askaree

It was a jaunty little dance, indeed. Two predators sashaying about and towards one another in a titillating demonstration of the prowess of each, skirting the crag of whatever lay ahead for them this night. Askaree, however, had peered into the tenebrific depths of the gaping maw of what lay ahead for she and the Western King... and the consideration of possibility only broadened the devilish sneer upon her exotic features. This... and Tetradore's willingness to participate in her banter. "Well, I didn't come here to feed, so...," she teases boldly, peering at him through the curtains of pristinely-curled lashes that veiled her dark eyes. She sought to taunt and to tease him, yes, but she would be hindered by no hesitation to through him a fuck if the evening panned out as she believed it could. Let her first peel back the veneer of austerity and take a peek at the naked truth of just what sort of man he was. Was he beast or bitch? After tonight, perhaps, she would have the clearer picture.

But until then, the Egyptian woman would delight in the opportunity to plunge her greedy little fingers into the Kitten King's treasure chest and entertain herself with his toys. Though she was certainly no stranger to the baubles of the affluent (after all, wealthy men had a habitual tendency to extend lavish gifts to the women who twisted coils into their sheets), Askaree's upbringing had been decidedly less glitzy. There were no Ferraris to be found burning their treads upon the dirt avenues of her home town, and the only thing found glistening was the sun upon the Nile. All the more justification, perhaps, for her eyes to skate with unapologetic greed across the line of meticulously-detailed sports cars stowed away from the curious eyes of the populace of the Ark. She waits not for her impromptu companion to usher her further into the bowels of his toy box, instead tracing her own leisurely line done the front of the vehicles spread out before her. Her appraisal is silent, as is her decision, the only indication of her selection is the simplistically innocent raising of a hand as she calls the keys of the burnished black Agera to land ever so gently into her upturned palm. A beckoning glance, insidious and promising, is cast towards the emerald-eyed man before Askaree invites herself into the leather cradle of the driver's seat. A purr of satisfication eases its way from her lips, though it is swallowed in its entirety by the roar of the engine as it comes alive with a shudder that is very nearly erotic with the pleasure it ignites within her.

Without a single word does Askaree peel out through the yawning jaws of the cargo door, racing out unto the dimly-lit street with little regard for the serpent-like procession of pedestrian traffic currently making its way towards the Ark. A giggle, nearly girlish if it were not for the throaty note of promised mischief that accompanied it, breaks from the woman's throat as she coaxes the automobile into incrementally faster paces, shifting gears with a practiced ease surely unexpected from an individual who had forgone the financial burden of automobiles years prior. "I may not return the keys to this little gem when the night is through. You'll have to pry them from my hands." It is only half a jest, truly, for she was not above the immorality of taking from the Nightshade monarch. But, it seemed, that was a ploy to be mulled over at a later time as she drew the lavish chariot to a halt before an admittedly non-descript barfront. Alas, things were not always as they appeared.

She curls but a single beckoning finger in the direction of her compatriot as he extracts himself from the Agera, flinging the grimy steel door ajar and making her entrance as she had done a hundred times or more before this. But Askaree does not halt, nor does she appear to pay any mind to the patrons of the grungy bar as she makes short work of her trek across the expanse of the smoke-choked space and over to a rusted and chipping door at the far corner of the establishment. The heavily-tattooed and bearded man perched upon a precariously weathered barstool beside the door simply nods to Askaree before casting the scrutiny of his eyes unto the Were King, uttering not a word to betray the conclusion drawn of his valuation.

The thudding of her footfalls upon the rickety staircase as she leads Tetradore downwards are lost to the foreboding tempo of the music echoing from beyond a second door, the rhythm finding a foothold in the very marrow of her bones. In a single motion does she cast the door ajar, the room beyond proffering up a sensorial smorgasbord to the predatory pair. It is a cacophony of sounds, from the music that thrums across the expanse of the room to the antagonistic and highly-enthused shouts of the patrons of the makeshift dance floor, the questionably-hygenic bar, and those gathered tightly into the far corner. It was a veritable feast of flesh for the traveling eye, half-dressed (or less) men and women gyrating without a trace of modesty or twisting upon the poles scattered about in a haze of sweat, pheromones, and the slightest metallic suggestion of blood.

Askaree pauses, inclining her head just enough so that her guest might hear her over the raucous orchestra of the crowd. "Welcome to the cesspool," she purrs before ushering him onward. To the furthest corner of the room does she lead him, weaving through the tightly-packed crowd with reptilian grace, halting at the jagged precipice of a sand-laden pit. Two men, their abdomens baring the veins of blood and sweat, roar their pleasure to the surrounding onlookers as another fellow attempts to drag his barely-conscious partner from the blood-spattered ring. A chesire grin pulls across her features as the Egyptian wench turns to fix her gaze upon the man beside her. "This is my only team sport. You in?"