askaree

So, she was already half in the bottle...

Oh who the actual hell was she kidding... she had her damn sexy self two-thirds in the bottle, at the very, very least. And she had managed this none-too-insignificant feat without having diminished much of the sizable wad of cash tucked away cozily in the safe nether regions of her ample bosom. It truly was a marvel what a world-class pair of sweater puppies, the batting of some impeccably-curled lashes, and the lilt of an exotically lascivious tongue could achieve given the proper application. Were it an Olympic event Askaree would surely have been the indisputable Michael Phelps of flirting her way down the sloping avenue to and into the proverbial valley of inebriation.

It was a fortunate thing, too, as much of the cash she had squirreled away had been ear-marked for wagering on the matches at one of her preferred "dives" (which was, of course, the Egyptian woman's other favorite pastime after pickling her organs and teasing at the boundaries of Spencer's tolerance of her). Matches that were, coincidentally, going to be commencing in the very near future and it simply would not do for her to be tardy to the party. Extracting the folded cache of bills, creased and made soft by a million separate caresses, Askaree moves to procure herself a final shot (what harm could one more do?)... only to have the hefty chunk of change quite literally ripped from betwixt her fingers. Instinctively does the young woman's opposing hand swing in an impressively-swift arc to clasp at the perpetrator, the crescents of her black-tipped fingernails digging in a macabrely pleasant manner into the flesh of the man who quickly flung himself away from the caramel-skinned minx, the evidential metallic tinge of freshly drawn blood licking wantonly against her sensor in her olfactory arsenal. Well, if you didn't end the evening with flakes of drying blood under your fingernails was it even worthwhile to venture out?

With a exasperated, moderately-dramatic sigh does Askaree slide from the weathered perch of the barstool, the dark pools of her eyes tracing the path of the wayward gentleman, so very like the predator that was her ophidian alter-ego, just as he disappears into... the men's washroom. Was he fucking serious? Did he think a room full of trouser snakes was going to act as deterrent to this stranger from whom he had lifted a not-inconsiderable chunk of change? Unfortunately for him she was a goddamn gold-medal snake charmer. The Egyptian woman might have chortled in response to her own wit had the gentleman in question not currently been in possession of a fistful of her hard-earned cash.

"Evening, boys," she issues in a manner that could have only been described as unapologetically flirtatious as she swung the washroom door open within a single, effortless flourish, the timely clicking of her heels bouncing from the titled floor to the ceramic plates of the backsplash before dissolving into the musty ether. She hardly bothered to address the half dozen or so gents regarding her in heavily pregnant silence with expressions spanning the spectrum from piqued curiosity to mild horror, intent instead upon the lingering aroma of blood that set the beast within to purring like a contented feline.

Askaree draws to a halt outside of one of the final stalls, a simper that is all but bereft of true gaiety snatching at the brims of her plump, cherried lips. With only the most minute summoning of her telekinetic abilities does the lock upon the stall door pirouette from Occupied to Vacant, swinging open in a most understated and casual manner. He perches there, not even having bothered to stow away his pilfered loot, the expression upon his youthful features positively dumbfounded. "Why are you running," she queries, the stunning whites of her teeth unveiled in a grin that was naught but a fallacy of anything genuinely affable. "I just want to know if my donation is tax-deductible."