Because, twist.. as in the song that said it over a hundred and seventy three thousand times. And, show him up, as in the dance sense. Myron Bolitar figured he could chime that in to clear the air, but he figured he was just the only one that always took everything as a double meaning.

Because ... He was Myron Bolitar.


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Old 08-06-2011 at 06:15 AM
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OOC: Oh how the stars do align to bless me... Jean is waiting for the lovely Roza... Please be patient with me as I said I am a bit rusty at le epic Rp-age, thus long and rambling but like I said he's been so good lately it took a few... paragraphs, to get him back to his proper mindset. BIC:

Jean Sauveur

There was a morbid sort of irony that had painted the background of Jean's life the last few months. It was the sort of irony that smacked of some sort of celestial punishment in its simplicity and efficacy. Not to mention that once the reality of his current situation had dawned on him, the reminder to be careful what one wished for bore all the subtlety of a lighting bolt up one's ass. And what was this hellish torture the Divine had imposed on him through with a twisted sense of humor? Jean had been given all that only a few years before he had thought he wanted. Was there anything worse? He had successfully retired from an occupation that did not let go easily. He had built for himself a quiet stable life. He was immersed in art and beauty. Though he was not currently dating he was comfortable enough in his bachelorhood not to feel an oppressive loneliness. He felt none, to any extent worth mentioning, of his own vices toying around the edges of his consciousness urging him to give into wrath or rage. Hell he hadn't so much as littered in longer than he could remember. Life was peaceful. It was fulfilled. And it was boring.

This wasn't the sort of boredom that made him prowl the streets at night with a hunger for someone to pick a fight like he had done on a few unmentioned occasions in his youth. Much to his surprise, and slight chagrin, those types urges were few and far between these days. It wasn't even the kind of boredom that made him pace restlessly around his apartment with an itch that wasn't tangible let alone able to be scratched. It was the kind of boredom than sent him to bed early after only one cognac and a chapters of Dumas' Les Crimes Célébrés. In the mornings he rose at an appointed time, made his calls and attended to his duties for his business interest in Marseilles. In the afternoons he ran errands for the Opera House and attended to his business there. Every day had taken on a similar hue and rhythm til one was nearly indistinguishable from the last. And the change had happened so subtly that even he hadn't noticed it happened until he was slapped in the face with who he had become in a way that jarred him to his core.

This wake up call had been small and insignificant by most anyone's standards but his own. He had returned from his last errand for the Opera House on a Friday afternoon. He had stopped at the market down the street from his house and picked up what he would need for his supper. Greeted his doorman and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Looking back now he might even have been humming some asinine tune from a commercial he had heard playing somewhere, a thought that made him violently ill to think of in retrospect from his new found perspective. When Jean had reached his door he was absent-mindedly thumbing through his mail and inspecting the envelope of a letter from his son from somewhere "on tour" in Belgium and had forgotten to dig his keys from his pocket as he reached for the knob. The portal opened to his touch and opened effortlessly. He was two steps within the abode before the reality of this even hit him. And hit him it had. He had been pummeled by men twice his size who had failed to knock the wind out of him like the realization that he had not locked his own front door had, and even more so when he discovered that he could not with any certainty remembered if he had locked it the day before or for how long he had been committing this gross oversight of diligence.

To anyone who had seen him in expanse of silence that stretch out after that moment it might of appeared as though Jean were frozen, statue-like, perched on the edge of his own couch. His groceries were deposited unceremoniously next to his feet, and his gaze hardly flinched from the square of carpet directly before him. But despite his stony posture, inside Jean had at once become a torrent of thought and emotion. This was not who he wanted a quieter, less violent life. He had wanted things to become simpler, not a simpleton himself! It wasn't as though he wished to go back to the existence he had worked so hard to leave behind. But he would be damned (as though his soul wasn't already) if he was going to surrender to this... whatever it was, because he was certain it wasn't any sort of living in which he would willing participate.

