The Irish Charm (AJS Roleplaying x NurseMaxine)

[AJS Roleplaying]

The Irish Charm A Roleplay Brought to You By: ​

Adrian Locke written by AJS Roleplaying ​

Eloine Quinn written by NurseMaxine ​

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[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian Locke stood at the edge of the glass, sixty-one floors above a city still shaking off the night. Dawn traced faint gold along the horizon, turning towers into silhouettes and traffic into a silent ballet of lights. His coffee was untouched in one hand, cooling. The other remained loose at his side. He watched the streets with the same quiet intensity he brought to boardroom tables and courtroom negotiations, the kind that unsettled people more than shouting ever could.

Behind him, the penthouse was immaculate - an expanse of quiet wealth arranged with museum-like precision. The air smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, untouched by life. Furniture in shades of smoke and stone stood in sculptural stillness, the grand piano untouched since its arrival. The apartment was beautiful, deliberately so, but it lacked any sign of someone who intended to stay. Near the fireplace, Thatcher stirred. The aging Great Dane exhaled, shifting on the only worn rug in the apartment, as if to remind the room that something living still existed within it.

Adrian didn't move. The silence was part ritual, part defence. He'd never trusted people who filled every moment with noise. He'd learned early that the ones who talked most had the least worth hearing. Silence had raised him, shaped him. And now, at forty-one, it was both armor and home.

The phone buzzed once on the counter. He ignored it. Tokyo markets had closed two hours ago. Berlin was opening. His day would begin soon - another round of meetings, leveraged negotiations, merger talks, all threaded together by men too wealthy to be honest and too proud to admit when they were losing. He would outmanoeuvre them all, because that's what he did. It was never personal. It was survival, sharpened into instinct.

He finally turned from the window and moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled, shirt untucked, his bare feet near soundless against the tile. The eggs sizzled in the pan as he cooked with the same precision that marked everything else he did. He plated the meal without flair, poured another coffee, and let the act of repetition still his thoughts.

He lived alone. He preferred it. There was no chaos here, no mess left by someone else. He ran his life the way he ran his firm - with clarity, with purpose, and without sentiment. Women passed through occasionally, like guests in a well-managed hotel, but none stayed. Not because he feared attachment, but because he didn't believe in pretending to want something he didn't. He respected honesty, even when it came in the form of distance.

The apartment, like the man who owned it, was curated down to the last detail. No photos. No family heirlooms. No echoes of the boy who'd once lived in a town where electricity bills came with apologies and eviction notices. Adrian never looked back. Nostalgia was a weakness, and he had no interest in feeding ghosts.

He took his coffee to the window once more. The sky was brighter now. The city fully awake. Another day.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he picked it up. Fifty-six unread emails. A dozen tagged urgent. He ignored them all. One caught his attention - not because of who sent it, but because of how.

From: Celeste Warrick
Subject: Change of plans – Hope you'll join us
Attachment: .PDF

Adrian exhaled through his nose. Celeste. A socialite with an inherited name, a calculated laugh, and a particular gift for hosting events that felt like networking rituals disguised as decadence. She was clever enough to know her circles needed men like Adrian, and irritating enough to believe she belonged in theirs.

They'd crossed paths more times than he cared to count - benefit dinners, art auctions, the occasional photo op where she smiled too brightly and spoke in half-truths. He endured her the way he endured delays on the tarmac: an inevitability, not a concern. He tapped the PDF open. A sleek graphic appeared, minimalist and expensive: a photo of a massive white yacht lit against a dark sea, and a line of embossed silver text.

MIDNIGHT, FRIDAY — THE LYCANTHA
Private invitation only. No press. No strings.

And beneath it, a closing line he imagined someone thought was poetic:
"Come disappear for a while."

He stared at it for a moment. The Lycantha was infamous—Celeste's prized toy, a floating monument to wealth and curated indulgence. Champagne and secrets. Models and moguls. He'd never bothered to attend, despite annual invitations wrapped in silk envelopes or delivered by hand through mutual contacts. This one had arrived digitally. Hm. She must be scaling back.

He set the phone down, unread messages still blinking behind the unopened apps. The city churned below. Somewhere in the noise and hunger of it all, deals were being made. Alliances forged. Fortunes restructured. He would join the fray soon enough.

But for now, he considered the invitation, not with interest, but with calculation. A yacht full of men pretending to be gods and women pretending not to notice. A stage for excess. A distraction. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to shift something behind the curtain - out of sight, where real power liked to move.

