Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: Ixy on 21-01-2018, 19:28:54</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ixy</strong> on <strong>21-01-2018, 19:28:54</strong>
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				It's midnight, and the streets of St. Augustine shine after a fresh rain with the starlight and the fierce, blue diffuse luminosity of new electrical arc-lights spaced down the lights of Cordova St.&nbsp; Gas-lights seize control again where the new electricity has not taken hold in the old quarter, and they remain sentinel down King Street, their orange flicker unyielding in the old town where cast-iron horse-hitches line the church and manor-home walkways of brick, flickering like dragon scales from afar.&nbsp; An Atwater-Kent radio in an upstairs, chipped-stucco apartment crackles Bessie Smith (https://youtu.be/go6TiLIeVZA) down into the streets below where the shutters are propped open, and the orange light within illuminates the white cotton of a cutain that swells and ripples with the after-rain breeze, a pair of young lovers breathing heavy, straining, buckled together in that cool air.<br><br>Past the steeples of the Protestant district and the spires of the Cathedral, just beyond the old coquina stone and the watchful, slumbering form of the old Spanish fort's vigil by the water, there waits Cathedral Place, where a plaza with its fountain bubbling playfully as a few pedestrians begin to emerge into the rain-cooled air, shouldered on all sides by the austere luxury of old-world architecture... the noble castle hotel Casa Monica, the larger, sprawling beast of Castillian Ponce de Leon Hotel, and its stern, glaring twin across the way-- City Hall.&nbsp; Further along the way of King street, if you follow the clicking of heels and the giggling of casual drinkers, you find the Alahambra-inspired coquina-stone concrete of the Zorayda Club... yes, here they don't let the elecricity in just yet.&nbsp; They don't like those grand towers of glaring arc-lights that wash down like the pouring eye of God.-- they like the subtler shadows.<br><br>The warehouses of the river-wharf, keping respectful distance well beyond reach, as they stand guard for this small fortress of gray festooned with red and gold.&nbsp; Its harem-windows and minarets peer out over King Street as jazz spills out like a champagne fountain (https://youtu.be/cUPRb5On7B4).&nbsp; The heavy oak door with its decorative iron knocker remains shut tight as lights within dance through heavy glass, and a sharp-dressed man and young woman pass it by on their way.&nbsp; No one arrives by foot to Club Zorayda-- they would be turned away immediately for fear of drawing attention.&nbsp; This couple is on its way to a cab stand farther on... the only way into the club's fold is via the back entrance, under the sprawling candy-striped canopy by the twin ferns, where each car's driver pulls up and lets out its passengers to be met by a heavyset doorman or two in tailored-- but not flashy-- suits of tweed or flannel, where they're chatted up, welcomed, and coats taken carefully.&nbsp; It's a pity they can't enter through the front door, the way guests were intended to, in order to behold the vast, three-story chamber within... the lace-like frescos in plaster on every wall, the Moorish statues and the blue-and-white Chinese vases stuffed with peacock feathers, the exotic lillies resting on shelves and the brass ashtrays from Persia, the hanging gas lamps from Turkey with hand-tooled glass shades and crystal decorations.&nbsp; The fancy cigars, the tuxedoes, the women with shapely calves and starry eyes, the slicked-back hair and thick accents from around the world.&nbsp; <br><br>And the stars-- yes, real stars from the films-- they speak here, and sometimes their voices are disappointing but at least there's no delay to know what they're saying.&nbsp; Without the garish makeup they're just as lovely, and with a few drinks you get to know a lot about them.&nbsp; Some of them like you if you flirt, some like you even if you don't.&nbsp; Some like to get handsy... sometimes it's flattering, sometimes it's not what you expect and some guys get put off by that-- but those tough guys never try to get tough about it.&nbsp; Nobody would dare... these stars, their presence brings class, and class brings money.&nbsp; And the fastest way to end up in Massacre Bay is to mess with class or money in this town.<br><br>Massacre Bay.&nbsp; Sorry.&nbsp; <em>Matanzas</em> Bay.&nbsp; Saying it in Spanish is better because not everybody speaks Spanish around here.&nbsp; Literally "killings", like there were just some killings there.&nbsp; It was just history.&nbsp; Well... we found out that killings come back sometimes, didn't we?&nbsp; Or don't we already know that, deep down, that the killings are always with us?&nbsp; Just waiting under the surface, for their chance to come back to us for what we did, or what somebody did some time ago, or what we will do given half the chance... when the coins are on the table, the sword is in hand, and the book just needs to be closed for good..?<br><br>It's a good night to be out, and-- for the moment-- all roads lead to Club Zorayda.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Waldham</strong> on <strong>22-01-2018, 22:58:37</strong>
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				<em>*Midnight, the hour of crime, the night is fresh.*</em><br><br>I'm driving my car to Club Zorayda. The wind is blowing my hair.<br><br>Finaly, I'm stopping in front of the club and stepping out of my vehicle.<br><br>Looking around me, I'm noticing the details and each person presnet.<br><br><em>*What does the tonight reserve myself ?*</em>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>HopeFox</strong> on <strong>23-01-2018, 12:23:50</strong>
