08-24-2013, 05:11 PM
Kallisti had an air of vintage. Damask inlaid the walls, and the furniture was solid, luxuriant – and expensive. The bar itself was extravagant, back-dropped by antique bottles glittering wealth in the soft light, but it was the stage the seating was positioned to worship. The private arrangements walked a fine and purposeful line between comfort and straight-laced formality; Kallisti encouraged coy promises through fluttered eyelashes, incidental touches and husky whispers. But it sold seduction, not sex. If you wanted an anonymous fuck in a bathroom, or to act the voyeur peeping on the exploits of strangers, there were plenty of venues within the Red Light District to accommodate. In an age where every fetish was catered for, Kallisti was foreplay; the naughty, clandestine kind that left you breathless. And wanting more.
Along the farthest wall, cordoned off, a grand door led the way to the theatre; for those who stumped up the cash for admittance to the midnight show, which was still a few hours away. In the meantime the entertainment was the lightly teasing, wickedly cheeky kind. Most people thought of burlesque as the art of striptease, and Kallisti embraced that whole-heartedly, but it found its earliest roots in parody. Travesty. Sly and subversive mockery. When Ori surveyed this decadent kingdom, that was what she saw.
Tonight she’d claimed a seat at the bar, legs crossed and fingers toying with a glass of potent amber liquid. She watched the entertainment rather than the patrons, and wasn’t the only woman here to be doing so. Nothing about her spoke of ostentatious wealth, though the cut of her dress was expensive and form-fitting; like Kallisti, it straddled the line between provocative and elegant. She knew well her own appeal. But she also knew how to flip that confidence cold, to ward off all but the most masochistic of attentions like a class A bitch. Which was why she was sitting alone.
If she wanted to relax. To get drunk. To have some fun: this was not the place she habitually came to. Perhaps because she knew the orchestration of cogs and wheels behind Kallisti’s mystique, and for her its charm fell flat. Perhaps because it reminded her of the feelings that had brought the business venture into being in the first place, and if she dwelled it still burned like fire. Three years later. So unless she turned up on whim to work behind the bar, her presence during opening hours usually signified the possession of a foul mood. She always came here to sate it. Because for whatever abstract reason, Kallisti was among the few places her grasps into the unknown met with the warm taste of power. She could flood herself until it hurt. If she wanted.
The murmur of conversation behind her caught her ears, or its tone at least, and she turned to watch one of the servers whispering with Karmen, the woman Ori employed for the day-to-day running of the club. Voluptuous, blonde and porcelain pale, with a sharp eye for the beautiful and a sharper eye for business. The woman was frowning, and though they spoke quiet enough, Ori understood the gist.
Emma.
Her parents said she was missing. That shit happened, particularly in this part of town, and the only pertinent point to Ori was that her staff was short. The vacancy had yet to be filled, in part because she was selective in who she hired – particularly for the job of mingling with the customers, keeping the entertainment fluid between curtain-falls, the drinks wetting lips and the smiles heated. It was a strictly no-touch venue, and the men and women who worked here were renowned for not sleeping with the clientele despite their lascivious flirting. In reality there was no rule as such, just a certain type of individual Oriena favoured; those who liked the unusual power and seductive control Kallisti offered more than they coveted the good money to be made beneath the banner of its brand. And, more importantly, for breaking it, and allowing themselves to be bought.
"I’ll go."
Karmen’s lips pursed at the interruption, and she lifted a finely arched brow. To which Oriena smirked, and the serving girl looked vaguely alarmed. She did not openly advertise her position here, more because she was so often absent than for any other reason. As far as the majority of staff and customers alike were concerned, Karmen helmed this ship. "Ori..."
"I’ll play nice. I promise."
She outstretched her hand for the tray. Karmen knew better than to argue, and Ori slipped from her seat victoriously, liberating her own glass from the polished bar too. The glint in her eye was mischievous, and not in a particularly pleasant way as she left.
He was sitting alone. Lounging, really. Ori eyed the placement of his feet critically as she placed the tray, but made an otherwise languorous trail up the rest of his body - culminating in the offering of a glass, held far enough away that he’d need to sit forward to reach it. He was carefully dishevelled, with an errant air that in the end quirked a sly smile to the edge of her lips as she sat down uninvited. Nouveau riche. Young. Probably full to the brim with his own shit, but pleasant enough to look at.
