Mauvelle laid alone on a massive bed. She wore layers upon layers of exotic fabric, all shaped to fit both her and the trends of the day. On top was a conservative cloak of green, revealing not an inch of skin from jaw to toe. Of course, all those layers had carefully covered slits to allow easy access to her prized assets.
On any other day, she would have leapt at the chance to fall asleep in the rich, thick blankets that were piled around her. On any other day, the bed would have been the first and foremost of her concerns.
But on this day, it was hope and the unknown that dominated her thoughts. If he won, he would come to claim his prize and do with it as he pleased. If he lost, then he might come, he might not, but even if he did visit her, it would not be a pleasant experience. Fulfilling, yes, considerate, yes, but he would not be happy and so neither would she.
Such were Mauvelle's thoughts as she absently shaped her hair. Delicate fingertips picked and untangled individual strands, putting the finishing touches on the golden fan that framed her glowing face. It had been many years since her features could be described as youthful, but that was of little consequence to her or her clients.
She did not think of more unpleasant topics. Years ago, perhaps she would have been overcome by the allure of self-pity. To be a princess in distress, there was a certain appeal in waiting for her shining prince to come carry her out of her squalor. To dream of a rugged knight to lift this sordid courtesan from the doldrums of her normal life, that was a fantasy for girls.
Instead, Mauvelle approached the occasion for what it was: a blissful vacation. The things that he could do to her, they meant no more nor less than the obvious. To overthink the meaning behind them was to lessen their incomparable pleasure.
And so she listened to the distant thrum of the cheering crowd. It was already his turn, that much she knew. She could almost make out the moves of the duel by the thunder's ebb and flow. He was the crowd favorite and so uproarious applause met every victory, uncomfortable silence every defeat.
The cheers grew louder and more frequent, ever the sign of his impending victory. It was time and so she began to prepare herself. She was picturesque enough, but she needed to be immediately ready for him. Into the slits her fingers searched. When she finally reached flesh, it only took the lightest pressure to set her twitching. The folds of her beneath the folds of her facade parted with ease, soundless before the climax of the duel.
She could picture him perfectly, standing over his defeated foe with a steely gaze cast downward. He would be covered in his black steel, an enormous weight that only hinted at his inner strength. It had been years since she had witnessed him in the arena, but she could practically feel him standing right before her. After all, she received a reminder every time he went out to fight and won. Dripping, sweating, chest heaving, he looked the same after partaking in violence and pleasure alike.
She had to consciously slow her fingers down. Such thoughts were intoxicating and there was no need to get overly excited before he arrived.
Out of the corners of her eyes, she could make out a number of things, all in their proper places. Several surreptitious mirrors confirmed that not a hair was out of place. Together, all the angles painted a picturesque scene of an expectant lover. Unmoving drapes obscured the dreary grey sky that lazed beyond thick windows. They shielded her mood from the oppressive gloom, an insurmountable barrier that stood between her fiery love and the apathetic gusts without.
The cheers died down, but not in explosive anger. It was a steady decline of howling and stomping as the arena slowly cleared out. He had won some time ago then and he would arrive soon. Her fingers moved faster.
The faint shadows on the ceiling slowly swirled and separated. She traced the shapes and measured her breathing. She wanted to be ready, but not too ready. He would be there soon.
A faint tapping on the window began. An errant branch, perhaps. Her hand unconsciously fell into the same rhythm. She could feel it, somewhere in the distance, just waiting for her to reach out and touch.
The door below opened. Out the hall, down the stairs, through the entryway, the sounds of the street grew louder. The door thudded shut, the ambience faded back to normal. Her hand slowed. He was here.
Faint clattering marked his progress as he discarded his dirty shell. Metal clanged on stone, then wood. He was at the stairs.
