Unveiled |Bellatrixxx & Alan23|

[Bellatrixxx]

What are you doing, Marcella?

The woman looked at her reflection in the extensive mirror in one of the many, many restrooms within the upper west side country estate. She softly adjusted the crystal teal, ornate mask hiding everything nose up and barely covering the fear and nervous excitement in her wide eyed expression.

Was it foolish to throw away this job opportunity as a catering waitress for a single night fling among Boston’s elite? Perhaps. When she was assigned to tonight’s erotic-themed fundraising event on the work schedule a month ago it became an obsessive thought to be a part of it somehow, to “borrow” one of her roommate’s personal gowns for the evening and hide it in her purse, to purchase a mask in order to experience what exactly it was like to disappear amid the wealthy and highest pedigree of New England society.

There was still a risk that one of her co-workers could recognize her even with her mask and change of outfit, but it was a risk she was willing to take. How often had she dreamed as a little girl to become a princess at a royal ball? Or just to have enough money to make it through a two week period before the next paycheck? This might be a final hoorah before needing to get serious, really serious. Marcella needed a new job anyway, one that could actually pay for her student loan debt from her single year of college, get something of her mother’s medical debt down, support her while she painted (which was her true passion), and maybe even get some incredibly needed car repairs completed that were long overdo. So despite tonight being a carefree adventure, there were still rules that needed to be applied if she wished to remain under the radar.

Taking one last look in the mirror, Marcella gazed at her new and stunning visage. Her spaghetti-strapped gown was made of cobalt silk which was radiant on her mixed caramelized complexion, an elegant fitted garment that had a V neckline dipping along her sternum, but when she turned around it plunged, completely backless, exposing the smooth expanse of her smooth back, taut shoulder-blades, and delicate spine. Kelly, her roommate, was a little more petite than she was, so while it fit up top quite well when it came around the waist and hips the fabric had to stretch dramatically to mold around the much fuller curvature of her form, clinging tightly at the dramatic roundness of both her soft belly and backside. Marcella wore no shoes, a tiny detail malfunction, but she had no room left to sneak them in her purse, and she didn’t dare to wear her work shoes under the gown. Luckily the hem dragged to the floor due to her shorter height than that of Kelly, and so it hid her bare feet with their white-painted toenails. No jewelry was worn on her wrists, fingers, or around her neck, no fire and ice dripping from her earlobes like the majority of the guests present as she could not afford such things. A light layer of makeup was present including a lining of kohl around her eyes, but what took center stage was her natural and youthful beauty. Marcella’s eyes were almond shaped and curved in an almost Oriental fashion, the color of them like deep chocolate, and high and sharp cheekbones supported her facial structure. She was a shorter woman, only standing at around 5'3" naturally with thick brown curls that was currently bundled up in a professional bun that put her swanlike neck on display.

Marcella Kennedy was a beautiful girl of 22 years of age and yet she did not act like she knew that fact. Hiding her monochromatic work clothes and shoes in one of the linen closets behind some spare towels, the woman took a deep breath and exited the bathroom just as a group of young modelesque women entered, giggling and laughing, loud and buzzed already despite the event only just beginning. Down the exquisite hallway led to the gargantuan ballroom where the sounds of music and discussion grew louder the closer she trekked softly, bare feet shuffling along the cool marble flooring. The hem of her gown dragged along the polished floor and the soft pads of her feet made naught but a sound before she turned the corner and stood at the side door entryway, mouth dropping in wonder as she took it all in.

The sights and smells of opulence were everywhere, and she was astounded by the resplendence of the mansion this Year’s Indulgence Gala was hosted by; the paintings, decorations, crown molding, the massive crystal chandelier in the very center...the people within were dressed to impress not only the chamber that threw the event, but also each other. Everyone invited had received invitations if they were “somebody”, so tonight’s dome painted ceiling hung over politicians, businessmen, and even foreign dignitaries, all playfully hiding their identity behind masks to encourage more promiscuous thinking. A full band played on the center stage pushing out incredibly artistically interpreted pop songs and musical classics that compelled the body to move. Servers, her coworkers, were dressed in all red and wore plain black masks on their faces with simple black ribbon tied around back. They walked around with perfectly straight backs and offered the guests delicacies, champagne flutes, condoms, and travel sized bottles of lubricant on silver trays. On the eastern wall there was a heightened stage where professional dancers performed to the music. The male dancers were topless and covered in gold body paint where their skin was exposed, whereas the female dancers were also nude up top but wore stringed thongs, their bodies in silver paint and diamond cuffs on their wrists. On an opposing stage there were a different set of dancers. This particular set was fully clothed in latex looking suits, their bodies shiny with their motions and moving in a more acrobatic fashion with avantgarde makeup designs.

Marcella took a tentative step forward, moving through the crowd as those gorgeous pupils peered through the holes in her mask, meeting eyes with both the beautiful men and women who stood on either side of her, judging her gown as barely passable as it was not as showy as theirs. Some people were decked out in jewelry from head to toe while others were more simply garbed. There were others in actual costumes. One woman was dressed in an outfit that resembled a peacock, another was in a translucent slip that exposed her nudity beneath, clearly the arm candy to some high official who was busy entertaining a small crowd with him booming laughter. Everyone was dressed to suit themselves with no particular rhyme or reason but there was one thing she could tell they all had in common: money. The ball goers watched the shows, ate, conversed with each other, touched, flirted, or danced in the center of the ballroom, some people’s movements more modest than others. Lights danced across the room, lighting up the place like a thousand specks of glitter when the chandelier was caught in the moving beams. In each corner were eight foot ice sculptures of different animals and all around were stations displaying all kinds of food from meats, to seafood, to various vegetarian options.

Just then, a server in red from her company came by to offer her hors d’ oeuvres from his serving tray, assuming her to be a guest. She didn’t immediately recognize him, but Marcella quickly shook her head and turned to disappear further into the crowd before he had the potential to recognize her.

As she walked through the guests, Marcella simply took in all the details, mesmerized by the sheer wealth that surrounded her while she struggled and scraped to get by in her own life. Some guests wore masks that covered their entire face, clearly wishing to hide all features. Quite a few others merely wore tiny lace stretched over their skin cut with eyeholes, these ones not even really trying to hide their identity as they made bold advances towards other guests and people of power.

The Ballroom was quickly filling up with people as more and more guests arrived. The big jazz band spun a new rhythmic number that encouraged bold couples to dance on the floor as spectators watched around the edge or shuffled through the crowd. Gloved hands of attendees reached out to both passing server’s trays and passing groped bodies when they wanted to get what they desired, acting like true noble brats instead of highly classy individuals.

Marcella started to feel a little nervous and so she helped herself to a passing tray that contained long-stem crystal flutes filled with bubbled Champagne, and once the music began she tilted the thin rim of the glass to her full lips and took a delicate sip, almost purring at the quality of the beverage. No one seemed particularly interested in the quiet, unassuming masked woman who was shorter than all the ladies around her in their high heels. With a thundering heart, she made her way towards the base of the grand staircase out of the thick throng in an effort to breathe easier and to savor her glass. She glanced up at the chandelier above that sparkled above the lights, sending thousands of micro-rainbows dancing across the walls, and smiled in bliss at its beauty.

It was going to be a very fun night, she thought, pleased that the alcohol was already doing its job in slowing down her beating heart as she continued to sip with her back against a lone wall. She wanted to dance, but decided to wait a touch longer before venturing back into the crowd of twisting and writhing bodies of those actually invited tonight.

 

[Alan23]

Arcadia, the main house of the many buildings that comprise the extensive Boston estate of the Van Duren family is a large and rambling edifice, its foundations being laidshorty after the Revolution, and added to over the years, the mostrecent extension (the southern wing) being completed shortly after the ascension of Mr Richard Millhouse Nixon to the Presidency, though these facts are in no way connected.

It was the eastern wing, though, that was the oldest, and which housed, as well as the ballroom (in which, gentle reader, we shall spend much time shortly) a series of passagesand niches leading to the quarters of the indentured servants (Boston to its credit, was never a slave state) that served the family throughout the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth.

The age of this structure meant that ripping apart the walls to install the CCTV that kept a baleful eye upon the parts of the house in which public events were held was conspicuous here by its absence. As was the presence of any human watchers.

Had such watchers (organic or computerized) been present, they would have observed the screws holding in the grill over one of the ventilation ducts (there was noair conditioning for the same reason there was no CCTV) begin to turn, as if manipulated by some ethereal poltergeist. Whatever speculation this may have given rise to, however, would soon havevanished when the grill fell down to the floor and the man, not without a certain grace and economy of movement considering the manoeuvre he was performing,emerged, like a bizarre parody of birth, and dropped onto the thickly carpeted floor.

He was a slim man, in fact so slim he might have been called by some emaciated in appearance, save that his muscles were rock hard and the sinews that bulged in his thin arms suggestive of coiled strength. His face was lean, his eyes baggy, and of a deep sea-grey shade, his nose long and slightly hooked, his hair light brown. He wore an Armani suit, over a black tee, and (perhaps slightly incongruously) black kangaroo skin riding boots. His agecould have been anything from a world-weary twenty to awell-preserved late thirties.

In a single movement, so economical as to be fluid, he snatched up the grill, replaced it, and hand-tightened the screws he had removed from inside the duct, then replaced the small screwdriver he had used for this purpose back intothe pocket of his suit. Then slapped his hands down along his body to remove any trace of cobwebs or creases, and checked his Bulova watch. The whole process of emerging had taken less than a minute, he registered, not bad, even for him.

Taking a small mass of what looked like crumpled jet-black feathers from another pocket he settled it over his face. Consistent with his all black attire, it turned his face into that of a raven, sleek, beady-eyed and predatory.

Had Ralph FitzAllen "Mel" Davies been invited to the Van Duren Foundation's Annual Charity Ball he would have instantly eschewed it. Nothing bored him more than circulating among vapid, arrogant socialites displaying their status, and hoping to have altruistic motives attributed to their conspicuous consumption. Indeed, so many people in Boston owed him favors it would have taken him a two minute phone call to arrange such aninvitation. He hadn't bothered.

Attending the event without an invite,however, provided just enough of a frisson to make it worth his time.

As he entered the main ballroom,letting the sussuration of excited chatter wash over him, he reflected upon the nature of security in general. Like most places,the Van Duren mansion's defences were built along the principle of the lobster to which he was currently helping himself from the buffet. Hard on the outside, soft within. Attempting to get past the small army ofsecurity guards at the entrance would have been impossible even for one of his undoubted resourcefulness. Yet once past that hard shell, the security vanished. Anyone seeing him there, such was their trust in the outer defences, would assume him to be there by right.

***

(one hour later)

Beluga caviar was, Mel thought, as over-rated as the champagne that shared its reputation as being the food of the elite. The first was merely salty fish roe, the second a glorified sparkling wine. He'd sooner have had a plate of mud crab with crusty bread, and a glass of dark English ale. Yet the Scotch was a good single malt and the oysters from Chesapeake Bay almost (but not quite) as good as the Tasmanian variety he got back in Edenglassie.

And the flirting, he reflected, had been fun, too. He'd settled upon a pair of cousins, one fat and blonde, the other tall and angular and brunette, who had been the best of friends until he'd swept upon them and captivated them with his charm, wit and confidence. Now, he noticed from a distance, the pair were staring at each other coldly, and he'd overheard them snipping at each other, "Leonora, it was me he was talking to, you idiot. Couldn't you have had the discretion to discreetly make yourself scarce?" "No, Teresa, because he was only being polite to you, it was obvious it was me he was interested in."

He'd toyed with the idea of persuading them both to go back to his hotel room (or even into some nook within the mansion) and teaching them the art of troilism, but the plump girl had had thick ankles and the thin one an annoying habit of clearing her throat every other sentence, and anyway after the first time, keeping two women happy (he knew from experience) bordered upon hard work even for him.

As he helped himself to another Scotch and loaded his plate (for the third time) with oysters, lobster, olives and small chunks of rare steak on sticks, he looked around the room. There were currents here, he knew, as there were of all gatherings. For all its vaunted democracy, the United States had a class system as rigid as anything Europe had managed in the middle ages. The richer and better connected a person was, the nearer they were to the center of the maelstrom, with the hopefuls, B-listers and hopefully-up-and-comings clustering hopefully around the border seeking ingress.


And then his eyes lit upon one woman In particular. He wondered why his instincts ahd singled out her, of all people.

She was short ("Good grief," he thought, "she'd have heels on under that dress and she still barely comes up to the eyes of most of the other women here"), but flawless of skin, a sthe completely uncovered back of her tight gown had revealed. And carried herself with an air of assumed rather than naturalconfidence, yet was carrying it off well enough he doubted any of theother guests would have noticed. In fact, this mix of vulnerabilityand audacity, he decided, was what had drawn his attention to her.

And, he also noticed, she was alone. A rare thing indeed. He might, had he been feeling in the mood, have moved in on one of the women who were there with their escorts, but getting into a fight with some scion of the American aristocracy was too much trouble, and would have blown his cover. And of the women there without such a companion, none of them (until Miss Backless Gown) had really taken his fancy.

But then, he reflected, there were only so many oysters even a card-carrying epicure like him could consume, and only so much good Scotch one could drink, And what was the point of going to such a shindig if one didn't circulate?

