Chapter 5
Killing Time
In the top-floor apartment of the luxurious skyscraper, the lights were almost all off. The dim glow from the LED strips was, however, constantly shattered by bright flashes from the gigascreen, on which an extremely rough and savagely paced amateur porn was playing.
The frenzied images were perfectly suited to the music blasting from the powerful stereo system, which was playing
Kordhell's
Murder in My Mind
, making the whole place rumble with its powerful bass and hyperkinetic synthesizer rhythms.
Flattened out on the couch in front of the screen, a sophisticated-looking girl with long, straight blond hair, perfectly tanned skin, and flashy, heavy makeup was finger-banging herself in a violent, obscene frenzy, enraptured by the images of borderline rape that the TV was projecting. Her back fully supported on the seat, she was using the backrest to just barely support the nape of her neck so that she could stare at the screen; her legs, outrageously spread apart, supported a perfectly round and toned ass that, jutting out beyond the cushions, levered up the very high heels the young woman was wearing to scamper into the void chasing the movement of her fingers, like a dog in heat simulating mating.
Wrapped in an expensive fitted jumpsuit with a
Louis Vuitton
monogram, she didn't even have to undress to give herself pleasure, as the garment she wore essentially covered only half her body, leaving her shoulder, arm, buttock, and left leg bare.
With her fingers, with a perfectly groomed French manicure, thrust into the breathtaking opening, she could easily reach her pussy, already completely steamy and soaked, to torture her own clit relentlessly.
A few feet away from her, Ulrika's attention was instead turned completely to the song's psychedelic rhythm, which pulled her into a lonely but no less frenzied and chaotic dance than Brittany's masturbation.
Her ample breasts, bare beneath her fishnet tank top, black like the rest of her clothing that stood in contrast to her snow-white skin, danced hypnotically, jolted by the rocking swings her body made in pursuit of the electric notes of the music.
The multitude of crosses and skulls, which hung from the silver chains and adorned the studded collar, sparkled in the half-light every time they crossed the bright light of the screen.
Ulrika bounced her head left and right, her gloved hands close to her ears but not touching them, as if resting on invisible headphones. Her ebony-black hair, which usually fell in long wisps in front of her face, whipped in all directions with each bounce.
Her eyes, outlined by light eye shadow and defined by a firm eyeliner to create the perfect goth look, were closed as if she were in a trance, transported to another world by the psychedelic tones.
Her lips were parted in a sensual puff as they expelled lilac smoke from the e-cigarette she held between her right hand fingers; the crimson color of the metallic lipstick conspicuously colored her mouth, making it look bloody.
Cassandra watched the two young "guests" sitting on a stool in the corner bar, her back facing the counter.
She dominated the scene with a perfect pin-up pose, her curvaceous legs crossed lavishly showing off the perfect thigh-high gap that made a fine display from the slit of her sarong; her torso leaning back on her right elbow was turned to the side so as to highlight her shoulders and ample breasts.
To complete the iconography, her left hand held a dark drink resting on her knee, and between her fingers was the cigarette-shaped vaporizer, just like a 1950s movie diva.
In open contrast with the girls, her bearing was utterly calm and poised, completely unaffected by either the loud music or the lewd imagery.
That was clearly her realm and her amusement park.
Ulrika left her static dance to gradually waltz toward her, without losing the frenzy of the tune; only when she was halfway did she smoothly switch her rhythmic steps into the swift and swaggering ones of a runway walk, at the same time bringing her hand to her mouth to draw another drag from the vaporizer.
She blew out the smoke, finally opening her eyes and meeting Cassandra's in an intense gaze, as if to let her know she was strutting for her.
The girl made a beeline for her Cuba Libre resting on the counter next to Cassie, grabbing it as soon as it was within reach and taking a generous sip, savoring it with her eyes closed once again.
When she opened them, the sight of the Los Angeles nighttime skyline hit her through the penthouse's enormous windows, joining the vastness of the living room to overwhelm her with a sense of opulence she was evidently not used to.
Seeing her lost in her thoughts, Cassandra slowly leaned back to observe her profile, and when she saw the young woman fixed on a point far on the horizon, she raised her hand, caressing her chin with a finger in an implicit invitation to turn around.
The gesture was gentle, but the movements were those of a spider weaving its web around its prey.
Ulrika obeyed the call, but when her gaze met the other's wicked one, all the bravado that had filled her during the catwalk was gone, the contemplative captivation for the view replaced by reverence for the "Mistress of the House."
"Is everything alright,
Chérie
?" she asked, her tone indicating she knew the answer perfectly well and was waiting for a confession.
The young goth's irises contracted, making her nervousness even more evident, and with an insecurity completely opposite to the character she had shown during the dance, she intertwined her hands around the glass, fidgeting with one of her rings and lowering her gaze.
"
Ma
...
Madame De Blancourt
..." she finally managed to say in a barely audible voice that only Cassandra's supernatural senses could catch over the music, "...Can I... Can I do a line?" she asked in utter distress, like a child asking if they could eat a tub of ice cream
before
sitting down for dinner.
Cassandra had let her turn her head but had never abandoned the contact of her hand under her chin; her charisma made it so that the simple gesture of taking the other's profile between her index and thumb conveyed a completely different tone, transforming it into an imperative to obey.
Ulrika obediently turned her face back towards her, though her eyes lingered a bit, guilty.
"You know you have to be clean when I call you, right,
ma puce
?" began the half-French woman, scrutinizing her more seriously while maintaining a motherly and understanding voice.