He didn't RSVP. Not yet. But he didn't delete the message either.​

 

[NurseMaxine]

The sun was just begiinning to paint a thin crimson line along the edge of the Northern Irish hills as it began to rise across the narrow channel that separated Inis Fraoih Island from the Western Edge of the Emerald Isle. The island west of the channel was a near forgotton place frozen in time so much that were it not for the fact that it fell below the flight path of International Flights from the America's that could be seen if not heard from the ground, one would scrsely know it was 21st century and not the early 20th. Roads there were scarsely wide enough for two cars to pass and anything but level, lined with wildflowers, and quiet enough to hear a butterfly's wings . Houses were few and simple with a charm that the world had all but completely abandoned. This had been the world in which Eloine had been born to a Catholic miner. and a Protestant bar maid, out of wedlock so that even among the poorest of the poor she was looked down upon.

Eloine could scarsely afford pride or being choosy about how she would spend her life and it was when the Galway linen company opened a new plant in Donnagel and began to hire girls to wash and fold new linens forshipment to the UK, she was among the the first to apply, being very greatful for steady work and a small but reliable wage in such a remote location. It was at the mill that she would have her first introduction to technogy, and her world began to bloom. One day as she prepared to ride her bicycle the ten miles home, a cruise ship first entered Donnagel Harbor, and she paused at the top of a hill to watch in awe as it gracefully pulled up to the dock. She had never seen a ship so beautiful . Overcome with fascination,and curiosity, she turned and headed down the road to the warf. Reaching the bow ofthe great ship, she pedaled along its entire length, noting it was over 130 meters long . As she pedalled back, the the Bosen was setting up a table and and a sign . As it happened, they were hiring Cabin stewardesses and hoping to attract willing young girls with skills at makingbeds, doing laundry, and folding crisp linens with precision, that also posessed inate beauty that might turn a wealthy man's head. In that moment fate had set her humble life heading in a whole new direction. Though she required help in filling out the application, her willowy looks, and the skill she demontrated in foldind linens, when tested, won her an offer at nearly twice her current wage .

Her bicycle felt weightless as she pedalled back up the hill toward home, eager to tell her mother. Even though it meant she would be gone weeks at a time, her mother had often told her it was high time she was on her own. Her mother had thought it would be marriage rather than employment that would pull her from the home but was still eager for Eloine's leaving . Her mother worried that her father's attention to his daughter's blossoming figure was noticably increasing and might soon result in unwanted attention, and so she was glad to see her daughter out of the house. Eloine had agreed to report work the nextafternoon, and had been issued four uniforms , three informal work outfits in black, white and powder blue, and one set of dress whites with black shorts. She was informed that no one wore shoes aboard ship. The chief stewardess, had measured her carefully before issuing her uniforms, and whispered in her ear that the work outfits looked best without bra and panties, and suggested that she go without them because tips were a significant portion of their pay and that making a good impression on the guests improved them. Eloine was shocked by the comment, but exercised discretion, and kept her thoughts to herself.

Later that evening, Eloine tried on the uniforms, and looking in the mirror, was imediately impressed at how thin , stretchy, and translucent they were, particularly the white and powder blue ones. She now fully understood the Chief Stewardess' comment and realised that being fully shaven would be an absolute necessity. Before bed she took a bath and saw to it that her body was hairless. Though she went to bed late she only slept fitfully and woke early the next day and packed a small bag, before dressing in the powder blue uniform and kissing her mother goodbye. She felt almost naked as she rode the bike to the warf, but encountered no one until she arived at the ship and was greeted agin by the chief stewardess, who looked her up and down and nodded her approval before escorting Eloine to the ship's laundy and a mountain of uniforms and dirty linens. She handed Eloine a radio, and showed her how to use it . Nodding to the laundy she said "I believe, you know what to do here, keep your radio on at all times. Do a good job, and we will get along just fine. You will get your cabin assignment at the crew meeting in a couple of hours."

Eloine took a few minutes to familiarize herself with the compact laundryroom, and started sorting laundry.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian's car pulled to a gentle stop beside the secluded dock that jutted out from the edge of the city like a whispered secret. The area was quiet, save for the low murmur of water lapping against the pylons and the occasional cry of gulls circling overhead. He stepped out, adjusting the cuff of his tailored shirt, and turned his gaze toward the yacht moored a short distance away. It was impossible to miss - sleek, gleaming under the waning sun, with lines that whispered of wealth and indulgence. She was more than just a vessel; she was a floating statement of dominance and pleasure. This wasn't just any party. This was Celeste's yacht.

Though he had received invitations from her before - intimate gatherings, wine-drenched weekends in the hills, avant-garde masquerades that bled into sunrise - this was the first time he had been summoned here, to this particular domain of hers. The invitation had been brief, handwritten, and carried that peculiar scent she always wore - heady and addictive. He remembered how she had signed it: "Come taste what power feels like." That alone had been enough to pique his curiosity.