Yes, he thought, he'd finish up what was on his plate (he hated waste) then, perhaps, move in her direction, catch her eye, and perhaps (who knew?) find out just who was the intriguing person behind that ornate and heavily embellished crystal-teal mask?

And as he laid down his plate, he was forced to duck, his instincts acting before he was even aware of it, as one trainee plutocrat, rendered hilarious by expensive champagne, hurled an olive at his ivy league college room-mate, who instantly returned fire.

The tut-tuts and exclamations of disgust echoed around the room, and some of the combatants less inebriated companions rushed to restrain them. A successful of peacemaking but not before...

...one olive, hurled with particularly virulent force and enthusiasm, contrived to sail through the air and land, with a precision that many professional golfers might have envied, into the small amount of exposed bum-crack showing above the backless gown of the very teal-masked woman about whom Mel had been speculating.

 

[Bellatrixxx]

What she had expected to happen that night was to meet someone, perhaps a man, who would hold her close to him and dance slowly…who would feed her one of the chocolate dipped strawberries that was currently resting by the swan ice sculpture…maybe even share a kiss or something more in one of the many, many mysterious rooms that beheld the delights of the Gala’s sensual theme.

What she -hadn’t- expected was the feeling of a wet, weighted *thunk* projected at the lower center of her exposed brown back. Marcella actually jumped a bit in slimy shock, startled greatly by the unexpected sensation before it escalated to something even worse. The olive, of which she would later find out, then rolled along the cavern of her spine to disappear down the bottomless tunnel right where her dress gaped open a bit from being stretched across her ample bottom. It tickled. It embarrassed her. And the barely containing it woman trying to keep her prim facade both above and below her mask couldn’t help but give a yelping squeal when she felt it drop behind her as if she were a hen laying her egg at the most inopportune moment. She spun around in a jerking motion, horrified eyes wide in search of the culprit before being drawn to movement in front of her.

And there it was. The perpetrating olive bouncing across the marble floor past a group of matronly masked women who all laughed and snickered at the entertaining scene before them.

Marcella’s cheeks grew hot. She twisted around to try and discern who threw an olive at her to initiate such humiliation, but no answers came as the ruckus had all been subdued by the time she turned. The women were still laughing at her expense, and feeling that spike of vulnerability threaten to break, Marcella gathered her dress up in her free hand and spun to race out of the ballroom.

She fisted her dress up due to its dramatic length dwarfing her natural height, so she was exposing her sheer black stockinged feet up to about her ankles, giving them room to run and avoid tripping. It was such a foolish thing to run when one’s identity was already hidden, as Marcella could have been -anyone- in that moment. She could have played the diva and snapped at the women to silence their haughty laughter; she could have played the warrior and demanded for honor to whomever had thrown food at her. But she hadn’t. She had ran like the person she was but pretended not to be, for a mask was never infallible.

Bursting through the ballroom doors, Marcella fell into one of the many hallways that led from the main entertainment room. It was several degrees cooler out here due to the lack of bodies and movement, the sound instantly dampening when the doors swung closed behind her. She took a step forward in this new world, this darker, dimly lit world of the western hallway, one of the few that led to the dozens of private rooms of various studies within. The lights were low but she could see the shadows of people whispering, standing close to each other in hushed positions before a door would be opened and they disappear inside together. No sounds could ever be heard once the doors were shut, but Marcella didn’t dare yet open any one on her own.

She continued, heart pounding heavier as she trespassed deeper into the mysterious belly of this massive home. She finally reached a door left ajar that she was bold enough to push against.

The heavy wood swung open and she found inside a vast library and research room. Every light inside was turned off but the farthest wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows that streamed in a vast amount of moonlight and warm glow from the exterior landscape lanterns dotted throughout the bushes outside. Marcella’s eyes grew wide through her mask as she entered in further, the library like that out of a modern fairytale with two levels and stretches of shelves. There were solid wooden desks everywhere with leather highback chairs for researchers to sit pouring over bound volumes for hours. There were also long leather couches along the walls and tables for more casual reading.

Setting her half empty glass of champagne on a passing desk, Marcella dropped the hem of her dress and walked slowly over to the window to peer outside. She could see people far below on the lower lawn where torches blazed with light, keeping the larger outside crowd gathered in a single area. It was far enough away that she couldn’t hear any noise from there, but close enough that she could see that many were dancing, so there must be more music playing outdoors as well.

Standing there alone, Marcella was able to finally admit to herself that she was definitely not in her element tonight, and the longer she stared out of the massive windows the more she became determined that this had been a very, very bad idea. Unfortunately, she had not considered an exit strategy if she wanted to abandon this crazy scheme halfway through, for even if she went back to retrieve her clothing and try to blend back in with the catering staff, questions would be asked aggressively due to her long absence. And Marcella was not the best liar. No, she was in it, but despite being forced to recommit she still found her eyes enjoying the exotic resplendence of the whole affair.

​

Eh. Let’s return to the ballroom. It’s big enough that you won’t run into those women again. Let’s try again and see if we can salvage the night. Her mind encouraged her to try again, to enjoy what she could in the remaining night. With a resigning sigh, and believing she was still alone, Marcella turned from the window to lift her dress all the way up her right leg. Sticking her knee out to the side the hem of her gown was raised to upper thigh where she adjusted the elastic strap that kept her thigh-high stockings up and tight on her smooth leg. Scooping her thumbs into the band, she rolled it straight then pulled upward to hitch them higher up her thigh. Once satisfied with the right one, the woman then rotated to the left, first bending all the way down to her delicate ankle to tug tug tug up her calf, her knee, then repeating the action with the elastic top at the middle of her other thigh. Marcella’s thighs were not overwhelmingly rounded, but they were soft enough that a tiny degree of her warm flesh muffined over the thigh-high band of her dark, sheer hosiery. She was essentially preparing to return to the battlefield of the dance floor, and only when she was satisfied with the adjustment did she drop the dress back to the floor and turn back towards the door to exit and make her way back.

 

[Alan23]

For the merest of micro-seconds, even Mel Davies, a man who had thought he had seen it all, was frozen into shocked immobility. Had the throw been intended to lodge directly into the small area at the top of the buttocks of the woman in the backless gown, he would have hailed whoever had cast it as a hero of the first water, for surely few could have matched such a feat of accuracy. Yet more likely, he was forced to concede (for he was an epicure of demonstrated excellence in any field) it had been one of those rare, elusive and piquant occurrences when, by sheer chance, things just turn out perfectly, in such a way to tickle his (and many others') sense of humor. That there happened to be a chief cardinal with the surname "Sin" in the Philippines, or that Italy, renowned for its footwear, was in the shape of a boot. A kind of doctrine of signatures that gave some evidence at least that despite the evidence of science, perhaps some deity not only existed, but that She or He also had a somewhat unsophisticated sense of the synchronistically ridiculous.

For yes, of all the thousands of places where the olive might have lodged, its trajectory had ended in a place where it might provide maximum humorous value, firmly in the plumber's crack of the delectable, short, tightly-gowned lady who had previously drawn his attention.

He watched, with a detached yet priapic interest as the victim of the thrown missile turned, peering about her, as if she could identify the person who had, in such a brief space of time, completely undermined her dignity. For yes, without a doubt, any dignity she had formerly possessed was destroyed, vaporized as if it had never existed. The tittering of the various society ladies, delighting in the schadenfreude of seeing another made to look a fool, harmonizing with the deeper, ribald guffaws of their male escorts, told its own story.

The woman's utter humiliation was palpable, evident in every minute shift of her frame, the squeal (not of terror but of surrender), the dark redness of her cheeks. The way the olive dropped, almost silently on the floor (though in his head, and he was sure in those of many others, a loud, comical BOOOOINNNG broke the mental silence) was a picture of hilarity. Like a pompous man slipping on a banana skin, the instant destruction of her pretensions and armor-propre was radical.

He watched as the unfortunate victim, the cheeks of her buttocks wobbling wildly beneath the clinging material of her gown like two bald headed men fighting under a sheet, fled from the gathering, the laughter of her audience still echoing throughout the ballroom.

Well, it's nothing to do with me, he thought, though even as this sounded in his head he felt the merest tickle of an electrical charge fizz from the right side of his brain to the left, his feet shifted, and he found himself, without knowing why (save that his instinct said he should, and he had learned never to mistrust it) following in her wake.

The mansion was, he immediately discovered upon leaving the ballroom, a labyrinth mass of passages, corridors, niches and portals. A maze, through which he doubted even those that lived or worked there could find their way through easily and quickly, so convoluted did it seem. Following the woman would have been impossible, for in her panicked flight she might have taken any number of random branches. Yet he walked ahead, simply trusting in his instinct to find the right way, for his mind would know exactly which way a person fleeing shame would go, even if it was beyond his conscious intellect.

Chance alive, he thought, as he took in the decor that he passed. Exotic paintings (Two Whistlers, a Caravaggio, at least one Leonardo Cartoon, and if they were forgeries, his expert eye noted, they were very good ones, so good as to be priced little below the originals), a suit of armor and crossed claymores (pretentious all right - when did the yanks ever fight in such armor or use broadswords?), beautiful wood-lined walls and imported hot hot-housed plants in pots. At once a tasteful oasis in the desert of tasteless capitalism and a monument to it, a shrine to conspicuous consumption.

And yes - there was a door, ajar, when every other one he'd passed had been tight shut. Where else, the inner-demon asked him, would she have gone?

He slowed his pace, treading so softly many cats might have envied him, so that even the ribbed soles of his boots made no audible impression on the wooden floor, covering the last few yards in utter silence, his breathing stilled. Peeked around the open door, taking in the sight within.

At first, he forget even the fleeing lady as he took in what he encountered. A library (to him a temple, though far more sacred than any dedicated to mere superstition), a paradise indeed with its soft leather chairs, wooden paneling, soft rugs, and row upon row, tier upon tear, of leather-bound books. And these were not, a quick glance told him, selected in bulk just to make a show. Whoever owned this place was a genuine connoisseur of literature. American authors, of course, were there in profusion, Hawthorne, Bierce, James, Poe, Lovecraft, and the Brits that still (even among American academics) shaded them - Shakespeare, Marlowe, De Sade, Raven, Wodehouse, Meredith, Austen - and the French, too, had their representatives, Proust, Balzac, Hugo, Dumas (Pere et fils) and the Germans (Goethe, Kant) and... suffice to say, he'd have happily spent the next six months ensconced therein... and many of them, he guessed, first editions, all bound in beautifully tooled leather,

And then, as his eyes adjusted to the contrast of the stray light from the floodlights outside streaming in through the ornate windows, he was able to see what lay beyond his immediate vicinity.

There she stood, almost a silhouette in glare of the window, her tight dress hiked up as she struggled with her stockings. Thigh-highs, he noted, that modern invention intended to combine the luxury and exoticism of stockings with the comfort and fuss-free wearing of pantyhose, and though they failed to achieve either still held a certain appeal to him in their own right. She had, he registered, lost her shoes in her flight (though strangely he had not noticed any disembodied footwear on his route here), which explained her lack of height among a coterie who had been clad exclusively in high heels. And obviously her stockings had ridden down on her, too. Quite radically, it seemed, for she was working assiduously as she attempted to put herself to rights, tugging and smoothing and fussing in a way that emphasized her slim, attractive legs.

He might have stood forever watching the show, save for the single creak that sounded behind him as the door, which he had left open, powered by some stray, funneled breeze, shifted on its hinges. It groaned, swung, and shut with a loud bang, at he very moment the teal-masked beauty completed repairing the rigors of her flight and shook her gown back into place.

Her gaze swung in his direction.

He stood between her and the door, awaiting her reaction to being spied upon, however inadvertently.

 

[Bellatrixxx]

At the moment of turning back towards the hallway, the door to the library swung shut by some unseen force that willed its weight to shift backwards enough for the latch bolt to slip in place upon its closing. Marcella’s concern didn’t draw up at such a phenomenon as older and more solid homes and doors had their own personalities. What -did- spike her concern for a brief moment was the slender shadow of a person that was neither there before, nor heard entering. The light from the window barely reached him, but with adjusted eyes she could tell this person was male based on its form, tall, and dressed for the same occasion she was. Marcella didn’t have the sophisticated knowledge of knowing how fine his suit was, but he was here and so she assumed he was one of the powerful lucky ones to be given his own invitation.

And that, believing the lie that money, prestige, and wealth automatically came with safety and trust, Marcella calmed at his sight, his on-theme mask actually putting her at ease in this instance.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m so sorry, I thought I was alone.” She was pre-apologizing just in case he had witnessed her not so graceful wardrobe adjustments by the window mere seconds before. Her mind reminded her that he didn’t know her, that her face was still covered, but that didn’t stop the embarrassment from heaping on the previous levels of before. None of it hardly mattered. Looking for an answer or a pattern as to why he was here, standing in silence behind her in what was likely the most unexciting room in the house for tonight’s event, Marcella came to the instant assumption that perhaps he had been looking for a quiet place to escape to as well. Like her, maybe something inside the ballroom had happened, or maybe all of this was overstimulating for him. Maybe he was just looking to explore and breathe in calmer surroundings for a moment apart from all the chaos.

