Running Wild [Elegant]
Jan 2, 2014 11:36:24 GMT -5
Post by Tango on Jan 2, 2014 11:36:24 GMT -5
Laughter infectiously bubbled outside the club’s grandly-carved doors, the double panes of pristine glass offering expense and luxury that those without wealth could never venture to touch or taste. They say the most interesting conversations happen outside club-entrances, it’s the place where the music isn’t too loud and people who are nothing alike and have nothing in common exchange words as if they’d known each other for ten thousand years and have all the reasoning in the world to swap stories from childhood and laugh about things that neither participant finds amusing in the slightest. It’s that single spot where flirtatious glances go without comment and people speak freely with the courage of alcohol fresh on their breath and a distinct mist readily distorting the faces of every-being until each feature looks as friendly as the next and every individual appears to be best-friend material in that very same instant.
However Estella didn’t readily exchange in conversation with just anybody, whether alcohol had an influence or not. Unlike those that conversed in their estranged groups and intermixed with people that seemed to just scrape into the prestige needed to enter a bar of such taste, Estella didn’t dare lower her standards to the point where she’d exchange flatteries with people whose outfits were out-of-fashion and fixed their tatty hair in styles fit for rugrats. Of course she associated herself with the very best, her own outfit fresh from the line, the black lace like ink upon her pale-skin, binding itself around each-inch of her slenderly-built frame, lapping greedily at the flatness of her stomach and the dip of her waist. She was small, far from athletic and rather delicate looking, but she didn’t mind in the slightest, instead she took in all to her advantage and appealed to the attributes which she fancied so lustfully in herself. For in her vanity she adored the wildness of her curled, caramel hair and found herself so often engaged with her own reflection, admiring the definition of her blushing cheeks and the predatory curve of her flushing, plump mouth.
Unlike most sixteen year olds that would bide their time in the company of friends or training in vain for the games like high-strung animals, Estella fancied herself more sophisticated, more grown-up with character unbeknown to those of her own age. She didn’t find pleasure in childish things and had acquired a taste for more ‘private’ activities, not that her family knew or had even the slightest idea that their darling daughter, so level-headed and seemingly flawless, was dabbling in the more dangerous things in life. It wasn’t hard to overcome the limitations of age when wealth was in abundance, unlike some who she occasionally called friends, depending on her mood or the necessity of the person, she had found that people were easily bought and their licence never came before the promise of payment. It was a privilege that in Estella’s mind she divinely deserved.
After a private conversation and a sickly-sweet smile, Estella’s long, marble limbs, ghostly white but without visible fault, carried her confidently into the midst of bodies, straight into the centre of a thick elixir radiating the distinguishing aroma of perfume and spirits. Within moments the tangy taste of sour shots caused her features to twist only to regain quick composure in time to collect a glass of clear liquid which the very smell of caused a phantom burning sensation to tickle the back of her throat and cause a queasiness to twist in the pit of her stomach. It was always a challenge to get drunk, or at least it was until the point where the alcohol no longer had a taste and flowed as freely as water.
However Estella didn’t readily exchange in conversation with just anybody, whether alcohol had an influence or not. Unlike those that conversed in their estranged groups and intermixed with people that seemed to just scrape into the prestige needed to enter a bar of such taste, Estella didn’t dare lower her standards to the point where she’d exchange flatteries with people whose outfits were out-of-fashion and fixed their tatty hair in styles fit for rugrats. Of course she associated herself with the very best, her own outfit fresh from the line, the black lace like ink upon her pale-skin, binding itself around each-inch of her slenderly-built frame, lapping greedily at the flatness of her stomach and the dip of her waist. She was small, far from athletic and rather delicate looking, but she didn’t mind in the slightest, instead she took in all to her advantage and appealed to the attributes which she fancied so lustfully in herself. For in her vanity she adored the wildness of her curled, caramel hair and found herself so often engaged with her own reflection, admiring the definition of her blushing cheeks and the predatory curve of her flushing, plump mouth.
Unlike most sixteen year olds that would bide their time in the company of friends or training in vain for the games like high-strung animals, Estella fancied herself more sophisticated, more grown-up with character unbeknown to those of her own age. She didn’t find pleasure in childish things and had acquired a taste for more ‘private’ activities, not that her family knew or had even the slightest idea that their darling daughter, so level-headed and seemingly flawless, was dabbling in the more dangerous things in life. It wasn’t hard to overcome the limitations of age when wealth was in abundance, unlike some who she occasionally called friends, depending on her mood or the necessity of the person, she had found that people were easily bought and their licence never came before the promise of payment. It was a privilege that in Estella’s mind she divinely deserved.
After a private conversation and a sickly-sweet smile, Estella’s long, marble limbs, ghostly white but without visible fault, carried her confidently into the midst of bodies, straight into the centre of a thick elixir radiating the distinguishing aroma of perfume and spirits. Within moments the tangy taste of sour shots caused her features to twist only to regain quick composure in time to collect a glass of clear liquid which the very smell of caused a phantom burning sensation to tickle the back of her throat and cause a queasiness to twist in the pit of her stomach. It was always a challenge to get drunk, or at least it was until the point where the alcohol no longer had a taste and flowed as freely as water.
