Something soothed the chaos in her mind each night when her dark head finally met the crushed spill of her pillow.
It was Him, this much she knew.
He was preparing, pondering, contemplating; deciding her fate as it was his every right to. Isir had felt defective, cracked, chipped, flaking away into a state of incomplete. Days and nights had melded together in a mesh of dark urges and whispering voices. There came a fascination with sharp metals and their dastardly beautiful shine, a delightful completion when her body slipped through ever pulsing murk and shadow. Something was growing within her, latent and slow, thanks to tender care of her Lord and Master.
For this, the demure darkling felt doubly blessed, and it was on this night of her club scheduling that she would dance in His honor.
In her cool, tentative manner, Isir had approached her Master's First, Dru, and explained her ideas for the evening's main set. Deft fingers, a spinner's elegant drawl, made up the proper preparations and instructive paper work for her darker, younger Sister. Stage hands clothed in all concealing black skin suites that shimmered in the faintest undulance of dark to light. A song no doubt selected from the infamous Derby Dame's never ending stash of musical wonders. Strings meant for a giant puppet hung from the rigs hidden above the main stage's platform. The various clothed women hid in the shadows of violent, gold, and black elegance.
Isir hung from these strings, naked and vulnerable, arms suspended yet limp, legs splayed, her back to the audience to display the modern artist's rendition of lifelong pain across her slender back. The complete posture of marionette submission, damaged and treasured all at once. The effect was startling, complete with the waterfall of unbound, bone white hair to hide the more delicate bits of the drowess' lustrous body that carefully siphoned stage lights didn't already cast shadows to hide.
'Confident with your back to the audience
Tremolo strings begin with your gesturing wrist...'
The beat began slowly, a fusion of classical and electric. Strings controlling the darkling from above slackened her prone form in time with a possessively built rhythm.
The strings above began to move, taking back the slack they'd given as the dark, feminine shapes began to meld outwards from the shadowed curtains of the stage towards the puppetted drowess.
'Start the orchestra slow with an elegant air.'
That ebon body arched as if stricken by an unseen whip, dark hands turning her bowed form around to face the audience as a picture of pain contorting each feature; trembling. The hands of the figures moved accordingly, shielding her the crevices and dips along her body; catering them as if they were too precious to allowed being seen. Light was a film meant to cast all of her glittering glory as if it were wet, slick from a fresh burst of water.
'Then a circular sweep crescendoing swell,
Leo Slatkin, Dohn?nyi, Previn, DePaur...'
The strings were suddenly cut, and all hands were upon the drowess as a violet light rippled down across her skin.
'Your arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.'
Somewhere between the illusion of the dark dancer's hands and the satiny glow, streams of silks in varying tones of violet and black slipped up over her skin, fastening around behind the slender arch of her neck, haloing the brilliance of her Master's bejeweled mark. Bloody rubies opened, almost glowing in the shine of the stage.
'You're conducting Verese in a moment of silence.
Your body directs a pulse of wind.
Von Karajan, Hampton, Menuhin, Levine'
It was then she began to dance, free and unrestrained; reborn in a vision of her Lord's pleasure.
Your arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.
The dark dancers had melded away from Isir, leaving her to sway in some dark world of rejoice amidst the chilling glitter of the darkened dias. She felt the weight of the crowd's desire upon her. The salt of their sweat, the bay of their breath, the sadist lust, the wanton need to possess and destroy something beautiful; all were paltry to her Lord, and even they knew so. As the wolves bayed in their own quiet way for the black lamb's blood, she felt a passion overcome her, simmering white-cold from the center of her body.
'Those arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.'
He was in her, He was around her, His touch consumed her, His coldness surrounded her, His dominance enthralled her.
'Control...'
His presence was everything, it gave her life just as easily as it could dispatch her death. But that was the thrill, that was the honor. His honor.
'Control...'
Her limbs willowed, the dark gleen of her body supple as a spring shoot at the whim of the wind. Seductive and shadowed, swathed in her silks, yet for all that refined beauty and perfected poise, she was humbled by Him. Graciously and completely.
'Control...'
She danced to honor Him.
____________________________________
____________________________________
Inspired by The Faint's song, The Conductor
It was Him, this much she knew.