Walking over, as he was standing between herself and the door to exit, she quickly realized he was actually taller than she originally calculated. Now, standing before him, the top of her head stopped directly below his collarbone. The tailored suit fit him immaculately well, and it had to have been tailored because it perfectly lined his unique form. Lean, triangular up top, he had the stance, composure, and even the formidable nose of a certain potion’s professor in a famous fictional wizarding universe. Emboldened by the champagne she had gulped in with hardly any food, her face leaned closer to observe his feathery mask. It was exquisite. Marcella couldn’t help but trace her eyes along the hard black lines of it before zeroing in on such intense eyes that hid behind; eyes that could swallow a person up and drown them in beautiful storms, eyes that held a gaze right back, that were intense. It could be assumed that many making eye contact with this particular set would feel exposed, on edge, uncomfortable as those eyes could peer right through them, but all Marcella could do when looking at him....was smile, somehow more at ease now in the light of his attention.

“Is it your first time too, attending one of these events?” She asked him softly as it was quiet in the library and somewhat secretive for them both to be in here, a room clearly not meant for guests tonight. “I guess I am still a bit nervous tonight. I’ve just arrived and feel like it’s already a disaster as I’ve never been to something like this before.” Careful, her brain warned. Don’t give too much away. To her he was just another guest who might understand what she was going through.

 

[Alan23]

"First time?" his thin lips smiled under the corvidian mask, "nowhere near," he was leaning against the wall, not (she noticed, though why this should have been an issue she couldn't have said) the door, as if making it obvious he was not blocking her escape route, "and each one as boring as the last. Overweight plutocrats, braying socialites, vapid pieces of fluff, all screaming 'look at me, look at me' like brats in a sandpit. No, sweet Lady of the Olive, it's a long way from my first time here."

He smiled.

"One of the many virginities I lost a long time ago," his glance swept around the large room, lingering on the musty books, the exquisite furnishings, "though if I'd known old Jack Van Duren had a library like this I'd have cultivated his friendship long ago. Look," he plucked a book from the table, a large portfolio size thing, and opened it, showing her a spread of the pictures within, a pencil sketch of a well-muscled crone, a dildo strapped to her body, taking her phallic pleasure with a young ephebe who could not, surely, have been too many years past puberty, "if I'm not mistaken this is Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes - Goya as we know him - though I doubt he ever dared acknowledge these pieces," he flipped through the pages, displaying another drawing, this time in ink, of a dwarf performing fellatio upon a wolf, "and my guess this is original, too, I never heard of it being published. There's money here, all right."

He set the volume down carefully, reverently. His voice, she was now able to register, was far from what she had expected. No American accent she could place. Australia seemed to have supplied the major component of it, though with a leavening of some kind of rough, British addition, London as far as she could place it. And his voice was deeper than his thin frame might have suggested.

"And like you, I'm an imposter here. And I hope - "

(Exactly why he had said that, Mel had no idea. Until he'd spoken, he himself had had no idea the teal-masked lady with the troublesome hosiery was as much a gatecrasher as he was. Something in her furtive movements, he supposed, was what had allowed his inner-mind to pick it. That, or the evidence. He had met the great Sherlock Holmes only once, at his retreat in Sussex - the elderly beekeeper had shown him how honey was harvested, and not troubled to discuss inductive reasoning with the wide-eyed child Mel had been at the time - but, he supposed, in his prime he would have reasoned that a woman so insulted as Miss Teal Mask had been would have snapped into instant aggression, demanding the one who had so affronted her dignity be immediately expelled from the gathering, not slunk away in shame and thus revealing the in-authenticity of her presence visible to all.)

Yet he had mentioned it so casually, no-one who had been eavesdropping could possibly have grasped the significance of the remark.

" - you'll forgive me," he went on, "for catching you at such an unfortunate moment. What with being pelted with stray olives and your stockings giving trouble, it's hardly your night, is -?"


"Oh!" came a braying voice, as the door creaked open, "there you are." Leonora, the tall angular brunette with the constant throat-clearing habit, with whom he had been flirting earlier, strode into the room, her small breasts almost escaping from the neckline of her strapless lilac gown, "so clever of you to sneak away and give us a chance to be alone - hemhem - honestly, poor Terri actually thought you were trying to get off with - hemhem- her. Naive little creature. Though," she smiled, mock-chidingly, "you might have made it just a leetle more obvious you - hemhemhem - intended me to follow. I barely noticed you going, what with all the fuss with that - that strange girl having that olive fall down the back of her dress - anyway," she advanced toward him, "now we're here, so - wha -?"

She pulled up short as, belatedly, she noticed the presence of the teal-masked woman.

"And what," she asked, after a further bout of her annoying throat-clearing "is she doing here?"

 

[Bellatrixxx]

Her face couldn’t help but drop a bit when the man of mystery so casually stated these events were commonplace for him. Well, not only commonplace, but they had even been demoted to the level of useless, flightless, even “boring” affairs. Marcella felt a flick of irritated foolishness at herself for risking her job for a night that one like him could describe as such, but the sensation was, thankfully, fleeting. In his voice, through thin and wisened moving lips below the brim of his mask, she detected an accent, but she wasn’t so traveled to pinpoint from where exactly as it had a fluid combination of many in a singular throat. British, perhaps? Drunk British? It was impossible to tell on her own, but it hardly mattered. She liked it. Rich and husky. It gave him a worldly humanity that had her taking a step closer to him as he playfully mocked her about the olive, and when he smiled, her own grew wider in return.

She followed his instructions on the book he so blithely picked up, seemingly at random and yet he knew so much of its valuable contents. Marcella wandered closer to his side, her tiny height perched near the outside of his lean bicep as she peered over before taking in a sharp inhale at the drawing within. Scandalous, yet not even as much as what was found on the second page. She closed her dropped jaw in awe, listening to the smooth knowledge pouring from this operator’s mouth, turning to look up at him in wonder when he placed the book down far more gently than he had when picking it up. She giggled with good natured charm when he stated the level of money needed to procure such an artistic item, and reached up to tap the beak of his mask’s nose.

“It’s fascinating that the only way to liberate one’s hangups and experience true sexual freedom is through money,” she stated softly, her eyes sparkling within his. “Why do only the wealthy get to flock to such arts and drawings?” She whispered, head lightly cocked to the side. “Or to throw and attend events such as this? It’s almost...” Marcella took a breath in here as her right hand fell from his mask to smooth down the front lapel of his suit. It was then she saw that he didn’t even wear a collared shirt, but rather a T-shirt with no tie. She chuckled, truly believing him to be one of the invited, for who else but an aristocrat would be so audacious? “...unfair. But necessary, I suppose. Wealth is the true path to freedom in today’s world, no?” Her hand lingered there on his chest, bronze, slender fingers running down the asymmetrical curve of the front. It was a light touch, but it served its purpose. She liked the way he carried himself and for some reason couldn’t help but taste him in a tiny tactile way.

Marcella, however, jerked her fingers away from him as if he suddenly burned her when he called her an imposter. Eyes that had been focused on his throat suddenly raised back up to his in mild alarm, and he would be able to catch the change in her demeanor. This is probably why he apologized next but it was a little too late. The young woman’s mind was already filled with scenes of her being forcibly escorted from the building by security, of further humiliation as she was kicked out in front of a crowd. She took a step back from him— how could he tell? Marcella was so sure to hide it as well as possible, but something must have been glaringly obvious that this stranger had seen it as plain as day.

Her mouth parted, already seeking to try and explain herself and maybe even plead with him to stay silent, to keep her secret for just awhile longer, but they were suddenly interrupted by a rather loud and obnoxious intruder who thundered in and broke the quiet and tense spell set between these two strangers as quickly as a bucket of ice water being dunked over a sleeping child.

It became very clear very quickly that these two had some sort of history with each other, no matter how brief it may have been, and she was expressing her joy in finding him once more. Marcella stood there feeling like a third-wheel fool, watching the other woman adorned in all of her finery playfully scold the man for making her chase after him. She wore fine silk in her gown and had diamonds in her ears that could probably pay off Marcella’s car, and she rambled on, ignoring Marcella as the unimportant creature she was at the moment.

This woman was taller, thinner, and had a complexion so porcelain it could almost be described as ghostly. If this was the man’s type, and it -had- to have been since they had mingled together earlier that night, then Marcella was definitely barking up the wrong tree.

Eyes then turned to her, and Marcella grimaced at the disdain that was spat her way after referring to her humiliating olive incident in the ballroom.

“And what," she demanded "is she doing here?”

Marcella looked at the man she had been flirting with, but only gave him a second to speak before she answered the question for him. If anything, she had received her answer more than once already.

“Nothing.” Marcella stated firmly, forcing a formal smile to her full lips. “Nothing at all. In fact,” she gathered her dress up a bit in the front to keep from tripping. “I was just leaving.” She walked towards the door from the study, but before disappearing through she turned back over her shoulder and stated a farewell to the gentleman who had followed her and had made this night just a tad more interesting before their interruption. “Have a good evening.”

The hallway seemed much colder now as Marcella felt sick to her stomach, nauseous that she was jealous of the wealthy, thin woman that had barged in, finding it all rather unfair that the social opportunities were always awarded to people who had money and connections. But oh, well. She took a deep steadying breath and headed towards the ballroom, but her irritation prevented her from reentering. Instead, she stopped at the open bar that was present at the entrance, and when the bartender was helping another patron she quickly reached over the side of the bar to snag one of the wine bottles grouped to the side for individual pours.

There was a curved stairwell directly to the left of the ballroom, and Marcella scurried up the steps, feeling lighter and better for her actions with her pilfered bottle of wine. Once she reached the top balcony that overlooked the mastery below she untwisted the screw top, tilting her head back to take a sip directly from the circular mouth. In her mind she was just sampling a very good wine during a party. Little did she know she was actually drinking a bottle that equaled to three months rent for her, a French River Valley Sauternes from a year in which the rains had come late, making for a slight sweetness in the finish of the wine. There were only a few cases ever produced, and this woman was drinking it crudely, as if it were something commonplace. It added to her intrigue, since she was undoubtedly the only woman present in this entire estate who would do something so outlandish, a testament to how different she was from the invited attendees.

Imposter, indeed, she frowned, echoing the words of the man in the study she couldn’t quite get out of her mind. Marcella shook her head in a vain effort to rid him from memory as he was likely currently lock-lipped with the thin brunette between her incessant throat clearing.

 

[Alan23]

The eyes of Ms Leonora Asenaithe Upton were glazed behind her bejewelled mask as she wandered through the door that led from the library to the passage outside yet her mind whirled and spun frantically. How could that have happened, she asked herself, over and over again, how? How had she managed to fall asleep, in mid conversation, and with a man at whom she had set her cap, who had completely fascinated her, at that. It was not as if she had all that much to drink. Two glasses of champagne, and a cocktail, and that not an especially potent one. And she was walking without the merest trace of a stagger. It was not as if his conversation had been in any way soporific, rather the reverse.

Yet, it had happened. Fallen asleep she had. And on her four-inch stilettoed feet, at that. And then, even in sleep, she had not fallen as anyone would expect she might, simply fallen into slumber standing, and remained so. All she recalled was him speaking softly, rhythmically, waving his hands in strange patterns, and then waking, her eyes snapping open, to find the library void of his presence. How? How? Godamnit it, How?

Well, that was that, she supposed. Her cousin, that fat little bitch Teresa would get him now, she supposed, quick to waddle in and scoop up the spoils, an emotional scavenger of the worst kind. There was just no coming back from what had happened. Spilling food on herself, making some kind of social faux pas, forgetting his name, offending him - all these might have been forgivable, incidents from which she might have recovered. But falling asleep in another's presence - there was no repairing that. Good heavens, how embarrassing!

Well, she supposed, that was that. Another dream vanished into disappointment and loss. Over and over she met a man who she felt might finally be the one, only to contrive to mess things up somehow.

She continued threading her way through the twisting passages, heading vaguely in the direction of the ball room, desperate for a drink!

***

Mel had long since promised himself that he would never use his hypnotic abilities as a tool of seduction. To do so was, he had concluded, tantamount to rape, an activity he hated not only because of the pain it caused the victim (though this criteria, too, had been significant in his decision) but also for the disquiet it caused his own ego. A real man, he had concluded, must rely on his own charisma and attraction to inveigle a woman into wanting to sleep with him. Anything else was like cheating at solitaire.

In the case of Leonora Upton, however, his conscience was (and for him this was a rare state of affairs indeed) completely clear. He had not hypnotized her in order to seduce her - he could, he knew, have had her for the asking without resorting to such means, could easily have had her pushed up against a row of Jack Van Duren's priceless first editions, the hem of her silk gown rucked up around her waist, her panties (though not pantyhose, for he'd seen the bumps of her suspenders through the gown) rumpled around one ankle, the pair of them banging away like (as the wonderful Mr Bowie had once put it) like tigers on Vaseline. On the contrary, he had used it to escape such a situation, a different pot of prawns altogether.

And why, he asked himself, had he gone to so much trouble? He could simply have said "no" and sent the tall, angular, throat-clearing creature away in high dudgeon, or lapped up the honey and asked no questions, and taken his fill of her. The answer, he realized, was that time had been of the essence. He had not merely wished to escape Leonora, but to do so immediately. Before the short woman in the teal mask had gone too far.

