<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/OV6LkpI.jpg)</div><br/><br/><strong>Name:  Chantal (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=266077.msg13129713#msg13129713)</strong><br/><br/><strong>COURTESEAN</strong><br/><br/><strong>Situation:</strong>Engaged for the evening<br/><br/><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Araxis<br/><br/><strong>Content Warning:</strong><em>None</em><br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/>Those eyes above her, so blue, so remote, like the infinite skies above the place she had been born, the reflection of those skies upon the still pools of water where she had enticed the loa to come to her, to hear her plea.  No, he was not cruel, for she was not important enough, not relevant enough, for cruelty.  She was just another pretty face, a warm body willing to welcome his touch in return for something more tangible than empty flattery and promises.<br/><br/>Chantal had learned the difference, and perhaps it was unambitious of her, but she had not learned to prefer the cruelty that meant recognition of something more than a warm, tightening sheathe in which to hide a fleshy blade, a tender club.<br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">"Let yourself go." </blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>As if such a thing were only of the body, and could be purchased with a glittering coin or gem.  Yet the brothel was a place where such illusions were believed, where the very limitation of a single night freed them from the necessity of belief.<br/><br/>With a sultry smile, Chantal did not resist his pull, and she was slick enough, aroused by the primal force that the loa represented, the sound of her heartbeat like the sound of the bayou drums, that the only resistance he met as Araxis pulled her over him was of the sort that men usually liked, the resistance of muscles kept toned by intent, aided by magic.   Chantal listened to the drums, and moaned out to the loa to fill her as he filled her, to keep her from harm and let the heat from the flames, the rhythm of the drums guide.<br/><br/>Her legs were strong, long, and well used to wrapping around the waist of a lover, and she gripped tight, raising herself upon the bed to follow his command, her hands sliding over that perfect form, slow strokes that followed the rhythm of her heart, of the drums, as her mouth pressed kisses along his arm, his chest, kisses that were warm and interspersed with nips from her teeth, slow flecks from her tongue as she stared up into those eyes, into the enormity of the sky itself as it filled her, then withdrew, leaving her wanting ... her breath like wind rustling the long strands of hanging moss on those hottest, most humid nights.