Adrian loved the water. He always had. Growing up along the coast, the ocean had been both a boundary and a dream. He remembered summer nights watching fishing boats glow in the distance, the silhouettes of men with rough hands and stories etched into their skin. But for all his love of the sea, he'd never set foot on a yacht - certainly not one like this. There was a tension in the air, thick and unspoken, as though the boat itself exhaled something heady the moment he stepped on deck.

The shift was immediate. He could feel it in his bones, like a vibration beneath his skin. This was no ordinary social event. It wasn't the curated sophistication of political fundraisers or the pretentious charm of gallery openings. No, this was something else. Something more primal. More exclusive. The air held a weight—charged, seductive. And somewhere beneath that, a warning.

He gave his name to the sharp-eyed man at the gangway, received a brief nod in return, and crossed onto the yacht. The deck beneath his shoes was pristine, smooth as glass, and somehow warmer than he expected. He took a moment to steady himself, though the boat wasn't swaying. It was the atmosphere that made him feel off-balance.

The first detail to catch his attention was the staff. They were all women. All young. And all dressed in outfits that defied function. Sheer fabrics clung to soft curves, deep cuts invited the eye, and every movement seemed choreographed to titillate. Some carried trays of champagne and canapés, gliding effortlessly across the deck. Others lingered near guests, close enough to whisper, to laugh, to brush an arm in just the right way. There was a studied perfection to them - too polished to be accidental. Adrian's jaw tensed as he watched one girl kneel beside a seated man, offering him a drink while her eyes never left his face. He didn't know whether it was the uniformity of the staff or the apparent ease with which they flitted between serving and seducing that unsettled him. What exactly had he agreed to?

His instinct whispered caution. This wasn't the place for a man like him - or at least, not publicly. He had a reputation to maintain. A life carefully constructed on foundations of discipline and discretion. Yet as he looked around, his concerns dulled under the weight of who was already here. Titans of industry, men who controlled regional commerce with a snap of their fingers. Local officials with re-election campaigns funded by people like Celeste. Even a professional athlete - one of those golden boys who rarely showed up unless there was a promise of privacy and pleasure. They weren't nervous. They weren't cautious. They were leaning into it, relaxed, as if this was familiar territory. As if this was just another night at Celeste's.

He found her at the stern of the yacht, radiant and statuesque in a silk gown that clung like a second skin. Her greeting was a flourish, her energy magnetic. There was something in her eyes - mischief laced with command. Celeste always had a way of making the obscene feel sophisticated. A masterclass in indulgence.

"Adrian, you came! I'm so glad you did. You will not be disappointed."

Those had been her words. But it was the look that followed that truly spoke volumes. It wasn't a promise; it was a dare.

As a fresh drink was offered to him by a girl no more than twenty - delicate, doll-like, with bare feet and a polished restraint in her expression - Adrian felt the stirrings of unease crawl back up his spine. There was a fragility to her, something porcelain, something… untested. And for a moment, his mind darted to darker thoughts. Was she here by choice? Or was she simply playing a role, rehearsed and coached, like everyone else aboard this floating den of curated vice?

He reminded himself who Celeste was. Her family legacy. Her network. She wasn't reckless. She didn't traffic in scandal; she trafficked in secrets. Carefully packaged, deeply buried secrets. And yet the air on this yacht tasted of temptation wrapped in danger. Still, he didn't leave. Not yet. The energy was too potent. Whatever this was, it was more than just a party. It was a game of control, of exhibition, of quiet power exercised in whispers and glances. There was a gravity to the place that drew him in despite every reason to walk away. Curiosity won over conscience. What harm could there be in staying a little longer? Just long enough to understand what was really happening aboard this ship. Just long enough to know if it would ever let him leave the same.​

 

[NurseMaxine]

Down in the bowls of the yacht, tucked in between the galley and the crew quarters Eloine felt at home and in her element. With a major party in progress on deck her first priority were table linens and towels, all of them white, would be washed and dried hot, then folded and delivered still warm to the galley, both bars, the pool, and the dining room service area. This had to be done in full view of the guests quietly, without creating even a hint of disruption. To blend in when making these deliveries, she slipped off her skin-tight shorts and wrapped a black micro skirt around her waist. The skirt was incredibly short and made all the more risque by the fact that she had not worn panties and had to crouch to stock lower shelves and cupboard with fresh linens. The heat of the laundry room and the towels she had to deliver caused her to break a sweat. She had been warned about this situation and applied a simple solution suggestedby the chief stewardess. Before making a delivery, she stepped into her shower, while still wearing her powder blue tank top. This soaked the top, making it near transparent, while cooling her down and erasing any sweat stains. The overal effect made her appear near topless, except for the skirt, and as well endowed as she was, no-one who saw her would be complaining.

