MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Warning:
Themes include BDSM, violence, mention or detail of drug and alcohol use, and other dark themes
Read at your own risk
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Bondage of Hearts (ThenThereWereNone & MoldaviteGreen)
- Thread starter MoldaviteGreen
- Start date
Warning:
Themes include BDSM, violence, mention or detail of drug and alcohol use, and other dark themes
Read at your own risk
OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Niente.
Nothing.
That was precisely was Emiliano became as thick, olive fingers caught the heavy velvet curtain and swept it aside. Within the low light of the wide corridor, gold glinted against bronze skin; luxurious and lustrous. The threshold was crossed, and what was once nothing adopted the mask of something.
Bathed in the two-tone lights of crimson and indigo blue, the man that lingered just beyond the heavy drape of the curtain was eerily still. The obsidian dark of his hair was left a little wild, the upper half of the loose waves drawn back and secured with a metal clasp. The rest tumbled down to broad shoulders, curled against the opened collar of a shirt, brushing lightly against the sweep of partly exposed collarbones. The smooth, deep blue satin of his two-piece set was brilliant against the gold of his skin. Deep was the cut of the neckline over breastbone, but not even the slip of it would reveal the paler patch of vitiligo skin across the side of Emil's right ribs. The tailored trousers were slim at the high of his waist, a belt of the same satin fabric wrapped over the tucked shirt and tied in a loose bow. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled up his forearms, exposing bronze skin, gold rope bracelet, and thick, corded veins.
Blue, it seemed that he'd chosen, to match the glacial pale of his almond eyes. They were cold and cutting, diamonds almost, thickly framed with dark, curling lashes and set either side of a slightly hooked nose. His eyes were the only pale thing about him, and perhaps it was for that reason alone that they seemed so wraith-like. Ice blue against shades of caramel, bronze and obsidian black. Even the five o'clock shadow upon his sharp jaw and upper lip was a dark tourmaline. Emil, a Dominant unknown to this specific Club, felt rather out of place and yet welcomed all at once.
There was not a thing about the expansive Playroom that was not luxury. The lounges within the curved and open booths were padded with thick cushioning and swathed in rich velvets. The metal legs of the occasional stool were bronze with decorative notches. Grand, towering pillars were carved from deep mahogany, and from them hung loose organza in darker shades of the bathing two-toned lights. It gave a sense of dimension, of deeper and darker shadows; places to hide in a space where one could commit to being so vulnerable. The long bar at one end had already drawn a small crowd, with the tenders mixing and passing drinks with fluid motions. Booths of various sizes absorbed most of the space; a place for viewing, for discussing terms, for communication before truly diving deep into the world of sin.
Yet, it was the grand, elevated stage that held most of the attention. The underside of the rise was illuminated in cobalt blue; eerie in its glow. The floor of the stage was the same crimson, crushed velvet of elsewhere, but the soft lighting from above illuminated the texture of it. Behind the elevated stage, along a wall that held a wide and all-encompassing mirror, was a long bench seat fashioned from leather. Risky, Emil thought, considering the purpose of that space. Leather, he supposed, was fairly easy to wipe clean.
Already there were those keen to play knelt or stretched out across the stage's soft floor. Under their knees, the velvet would have been fairly gentle when static. Complexions were cast in the same blanketing light; their highlights in blood-red and their shadows cast in deep blue. They seemed ethereal, almost, in their submissive beauty as they were handled, treated, rewarded so publicly for their keenness to please. One had been drawn over a knee, a dark gag in their mouth, as three fingers thrust deep into their rear.
Emil was no stranger to public play. He'd observed it many a time, and had participated within such less often. There were those who fancied swapping, sharing, and the public use of their subs, but Emil was not one of them. The trust between Master and Pet was something to be treated carefully, and while Emil allowed his subs the adrenaline of being watched, he had never shared. He'd never share.