For yes, there was no doubt in his mind. The saliva-excessive Leonora, the obese Teresa, these he could take or leave - in fact, on the whole he'd sooner have left - yet Miss Teal Mask... now here was high game indeed. Her mix of forwardness and vulnerability (Chance alive, the way she'd stroked his lapel had given him an instant boner - and it was all the more impressive she'd manage to compose herself enough to interact with him in such fashion, given the obvious fear in her eyes), the way she carried herself, the defiant note in her voice... her views on the link between sexual freedom and wealth, the way she had deprecated the American wealth-pyramid, the way she'd flinched and backed away when he'd revealed he knew her to be an imposter, these captivated him in a way he had not been captivated for many months.

Why had she left? Allowed herself to be browbeaten and dismissed by a woman nowhere near her class?

He would seek her out and find her, he had decided, and continue what Leonora's untimely appearance had interrupted. A task that might have been thought impossible, given the twists and turns of the corridor system in the Van Duren mansion, but in which, typically, he backed himself to succeed.

And succeed he did.

Such was the eccentricity of the labyrinth system of passages, when he did come across her it was to find himself approaching from behind. Yet there was no mistaking that smooth back, the low-cut backless gown riding even lower than its designer intended (since, his practiced eye noted, it was somewhat too tight around the hips and rear), her short stature, the way she leaned over the balustrade sipping wine direct from the bottle. And (fuck me sideways and upside down too!) not just any wine! He recognized the distinctively shaped bottle, and eccentric purple and red label. A Chateau Le Fauve Sauterne, and not just the common or garden stuff (which in itself might cost close to the average man's weekly salary) but one from the dry season, what connoisseurs referred to as "the El Nino bottling," which changed hands by word of mouth and would fetch enough at auction to enable the seller to live the high life in any western city for a good few weeks or months. A wine that by rights should have been delicately sipped from crystal flutes in the shapes of swans, bejeweled at the base, not straight from the neck as if it were a cheap lager!

Something about the sight of her throwing all aesthetics to the wind in such regard delighted him.

So silently did he walk, he was standing directly behind her before she noticed his presence. Indeed, he might have stood there indefinitely, had he not reached out and snatched the bottle from her hand, raising it to his own lips and taking a long swig, before wiping the neck with the sleeve of his suit and handing it back to her.

"You don't," he said, softly, yet in a tone that any eavesdropper would have marked instantly as emanating from the mouth of a man used to being obeyed instantly, "get away from me quite so easily, Miss Olive, and - excuse me - " casually, he took hold of the area of her gown at the rear and jerked it upwards an inch or two, hiding the somewhat unladylike area of butt-crack she was exposing along with the top of her panties, "now, before you so rudely walked out on me we were discussing, I recall, the ethical limitations of the capitalist system. Please do continue."

 

[Bellatrixxx]

Where instinct might have been honed down to an electrical science for others, or more specifically for the predator currently sneaking up behind her, Marcella had absolutely no such skill. The type of woman who could live with with you for years and yet still jump with a startled shriek when you entered the same room was she occupying was a more apt description for our sweet desert rose. Luckily for her, her masked observer had no dubious or hostile motive towards her, otherwise she would have been a victim that night of the most unfortunate circumstances. Instead, his goal was “play”, and as she gulped down more of this incredible wine, each swallow increasing the tab going down to her belly with an almost audible cha-ching sound, he approached. When a hand came from her right out of nowhere to grab the body of the bottle from her hand, Marcella, with cheeks filled with a thousand dollars of vintage, spun with indignant eyes that someone was trying to steal what she herself had rightfully stolen. Her fingers reflexively tightened around the neck to tug it back, but that was before she actually lifted up to see who it was.

Him.

Marcella’s fingers loosened and she stood there, uncertain and mildly dumbfounded that he had found her, again, in this maze of rooms, hallways, and corridors, and rather quickly when considering the time that had passed since she made her exit from the library study room. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t pleased or elated by his tracking abilities, a warmth flooding her chest with the realization that she was special enough to be followed not once, but twice now by someone who intrigued her. Emboldened by this knowledge, as well as the fermentation swimming through her veins, Marcella made a few snap assumptions about him, some correct, some incorrect, and yet a few more as far from the truth as one could get.

It took three whole gulps to empty her mouth from the amount of wine she had filled it with, watching the man’s lips form around the mouth where hers had been seconds before to sample the contents himself. Her eyes cascaded down his swallowing throat, watching the heavy bob of his adam’s apple work the muscles downward as he drank before lifting back up when he wiped the mouth clear using his own suites sleeve to hand it back to her, clean. She smiled as she took the bottle back, but didn’t drink as he spoke.

Marcella’s right brow raised a bit at his tone, recognizing it immediately as ‘authority’ trying to slip its hand around her proverbial throat. The woman was a master at disobedience, at questioning things that really didn’t need to be questioned but needing the excitement of contention and reaction. Her smile only widened as one of the assumptions she had made about him were proven true: he was a man used to getting what he wanted. She incorrectly attributed this to him being born and made of money, for that was the easiest explanation for his forward behavior especially in the current setting they both found themselves in, but perhaps that was one of the purposes of the mask. Anyone could be anyone here, even if that ‘anyone’ was a lie.

“Ohh..” she shivered the soft exhale when his hand reached to her lower back to lift the bottom corner up to its more rightful location. The gown was clearly not meant for a stacked little thing like her, both too small -and- too long? It seemed as though every wardrobe struggle was to be experienced tonight, from projectile food to stockings that just wouldn’t quite stay in place where she wanted on her thighs. Ugh. Next time she would wear garters.

When he had righted her dress and finished his invitation for her to speak, Marcella turned around completely so that her back was now against the railing behind her and her front now facing him entirely. A part of her brain was a little disappointed that he hadn’t just kept his hand there at her lower back, perhaps with a warm press of to trail his knowledgeable fingers up her spine, but then again the night was still young and they had found each other. Again. Leaning back on her right elbow, her left hand held the bottle down by her side and chuckled at his decided topic to reanimate their conversation from before.

She went along with it, flawlessly. “Isn’t it interesting that the areas where sex is tolerated in today’s commercialized society is only where it can be capitalized on?” Her casual fingers began to count as she listed examples. “Really all of history: brothels, pornography, strip clubs, Only Fans; it would appear that the only time it is acceptable to ‘fuck for free’ would be when wealth has been accumulated. It leaves little doubt when one hears time and time again of someone affluent caught up in a scandal so horrendous and atrocious that one of poorer means would have never even had the opportunity to think of, let alone commit.” She paused to turn her head slightly, her peripheral vision sweeping over the crowd behind and below her, dancing, writhing, and moving to music, all in attendance because something they were missing in their everyday lives was promised here. “Makes you wonder how many secrets are under tonight’s roof,” her dark eyes flicked back to his, mildly referencing his ‘imposter’ comment from before. She had a secret; What’s yours? Her gaze asked but tongue never vocalized.

Leaning to the side then, Marcella rested the half full bottle of wine on the floor next to their feet before reaching forward with both hands to take both lapels of his jacket in each. She tugged forward, but more to bring herself closer to him rather than try and yank him to her. There was something immobile about him which she liked, and she didn’t mind it one bit. Marcella was fluid and molded like water in a vessel. Adaptable.

Their bodies came close, her lifted and heavy breasts brushing along the V where his T-shirt hid underneath, and the softly fruity aroma of her fragrance oil was finally experienced now with her more intimate proximity. Jasmine oil, muck, lemon and peaches, she was a layered intoxication to the senses as both hands now released the fabric to smooth their way up his pectorals simultaneously on either side.

“Where is your friend?” She whispered, her voice a tease as it was clear by him being -here- that the throaty thin woman was by no means his “friend”. Her hands reached his shoulders. Her fingers curled over and traced his collar gently. “You found me rather quickly, I do hope no feelings were hurt that will bring her down upon us again.” With a sudden motion then, Marcella lifted herself up on her delicately stockinged toes to increase her height to somewhat match his a bit more, enabling her slender arms to be wrung around his neck. Her entire front was pressed to his, bow to stern, chest to thighs in her sudden embrace, and she nuzzled the nose of her mask against his, bumping together the plaster and fabric in a playful nudge as her thick lashes fluttered a few times within the cut out ovals.

“Do you dance?” She whispered, so close now that despite the music playing in the ballroom behind her, he would be able to hear her perfectly fine.

 

[Alan23]

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he replied, in answer to her statement about the link between wealth and sexual excess. He spoke from experience, having a far more extensive back catalog than many of his acquaintances who were swimming in money, and much of it as a yob from one of the most broken down stretches of slum housing in the whole of South West London, "sex has always been a currency. My guess is that our simian ancestors were all banging away as readily as any modern plutocrat for free, while others knew that what you could get from a simian-ette for a bunch of grapes would make their tails curl."

He took another swig of the wine. Desert wines had never been his thing, but drunken in such company, he reflected, even a mug of cold cocoa would have exceeded the finest vintage drink alone. "And as for secrets," he continued, "I could tell you a few. See the fat sixty-something woman in the green dress? She's having a fling with the pot-bellied senator currently helping himself to a triple portion of candied ham over at the buffet, while his wife - she's the one in the floral-pattern pantsuit - can't say much, since she's knocking off the studious guy over there grabbing a champagne from the serving girl's tray. And he's not spoken to his brother for two years, after the brother in question made a few smiles with their stepmother."

And then he saw the question in her eyes. His talent read it, but really there was no need. He knew what she was asking.

And how to answer it?

I'm just a normal kid from a two-up-two-down in the shadow of Croydon gasworks with an outdoor shithouse, and who just happens to have a brain so weirdly wired I'd have been burned as a witch in my great grandmother's day didn't quite cut it. Nor did I'm an industrial spy, troubleshooter for a sado-masochistic cult, and write erotic poetry in my spare time. Exotic enough but hardly calculated to encourage her to hold her gaze. Yes, he thought, lap up the honey indeed. The way she was holding onto his lapels, narrowing the distance between them. There was a current sparkling between them, a link, a bond...

"And how much does that matter," he said, gesticulating toward his raven-mask, "until midnight?"

Where is your friend?

"My guess is," he answered, "dancing with some overdressed Yale graduate or portly congressman or some other scion of the American aristocracy willing to overlook her ironing-board figure and perpetual catarrh. She made some rather derogatory remarks about you which I won't repeat, upon which I took my leave of her," this, too, was passed off casually, though he had planned her to catch the import of his throwaway words, "but my guess is I was just one target on her list, and she'll simply move on to the next. She seems to me the type of girl determined to get herself off the shelf and into the brat-market before what looks she's still got fade. I doubt she'll come after us with a meat axe, though. "

Her perfume - some fruity fragrance, Diorissimo or something blended under the same olfactory philosophy was driving him wild. There was, too, the faintest hint underneath of the warmth from her body. Her breasts heaved, suggestive of emotion, and he gave a mental tick to the designer of her dress, for how her gorgeous breasts remained encase within must surely have been, he registered, a structural miracle to rival anything Isenbard Kingdom Brunel had ever managed. Borrowed, he (or his talent) suspected, which added a further piece to the jigsaw puzzle of this beautiful and mysterious imposter.

And now the very noses of their masks were touching. An erotic line he had never read, and the thought of it caused a laugh to well up within him, one he quickly suppressed. Miss Teal Mask, he guessed, was a woman who took herself seriously. Took the kind of interaction they were mutually initiating even more so. The left shoestring strap of her dress plunged downward, and his hand moved so quickly it resembled a blur as he pushed it back up into its rightful place. The touch of her bare skin that this involved caused his already rock hard member to stiffen even more.

Dance?

If there was one thing Mel knew (to his cost) he lacked, it was natural rhythm. He had once heard himself described as dancing like a wounded camel, and felt quite aggrieved by the insult, on behalf of the camel, a species of which he was particularly fond. He was one with Cicero, in that he felt that only the insane dance sober - but then, the thought struck, he wasn't entirely sober, not quite - apart from the Scotches and wine, there was the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the gleam of her eyes... the fact that the neckline of her ill-fitting gown (not that she didn't look stunning in it) (or, he noticed, almost in it) was beginning to creep downward, a tribute to gravity encouraged by the fact that both the shoestring straps, in unison, again slipped from her perfectly shaped shoulders and came to rest on the crooks of her elbows.

The merest hint of the black cups of the breast-enhancer thing (he had no idea what it was called, rare for him who was such an expert on feminine underthings) peeked into view. Black, he noted, not a perfect match for the blue of the gown, which somehow made it more erotic. Yes, he decided, he was drunk on Ms Teal Mask's mixture of exotic need and desperate vulnerability, her boldness and her fears, and (yes he was sure this too was in the mix) the merest touch of jealousy in regard to the interloping Leonora. And of the sight of her breasts, more and more of which were swelling into view above the slipping neckline of the gown, which itself had rucked into enticing folds around her hips as she moved. He was close enough to smell the fine vintage on her breath, mixing with the scent of her perfume, a heady mix indeed.

"I could learn," he temporized, moving toward her a few inches, and moving his arms into a position that were, for him, the best approximation of the beginning of the strains of the jazz-waltz filtering up from the stage on which the band were grouped, "but I warn you, I have such a bad sense of rhythm it's a good thing I never joined the Catholic church."