With that thought Jean marched resolutely across the room and deposited his shopping in the trash. In his bedroom he pushed all of his upright wool suits aside for the attire that had systematically found its way to the back of his closet. Showered, freshly shaven, and recognizing an old familiar glint in his eye that even he had begun to forget Jean donned a pain of jet black pants, a blood red shirt left roguishly open at the collar, and a light, black leather jacket. Stepping back from the mirror it was hard to deny that he looked more like a gangster than a man on the verge of a mid-life crisis--thank God. He locked the door behind him before hailing a cab and instructing them towards the Moulin Rouge.

The area that surrounded the dance floor teamed with men and women alike a buzz with excitement as they awaited the next show. But the crowd broke easily before him as Jean strode confidently through them. With a single imperious glance people seemed to instinctively guess he was a man not to be trifled with and moved wordlessly out of the way of his long non-hurried gait. Their recognition was a like a breath of fresh air that conjured a smug grin. It was as though he had had a brush with the afterlife only hours before, far more troubling than any he could recall (of which there were many). It had been a moment of life or death for his very soul as he knew it. And like so many to have survived such an ordeal he was determined to enjoy his freshly salvaged, and thus all the more dear, existence. And he could think of no better place than in this hall of decadence to relish the thrill of being truly alive as he had nearly forgotten it could be enjoyed.

Jean settled himself languidly easily into a table at the front. He returned icily the curious glances thrown his way and enjoyed watching his observers fidget slightly, pleased to see that the ability to make other self-conscious in his presence hadn't yet atrophied. When the waitress appeared he ordered a Hennessy, double and didn't bother to request any of their older and more refined labels. This was not the night for such things. All illusions of refinement had been left behind with the placid idiot who didn't bother to lock his own doors. With an air of determination to enjoy himself in a way he hadn't in quite some time Jean settled comfortably into his seat as the lights began to dim and the buzz of the crowd reached it peak then quickly cooled in rapt anticipation.




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Old 08-15-2011 at 10:40 PM
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Rozaliya Donkova

Breathe.

Breathe.

Rozaliya sucked air into her lungs, the corset that hugged her torso feeling as tight as...well, as tight as any sexual innuendo she could have chosen to make. Subconsciously, though of course not self-consciously, she ran a gloved hand down the length of its aquamarine silk, as if hoping to smooth out the already impossibly smooth material. This was the sort of outfit that made her feel sexiest, the exception (unsurprisingly) being when she was naked. For a woman like Rozaliya, the Moulin Rouge was as natural an environment as a watering hole for a crocodile. It was enough to make her salivate, the bountifully displayed cleavage, the hungry patrons, the sex and the deviant behavior and the grinding and the carnal nature of it all. Her eyes drank in all the colors, and her fingers danced over the thick velvet curtains as she stood backstage.

And the smells.

Once or twice her nostrils quite literally flared as they took in as much as they could. It wasn't just body sweat, which by itself was not a particularly glorious odor. She'd smelled that aplenty on hundreds of porn sets, and it was neither glamorous nor much of a turn-on. At this place, however, it was sweat combined with perfumes, champagne, mahogany, leather, liquor, cologne. It was the unmistakable smell of a man in a perfectly-fitted suit and a woman in heat. It was animalism operating under the guise of decadence and sophistication. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

She was in no way nervous. After all, Rozaliya was not the sort of person who was generally plagued with worry or unease. She'd felt a twinge of it when the cameras had started rolling on her first adult film. And there'd been a moment of brief panic when stepping off the plane in France for the first time in half a decade. But now? Here? In this place? The only emotion pounding through her veins was excitement. It was the thrill of being exactly where you were born to be. She was perfectly comfortable in these mile-high heels, lace stretching all the way up her thighs, garters holding everything in place.

Her performance tonight was being advertised as a "one-night engagement," meaning the Rouge's head honcho was covering his ass in case he didn't like what he saw with Rozaliya's performance. Or at least that's how her agent had relayed it to her last weekend in LA. In case he didn't like what he saw. Rozaliya had to roll her eyes at that one. She was more than fully confident that she had something special, though it wouldn't be entirely inaccurate to call her ego overly inflated. Earlier that day the Rouge's manager had spoken with her, outlined his plan for the evening, and from what Rozaliya had gathered she pretty much had free reign over her performance. She guessed he was a fan of her film collection, which would explain why her first appearance at the club was basically being given to her carte blanche.