Yet, it was not those upon the stage nor those within the booths that caught Emil's attention as he lingered, still, just within the dark space of the Playroom. As the glacial blue of his eyes had swept the scene before him, he'd found his gaze settling upon the profile of a shadowed face. Any attempt to look away was futile, for Emil found it impossible to drag his eyes from the thick of the man's nose, the solid slope of broad shoulders, and the firm set of a jaw. Even from where he stood, Emil could spy the dark of the man's lashes and the near midnight of his hair. A man so pretty, yet so obviously not submissive. Emil knew this from the man's posture alone.
"Try something different." The voice of his friend filtered in above the sounds of leather impacting flesh. "You've become stagnant while chasing your career. When was the last time you allowed yourself to truly, freely experience?" The answer had not come easy from Emil. "Don't think about it. Just try something other than what you'd usually."
Two crystal tumblers of whiskey were passed across the bar to Emil, the Italian having crossed to the length of it when he'd finally found himself able to peel his eyes from the stranger. Emil turned. It took less than a second for his eyes to find that man; as if the stranger, himself, were the north and Emil's gaze a magnet. He was drawn forward by the man's gravity, pulled into him, and Emil approached to stand at his side, a little distance between them, and forced his gaze up at the stage to spy what the stranger was viewing. But Emil didn't care for it as he held out a tumbler to the side, an offering in silence, that was later followed by the sweep of pale eyes as they stood side by side.
"This is no place for an empty hand," he said smoothly. Gently accented, the silk of his voice was deep. "If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
The depth of the man's complexion struck Emil then more so than it had from across the room. A rich chocolate bronze, the stranger's face was cast in the soft glow of the two-tone lights. They shifted over cheekbones, upon thick lips and dark brows, and Emil wondered whether the man had specifically chosen to linger here, within this particular space, because he knew that the lights cast across his face like swirls of galaxies within the dark of space.
Emil's cold gaze dragged away as he took a sip from his own whiskey. Try something different, indeed. Because why was it that this man had Emil's curiosity flaring?
"Then again, if you'd prefer to keep two hands free, I'll happily nurse both." Another sip was taken, slow, as a bead of liquor glistened at the seam of lips. "Which is it on the stage that's held your attention?"
Nothing.
That was precisely was Emiliano became as thick, olive fingers caught the heavy velvet curtain and swept it aside. Within the low light of the wide corridor, gold glinted against bronze skin; luxurious and lustrous. The threshold was crossed, and what was once nothing adopted the mask of something.
Bathed in the two-tone lights of crimson and indigo blue, the man that lingered just beyond the heavy drape of the curtain was eerily still. The obsidian dark of his hair was left a little wild, the upper half of the loose waves drawn back and secured with a metal clasp. The rest tumbled down to broad shoulders, curled against the opened collar of a shirt, brushing lightly against the sweep of partly exposed collarbones. The smooth, deep blue satin of his two-piece set was brilliant against the gold of his skin. Deep was the cut of the neckline over breastbone, but not even the slip of it would reveal the paler patch of vitiligo skin across the side of Emil's right ribs. The tailored trousers were slim at the high of his waist, a belt of the same satin fabric wrapped over the tucked shirt and tied in a loose bow. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled up his forearms, exposing bronze skin, gold rope bracelet, and thick, corded veins.
Blue, it seemed that he'd chosen, to match the glacial pale of his almond eyes. They were cold and cutting, diamonds almost, thickly framed with dark, curling lashes and set either side of a slightly hooked nose. His eyes were the only pale thing about him, and perhaps it was for that reason alone that they seemed so wraith-like. Ice blue against shades of caramel, bronze and obsidian black. Even the five o'clock shadow upon his sharp jaw and upper lip was a dark tourmaline. Emil, a Dominant unknown to this specific Club, felt rather out of place and yet welcomed all at once.