 

[Bellatrixxx]

The left shoulder bared itself as the spaghetti strap of her dress mutinied down the smooth curve of her arm, somehow making her appearance that much more of a scandalous invitation. Her companion, however, righted the strap with the speed of a serpent, rivaling the quickest cobra yet his delicate fingers were smooth, gentle, and warm against her skin. It was not a sensual touch by any means, but someone redressing another with such heat between them when the whisper to take it all over was mere syllables away only spiked Marcella’s awareness of the man before her.

So many mysteries, so many secrets. How did he know about the drawings in the study room, or all of those guests’ their most private and naughty histories? He was more a magician that seemed to possess the power of invisibility, and she suddenly wanted to know as much as he was willing to tell her.

The sudden image of his strange and wonderful mouth that poured out fascinating facts instead being silenced by the press of it against her shoulder from behind filled her head with such detail that she gave a tiny sharp inhale. His mask. It would cover all of the details of him he wished to keep hidden while exposing the depth of who he was really, and -that- was the part she wanted to learn about. That tiny glimpse of a fantasy reminded her that there were rooms in this mansion specifically planned for such activities; hallways and hallways of private suites that would prove to be the most temping of tonight’s events, and there, far beneath their feet, was still the rumored and infamous Cellar, the underbelly of the most wealthy and everything they could dream of experiencing.

The reason why her dress was suddenly so rebellious was because it was only responding to her minor actions. Micro twitches and nerves fueled her skin to make small shifts and changes that were practically pleading to become undressed, take it off—take me off was chanted in her mind and her body was moving with the need, shoulders lifting and dropping as if to grant that wish right there on the balcony, any audience members be damned. In fact, the idea mildly excited her, the thought of him buried within her in some way right here, risking someone to either look up at them from below or to have them walk down the same passageway he had when finding her. Her nasty thoughts made her stiffen against him when his warm hands settled on her body at the points to initiate the dance she invited him into, and as natural as if she had known him for years her right cheek was pushed to his left and her right hand extended to weave her slender fingers between his in an intimate hold. Brown and white were the zebra stripes of their interlocked fingers, her delicate giggle vibrating his ear as he told his joke.

“I don’t think the Gods and Goddesses need bother us tonight,” she warmed against him, her left hand falling down to the center of his shoulder blades, fingers fanned to feel his back. “But I’m sure I can teach you many things...”

Her words were spoken with an almost playful warning, a challenge as a woman like her often did when meeting potential new prey. Marcella was the black widow spider, spinning her threads and inviting her mate to come closer, and like all men she had ever met before, the mate of such a spider bumbles along with glee either believing her lies, or knowingly choosing to spend his last sane moments in such a creature’s arms. Marcella saw no different with this man, for he had followed her twice now, inadvertently boosting her ego into thinking he was already caught. She enjoyed playing, it was the entire reason for being here in the first place, and as they swayed only slightly awkwardly to the rhythm of the music being played, her pelvis pressed forward until their cores were locked apart only by the fabric of both of their clothing.

She smiled against his cheek, and he would sense it and know that she was feeling what she was feeling. Him.

For a few steps their dance was fine, her stockinged toes on their lifted joints to hang high along his taller height, but after a few seconds she did feel the brief crush of the tip of his boot as he stepped on her toes. “Ouch.” She yelped softly, yanking her foot back from his offending boot then laughing when she glanced down to get a better look at exactly why it hurt so much. “Those aren’t formal ware,” she scoffed in a tease, seeing boots that looked oddly skinned but she didn’t know why— couldn’t place the animal they were made of. Her face turned back to his, amused. “What are you, a cowboy?”

He would then feel the weight of her little feet as Marcella dropped down but positioned her middle arches over the bridge on top of either boot that led to his toes. Like a child at their auntie’s wedding, the smaller woman was standing on his shoes as they danced so as not to get her toes stepped on again. She laughed up into his eyes. “When you learn you can have your feet back.” Her nose nuzzled his through the mask again only this time her soft lips brushed across the corner of his mouth when turning back to connect her cheek with his.

“Now,” she commanded sternly against his ear, like a baby wearing a captain’s hat. “Dip me. Like a princess. And don’t drop me or it’ll be to the Cellar with you for punishment.”

 

[Alan23]

So she can teach me many things eh? came the amused thought as he shuffled around, pressed against her, the sound of the waltz filtering up from the ballroom below giving way to a kind of hybrid tango with a definite jazz age influence, funny how often I've heard that before. Women attempting to inveigle him frequently hinted at arcane and occult erotic strategies, guaranteed to transport him to some mythical esoteric paradise. A promise which, to be fair, they often successfully managed to keep, though their methods were nowhere as original as they claimed. There were few things a member of the Ancient and Esoteric Order of the Die had not seen before.

Miss Teal mask, he registered, was adopting the tactic beloved of many women, that of attempting to project themselves as a sexual predator, a veritable fucking machine. And he admitted, was doing it bloody well, so convincingly in fact that had he not had his instinct to rely upon he might have fancied he had come across that rare thing indeed,, a veritable Queen Bee of the amatory arts, a true inheritor of the proficiency of a Messalina or a Lady Caroline Lamb. Yet his talent told him that Miss Teal Mask, for all her posturing, was not quite there yet, and was covering an inner core of fear with an outer shell of insouciant sexuality.

And yet, when it came right down to it, it didn't matter. Her very wish to appear such in his eyes was enough, and hinted at delights to come. Loris the flight attendant, who had been lusty enough but hardly skilled, the brace of cheerleaders and the southern belle with whom he had earlier slaked his lust during his American sojourn could easily have taken lessons from her. The way she moved, stared into his eyes, the way the scent of her, the mix of perfume and heat assaulted not merely his nostrils but his very psyche, the way she rubbed against him, her pose (and pose it was, though an artistic one) of control. This was no haetera, no experienced concubine, yet her embracing the honored and enticing ideals of such aroused him to an extent that no genuinely experienced practitioner of the art could ever have managed. The mix of power and vulnerability was heady indeed. Her playfulness refreshed him after the seriousness of previous partners, her very abandonment delighted him, ersatz or not. "Cowboy" indeed! And this from a woman who turned up at the most prestigious social event on the Bostonian calendar barefoot, and in a dress that fitted only where it touched.

He was glad his limbs were so much stronger then they looked, for dancing (even as badly as he did) with another person (even one as light as her) standing on one's feet is no easy task. Her standing on his feet was not merely a clever way to ensure the fluidity of the dance (a dance, of course, in both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word) but was also a challenge. You do not get me as a gift, it said. You win me, or you go without.

Her request to dip her came almost as a relief. This was a maneuver of the terpsichorean art that required no sense of rhythm or skill to accomplish, merely strength - and, given her small frame, not too much of that. Yet just as the preparation of an omelette accompanied by crisp garden salad was a truer test of a Cordon Bleu chef's skills than any elaborately prepared dish, so this was a case of not merely doing it, but getting it just right.

And dip her he did. Holding her head a mere half inch above the floor, her hair brushing the polished surface, and in a manner that made it plain he could hold her in such stasis indefinitely. That, or, if he wished, simply let go and drop her on her head. A position of control for the man, a sign of ultimate trust from the woman. Whoever had designed the tango, he realized, knew exactly what he (and it would have to have been a he) was doing!

And at that point he very nearly dropped her!

...to the cellar with you, for punishment...

He had to make a supreme effort to hold her. He, of course, knew all about the legendary subterranean chamber of delights located beneath the Van Duren mansion, and was one of the few men even among tonight's attendees who could have spoken to the fact it was not merely a figment of the lurid imagination of the Boston Social Set. Yet even he had seen it only once, and that simply during his preliminary reconnaissance for tonight's gatecrash. Seen it through the grill in the wall, and not troubled to remove the screws and investigate further, his talent having told him of the CCTV connected to the security headquarters of the mansion, that watched it twenty four hours a day.

"You know about that?" he asked, impressed at her ability not merely to take him by surprise, but to do so in so emphatic a manner that he was unable to mask his shock. Just who, he wondered, was his mysterious and beautiful creature? Obviously a highly ranked member of the local aristocracy, one with entree to the innermost secrets of the best and brightest of the Bostonian Social Set. Yet one who, in a stand of with the far from formidable Leonora Upton, had fled the field in defeat.

Or had she?

Had she, he wondered, fled by her own choice, her air of defeat a very clever piece of acting? Fled to set him a challenge, like some contemporary Cinderella, albeit one who had no shoes to start with?

"How?" he asked, managing to recover himself after a brief split-second of consternation, "how did you know about that?"

 

[Bellatrixxx]

“You know about that?”

She hadn’t. She hadn’t known about that. Not for sure. Yet the eyes she was gazing up towards in her precarious position of being engaged in the deepest dip of her entire life revealed something.

In his own shock, her dancing partner had just confirmed a secret, a bit of information that Marcella had only assumed was a rumor, a naughty lie whispered among the elite of society because they thrived on scandal and gossip. Of course the catering staff knew of the rumors, as did many in Boston, but it seemed no one had seen it with their own eyes, or ever met anyone who claimed as such as well. There was just no way an entire basement under an opulent mansion that housed some of the richest people on the east coast would also contain a depraved maze that led one down the path towards their own sexual insanity. It sounded like something from one of the many types of erotic novels Marcella would read in secret, of being led by collar and chain, naked and very willing, to someone’s personal dungeon where both parties would have their mental mettle tested.

She clung to his shoulders, spine bent and legs extended with her feet slipping out from the stockings giving no friction against the marble floor they were on. If he dropped her, she could crash quite dramatically against the unyieldingly hard surface. She was entirely at the mercy of his strength and it showed with her wide eyes peering up at him, inches away from either of their half concealing masks.

“I—“ I didn’t is what she was about to say, what she was about to confess to this man that she -didn’t- know, that she hadn’t until he just confirmed it. But the words were cut from her throat as her brain reminded her that tonight she was one of them, one of the elite who knew of such secrets. Still believing he was one of the invited as well, Marcella came to the wrong conclusion that it would be expected of her to know of such things, proving that she was no imposter...that she belonged here tonight. It was all part of the whole mask wearing trope, was it not? To pretend to be something one wasn’t? Just like in those naughty books she read that were kept in a box underneath her bed...

She continued, now with a bit more confidence in her voice and with a supremely tasty looking smile. “I know many things,” she finished the initial sentence off as her right hand released his and swept up to cup his masked cheek. “I also know that only the most impressive, the most deserving are allowed down there. The teachers and their pets, the Masters or Mistresses and their students. I -also- know that you might be interested in going down there, in joining me in a room. Can you imagine, Raven?” There. She named him. Calling him “Raven” based on the beaked portion of his mask that covered his nose as well as the black feathery design around the edges. It was incredibly intimate, whispering the honorific while he still held her inches from the floor, his arms not even shaking from the strain of her weight. Marcella tilted her head back a few degrees, and it aligned her lips with his. She brushed their mouths together, not quite in a kiss but a mirroring of one in a soft tease as she exhaled gently.

“Can you imagine what dangers and delights we might find down there?” She knew she was playing a dangerous game, hell she hadn’t known The Cellar had been a place in actual existence mere seconds ago, yet here she was dangling an invitation to it as if she were the Mistress of Ceremonies of the place. She didn’t even know how to get down there if he said yes to anything she was offering, but she was having far too much of a thrilling rush to stop.

She brushed his mouth again and now wrapped both arms around the back of his neck, seemingly quite trusting and content to having him continue to hold her aloft like he was. “But there’s a test everyone must pass before entering. Are you skilled enough to warrant such an invite, Raven? Can you please, and be pleased? Or shall I find another under this roof who is more suitable to joining me far below?”

 

[Alan23]

It was not often that Ralph FitzAllen "Mel" Davies was impressed. Many girls had tried to assert themselves, to fight the fire of his insouciant, even arrogant indifference with blazing assertions of their own uniqueness. I am different, girl after girl had said, I am special! you will never find anyone like me. I am the ultimate. And none of them, whatever their pretensions, had impressed him enough to take their protestations seriously.

Yet this teal-masked aristo (if, in fact, aristo she was, for his talent was screaming a warning that somehow, in a way that could not quite be discerned, his conscious assessment of her as a member of the city's best and brightest had not been entirely accurate) - this girl, he admitted admiringly, had as much chutzpah as anyone who had ever tried to assert themselves in such manner. Some had tried, set him tasks and challenges, demanded he prove himself worthy of their favors. Yet none had ever done so from a position of such obvious and categorical helplessness.

"I do not," he said, calmly, "sit tests. Nor do I accept challenges. And especially not from a woman whose pretty, though bemasked head I currently hold an inch or so above a marble floor."

He smiled as he said it, appreciating her attitude. Easy conquests, like those that had fallen into his lap thus far on his American excursion, had been all very well, he mused, but deep down inside he relished the challenge, the sheer exultation of more difficult prey. She had made a mistake, of course, for Jack Van Duren did not casually invite even his closest and most prestigious acquaintances down to the legendary dungeon. Only those of the extreme inner circle of his tight-knit group of fellow devotees of the exotic could even be sure the place existed at all, outside of legend, dreams and whispered rumors.

