Thread: Paradise Isle  (Fades & Good Girls)

His first was a lady faire here to make an announcement, elegance and loveliness emanating. His second was a coquette here to make her final performance, crescendo and all. His third, apparently, was a spitfire, erupting onto the stage to make a statement. It was easy to forget that he was on stage, and thus part of the show as Madelaine strode across, rather than simply being an audience member with a tremendous seat. Were there ever any two things as dueling for attention as the gorgeous flow of her ferocious red tresses and the taunting, whipping slit of an already generously bold black dress? So many things were lost in that moment in the shadow of those two, little things that were just as deserved of attention and admiration, from the sheer talent of walking so deftly in such sky-high heels, to the way her breasts bounced against the looseness of her top. Rather, Jeffrey's eyes, as were of all those in attendance, were forced to split between the flow of her hair and the flow of her dress' slit, commanding the crowd's attention equally. That said a little something of how sexy red hair could be. It was what came next that brought out the hushed gasps that eclipsed the camera shutters and the calls for her name, in hope she'd turn a certain way, face a certain photographer and end up giving him or her a choice photo op. No, it was what came next that startled even Mr.Tremonti himself, creating a wide-eyed moment of surrealism as Miss Madelaine Petsch strode past everyone, skipped her own introduction, and made very, very clear she was simply Miss Madelaine now. No hesitation. While one could assume the crimson-haired starlet was writing her name, in general it was near impossible to tell what someone was writing just by watching the flourish of their pen, pencil, or in this case feathered quill. But it was easy to tell when they were done, lifting the tip from the paper but an inch, holding it there a moment as one surveyed their work. It was in this moment that two slaves became three, and Jeffrey took a full breath, feeling his chest swell with both interest and intrigue. She was official. The brand was still to come, but the young woman had been on stage for but seconds and had already made her move, legally binding herself to a life of submissiveness, servitude and respect. Was it she was brimming with confidence, a cup spilling over, unable to contain it all? Or was it a moment of boldness meant to push past her butterflies? He wondered. ...Perhaps it was an effort to compete, that survival instinct to exceed that brought her through every step of her career awake from the caliber of company she'd shared a backstage with, recognizing she'd need to shine like the sun itself. Perhaps she was the sun itself, her bare, milk-white skin summoning all eyes to it as rip and snap acted as the exclamation point on her three-syllabled Madelaine statement. Flashes of lighting and shutter snaps accompanied every micro-second, to the point where, later on, the Washington Post would have to round-the-clock print extra copies when their papers would sell out, purely due to releasing a frame-by-frame recreation of this very moment that acted much like a children's picture book, quickly-flipped pages combining every fraction-of-a-second shot with silken smoothness. And then there was the matter of the unabashed hot lava, erupting upward out of her molten core. From the angle they both stood Jeffrey could see the young woman's firecrotch quite unmistakably, and of all her things, of her bared stomach, her bared breasts, her bared shoulders, her bared legs, of it all that's where his eyes went. It was only through the corner of his gaze that he took sight of her extended hand and wiggling fingers. He might have stared at that southern flame forever, if otherwise uninterrupted. But he responded, actions instead of words, claiming one of the three microphones from the podium and bringing it over to Madelaine's slender, red-tipped hand. She wasn't just handed it, however. He handed it to her, but then his palm continued just past, holding Miss Madelaine by that extended wrist. He continued until he'd come behind her, still holding that arm extended outward, and whispered at the left side of her face. Captivating...I wonder, could that torn dress be my trophy? Already, inwardly, there was a quickly-formed fantasy in his mind of having her wear it again, haphazard state as it was, and fucking her fiercely in it. Jeffrey's free hand went to Madelaine's right shoulder first, then to the right side of her ribcage, just beneath her arm. He shifted his head from her left, to behind her, to her right, at which point he finally let go of her extended left hand with his, and brought that touch to her chin, three fingers guiding her face to the right, where he kissed her. Slow. Firm. Several, back to back. I could have sworn, spoken against her lips, that I owned this building. That I assembled this crowd. That it was all my idea. ...But, apparently, you own the stage. And he let go. And he stepped back, to stand by the unrevealed check and the signed contract behind her, allowing the newly anointed Madelaine to continue her moment in whatever way she pleased.