And now, less than twelve hours later, she was standing behind that thick red curtain, imagining the faces of the men and women whose minds she was all too prepared to blow. Granted, Rozaliya would be the first to admit that her voice was not her crowning feature. Having spent enough time in the Paris opera house, she knew an amazing set of pipes when she heard them, and she herself did not possess them. Her voice was not huge, awe-inspiring, or crowd-stopping. What it was, however, was sultry, like a breathy whisper. It made its listener think of sex. Rozaliya owed a large portion of her bank account to that throaty, soprano purr of hers. What she lacked in raw singing talent she more than made up for in sensuality. And, since she was aware of her own shortcomings, she chose a song that did not necessarily require an opera singer's voice. What it required was sex appeal.

She eyed the clock that hung crookedly offstage. 10:57. Someone, a stagehand she suspected, hurried by to drape her black silk robe over her bare shoulders. Rozaliya pulled it forward, hiding her ensemble from view and securing it with a sash that emphasized the smallness of her waist as compared to her hips and bust. Her eyes flashed to the clock again. 10:58. Two minutes...a minute and a half... Even so close to her moment, there wasn't a droplet of sweat on her brow. Not a single tremor in her hands. She was perfectly cool. Perfectly composed. Perfect. And then:

She heard the wave exuding from the audience, a sharp increase followed by an even more poignant silence. The lights had dimmed. A spotlight shone down from the rafters, like a heavenly beam from God himself. Rozaliya didn't believe in God, but that's who she thought of just the same. Wickedly, she was struck by the urge to cross herself. It was time.

The curtain rose with Rozaliya standing in the center of the stage, clad in her little black robe, standing behind a simple rod iron chair. The music started, unhurried, steady, low. There was something exotic about it, the way the base thrummed and throbbed. She didn't look at the crowd. Her eyes were cast downwards, almost shyly. If by some strange, mystic coincidence there was someone in the audience who knew Rozaliya, he or she probably would have been amused by the paradox. She only turned her gaze to the black abyss known as her audience when it was time to start singing, and then any signs of "shyness" flew right out those dark-tinted windows.

The song was entirely lustful in nature, a seduction through the use of metaphor and melody. The lyrics told the story of a woman who was beguiled and turned on by the mere thought of her lover. Man, woman, it never specified: the perfect song for the Rouge, because you could be sure that both the ladies and the gentlemen in the audience were imagining that they themselves were that lover. The words were erotic enough to make this act comparable to a stripper's routine. Sticky pistils and stamen, the wetness of a raging river, round apples and tits and being tied to bedposts. It was thrilling, this provocative poetry set to music.

By the time she arrived at the second stanza, Rozaliya began to untie that sash around her waist, pulling it with cruel slowness away from the silk robe. She pivoted, back to the shadowy expanse stretching beyond the stage, and eased the black silk from her shoulders. It pooled around her feet, highlighting miles and miles of white leg and black lace. She stepped gracefully out of its crescent moon puddle and embraced her audience with the full force of her unrestrained allure. Breasts heaving, it was like the cover of a bad romance novel, and she reveled in it. This is what it was to be alive.

The height of the song was drawing close, and she worked it with everything nature had given her. She strut and she wiggled and twisted, hips grinding against that chair that the Moulin Rouge staff had been so kind to provide. It was about as close as Rozaliya had come to having sex on a stage (other than that one porno, but even that couldn't compare to the exhilaration she felt now). She wanted every single person sitting in those plush red seats to feel like she wanted to throw them down on a bed and have her way with them. "Lover, I don't know who I am. Am I Barry White? Am I Isis?" she crooned in a sickly sweet voice, channeling the innocent virgin routine she had played so many times before. And in those words, she wondered if there were any familiar ears in the audience. Did someone out there know who she was? Much against her own will, she let herself fantasize this was the case. "Lover, I'm laced with your unconscious. Oh baby, babe babe baby, I will be your Desdemona, ahhhhh..."

