<b>Re: !!!THE BUNKER: Sex &amp; Fetish Club!!! (NOW OPEN!)</b><br/><br/>Without warning, a girl, small in stature for the heavy attitude that her looks and mannerisms protrayed, enters the renowned fetish club and bar without a sound save the dull clack of her heavy-looking black boots and the slam of the thick metal door of the former bunker behind her. She wore a big leather bomber jacket, authentic WWII SS gear from her home city and residence of Berlin. The large, sized-for-a-man leather coat lay heavy on her shoulders, the bottom of the jacket past her hips and the sleeves covering her hands; except for the one holding a lit fag between her index and middle finger. She was only about 5 foot 4, with shoulder length blonde hair that was windblown and a bit tangled from the cold European winter wind outside the building, her light blue eyes darting to and fro the corners of the room, sizing up the handful of people in the club at the moment. She immediately notices the owner - undeniably obvious with the slim patronage hanging around tonight, and she made a mental note of his seniority. The young, barely 18 year old girl finds the pocket of her coat and absent-mindedly plays with the small knife she kept there for protection - it had her name engraved on it,<i>Irma Koenig</i>. A gift from her long disappeared father.<br/><br/>Irma slinks along the wall silently, avoiding the few patrons grinding on the dancefloor under the hot red lights and booming industrial music - she wasn't interested in socialising with these kind of people. She rubs her cigarette against the wall as she reaches the bar, putting it out and crumbling what is left of the butt in her hand. "Guten Abend." she says dully and quietly to the bar hand, flashing a convincing fake ID and ordering a stein of beer. Sipping the cold froth off the top of her local brewed beer, Irma turns and leans against the bar casually, her large coat slipping off one of her shoulders to reveal her slim, petite figure, clothed in a tight fake leather mini skirt accented with a studded belt. Her chest was covered by a beat up cotton wifebeater tank, the nipples of her small but plump breasts slightly showing through. She had no tattoos, and instead found pride in her smooth, milky skin that she showed on her bare legs and arms, along with a small view of her flat belly from underneath her shirt.<br/><br/>After a few moments of silence, watching the fools on the dance floor with mild curiosity, she gazes towards the opposite end of the bar, where the tall, muscular, intimidating (but not to Irma) owner of the bar stood with his arms crossed. She had purposely sat herself as far as she could from the other living, breathing clientele in the bar; she was not a girl who was skilled with words and left the talking to the others - people that enjoy that kind of thing.<br/><br/>(I hope this can help bump the thread, it's an awesome sounding environment.)