He had already picked Miss Teal Mask as an imposter, by sheer instinct. If he had decided to challenge her, rather than the reverse, demand to know who she was and by what right she trespassed into such a gathering of the elite, her only workable strategy would have been to claim a peripheral membership of the city's innermost clique, to spin a tale about having come escorted by a friend. Her hints that she was so high up in the elect rang hollow, like a young child claiming to have been abducted by Venusians as an excuse for being late for school.

He could think of only one person he knew that would take refuge in such audacity and expect to get away with it. And that was himself.

Therefore it was not without a certain level of admiration that he flexed his spine and, with a grunt (for strong as he was, the weight of even a petite human being is not easy to maneuver in such fashion) levered her upwards, swinging her body into an upright position, setting the soles of her stockinged feet gently down onto the marble floor.

"They don't call each other teachers, or pets," he smiled, mockingly, "or masters and mistresses, or dominatrixes, or whatever theatrical word you were planning to use next, as you'd know if you were anything like what you're trying to pass yourself off as. Nor do they dress up in leather corsets and wear studded collars, or walk each other on leashes." For a brief second he toyed with the idea of reaching out and snatching off the teal mask, for he knew his reflexes were well up to the job, especially since such a move would take her by surprise. But the sheer class of her defiance, he decided, had earned her the right to her anonymity, at least.

"And men and women do not enter together," he added, recalling the twin entrance doors he had witnessed during his unofficial reconnaissance there, "those with a genuine right to go there would regard that as atrocious taste indeed. So if I left you now, Miss Teal Mask, and made my own way there, and arranged to meet you, would I spend the rest of the evening alone, waiting your presence?" He did not actually say answer carefully, for I already know the answer, and your credibility is on the line, but he reasoned that if she was as perceptive as he had already assessed her, she'd realize as much.

" So what's your plan, my pretty little wraith? Will you select someone else at this glittering gathering to accompany you? And if you do, will you or he know how to reach this subterranean paradise? And more important, escape unscathed when you or they are discovered? Anyway, if you do find yourself there, be sure not to miss the mural on the wall opposite the altar, it's a fresco by the late Angelo D'Alfonse, who did that naked Madonna sketch that sold for two million at the recent auction in California, and the statues by Isaac Staffe. Me, I don't allow myself to be lead around by challenges. Please give my regards to whoever you choose."

He bowed, turned, and walked away.

Nine times out of ten, he knew, such a strategy would work perfectly, and she would follow, if only from sheer curiosity. But Miss teal Mask? Who knew? Would he hear that beautiful voice, echoing in his ears? Or a silence. Or even hurled insults?

Well at least, he reminded himself, he only had a second or so to find out.

 

[Bellatrixxx]

Marcella was no inquisitor whose dark talents rivaled those of a 1700s Spaniard, nor was she an overly astute mind reader who could translate the eyes with expertise from across the room. She was a catering waitress, and after tonight an unemployed catering waitress. The fact that she hadn’t been thrown out by now due to her bumblings through a more respectable class was, in itself, a tactical miracle. So no, she wasn’t reading this man correctly. No, she wasn’t convincing him. And apparently yes, she was making a fool out of herself.

She knew none of these things when he smiled at her and held her in the breeze, inches from the floor, answering her mighty little challenge with smooth words of his own. They were to open the door to play, for even if she didn’t know where the door to this “Cellar” was, she knew where they were now. Together. Her Raven seemed like a cocky man who knew his way around a woman both inside and out, and he felt good against her...really good. His lean strength and height matched her curvy little body in ways that made it excited, and suddenly very curious, to explore, and when he lifted her back upright, Marcella braced both her lips and self for the onset of his physical reaction. Her lips parted and her eyes leveled hallway closed, sure beyond all doubt that their fornication would begin with a kiss against the banister. With arms still around his neck, Marcella was very much invading his personal space, chuckling as he dismantled her guesses at how the lower levels conducted themselves, and not at all surprised she got quite a few details wrong. Okay, so maybe those modern romance books hidden under her bed weren’t the -best- tools to base her assumptions on, but it made for a bit of humor.

Or, perhaps not. It took an extra second, but eventually Marcella caught onto her companion’s tone and had to tilt her head to look up at him. Something had changed. He wasn’t jesting anymore, growing playful, nor was he seeming to be particularly interested in playing. Since she blithely tossed around the Cellar, his entire demeanor had changed with an almost air of hostility, his eyes narrowing and his voice hardening. Lowering herself down onto the flat portions of her feet, Marcella’s arms slipped from his shoulders and she detached herself from him, no longer feeling welcome in his bubble. When he went on about the Fresca, her brows furrowed in confusion. Had she said something to anger him so? Her memories of the past few minutes searched for what she might have said to irritate him, yet came up with nothing obvious. She had literally just invited him to join her in a room for the night, to dabble in a bit of what this place might offer to those dared, and he responded with a refusal to be challenged, inviting her to find another just as she had said she would if he refused (which is what he was doing), before spinning on his heel and walking away.

Uh. Okay? Marcella’s heart thudded a bit in humiliation at the very clear rejection by someone who had followed her —twice— within the last hour. She watched him walk away, venturing closer and closer to the steps, seconds away from being out of earshot from the music still blasting down below. He...didn’t look back over his shoulder, but then again why would he? He had clearly been insulted by her invitation to sleep with her, maybe he was gay? Or married? By the suggestion he made at her finding someone else was about as clear of a rejection as one could get, aside from the literal exit he was making. Marcella considered snapping at him in her own anger, but that was foolish. He didn’t know her and she didn’t know him, and he was right. Someone else under this roof might be more compatible with her playful challenge and language; someone else might be more keen on exploring.

So with a shrug, Marcella let him go before turning back to gaze over the balcony. Despite her drop in disappointment the night was still young, she was very pretty, and the mansion was very full of potentials.

Down a different set of stairs, Marcella was working her way down towards a new hallway to see more of tonight’s event. While the main ballroom was the most crowded with the most to see, there were a dozen other rooms, quieter ones with softer music playing, a billiards room with a cigar lounge, and even a sunroom that was covered with low lighting under the currently blackened night sky. The wandering woman came to another staircase and she descended.

Then descended again. And again. The stairs abruptly transformed from formal elegant wood to structural concrete, and when she could go no further, Marcella found herself at the end of a long and nondescript hallway. The walls were bare and the lighting was surgical. There were countless turns off this main hallway, but at the far end there was a mysterious door currently closed. Sure she was nowhere she shouldn’t be, for it wasn’t like she crossed any boundaries that would have prevented anyone from coming down here, so with cautious steps she approached. Closer and closer she came until suddenly, a massive giant of a man in a very tailored black suit stepped from one of the side entrances to block her path. She jumped a bit at his sudden appearance having almost walked right into his wall of a chest, but stopped just in time to prevent collision.

“I....I was just walking,” she said in a quick explanation. The bouncer crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side, gauging her. He too wore a mask, a full black metallic one that literally covered his entire face like an age old hockey mask. There were eye holes and three thick slits over his mouth, everything else was solid and provided full coverage to his features.

“Do you have a clearance number?” He asked in a very stern voice. When Marcella frowned, he repeated himself. “Clearance number. Do you have one to be down here?”

Marcella didn’t know this, but her Raven had been right. Only a select few could come down this deep in the house, and those that could were given a numeric code. The guards knew what to listen for, and anyone without this passcode would be turned away. Briskly.

“Uh...” Marcella clearly didn’t have a code. Without hesitation the bouncer reached a meaty hand forward to grab her elbow firmly. The pressure was a little painful, and Marcella tried to rip her arm from his iron grip when he forcibly turned her around to go back the way she came. “Hey! Don’t touch me...!”

“No code, no entry further. Please return to the public levels or else you will be removed from the property entirely...” the bouncer began to walk her back towards the stairs she had exited from, fully intent to drag the Teal masked woman behind him if she didn’t start to pick up her bare feet.

 

[Alan23]

The woman in the robin mask and red gown... the short fat guy sitting next to the stage... the middle aged couple dancing a few feet from the bar... the guy built like a brick shithouse with the missing teeth (well, obviously)... the tall thin man in the gabby suit... the fat woman in the black silk mini dress... the well muscled guy with specs wasn't... nor the youth in the tiger mask... but the skinny woman in the crocodile mask...

The right hemisphere of Mel's brain spun and buzzed and fizzed as it frantically assessed and catalogued the threat, passing its results quickly into his conscious mind. Jack Van Duren's security detail, like most such, consisted of two layers, which Mel referred to in a form of mental shorthand as "Samurai" and "Ninja." The former looked exactly like what they were - large, well-muscled men, towering over the average man like skyscrapers, as broad as they were tall, their suits threatening to bulge at the seams from the pressure of the musculature beneath. These, however, were merely the lesser threat. It was the "ninja," ordinary, nondescript men and women, blending perfectly into the crowd, that presented the real danger. Former cops, retired marines (or even ex marines - there is a difference!*), martial arts experts, crack shots with the concealed firearms many of them carried...

And all, to a man and woman, suddenly shifting their formerly tranquil pattern of "watch and wait" to "Danger! Threat!" like a hive of bees alerted to the presence of an invading wasp, or nest of termites preparing to defend the mound from an attack from outside. A Samurai gabbled frantically into his radio. Another checked the action of his .44. The short fat guy whispered into the ear of the crocodile-masked woman as she "casually" walked past him... the Security Team had been galvanized into action, and were about to move to seal off the threat like white blood cells rushing to repel an ensconced and fast-growing colony of bacteria in a badly infected lesion.

Why the fuck couldn't she have stayed put, he moaned inwardly, or at least gone back down into the ballroom?

He was sure he and Miss Teal Mask had not been overlooked by any security cameras during their interaction on the balcony. He'd have known if they had been. The same went for hidden microphones. They had been in a perfect bubble of security. The Van Duren mansion, like all such houses, was divided into two parts, the private and the public. Guests might roam where they chose in the latter, seeking refuge from the crowded ballroom into various quieter retreats (such as the library in which he had encountered Miss Teal Mask earlier, or various small rooms and nooks) yet (understandably enough) Jack Van Duren also craved privacy for his family, and there were parts of the huge, sprawling edifice that were definite no-go areas to the uninvited public. Staircases that led up to the private areas, the bedrooms, sitting rooms, other areas set aside for family use only, or downwards to...

...to the dungeon!

Mel had been disappointed enough when Miss Teal Mask had called his bluff and not followed him when he'd taken his leave. Disappointed yet resigned. In her position he'd have taken precisely the same stance, and every human being learns sooner or later the truth of the old adage "you can't win 'em all." She would go back down to the ballroom, he'd supposed (for even a wild talent can't predict the future, especially when dealing with a Donna as mobile as Miss Teal mask) and when he'd looked back during his leave-taking he'd expected to see her either hurrying after him, staring after him with an indignant pout, or seeking an alternate way back down to the ballroom (where, no doubt, he'd find a way to encounter her again, and continue the intriguing mental struggle between them.)

That she had chosen none of these alternatives had sent his heart shooting up into his mouth, and the bridge between the two halves of his brain to fizz frantically!

Instead, she had taken an entirely different route. One that led toward the inner areas of the ground floor. Still safe enough, he supposed, and still part of the area open for the edification of guests. A media room, a billiard room, a long room given over entirely to the display of curios and expensive objects d'art. His instinct had told him to backtrack, however, and trail her discreetly, just in case, for her obvious fascination with Van Duren's underground chamber of pleasure had worried him.

He had soon seen how right he had been to be concerned.

No, she had not simply vanished into the room stocked with tanks of exotic tropical fish, nor the smoking room, nor the sauna, or any of the other areas where guests might disport themselves in perfect security. She had continued, past the area where her safety could be taken as a given, into areas whose decor made it obvious they were not intended to be witnessed by the uninvited.

Oh, he knew where she was going, all right. She'd as good as told him. And every fiber of his being cried out to restrain her. Fuck it, he'd sling her over his shoulder and carry her, kicking and screaming, back to safety if he had to, or knock her out and drag her comatose body away from danger.

He knew exactly how Van Duren's Security Team worked. One of the Samurai would approach her, deferentially and politely, and ask her business. In the unlikely event she revealed herself as one of Van Duren's inner circle, he would politely murmur his apology and leave her to go on her way. Should her explanation regarding her proximity to the holy-of-holies not be satisfactory, however, the Samuraui would act as if escorting her back to an area where she presented no threat to the secrecy and security of the subterranean chamber. But this was, Mel, knew, an act only, designed to lull the trespasser into a false sense of security.

The moment said intruder returned to the public area, two or more of the subtly disguised ninja would approach them, discreetly shanghai them and take them to a room known only to themselves, soundproofed and locked in such a way an Abrams tank could not bust in. Where, if the intruder were a man, he would be beaten within a quarter inch of his life, in such a manner he would spend the rest of his existence a cripple. If a woman, the same, though this would be delayed while the ninja in question, perhaps with a gaggle of their colleagues, rewarded themselves for a job well done!

Most of the guests there that night knew this, and knew enough not to test the system, no matter how curious they might have been regarding the truth of the many whispered rumors concerning the Van Duren mansion. Miss Teal Mask, however, despite her overwhelming reserves of chutzpah, was very much an innocent abroad...