He was preparing, pondering, contemplating; deciding her fate as it was his every right to. Isir had felt defective, cracked, chipped, flaking away into a state of incomplete. Days and nights had melded together in a mesh of dark urges and whispering voices. There came a fascination with sharp metals and their dastardly beautiful shine, a delightful completion when her body slipped through ever pulsing murk and shadow. Something was growing within her, latent and slow, thanks to tender care of her Lord and Master.
For this, the demure darkling felt doubly blessed, and it was on this night of her club scheduling that she would dance in His honor.
In her cool, tentative manner, Isir had approached her Master's First, Dru, and explained her ideas for the evening's main set. Deft fingers, a spinner's elegant drawl, made up the proper preparations and instructive paper work for her darker, younger Sister. Stage hands clothed in all concealing black skin suites that shimmered in the faintest undulance of dark to light. A song no doubt selected from the infamous Derby Dame's never ending stash of musical wonders. Strings meant for a giant puppet hung from the rigs hidden above the main stage's platform. The various clothed women hid in the shadows of violent, gold, and black elegance.
Isir hung from these strings, naked and vulnerable, arms suspended yet limp, legs splayed, her back to the audience to display the modern artist's rendition of lifelong pain across her slender back. The complete posture of marionette submission, damaged and treasured all at once. The effect was startling, complete with the waterfall of unbound, bone white hair to hide the more delicate bits of the drowess' lustrous body that carefully siphoned stage lights didn't already cast shadows to hide.
'Confident with your back to the audience
Tremolo strings begin with your gesturing wrist...'
The beat began slowly, a fusion of classical and electric. Strings controlling the darkling from above slackened her prone form in time with a possessively built rhythm.
The strings above began to move, taking back the slack they'd given as the dark, feminine shapes began to meld outwards from the shadowed curtains of the stage towards the puppetted drowess.
'Start the orchestra slow with an elegant air.'
That ebon body arched as if stricken by an unseen whip, dark hands turning her bowed form around to face the audience as a picture of pain contorting each feature; trembling. The hands of the figures moved accordingly, shielding her the crevices and dips along her body; catering them as if they were too precious to allowed being seen. Light was a film meant to cast all of her glittering glory as if it were wet, slick from a fresh burst of water.
'Then a circular sweep crescendoing swell,
Leo Slatkin, Dohn?nyi, Previn, DePaur...'
The strings were suddenly cut, and all hands were upon the drowess as a violet light rippled down across her skin.
'Your arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.'
Somewhere between the illusion of the dark dancer's hands and the satiny glow, streams of silks in varying tones of violet and black slipped up over her skin, fastening around behind the slender arch of her neck, haloing the brilliance of her Master's bejeweled mark. Bloody rubies opened, almost glowing in the shine of the stage.
'You're conducting Verese in a moment of silence.
Your body directs a pulse of wind.
Von Karajan, Hampton, Menuhin, Levine'
It was then she began to dance, free and unrestrained; reborn in a vision of her Lord's pleasure.
Your arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.
The dark dancers had melded away from Isir, leaving her to sway in some dark world of rejoice amidst the chilling glitter of the darkened dias. She felt the weight of the crowd's desire upon her. The salt of their sweat, the bay of their breath, the sadist lust, the wanton need to possess and destroy something beautiful; all were paltry to her Lord, and even they knew so. As the wolves bayed in their own quiet way for the black lamb's blood, she felt a passion overcome her, simmering white-cold from the center of her body.
'Those arms are calling out,
They wave like a swarm of sound.
You pull the sound from scores of notes-
You step the stage and take control.'
He was in her, He was around her, His touch consumed her, His coldness surrounded her, His dominance enthralled her.
'Control...'
His presence was everything, it gave her life just as easily as it could dispatch her death. But that was the thrill, that was the honor. His honor.
'Control...'
Her limbs willowed, the dark gleen of her body supple as a spring shoot at the whim of the wind. Seductive and shadowed, swathed in her silks, yet for all that refined beauty and perfected poise, she was humbled by Him. Graciously and completely.
'Control...'
She danced to honor Him.
____________________________________
____________________________________
Inspired by The Faint's song, The Conductor