With the linens delivered, she returned to the laundry, and decided that dressed as she now was, was infinitely more comfortable than her normal work uniform. If there was any concern over the skirt being soiled, she would simply remove it and work bottomless. It was in this state, and working hard at the ironing machine, that she could be found for most of the evening, happy, content, but busy enough not to notice the presence of anyone passing her laundry room doorway.There seemed to be an almost endless supply of sheets and pillowcases that needed ironed and folded for cabin prep the next morning. She was not expecting guests to be present in the service hallway and expected that with so many guests present, only she, and the chef, were likely to be on the lower level, and the chef would be very busy.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian could hardly trust his own eyes.

The evening had been unfolding in that familiar, unhurried rhythm that he often craved - a kind of detached indulgence where he could observe others surrendering themselves to the energy of the night. He had planted himself on the upper deck of the yacht, near one of the quieter bars, intentionally choosing solitude over mingling. There was a certain satisfaction in that distance, a voyeuristic pleasure in watching others while remaining unbothered, untouched, removed from the tidal sway of bodies and booze. He preferred it that way. The social theatre played out below him like an erotic symphony, each movement choreographed yet unpredictable.

But then - like a flicker of flame catching suddenly in his peripheral vision - she appeared. She moved through the crowd like some apparition of temptation, and for a long moment, Adrian wasn't entirely sure she was real. Fiery red hair, like something out of an artist's fever dream, framed her face and tumbled down her back. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, if that, but what she lacked in height, she more than compensated for in presence. She was compact yet curved in a way that defied proportion, the very embodiment of sensual contradiction. Every line of her body seemed crafted with the intent to ensnare.

Her chest - bare, unapologetic, and almost impossibly perfect - was the first thing that arrested his attention. The size, the symmetry, the unapologetic display of them. There was no need for shame at an event like this, and she bore none. Her breasts were full but suited to her scale, as if the gods themselves had balanced them just for her. Below, a skirt - if it could be called that - barely clung to her hips, a teasing scrap of fabric that offered no illusions of modesty. And beneath it? Nothing. No lace, no cotton, no barrier at all. The bare swell of her ass hinted at freedom, at invitation. He felt his cock twitch in response, a rare involuntary reaction he hadn't experienced in years.

He was not, by any means, the sort of man who leered or ogled. He'd long outgrown the crude behaviours of his youth. Experience had sculpted him into something more restrained, more deliberate. But this woman, this creature, had struck something raw and ancient inside him. A part of him he thought he'd tamed. She walked with towels draped over one arm, likely ferrying them between spaces. Perhaps she was staff. Perhaps she was a guest playing a role. In a place like this, the lines often blurred. For the first time all evening, he felt a need - not a curiosity, not a preference, but a deep, visceral need - to know more. To find her again. To understand whether her allure was a fleeting illusion or something more substantive.

But first, he needed clarity. He sought out Celeste, the ever-composed hostess and architect of these hedonistic affairs. He knew she'd be weaving between clusters of guests like she always did, checking in on comfort levels, encouraging laughter, and ensuring boundaries were respected in her own effortless way. He approached her as discreetly as possible, catching her between engagements, his voice low and level when he finally spoke.

"All the girls working here. I assume they are all of legal age."

He wasn't trying to be the killjoy. But he also wasn't about to allow himself to fall into a trap of ignorance, especially not here. Not with someone like her. The last thing he wanted was to become the subject of whispered scandal or worse, to cross a line that could never be uncrossed. Celeste didn't flinch. She smiled in that knowing way of hers—warm but unbothered, the smile of a woman used to men asking exactly that question. "Of course," she had replied with calm certainty. "These parties are about letting go and enjoying yourself. I am not about to create scandal across our great city."

That was enough for him. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a silent exhale of relief. Good. That was good. Everything was in place, then. No red flags. No caution signs. Now he only had to decide: did he dare?

The woman was no longer in sight, not on the deck at least. But he remembered what she had been carrying - towels, linens. Possibly for the bar or spa spaces tucked away on the lower levels of the yacht. Perhaps she had retreated down there. He didn't know the protocol - whether the lower staff areas were off-limits to guests - but he was in no mood to let technicalities rob him of whatever this sudden spark might become.

Was it ridiculous, chasing after the glimpse of a woman whose name he didn't even know? Maybe. But ridiculousness had never stopped a man stirred by lust before, and Adrian was no exception now. The upper deck suddenly felt too detached, too safe, too sterile. He stood, heart beating a little faster than he cared to admit, and made his way toward the stairwell, intent on following the scent of temptation wherever it might lead. Even if it was just to look again. Just to be closer. Even that would be enough - for now.​