And, he registered with a sinking heart as he finally reached a point when he was within hailing distance of her, he had not been quite quick enough. Too late, he thought, sadly, the most melancholy phrase in the English language.

"Clearance number. Do you have one to be down here... please return to the public levels or else you will be removed from the property entirely...

Well, if expulsion from the ball were all she had to face, Mel (and presumably Miss Teal Mask) could live with it. But it wouldn't be just that. Nowhere near!

He quickly narrowed the gap between himself and the pair.

"Ah, there you are," he said, his words slurred in a perfect impersonation of a man completely inebriated, "I've been looking for you everywhere."

His remarks were addressed not to Miss Teal mask, but the hulking, bestial figure of the security guard, who looked at him blankly and scowled.

"Harry, right?" hiccuped Mel, swaying as if he could barely stand.

"No, Sir," the guard replied, his words clipped and polite, yet in obvious annoyance, "my name is Darren. Now please, this area is reserved for - "

"Not Harry? Or Nigel? Or Daryl? Micky maybe? Damn, I could have sworn it was a name with five letters." At the word "five" he held out his hand, the fingers spread, as if to illustrate his numerical point. Then waved it, in a rhythmic pattern before the guard's eyes, his voice suddenly dropping a half octave, his words now evenly spaced, gentle, soporific...

Darren frowned in annoyance at the antics of this drunken, garrulous moron with the limey accent. Fuck, what was the weird little guy doing, some kind of dance? Yet even though he knew he should keep his mind on the job, that there was a dangerous interloper just behind him, one who threatened the security of Mr Van Duren's secret room at that, there was just something about the movements of the strange man's hands, with their rhythmic wavering and circling, and surely there would be no harm in watching them, just for a few seconds, just while...

"When I snap my fingers," said Mel, softly, five minutes or so later, "you will awake, and recall challenging the beautiful lady in the midnight blue dress and trl mask standing just behind you to show her authorization to be in this part of the house. You will recall her producing proof of her allocated Cleaance Number, and completely satisfying you of her rights to be here. You will recall asking me the same question, and receiving an equally satisfactory response. If asked by any of your colleagues you will assure them that neither she nor I require any action taken to interfere with their movements. And you will feel happy, refreshed and completely at peace."

Snap-p-ppp!

Darren blinked, shook his massive head as if to clear it, and stepped back deferentially from Mel.

"I do apologize for the interruption, Sir," he said, then turning toward Miss Teal Mask, "and Madam. I'm sure you understand it's necessarily to keep those that should not be here from trespassing. I will leave you to go about your business now. Please enjoy the remainder of your evening."

He turned and walked away, back toward the public area of the mansion, while Mel (who had not been entirely sure his hypnotic influence would work on a man with so few brain cells as Darren could boast) heaved a masisve sigh of relief before turning toward Miss Teal Mask.

"Damn," he said, with an insouciance he did not really feel, "I should have got him to bring us a tray of snacks as well."



(note) *An ex marine is one that has been dishonorably discharged from the service. Describing a retired or veteran marine using this name is considered an extreme insult, and absolutely not recommended!

 

[Bellatrixxx]

“Ah, there you are. I've been looking for you everywhere."

Marcella froze in her pointless struggling at the sound of the growing in familiarity voice that interceded in her forced exodus. She spun her pretty masked face towards the approaching man, her Raven, with a pointed purse of her full lips. Despite half her face being covered it would be clear she was irritated. Not irritated at the true threat that was currently holding her arm and escorting her to unknown punishment, rather irritation at her unknown savior who was blithely stumbling down the hallway, drunk apparently, and slurring his way towards them.

She frowned, falling for the act immediately because it was just so believable. Both she and apparently the man named Darren paused in their movements as Raven approached, foolishly continuing to guess the name of the bouncer despite already being told what it was, and Marcella had to wonder what in the world he had consumed in the last thirty minutes to have him so plastered so quickly compared to when she last saw him. When he raised a slender fingered hand before him, waving his fingers in a seductive dance, even Marcella began to feel a degree relaxed despite the act not being meant for her. Slowly, Darren’s hand on her arm loosened its iron grip, and at the forceful singular *snap* it fell away completely. The bouncer apologized, then practically floated off towards the public area of the house, leaving the two alone in the hallway.

Raven sighed a heaving sound of relief before turning towards her still angered and irritated face, mentioning humorously that he should have commissioned a tray of snacks after making the big man so compliant with his instructions. Marcella’s mind urged her to approach him, to get close in some way such as wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him in thanks, something for finding her again and aiding in her rescue. But her stubbornness won and she crossed her lean arms with a huff.

“What are you, a witch or something?” She bit towards him, her tone a bratty mix of presumption and pride, mixed with the privilege of not knowing just how much danger she had just been in. “I had it handled. I didn’t need your help.”

It was clearly a lie if there had ever been one. Marcella was out of her league and it showed, but it also showed how desperate she was for the adventure, for the allure of the mystery that was behind that silver door towards her back. Beyond that barrier lay a world beyond anything she could imagine, a cavern of wanders both toxic and pleasurable, some even mixed within the other, and there were micro-twitches along her arms and shoulders as she so wanted to turn around and go through more than anything. But she was willfully unprepared and ignorant. A large portion of her hesitation was the fact that it was finally dawning on her just how much she didn’t belong here. That didn’t damper her curiosity, however. In fact, it only ignited it further.

Fuck. She needed Raven’s help. He was clearly knowledgeable and ‘magical’ enough to get through where he needed to get through, Marcella assuming the hand motions and snap of his fingers were something along the lines of a secret knock or handshake that had prompted Darren to leave. Her pride prevented her from outright asking for his help though, so with a casual roll of her eyes and a tilt of her head, she peeked up at him through the holes of her mask and gave a petulant sigh. “What are you even doing down here?” She questioned, keeping her arms crossed as if maintaining a protective barrier between herself and him lest she fall under his spell again.

“I thought there were more willing and submissive women here to tempt your palate, someone more in tune with your delicate tastes to distract you until dawn. Don’t tell me you’re trying to enter The Cellar. Not after you practically dogging down its secrets as if too good for them yourself...”

 

[Alan23]

What are you, a witch or something? I had it handled. I didn't need your help.

"No," he replied, "you didn't. I can see that now. But I wasn't sure until I got close - it's like like hovering your foot over your brake when the car in front of you swerves, or paying insurance premiums, y'know? I couldn't afford to take the chance. Anyway, by then I'd already got myself psyched up to do my little party piece, and Darren might have cut up rough with me," he gave a grin, the irony of his expression all the more noticeable from much of his face being hidden by the raven mask, "and as for witch, you're not too far wrong. If I'd been alive two hundred years ago, I'd have been burned at the nearest stake - especially in these parts. That, or hailed as a genius if I'd lived in the renaissance era, like old Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci... anyway, I'm rambling - "

(As far as he could tell from what he could see of her facial expression, she was not going to contradict him there!)

" - so, this door." He looked the large silver door with its ornate filigree decoration up and down, "no lock as far as I can see, electrical or otherwise." he touched various areas with his palm, "and no skin or heat sensitive areas, it seems."

I thought there were more willing and submissive women here to tempt your palate, she said, tartly, someone more in tune with your delicate tastes to distract you until dawn.

"Probably," he replied, deliberately (as part of the game they had, without anything being said, agreed to play) keeping his voice emotionless, thus reducing her inquiry to something as banal as a mention she'd noticed he preferred fish to steak, "though you might have noticed I've eschewed at least one of them already. Poor Leonora's going to hate me the rest of her life," his eyes darted around the area in which they stood, taking in the small ornamental tables on which stood exotic potted plants, and the various oil paintings hanging on the walls, "there could be a secret lever or switch or something, but it could take us all night to find it without prior knowledge. I wonder if there's some microphone you have to speak a code word into... or maybe a laser beam that trips and opens the door if you're wearing a bar-coded key, or something... "

Don't tell me you're trying to enter The Cellar. Not after you practically dogging down its secrets as if too good for them yourself...

"Well, you seemed curious," he replied, "and I know I am. I only got the briefest glimpse of it the last time I was here, and even if I'd been there legitimately it's not the kind of place you can really enjoy alone, if you catch my drift. Do you think maybe it's a speak friend and enter thing, like in The Lord of the Rings? No, old Jack Van Duren would want better security than that for his play room. A hidden keyhole covered by a panel that fits so tight it can't be seen by the naked eye? Hmm, if that's the case we're fucked three ways from Tuesday, since neither of us, if I'm any judge, has such a key," he looked her up and down, taking in her form in the tight fitting dress, "I mean, where would you hide it?"

He closed his eyes for a second, as if deep in thought.

"You know, sweet thing, if you want my opinion, and if you don't you're bonkers, the only way to get past that door without an invite is the way I got in last time."

He thought back to his last visit - the tight bends of the air-conditioning system, festooned with cobwebs and dust, how he's almost got stuck twice, how even with his talent he'd had to backtrack numerous times before finding himself in the right place.

"And it's going to play absolute havoc with that lovely dress of yours. Still, if you're game?"

Taking her assent for granted, he swiveled the heel of his leather boot and extracted a small screwdriver. Then, strolling over, with his curious bouncy walk to the air-conditioning outlet set into the wall he began working at the Phillips head screws that held the grill in place.

 

[Bellatrixxx]

Marcella, of course, didn’t want to act or admit how excited she was to see him again, so she overcompensated the other direction in trying to ruffle his proverbial feathers and irritate him to leave. Now that he had done the act of walking away from her, she desperately wanted some degree of control back, so she was saying and doing minor things with just enough heart and effort so -this- time when he walked away, she could confidently claim it was by her doing, on her terms.

“Probably.” Her eyes narrowed at his back as he approached the door to observe it, her little arms crossing in front of her as she scowled behind her mask, listening to his different ramblings concerning who she assumed was the name of the woman who had interrupted them in the study.

“Oh, I’m sure if you’re so concerned for her feelings you can find her again,” Marcella quipped as she came closer to his side as he seemed now far more interested in opening the door than her, which tingled her irritation. “Just follow the akkooo aggkoo ughhoo sounds of her ridiculous wealth and bank account.” She was mocking the other woman’s incessant clearing of her throat with over-exaggerated hacking sounds, insinuating that Raven would only seek her out because he was interested in a little bit of gold digging. There really wasn’t any other explanation to be had. Not in her mind anyway.

When he spoke of a secret way to get in she frowned and approached cautiously. What a disappointment! Was there really a second added level of security even after the bouncers left that one who hoped to enter had to know beforehand? What trash!

“Well, you seemed curious, and I know I am. I only got the briefest glimpse of it the last time I was here, and even if I'd been there legitimately it's not the kind of place you can really enjoy alone, if you catch my drift.” Marcella smirked, feeling warm suddenly on her insides that he just mildly admitted that he was seeking to “enjoy” the Cellar with her. “Do you think maybe it's aspeak friend and enterthing, like in The Lord of the Rings?”

“God, I hope not.” Marcella whined. “I only saw the first of those stupid long movies and barely remember anything about it except how hot Legolas was.”

“No, old Jack Van Duren would want better security than that for his play room. A hidden keyhole covered by a panel that fits so tight it can't be seen by the naked eye? Hmm, if that's the case we're fucked three ways from Tuesday, since neither of us, if I'm any judge, has such a key," he turned to look at her, eyes roaming downward and back up her front. “I mean, where would you hide it?"

“I have my ways.” She snapped back, moving to come closer and mildly shouldering him out of the way, which had barely any force since she wasn’t truly angry, she was just being a brat. That and her smallness and disproportionate strength to his made it barely a tap rather than the smug scoff she meant it to be. “Move.” She demanded, wanting to have a go at it herself. “Let me try.”

Bending over, Marcella began to peek at the intricate details that lined the door, her fingers moving along the edge, feeling for anything that could be moved, switched, or toggled for entrance. Nothing. She turned her head towards the side tables and felt underneath them for a button and found the same as before. Next, her face turned to one of the many paintings nearby, and she began to systematically approach each one hanging in the hallway, trying to remove it from the wall in case there was something behind it, and when none of them budged from their place, set about feeling along the frame. Her attempts were all failures, and when she was filled with hot irritated disappointment, she slumped back to his side right at the moment he said he had an idea. “I’m all ears.”

Raven mentioned how he had gotten in “the last time he was there”, which surged so so many questioned in her mind but she kept silent, feeling that seed of hope take root with high expectations. When he asked if she was game, she nodded with exuberance, her brown eyes wide as she peered up at him. “Yes, Yes, Yes,” she chanted with excitement, already consenting before she knew the plan. “It’s not even my dress, so I don’t give a shit what happens to it.”

With curiosity, Marcella followed him over towards a nondescript vent a short distance down the hallway, and with dawning realization, watched as he extracted a screwdriver from his pocket before beginning to unscrew the four corners. She gave an overwhelming sigh. “Are you kidding me? Seriously?” Why would she even be surprised. Raven all but admitted earlier during their first meeting that he was an imposter like she was, but she had translated his words to being melodramatic or obtuse. Not literally a confession. When the grate was removed she stepped closer and peeked into the looming darkness within. The vent was low but wide enough for someone their stature to squeeze through, and all four walls of the interior were covered with dust, cobwebs, dead gnats and flies, and debris from over the years of coolant. She gave a huff before nodding.

