Thread: My shitty friends and their stupid psychic parties (SomethingEsoteric, YellowSmoke

My shitty friends and their stupid psychic parties SomethingEsoteric, YellowSmoke By the time they time they reached Brooklyn's front door and crossed the verge into her abode - Treya swept along on the winds of the other's need and desire - the fortune-teller's spirits were high upon the cocktail of lust and success. Her victory would be all but forgotten about beneath the covers of Brooke's bed if they made it that far she knew when forget about the act, knew when to let her libido take centre-stage, and wouldn't be a shame to focus on anything but the heat of the other woman's passions? Her invitation had been an extension of Treya's admission I would sleep with you in an instant - let's do it now. Why beat around the bush? They wanted each other, and Brooke's place really had been only five minutes away, as their flesh was now only a few layers away from hungry fingers, their privacy sealed by the closing of the varnished wooden door at their backs. I've wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, Treya'd admitted on the walk, leaning into her soon-to-be-lover and slipping her arm about her, keeping her close for her warmth, though that had been little to do with the cold. Beneath all of her cool mystique and confident allure, she - like Brooklyn - had needs the warmth of another's embrace, the reaffirming desire in one's eyes in her presence. These were easily attained, but whenever they were denied her act took on a new dynamic, one of whirlwind and turbulent tension. She would not allow herself to feel the desperation which had burrowed so deeply into Brooke's psyche - would not, could not admit herself to it - but on occasion it came to her and ruptured her unwavering calm. Few had ever seen her volatile eruptions the tempest was confined to back-stage, beyond the gaze of her own audience. In contrast to Brooklyn's maxim of hurting herself to show others, Maitreya's wrath was always outward-facing. Moving as she did from character to character - a veritable social chameleon at work - there was little for her to to focus it on in an inward direction. It had been years since she had pruned the seedling within herself, and it had been left to bloom in darkness. Even amidst pain and sadness, she was like to heap her emotions upon a faade, and as a mechanism of self-defence it worked rather well, with the sole implication that it shunned any development of a single, underlying personality. It should go without saying that the woman was an onion of overlaid personalities, but unlike most of us, her personalities had little in common save that they were channelled through the same body, given life by the same face. The Queen of Mystique, Pleasure, and Seduction was little more than a remarkably well-controlled mess. Turning to Brooklyn, one corner of her mouth curled upwards, and she gazed with tempered passion into the other's eyes, inviting her to kiss her once more, to vent her passion upon her plush lips and deeply tanned flesh, which tingled in anticipation of of soft, ravenous fingers. Her chin turned up and she stepped forward, a tenderness still evident in her movements as she reached out to grip the sides of Brooke's top between her fingers and guide her into her, lips searching for lips, her tongue eager to dance. As the waltz began, her fingers left the surface of the fabrics for their interior, tugging at her clothes to slide her hands beneath them and tease the supple flesh above Brooke's hips. It was so wonderfully warm in contrast to the coolness of Maitreya's velvet fingers, which like an ice tongue slid upwards along her sides and the woman sighed into the kiss, her ego prepared for sacrifice upon the pyre of heated desire.