Rozaliya was no stranger to the concept of faking it. After all, it was a big part of her job. And as it turned out, that talent was used in full during this song. The lyrics melted into short, breathy, orgasmic sounds masquerading as part of the melody. Her mouth was the perfect O, and she moaned out, "Take your time, make me feel loved." And the syllable faded out like a whimper, and then there was silence.

The curtain closed just as the roar began to fill the stage, and she released the breath that had been pent up inside her chest. She couldn't pick out any one sound in particular; it all muddled together in her ears and in her head in such a way that it could have threatened to give her a headache if she didn't get a drink soon. There were people swarming her, Moulin Rouge employees and executives who were trying to do their jobs when all Rozaliya wanted was a shot of something strong. And since she had always had a knack for getting out of situations she had no desire being in, she ducked out of the crowd found the nearest wall. Leaning up against it, she closed her eyes and let the back of her head hit the cement. She smiled to herself.

It was good to be home.


♦ so why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song? ♦

some liar laughed as he composed, some liar i loved to control
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Old 08-19-2011 at 01:16 AM
A_Single_Rose
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Das ist ein Bingo!

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 Post [19] »


Chianna Mimieux

What did she just see? What was that? Did normal people do that? Chianna wasn't sure what "normal" was and sometimes, "normal" confused her. As part of her life, she had to act "normal," so that people wouldn't find her out, find out that she wasn't like the usual Jacques and Marie walking around like "normal" or "sane." So she had learned to watch people, copy what they did because it seemed like that's what was acceptable. But then there were moments like these when she questioned if anyone was sane.

The laughing was already reaching her stomach. The soreness was beginning to bloom and she was still lying on the floor. She didn't care. If she wanted to laugh at something, she'd laugh at it. And laugh she did.

"Oh, you like that, huh?"

Chianna tried to recover and she managed to stop the big "ha ha's," but couldn't keep down the shaking of her shoulders and the buildup of laughs in her throat. She pushed herself onto an elbow and looked up at the "normal" person. Oh... That face. Merde. Her smile didn't disappear, but it shrank in a big way. Merde, merde, merde. That face- everyone who worked here knew that face. Why didn't she recognize him before? Well, she hadn't had a clear look and the whole dancing act made Chianna lose it before she could see him up close. Merde. The manager. Monsieur Bolitar.

But he was smiling. Was that "normal?" When people were laughed at, did they like it? Didn't they hate being laughed at? "Normal" people shouted, confronted, blushed beet red. Really, this Manager had to be as insane as she was. He had jumped off the bar and was walking toward her. Chianna pushed herself sheepishly so that her upper body was off the ground. She supported her wait on the palms of her hands with her legs still splayed in the kitchen. She pushed the kitchen door away and looked up at the Manager.

Was she fired? But he was smiling? Someone needed to tell her if that was "normal" or not.

"You think you can do better?" Monsieur Bolitar was now next to her, holding his hand out. A friendly gesture? "C'mon and twist. Show me up." The music had changed. It was upbeat. Combined with the "normal," friendly gesture, Chianna couldn't help but smile widely, no teeth. She took his hand and pulled herself up, absently brushing off her skirt and blouse and straightening them. It wasn't any use brushing and straightening if she was going to dance and wrinkle them back up again.

Dance? Chianna was unsure for a moment, but the music and the smile on Monsieur Bolitar's face erased all uncertainty. She quickly felt the beat and began moving her hips. She didn't understand all the words of the song, but she could feel the music. Dance. It didn't need thinking. Dance wasn't a passion or love of hers, but it was simple. It was something she liked because it didn't need any important parts of her brain. It was just sounds moving through her head and wiggled down to her feet (her bare feet).