“Alright fine.” She consented. “But you need to help me up into it, it’s too tall for me to reach on my own.” The vent itself was at eye level on her, she would need a little boost.

Marcella waited until Raven either gave her a knee or a hand, but however he did it, she dipped her head in and dove forward...only to immediately start complaining.

“Ughh. Gross.” She coughed twice as the dust was stirred up and tickled her sinuses. “Great. Now I sound like your girlfriend.” She was skinny enough to make it in, the only part of her touching the top portion of the vent was the highest curve of her ass as she elbow crawled forward, grunting with her stocking feet kicking in the open air for a few seconds until she was able to utilize her knees and really push forward. The dress was hindering her as the fabric was slippery when she tried to move within it, so reaching down, Marcella grabbed the bottom length and jerked it up to her thighs so her knees could get better traction to crawl. Of course, with her kicking legs, this only hitched and drew her dress further up until it was a bundled mess around her hips, fully exposing her taut little ass in its casual pink cotton panties, a garment totally out of place under formal wear, as well as the top elastic bands of her hosiery squeezing around the softness of her upper thighs. That would be Raven’s front row seated sight until they got out of the vents.

Marcella scooted and crawled, and worked her way in deeper until there was enough room behind her for him to join in and replace the grate behind them so that no one would be suspicious at the sight of it left discarded in the hallway. She paused here, waiting for him to catch up to her, and while she couldn’t turn around all the way to look behind her, she could duck a bit over her shoulder and catch glimpses of him coming closer. Hearing him better than seeing him in the dark vent, Marcella could tell he was right behind her, practically on top of her, so when she pushed herself forward to keep moving, her right foot slipped along the slick vent and accidentally shoved her small heel against his right shoulder, kicking him lightly before she quickly jerked it back.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, trying to move and pulling her dress up higher now, her undergarments now on full display, the back portion of her panties almost getting swallowed up between the globes of her shifting cinnamon brown backside to the point where it was being converted into a thong. “I can’t believe I am doing this. I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this.” She was speaking normally, her voice carrying a bit in an echo within the vent. “Don’t touch my feet. I’m very ticklish. Now. In front of me is a four way intersection. Where should I turn?”

 

[Alan23]

It was astonishing, he thought, just how much the teal-masked lady was giving away by her unconnected sound-bites. So, it wasn't her dress, eh? Well, he'd known already she was an imposter and said as much, and though she hadn't denied it, she had not actually openly admitted it either. Yet now she had. She was a bird in borrowed plumage, a cuckoo in this opulent nest, though as to why or how... for the briefest second he wondered if she might be one of Van Duren's ninja, and if this was some elaborate trap, but his talent dismissed the idea instantly.

Why would they bother, the thought ran through his mind, they'd just grab you and haul you off.

And then, came another thought. Her mocking of the unfortunate Leonora and her sinus issues, and her tart dismissal of her as "your girlfriend." Tart, but not entirely without the merest hint (and this was enough for his talent to pick it up and dance somersaults of joy) a tiny hint of jealousy folded in. A woman does not trash another women without good cause, either because she has done her wrong or she sees her as a rival. Were the short, beautiful woman in the teal mask indifferent to him, she would not have seen any need to revile the unfortunate creature in order to assert her own comparative attractiveness. Whether or not she wanted him was a moot point - though she did at least want him to want her, which was close enough for the moment.

He continued crawling in her wake. So tight were the turns of the passage, he could not help but follow her nose-to-tail, as if they were part of a procession of caterpillars seeking a secure nest in which to pupate. His member stiffened to a rock hard shaft (which handicapped him a little in regard to his forward process) at the closeness to her gorgeous rear end. Even if the exquisite milky coffee shade of her skin had not revealed the fact, that her ancestors had hailed from the dark continent was obvious.

There was something about the curve of the buttocks of a woman of color, their largeness and roundness in proportion to their bodies, that made the ass of an African lady special. His first ever serious relationship had been with his uncle's neighbor, a West Indian lady called Doreen, and he still carried visual memories of that lovely bottom!

Miss Teal Mask had been forced to hike her dress up so far she might as well not have been wearing it at all. The thought struck him that like "flesh colored" band aids, the manufacturers of underwear exercised a subtle, perhaps even unconscious discrimination against women of color. her pink panties were not so ridiculously brief or cut so dramatically that they would have failed to cover the buttocks of a woman of European descent, yet on the differently shaped ass of a woman of duskier hue they frequently, he'd often noticed, failed to stay where they were supposed to be. Doreen had always, he recalled, been having to tug discreetly at her panties! Miss Teal mask, it appeared, was now suffering a similar indignity, the shimmery pink material indulging in a disappearing act that his penis was fast beginning to envy.

He hefted the small flashlight he had taken from the swiveling soles of his boot, and could not resist clicking it on, simply in order to get a well-illuminated view of her lovely ass. Having drunk his fill (a sight, he registered, that would stay in his mind's eye a long, long time) he pushed the small cylinder forward -

The action of passing her the torch had forced him to move even closer to her, so that his sensitive nose was almost touching her rear. Despite popular mythology, the crack of a woman of color does not have an odor any stronger than that of a white woman, yet it could not be doubted that the two were completely different, the darker woman's baing somehow slightly sharper, almost musk-like, lacking the saltiness of a white woman's. Though Miss Teal Mask's personal hygiene obviously left absolutely nothing to be desired, no-one can spend a few hours without at least a tiny amount of bacteria forming in the area in question, enough to make the difference obvious to a connoisseur of such things. And this he most definitely was!

I should apply for an Arts Council Grant, he thought to himself with amusement, and write a thesis on the subject. It might end up as famous as Sherlock Holmes' monograph on ash!

"Reach back with your left hand," he said, and when she complied, nestled the small object into her palm, "I promise that nothing else that's rigid I'd ever put into your hand would be quite as small. It's a torch - erm, flashlight you yanks call it. Use it sparingly, though, and only click it on when you need to. I can't carry anything bigger in my boot heels, and the battery isn't all that powerful.

Now. In front of me is a four way intersection. Where should I turn?

And then, too, he mused, returning to the things she had said, even admitting the soles of her feet were ticklish, this too was an admission not without a certain leavening of intimacy. Not to mention trust - he could, had he been so mischievously inclined, have made use of the information and taken advantage of the fact the narrow passage would not enable her to turn and defend herself. Though of course that would have been counter-productive, for silence was most definitely the key in regard to the enterprise on which they were currently engaged.

"None of them." he replied, "above you, if you reach up, you should be able to feel a sort of framed open rectangle. I know it seems bonkers to go up when we're heading down, but as far as I remember that's the quickest way. Cleaner, too." In fact, as was always the case in air conditioning ducts (an environment in which he was something of an expert) once you got past the entrance to the outside world, where dust and grime piled up like sea wrack on the rocks of the ocean, the surroundings were usually clean, since the gushing air tended to push the dirt along. And few insects or arachnids ventured too far into the interior of the smooth metal maze, since such creatures preferred a warmer, more moist environment.

"Do you need help to get up there?" he asked, trying to pitch his tone in such a way she could be sure he did not intend mockery. After all, she was quite short, and hardly experienced in crawling around in air-con ducts, so there was no shame in such need.

 

[Bellatrixxx]

“Hilarious,” Marcella quipped as she stuffed her left hand downward, blindly reaching back with fluttering fingers for him to put the little pocket-sized flashlight into her small palm. “Because men love to compare -everything- to the size of their dicks. Too bad most of you guys are always exaggerating...”

The dark and dusty passageway was illuminated with artificial light so much so that she actually wished she hadn’t had it. Seeing everything meant seeing everything, which meant seeing the absolute filth she still needed to crawl through. The darkness was ignorance and ignorance was bliss, and she might have been more comfortable not knowing what was directly in front of her and unavoidable crawling through than having the light. But light was necessary,so when he instructed her to not look in any of the three directions but rather look up, Marcella tilted the light upward to see exactly what he was talking about.

Upward was a vertical duct directly above the four way crossroads they were presently sitting at. It was exactly the same size as the vent they were in, so Marcella was confident she could fit despite the awkward angle. Calculating the size, she clicked off the little flashlight per his instructions on saving battery life, and then proceeded to roll over onto her back with a few twisting wiggles after pushing herself deeper within the intersection. Then, she sat right up, her upper body now disappearing into the vertical shaft as she pushed the flashlight into the right cup of her bra as she would definitely be needing both hands for the next part.

“Depends on high up it goes,” she whispered when he asked if she needed help. If the top portion of where they were climbing to was much higher than her own head then yeah, she would need a boost again. Extending her arms up, Marcella then locked her elbows along the sides of the vent then wiggle-walked into a standing position, sliding inch by inch until she could bend her knees before extending them straight and upright. Her head popped up into a slightly larger area, the top of the vent abruptly ending at about her chin, and while standing there she took in a more relaxed few breaths and pulled out the flashlight, and clicked it in to observe this new space.

Her head swiveled with the point of the light as she explored visually first. “I’m in some sort of small wire room. I think it’s enough to fit both of us at the same time and then we can probably switch and you take the lead to where we should go next.” Raising her arms out of the vent to place on the floor, Marcella tried to lift up with just her arms strength, her stocking feet providing no frictional aid along the sides of the vents as they kept slipping back down whenever she tried to push off of them. “I need help.” She whined, struggling, unable to pull herself up and out by sheer arm strength alone.

Once she felt the grounding of his help and was able to lift herself out completely of the vertical shaft, Marcella then rolled out of the way to give him the space and room to do the same. As she waited for him, she shined the light briefly around them, just content to see exactly where they were for the moment before landing on some frayed and naked wires.

“I wonder how long it’s been since they serviced this room,” she wondered out loud. “A bunch of these wires are on their last leg. I mean, look at this.” She pointed to the light towards a particularly bad area of torn up wiring. “You’d think a house this big would have better maintenance...”

 

[Alan23]

...men love to compare -everything- to the size of their dicks. Too bad most of you guys are always exaggerating...

"I was referring," snapped Mel indignantly (though working hard to suppress his amusement) "to the roll of hard candies I've got in my other pocket. You probably noticed how dry your throat gets when you're crawling around in a place like this... though if you must know, I'm hung like a.... erm, Chihuahua." He watched her struggle to lift herself through the aperture above her, then, in response to her request, crawled toward her and gave her the assistance required. The closeness of touch this required sent his senses into a paroxysm of lust that he forced himself to ignore. When involved in a situation as the one they were in, alertness was everything.

...you'd think a house this big would have better maintenance..

"Not really," he said as, with very little effort he hauled his thin, strong body up after her, "a case of out of sight, out of mind. You'd be shocked by what a mess you see in the bits that don't show, even in the most expensive places. I doubt the staff will even check the wiring until something goes wrong and the whole house is plunged into darkness and - don't touch! For fuck's sake, if your bare skin happens to brush against two of those exposed bits at once, a hundred and twenty volts is going to earth itself through that lovely body of yours. And annoying as you can be at times, I'd prefer you not to end up a charred lump of barbecued meat."

He unfolded himself to almost his full height. He could, if he were willing to adopt a manner of walking based upon that of the late, great Groucho Marx, walk in a manner that could be generously described as upright, rather than the slow crawl he and his companion had been forced to adopt in the air-conditioning duct. She, being a little shorter, could walk almost properly upright. He moved to take up the vanguard of the two-person procession, and as he did so he brushed against her. It was an innocent enough touch, just his flank against hers, yet even this small contact made his senses reel. This petite, cream-coffee-colored, slightly prickly-natured woman was, he was forced to concede, fascinating him in a way few women had for a long time.

Taking the flashlight from her (again, their hands touched, and he felt a wave of lust shoot through him) he walked slowly forward, his talent crackling as it recalled the mental map he'd made of the labyrinth of service tunnels it had recorded during his last visit.

"Right," he whispered, "now from here, the floor kind of slopes downward, so be careful not to slip, or you'll cannon into me, and the noise can be heard from outside. It's like walking down hill, you have to be sure not to get our of control. I doubt they'll be too much all-four work involved until we get to the very last stage, and then we - !"

He stopped, and held out his hand behind him in a keep dead quiet gesture.

Please, came the terrified, plaintive voice, drifting gently into the small tunnel, please, don't...

It's a bit too late for that, replied a deep, male voice, you went where you shouldn't have been. Actions have consequences!

Please, no. M-my father's very rich. He'll pay... I... I won;t say anything. I'll never, ever tell anyone what I saw... I promise... please...

Peering through the grill through which the voices were emanating, Mel took in the scene beyond.

A large man, his expensive suit bulging with muscle, stood, hands on hips, his back turned toward the grill, regarding a plump woman. She was tied to an upright pipe in the small, brick-lined chamber, blindfolded, and with what Mel (who was very familiar with such things) recognized as a ball-gag in her mouth. Apart from the blindfold and gag she was naked, her stark white body shining out almost phosphorescently in the otherwise crepuscular light. Her curly blond hair cascaded down in a way he might have found sexy, had the woman not been in such dire straits.

"This," he whispered in the ear of Miss Teal Mask as he waved her forward to crouch beside him, "is what happens to people who try to violate Jack Van Duren's privacy."