Her own drink she nestled in her lap, legs crossed. Prime tables cost a small fortune for an evening. If he frequented the place, he would know that Kallisti’s express care of its patrons did not begin and end with the stage-show. Its touch was personal. If he didn't know, he would probably just assume something else had drawn her. Looks, maybe. Or the flash of wealth. He didn't look like the kind of guy accustomed to his own company for long. Poor luck for him that he'd been landed with Ori's. She wasn't feeling particularly charitable, and if there was something sultry in the gaze of her kohl smoked eyes, there was also something dangerously sharp. "Oriena."
Edited by Oriena, Aug 25 2013, 05:07 PM.
Along the farthest wall, cordoned off, a grand door led the way to the theatre; for those who stumped up the cash for admittance to the midnight show, which was still a few hours away. In the meantime the entertainment was the lightly teasing, wickedly cheeky kind. Most people thought of burlesque as the art of striptease, and Kallisti embraced that whole-heartedly, but it found its earliest roots in parody. Travesty. Sly and subversive mockery. When Ori surveyed this decadent kingdom, that was what she saw.
Tonight she’d claimed a seat at the bar, legs crossed and fingers toying with a glass of potent amber liquid. She watched the entertainment rather than the patrons, and wasn’t the only woman here to be doing so. Nothing about her spoke of ostentatious wealth, though the cut of her dress was expensive and form-fitting; like Kallisti, it straddled the line between provocative and elegant. She knew well her own appeal. But she also knew how to flip that confidence cold, to ward off all but the most masochistic of attentions like a class A bitch. Which was why she was sitting alone.
If she wanted to relax. To get drunk. To have some fun: this was not the place she habitually came to. Perhaps because she knew the orchestration of cogs and wheels behind Kallisti’s mystique, and for her its charm fell flat. Perhaps because it reminded her of the feelings that had brought the business venture into being in the first place, and if she dwelled it still burned like fire. Three years later. So unless she turned up on whim to work behind the bar, her presence during opening hours usually signified the possession of a foul mood. She always came here to sate it. Because for whatever abstract reason, Kallisti was among the few places her grasps into the unknown met with the warm taste of power. She could flood herself until it hurt. If she wanted.
The murmur of conversation behind her caught her ears, or its tone at least, and she turned to watch one of the servers whispering with Karmen, the woman Ori employed for the day-to-day running of the club. Voluptuous, blonde and porcelain pale, with a sharp eye for the beautiful and a sharper eye for business. The woman was frowning, and though they spoke quiet enough, Ori understood the gist.
Emma.
Her parents said she was missing. That shit happened, particularly in this part of town, and the only pertinent point to Ori was that her staff was short. The vacancy had yet to be filled, in part because she was selective in who she hired – particularly for the job of mingling with the customers, keeping the entertainment fluid between curtain-falls, the drinks wetting lips and the smiles heated. It was a strictly no-touch venue, and the men and women who worked here were renowned for not sleeping with the clientele despite their lascivious flirting. In reality there was no rule as such, just a certain type of individual Oriena favoured; those who liked the unusual power and seductive control Kallisti offered more than they coveted the good money to be made beneath the banner of its brand. And, more importantly, for breaking it, and allowing themselves to be bought.
"I’ll go."
Karmen’s lips pursed at the interruption, and she lifted a finely arched brow. To which Oriena smirked, and the serving girl looked vaguely alarmed. She did not openly advertise her position here, more because she was so often absent than for any other reason. As far as the majority of staff and customers alike were concerned, Karmen helmed this ship. "Ori..."
"I’ll play nice. I promise."
She outstretched her hand for the tray. Karmen knew better than to argue, and Ori slipped from her seat victoriously, liberating her own glass from the polished bar too. The glint in her eye was mischievous, and not in a particularly pleasant way as she left.
He was sitting alone. Lounging, really. Ori eyed the placement of his feet critically as she placed the tray, but made an otherwise languorous trail up the rest of his body - culminating in the offering of a glass, held far enough away that he’d need to sit forward to reach it. He was carefully dishevelled, with an errant air that in the end quirked a sly smile to the edge of her lips as she sat down uninvited. Nouveau riche. Young. Probably full to the brim with his own shit, but pleasant enough to look at.
Her own drink she nestled in her lap, legs crossed. Prime tables cost a small fortune for an evening. If he frequented the place, he would know that Kallisti’s express care of its patrons did not begin and end with the stage-show. Its touch was personal. If he didn't know, he would probably just assume something else had drawn her. Looks, maybe. Or the flash of wealth. He didn't look like the kind of guy accustomed to his own company for long. Poor luck for him that he'd been landed with Ori's. She wasn't feeling particularly charitable, and if there was something sultry in the gaze of her kohl smoked eyes, there was also something dangerously sharp. "Oriena."
Edited by Oriena, Aug 25 2013, 05:07 PM.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)