Chianna skipped over to the bar and lifted herself up. Once on top, she half-raised her arms and looked down to the side as she shook her hips and twisted her feet against the cold surface of the bar. She’d pause when the music would pause, and then continue, laughing unashamedly as she danced. Her hands slid down to her waist, never stopping the twisting, shaking motions. With a finger, she gleefully beckoned down to Monsieur Bolitar. This was fun. It was fun. Fun! She had never had this much fun at work (at the Rouge, that is). No one else was around. Just her. Her and the Manager, Monsieur Bolitar. She had never really spoken to him before, and only knew what was said between waiters and waitresses. And even then, she didn’t really pay attention to them because she hated the people.
“Is this good enough, Monsieur?” Her accent was heavy, she knew. And it was even harder to speak English while dancing and laughing at the same time. “Twist!” That was the one word she really got in the song.


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Name: J | Gender: Homo Sapien | Age: 35 | Posts: 2,176 | Roses: 0
Old 08-19-2011 at 05:41 AM
Daroga
Opera Manager
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Lead Discipline Cult of Sam

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 Post [20] »


Jean Sauveur

The objective of tonight’s outing was simple in its design but bore the potential of being impossible in its execution. It was a feat that at one point or another nearly every person on the planet sought to achieve and many never truly accomplished in any way that satisfied or that those who did achieve it would consider sufficient. Tonight, Jean Auguste Sauveur wanted, quite simply, to feel truly alive. To feel that rush of adrenaline and euphoria that reminded one what it meant to be a human being. To feel what differentiated it from statues which were mute and immobile or robots moving mechanically without emotion, desire, or concern. It was an elusive sensation often more addictive than any drug to those who attained it successfully. It had to be, what else could explain the popularity of those ridiculous ‘extreme sports’. He had experienced more than his fair share of such moments. Generally speaking it was found when the prospect of losing his life had made it tangible and all the more dear. But one should never dismiss the ability of a taker of life to truly appreciate its value. It was a bit like a sommelier strolling through a vineyard or an artist at a gallery. He did not simply deal in death; he took life from those who no longer were deserving of its blessing. This was the appreciation he sought to remember tonight.

So for Jean the only logical choice of destination had been clear and obvious. The Moulin Rouge. Where else in the civilized world could a man feel his heart beat with such erotic stimulation. Feel the blood pounding, hot and wanton, through every inch of their flesh. Igniting it with unholy hope and unrestrained desire. In his life he had worked very hard to develop not only the carriage and demeanor but the true embodiment of a man with ice in his veins and a cold hard heart. This was not merely a necessity for the work his did or the situations he had been called to face. This persona was a calculated response and precaution against the passion that had driven him in his youth; passion in love and in hate, though it was his anger that he feared more than any man would ever know. But what that guise seldom showed was that even his icy façade was as relentless and motivated as any man of warmer sentiment, albeit even more focused, determined, and agonizingly controlled. Tonight though, he was willing to let all that go. He had come face to face with a different kind of cold in his soul. The hollow chill of empathy and disregard for his own self. And into that wasteland of thoughtless uncaring nothingness he had lit a spark simply by seeking out his own zeal for life. Here in this place of indulgence and passion he had every intention of giving into the whims that would no doubt tease him in the hopes of turning that spark into a blazing inferno, fed by desire and passion. Here where the desires man teased himself with lightly as he muddled through his day to day were displayed in grossly magnified and magnificent mocking of what they could never dream to taste outside these doors.

As the lights began to dim around him and the crowds whispered in feverish anticipation Jean allowed a small smile to play on his lips. He was not one of those petulant children that peaked at their Christmas presents. In many aspects of his life surprises were by their very nature life threatening. But if it was a surprise that would bring delight then what was gained by cheating oneself of the experience. So he did not entertain any preconceived notions about the performance so many around him were clearly anxiously awaiting. But as snippets of hissed conversation drifted towards him, ”One night only” “Did you see her last film…” “Embodiment of sex…”, he couldn’t help himself catching the fever of excitement. Generally he tried not to create preconceptions of things like this as they generally only led to disappointment. And with the way the people around him were totting this performance he felt certain that they would learn that lesson the hard way.