There was not a thing about the expansive Playroom that was not luxury. The lounges within the curved and open booths were padded with thick cushioning and swathed in rich velvets. The metal legs of the occasional stool were bronze with decorative notches. Grand, towering pillars were carved from deep mahogany, and from them hung loose organza in darker shades of the bathing two-toned lights. It gave a sense of dimension, of deeper and darker shadows; places to hide in a space where one could commit to being so vulnerable. The long bar at one end had already drawn a small crowd, with the tenders mixing and passing drinks with fluid motions. Booths of various sizes absorbed most of the space; a place for viewing, for discussing terms, for communication before truly diving deep into the world of sin.
Yet, it was the grand, elevated stage that held most of the attention. The underside of the rise was illuminated in cobalt blue; eerie in its glow. The floor of the stage was the same crimson, crushed velvet of elsewhere, but the soft lighting from above illuminated the texture of it. Behind the elevated stage, along a wall that held a wide and all-encompassing mirror, was a long bench seat fashioned from leather. Risky, Emil thought, considering the purpose of that space. Leather, he supposed, was fairly easy to wipe clean.
Already there were those keen to play knelt or stretched out across the stage's soft floor. Under their knees, the velvet would have been fairly gentle when static. Complexions were cast in the same blanketing light; their highlights in blood-red and their shadows cast in deep blue. They seemed ethereal, almost, in their submissive beauty as they were handled, treated, rewarded so publicly for their keenness to please. One had been drawn over a knee, a dark gag in their mouth, as three fingers thrust deep into their rear.
Emil was no stranger to public play. He'd observed it many a time, and had participated within such less often. There were those who fancied swapping, sharing, and the public use of their subs, but Emil was not one of them. The trust between Master and Pet was something to be treated carefully, and while Emil allowed his subs the adrenaline of being watched, he had never shared. He'd never share.
Yet, it was not those upon the stage nor those within the booths that caught Emil's attention as he lingered, still, just within the dark space of the Playroom. As the glacial blue of his eyes had swept the scene before him, he'd found his gaze settling upon the profile of a shadowed face. Any attempt to look away was futile, for Emil found it impossible to drag his eyes from the thick of the man's nose, the solid slope of broad shoulders, and the firm set of a jaw. Even from where he stood, Emil could spy the dark of the man's lashes and the near midnight of his hair. A man so pretty, yet so obviously not submissive. Emil knew this from the man's posture alone.
"Try something different." The voice of his friend filtered in above the sounds of leather impacting flesh. "You've become stagnant while chasing your career. When was the last time you allowed yourself to truly, freely experience?" The answer had not come easy from Emil. "Don't think about it. Just try something other than what you'd usually."
Two crystal tumblers of whiskey were passed across the bar to Emil, the Italian having crossed to the length of it when he'd finally found himself able to peel his eyes from the stranger. Emil turned. It took less than a second for his eyes to find that man; as if the stranger, himself, were the north and Emil's gaze a magnet. He was drawn forward by the man's gravity, pulled into him, and Emil approached to stand at his side, a little distance between them, and forced his gaze up at the stage to spy what the stranger was viewing. But Emil didn't care for it as he held out a tumbler to the side, an offering in silence, that was later followed by the sweep of pale eyes as they stood side by side.
"This is no place for an empty hand," he said smoothly. Gently accented, the silk of his voice was deep. "If whiskey is not your poison of choice, I wonder what is. Another vice, perhaps? Of leather or lace or rope."
The depth of the man's complexion struck Emil then more so than it had from across the room. A rich chocolate bronze, the stranger's face was cast in the soft glow of the two-tone lights. They shifted over cheekbones, upon thick lips and dark brows, and Emil wondered whether the man had specifically chosen to linger here, within this particular space, because he knew that the lights cast across his face like swirls of galaxies within the dark of space.
Emil's cold gaze dragged away as he took a sip from his own whiskey. Try something different, indeed. Because why was it that this man had Emil's curiosity flaring?
"Then again, if you'd prefer to keep two hands free, I'll happily nurse both." Another sip was taken, slow, as a bead of liquor glistened at the seam of lips. "Which is it on the stage that's held your attention?"