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				<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b5/Fatemeh.jpg)<br>Fatemeh Taleghani (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1461873)</div>When Fatemeh had been a young girl, her mother had fascinated her with stories and pictures from the cities she had visited in her travels - Baghdad, Cairo, Kabul, and even Moscow, far to the north, a city that lay in what seemed like the fairy-tale realm of the Tsars. Her father, by comparison, kept her mind on the much less adventurous subjects of history and philosophy, but even he could not help but inspire awe and wanderlust with tales of the Caliphates of old, stretching from Afghanistan in the east all the way west to Morocco and Spain. There were so many wonders of architectural beauty and historical significance for her to see, and she planned to visit them all, one day.<br><br>The coming of the drow had shattered those plans, as they had all her others. Perhaps she would spend the rest of her days in servitude to her new masters, perhaps her life would be full of conflict and danger as she fought them wherever she could. Either way, it seemed that her dreams of travel and sightseeing were never to be.<br><br>And yet, here before her very eyes was the Alhambra.<br><br>Not <em>the</em> Alhambra, of course. This building did not quite have the same stature and ancient majesty of that most noble palace of Al-Andalus, but not from want of trying. She had heard of Club Zorayda on her way to St. Augustine, of course, and had been told what to expect, but seeing it with her own eyes was quite an experience.<br><br>Nevertheless, she had work to do. The trail she had followed across the ocean and along the train lines had led her to this city, and if she was going to find out about the movers and shakers of St. Augustine, this was the place to do it. With a knapsack on her back, and dressed as presentably as she could make herself from the scraps she had when she left Iran and the pieces she had hurriedly bought as she made her way through America, she approached the man standing between her and the back door, ready with a <em>salam</em> on her lips and a tip in her hand.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ixy</strong> on <strong>26-01-2018, 05:25:53</strong>
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				The jazz bubbles out the back and front doors, but no one answers the front, and it doesn't take long for Providence to catch the drift that the back entrance is the way to go.&nbsp; A large man-- stocky, sure, but with a black flannel jacket that makes him look even larger with its single-button stretched over his thick middle-- looks at her over his thick-framed glasses and tips his hat.&nbsp; "My my, <i>swanky</i> Miss Jean, and how be you this fine evening?"&nbsp; He grins broadly with gold teeth in his smile and tips his broad-brimmed hat to her.&nbsp; "And who might you be Miss Tomato, hm?&nbsp; Coming to enjoy the festivities, or just shake a leg?"<br><br>As he sees Fatemeh approach, almost at the same moment, but from a slightly different direction, he tips his head a bit and appraises them.&nbsp; "Well well, two does going stag, ain't that a shame?&nbsp; Well, ladies, there will be no shortage of company this evening, lots of dance partners and diversions, party games of all sorts for the private customers... real high-style Joes if you're looking to pet, or even skirts and smarties too, if that's what you're after.&nbsp; And despite your dress, miss," he says to Fatemeh, "I can see you ain't no Reuben."&nbsp; He accepts the tip graciously and tips his hat again.&nbsp; "Miss, I may recommend you dip to the right, there's a ladies' wardrobe of the missus' own keeping with dresses for loan, if you wish to blend in just a bit."&nbsp; Opening the door, the raucously intoxicating call of trumpets and saxophones echoes out in fantastically energetic dissonance, promising wild, free, fable-strewn times.&nbsp; "And would the tall drink of brown care to enter as well?"<br><br>*<br><br>Within the walls, past a short corridor lit by gas fixtures, stands a forty-foot high ceiling of glass over the main room-- ensconced by a balcony at the second vaulted floor, balconies overlook the marble and alabaster dance floor where roulette and poker are played on fine, imported tables of walnut and cherry.&nbsp; Cash and chips are fluttering and clacking about, and tuxedos and smoking jackets abut high skirts and exposed garters, feather boas, silk scarves, long gloves and hand-carved cigarette holders.&nbsp; The smell of Cuban tobacco is thick as the night, as is the floral bouquet of rose water and lily splash, undercut by sandalwood and leather.&nbsp; Antiques and rare imported items perch in every nook, and at the feet of each balcony corner rest blue and white Chinese vases overhead beneath the transluscent white and rose glass dome.&nbsp; Ferns, flowers, and feathers adorn the place, as do couches and a couple of crowded bars.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Gates of Sand and Stone {PF 1927} - IC</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Waldham</strong> on <strong>28-01-2018, 11:10:29</strong>
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				By telling a large man with a black flannel jacket, I'm saying with a smile :<br>"I'm fine, man. It's a surpise and you, would you like shake ... a leg ?"<br><br>I'm entering by the opened door without waiting for a reply taking a mental note of the informations dispensed by the man.<br><br>Then I'm walking with grace watching the structure of the premises and the present people.
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