At the first shuddering movement of the heavy velvet curtain a gasping silence fell over the crowd. Each man and woman perched nearly on the very edge of their seat it seemed by the electric vibe that sizzled in the stale air of the audience. Jean himself adjusted his posture in his chair reflexively. Turning his body towards the stage and leaning back slightly. He uncrossed his legs and let his knees fall to the sides, wanting—no, hoping to be washed over by a tidal of human sexuality from the stage. And if all went well he would let that current wash him back out to the sea of desire. But as the music started it’s pulsing and hypnotizing beat Jean, and nearly everyone person in the room was letting his eyes wander slowly across the solitary figure on stage. His gaze moved like a lover’s fingertips slowly and purposefully, lingering in erotic places, playing game in his head that dared him to dream of the softness of the skin or how the satin would feel like water beneath his touch. There was no such thing as shame in this place, and no need for petty restraint. As he began to take in the features of her face his breath still in chest though he didn’t even notice. Even as his brain registered and reacted to the music and the form of her body that he had just been appreciating in a way that causing his body heat to rise and the desire to jump out of his chair palpable, the small hairs on the back of his neck were beginning to stand up in a way no way connect to the rest of his that wanted to give a ovation to her beauty alone.

Those cheekbones, that nose, those downturned eyes that seemed so serene, the firey tresses that fell across her shoulders. It was evoking a memory from one of the many dark corners of his memory. It had been on another night when he was out to be himself, to give up restraint, to appreciate that he was in fact alive. But the polarity of the motivations of that night obscure the scene from his current perspective. He wanted to say he knew this woman in a way that trumped mere coincidence or accquaintence. Something that made seeing her ignite a delight that feel into harmonious sync with the desire he had been seeking. As he looked her over, this time slightly desperately to find the connection since he couldn’t see her eyes (the one place where he never failed to recognize someone worth remembering) his gaze glanced off the curve of her neck so painfully visible from the way she hung her head. With a force that threatened to knock him out of his seat the memories, in lustful detail came back to him. The salty sweet taste of how she smelt post-coitus even made his mouth water and the desire he had so resisted then consumed him. He remembered running his fingers across the veins of that neck, teasingly threatening to end her life as she begged him for the one thing he’d never give her, his anger.

As the verse ramped up into the song and her body feel into sync with the undulations of the words, giving a voyeuristic glance into a sexual act that was happening only in the minds of every person in the room as she acted it out on stage. In the shadows of the audience Jean Sauveur simple stared with a rapt sort of interest that none around him could dare to touch. Because while they were all praying for the inkling of a chance of a hope that this woman would offer then the blessed chance to fulfill themselves with her…. Jean had been once granted such an offer. In the back of his mind he had a clearer picture of what it would have been like to accept it than any in the Moulin Rouge dared to hope. Though no one would believe it now, Jean knew with every fiber of his being from the nearly tangible nature of the memory that he had passed up the chance to sleep with this woman.

With Rozaliya Donkova.

Anyone watching his during the course of the performance would have noticed very little change in his physical demeanor through the course of the performance, unless of course they committed a gross intrusion into his personal space that would have likely gotten them killed. His chest rose and fell more deeply as his breathing became heavier, and every so often his tongue would roll gently and fleetingly over his lower lips just before his teeth sank into its soft flesh softly. But as the last orgasmic sigh penetrated his mind Jean felt a chill race the length of his spine that made his shoulders teeth and toes curl slightly in his shoes, resisting the urge to shudder beneath this cover of darkness.

As the curtain closed Jean laid his head back in his seat. Like a man who had over indulged at the most decadent buffet or a lover who’s head was hitting the pillow with release and contentment, Jean uttered a sigh that emanated from the depth of his soul. Closing his eyes for a moment to block out the unwanted intrusion of the applause of the audience around him. Wishing to linger for a moment in this dream-like state of all consuming lust and passion. But when the fevered crowd, unable to contain themselves, reached a pitch he could no longer block out Jean sat up once more and opened his eyes. He had never in his life believed in coincidences. He believed in bad luck and he believed in a higher power. And though he seriously doubted it was God who had put Roza in his path just as he was attempting to rediscover a side of himself he was nearly certain the Divine One would rather he forgot, he still was not about to believe that it had not happened for some reason yet to be seen and impossible to imagine. And from that perspective he was left with only one choice.

