Askaree Bint Bahar

It would stand to reason, naturally, that she would be denied the understated gaeity of solitude even given the lateness of the hour. Eventually some only-just tipsy trust fund babies would come hurdling through the french doors in hopes of fondling the night away and possibly having an old fashioned pool screw while their old-money parents slept off the smog of the cocktail hour. Let them, she mused, for surely they would find no threat in her presence... they would know naught of the predator lurking beneath the glimmering caramel skin until such a time as she chose to enlighten them to the true measure of their folly. The notion itself was a humorous one, drawing a quite insidious simper to the edges of a pair of irrestibly pouty lips as Askaree submerged. There truly were few greater moments of euphoria than those she spent beneath the water's rippling ceiling, coddled by her own bouyancy and lulled into a primitive ease by the timely ebb and sway.

So consumed is the youthful Egyptian by this biological love affair that as she is once again birthed from the pool's depths it takes a few long moments before the feel of eyes roving wantonly over her becomes readily apparent. She does not turn for such a naive act is hardly required, the myriad predatory senses of her ophidian alternate self betraying the young woman with haste that was nothing if not wholly impressive. She does nothing to acknowledge the presence of this would-be intruder, choosing to allow the subtle noise that permeates the distance between them to roll from her back as metaphorical water. Instead Askaree merely lingers, slender fingers running sensuously through her wealth of slick chocolate locks as her lithe figure arches in a most seductively pleasing manner. If it was a show this quiet little minx desired, who was Askaree to deny her?

However, at the sound of subtle scratching does the vagabond swivel slowly about to peer at the stranger marinating her appendages in the hot tub. An artist, eh? How perfectly fucking quaint. An impish snarl of a grin pulls itself unto her features as Askaree extracts herself from the pool's shimmering depths, rivulets drawing glistening lines down the many chiseled curves of her figure. Easily does she glide nearer to the peeping blonde, hardly troubled by the saturated swimwear that now clings in a rather shameless manner to her more feminine slopes. "If you wanted a picture, you should have just asked," she purrs, the sensuality in her syllables a beautifully convincing farce, a paradox of seductively-accented assertion. It is then that she leans in, stray droplets careening from her gossamer locks and threatening to mar the surface of the wayward artist's canvas, her next words no more than a husky whisper. "Do be sure to get my good side..."