2005-10-21 22:43![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldisciplineClearly, I was a hyperdescriptive fetishgoth once. [vintage ca. 1999]
It’s been three weeks since you’ve seen Him. You’re not quite anxious, but there’s something missing from the atmosphere of the club you’re haunting tonight; not an aura per se, but a particular flavor in the air you’ve grown accustomed to.There is something nearby you’ve picked up on, familiar yet tantalizing, toying with the edge of your senses like a dream almost-remembered.
A year and a half ago, it was a Halloween party where you’d entranced an old friend. Two and a half, and it was His rescuing you. Tonight, you feel in control, ready to stalk whom and what you want, take what you need and desire, have your way with the people around you and make them serve your whim.
I wonder if He feels like this about them, you wonder, as you trail a lacquered fingernail down the side of a glass weeping condensation in the close air at the bar.
The drink was paid for by someone you can’t quite see at the far end of the crush against the rail; a vodka tonic – light enough to be innocuous in and of itself, but portending a bit more motive than an innocent offer to dance.
He drinks vodka tonics, you note idly. You decide that your benefactor isn’t quite worth your attention. . . . yet. . . . and move towards the dance
floor, where the feeling you sense is stronger.
Looking across the writhing crush of black leather and crushed velvet, you see a calm face staring back. You look away briefly, thinking it might be you who is attracting this stranger, then look back and see that they are still looking pointedly at you, and running a single black-painted nail up and down their neck suggestively. . . . perhaps too suggestively, since it makes your skin burn under the black silk wrap you have about your throat.
You smirk and stare back, walking onto the dance floor (the teeming mass of dancers parting ten inches from the black latex encasing you from mid-thigh to clavicle like a wicked fantasy), where you place a hand on the nearest gyrating boy-toy – a writhing, topless, hairless specimen who reeks of both sweat and earnest effort.
It’s a shame about the chemicals, you muse. . . . he might otherwise be so very tasty. But your Master has forbid you to drink from anyone on anything stronger than liquor, and you can all but taste the excess hormones and X as he attempts to grind into your body without touching your flesh. Despite the
attraction of his obvious physical charm and overt desire (certain to be applied to the next girl to hold your position, but delicious nonetheless), you
obey.
Moving to a rhythm alien to nature but wholly compatible with your inner voice, you lose yourself to the music; letting your long hair fall across either side of your face, your body moving in ways that would make a casual observer wince in either pain or lust, and perhaps both. Your hands mimic those of your Master when He has danced with you, teasing the skin at the nape of your neck, the small of your back, your wasp-thin waist, and the tender flesh just below your indecently-short hem. You can almost feel the hot breath on your neck, the fine razor points of His kiss, and keep your eyes closed, imagining your dance with Him; dancing for Him in his absence, yet still tingling where you know He would be.
As the song ends, you feel alone on the dance floor, save for your imagined partner, and open your eyes. The confidence you see in the pair bare inches from your own is equal in measure to the surprise you feel reflected in yours. With a low, throaty laugh, you find yourself being led through the next dance. As you attempt to regain your equilibrium, you take note of your dance partner.
Perhaps five-four, with straight hair cut fashionably chin-length framing an almond-shaped face; pale skin that set off the impossibly red lips . . .
Track Four
Endless NightIt’s been three weeks since you’ve seen Him. You’re not quite anxious, but there’s something missing from the atmosphere of the club you’re haunting tonight; not an aura per se, but a particular flavor in the air you’ve grown accustomed to.There is something nearby you’ve picked up on, familiar yet tantalizing, toying with the edge of your senses like a dream almost-remembered.
A year and a half ago, it was a Halloween party where you’d entranced an old friend. Two and a half, and it was His rescuing you. Tonight, you feel in control, ready to stalk whom and what you want, take what you need and desire, have your way with the people around you and make them serve your whim.
I wonder if He feels like this about them, you wonder, as you trail a lacquered fingernail down the side of a glass weeping condensation in the close air at the bar.
The drink was paid for by someone you can’t quite see at the far end of the crush against the rail; a vodka tonic – light enough to be innocuous in and of itself, but portending a bit more motive than an innocent offer to dance.
He drinks vodka tonics, you note idly. You decide that your benefactor isn’t quite worth your attention. . . . yet. . . . and move towards the dance
floor, where the feeling you sense is stronger.
Looking across the writhing crush of black leather and crushed velvet, you see a calm face staring back. You look away briefly, thinking it might be you who is attracting this stranger, then look back and see that they are still looking pointedly at you, and running a single black-painted nail up and down their neck suggestively. . . . perhaps too suggestively, since it makes your skin burn under the black silk wrap you have about your throat.
You smirk and stare back, walking onto the dance floor (the teeming mass of dancers parting ten inches from the black latex encasing you from mid-thigh to clavicle like a wicked fantasy), where you place a hand on the nearest gyrating boy-toy – a writhing, topless, hairless specimen who reeks of both sweat and earnest effort.
It’s a shame about the chemicals, you muse. . . . he might otherwise be so very tasty. But your Master has forbid you to drink from anyone on anything stronger than liquor, and you can all but taste the excess hormones and X as he attempts to grind into your body without touching your flesh. Despite the
attraction of his obvious physical charm and overt desire (certain to be applied to the next girl to hold your position, but delicious nonetheless), you
obey.
Moving to a rhythm alien to nature but wholly compatible with your inner voice, you lose yourself to the music; letting your long hair fall across either side of your face, your body moving in ways that would make a casual observer wince in either pain or lust, and perhaps both. Your hands mimic those of your Master when He has danced with you, teasing the skin at the nape of your neck, the small of your back, your wasp-thin waist, and the tender flesh just below your indecently-short hem. You can almost feel the hot breath on your neck, the fine razor points of His kiss, and keep your eyes closed, imagining your dance with Him; dancing for Him in his absence, yet still tingling where you know He would be.
As the song ends, you feel alone on the dance floor, save for your imagined partner, and open your eyes. The confidence you see in the pair bare inches from your own is equal in measure to the surprise you feel reflected in yours. With a low, throaty laugh, you find yourself being led through the next dance. As you attempt to regain your equilibrium, you take note of your dance partner.
Perhaps five-four, with straight hair cut fashionably chin-length framing an almond-shaped face; pale skin that set off the impossibly red lips . . .