Standing up and clearing his throat to find his mouth was slightly dry and if he spoke he thought his voice might crack, Jean’s eyes quickly sought out his waitress. He signaled her to bring him another drink as he got himself together, pulling on the jacket he had tossed over the back of his seat and taking a small sip of his original drink that he had actually not touched in the course of the performance. A fact that drew a quizzical look from his waitress as she approached him with a fresh drink and a quizzical look at the full one still in his hand. Smiling beguilingly Jean shrugged in a impish fashion and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear so as to be heard over the crowd that had yet to regain their composure from the effect of what they had just witnessed. The waitress chuckled lightly as Jean relieved her not only of the drink but the tray as well with a slight bow of thanks. In the blink of an eye he had disappeared towards the door in the far corner of the room that led backstage. As someone slipped out he helped himself to letting himself in. The first rule of going places you weren’t supposed to be, other than be sure you can get back out if you have to, was this: “Always act like you look like you know what you’re doing.” More often than a simple air of confidence and the perception that you knew better what you were doing and where you were supposed to be more than the people who laid eyes on you could get him further than most people would dare to imagine.

This time it didn’t get him quite as far as he would have liked as he was stopped two steps through the door by a brutish looking man who abruptly blocked his path. ”And who are you?” he demanded in the rough tones of most men who were hired for the appearance of their strength rather than the reality of their intelligence. “I,” Jean responded in a slightly indignant and sneering tone of his own, “am the man who brings Madame Donkova her drinks,” he said with authority only briefly hoping that she actually still used that name since it wasn’t out of the realm of perception that she might not and he hadn’t bothered to check. ”Fans are not allowed backstage. If you want to see her then you have to wait at the stage door like everyone else,” No-neck stated as though reading from the long list of rules that he was meant to enforce and had no doubt been repeated to him ad nauseum until they had finally sunken in. Jean sighed in a manner that allowed his annoyance to shine through with crystal clarity. It wasn’t that he was afraid of his man as he was clearly supposed to be. He had been in more than enough fights to know that sheer strength was useless without at least a glimmer of intelligence that seemed ridiculously far from this man’s grasp. But a fight would make his agenda more difficult if not impossible and lead to the unfortunate but highly likely side effect of slipping the drinks he was carrying. “Do I look like brain-dead fan?” he said with scorching disdain. “I am the man who brings her a drink after her performances. You don’t seriously think she waits for you to screw it up, or goes out there with those lunatics herself do you?” Clearly asking a question that might involve the actual application of consideration and logic was more than he could handle. Before smoke started to pour from his ears Jean shook his head and moved past him towards the areas where the managers and directors were talking animatedly. Either because he was too confused by the question or too afraid of answering wrong his path was now undeterred.

Jean’s gaze only lingered briefly over the crowd near the edge of the curtain. He was certain that if Rozaliya was among them she would hold their full attention and they would not be debating schedules and revenues and the like. So he let his gaze drift to the side of the cramped backstage area, his lips twitching in a delighted smile as the shadow of a small light on the stage managers desk let shadows dance across her figure, highlighting and hiding in a way that was almost more alluring than her onstage presence had been to a man like himself with an active imagination and appreciation for mystery.

Wordlessly Jean approached her side and held out the small tray, plucking his own glass from it as he offered her the other. “I do hope you like cognac, Madame.” He said as though a single day had never passed between the last time he had seen her so enveloped and shadows and this. Though in truth they both had to know it had been a last time. “I have to confess myself a bit lost,” he said with pondering as he took up a position to lean casually against the wall next to her, his gaze drifting off into the empty space before them, as though they were having the most ordinary and well rehearsed conversation ever, “I have no idea what to say to that performance. And for a man who has seen as many performance of as many different types as I have, that’s truly saying something. To call it simply extraordinary beyond belief seems to do it so little justice it might be taken as insulting…” Jean let the thought drift off into the space before them as he turned his head over to look down at her. The smile that played on his lips was wicked and amused but above all else, sincere with delight. “It’s good to see you back in Paris Madame Donkova,” he said quietly, as truly above all else he did mean this.




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