|Word Limit = 300 words|
Key Phrase = hazy
Extra Credit = Figure out who's taking the picture, or, tell us where the husband is.
The air was heavy, thick, redolent with citrus and jasmine, cigarette smoke, and a darker, more primal scent overlaying all. The ceiling fans spun lazily, doing little to stir the haze. I cared not; my attention lay elsewhere.
All night I'd watched them, mutely appraising. Watched them queer the pitch for every sad bastard who came along and thought the exposure of skin was a license for grabbing, or assumed they must be available merely because they were unoccupied. Watched the interlopers slink away, torn in small pieces by razor tongue and the thousand-yard stare from dead, dead eyes.
Once or twice I caught the hooded gaze of the one in red. The glitter of those eyes was absolute, would admit of no authority, no passions. It belied the animal hungers so plain in every deliberate movement she made. The blonde – caressing her friend's shoulders slowly, once in a while leaning over to whisper inarticulate nothings – studiously refused to look at me at all. Her nipples stood tall, her breasts were drawn tight; occasionally she would trail a hand down between her legs and touch herself, and her eyes would close in heavy-lidded pleasure.
And then the one in red seemed to come to a decision. She raised her head and looked at me, deliberately, insolently. Her hands went to her dress and slid it up, up, till I could see all too easily the dusky rose of her cunt. It glistened like a promise.
I looked at her. “Why?” I wanted to know. “What makes me different from the rest of them?” I indicated the room with a slow sweep of my hand.
Her red red mouth shaped the words precisely. “I admire restraint,” she breathed. “Makes it more fun breaking that restraint.”
This was a fantastic photo. It has a very noir-ish feel to it and I tried to inject a bit of that into this piece. I get the impression that this is one of those parties where just about anything goes, but the host (or hostess) won't tolerate any excessive familiarity unless the recipient is clearly interested. I think these two would have to put up with a lot of offers all night, and so I was curious how they might react to a man who deliberately did *not* pursue them. It seems he's won the cigar.
Who took the picture? Perhaps it was a photographer who the hostess has paid to capture interesting tableaus. There is a sense of coiled promise in this particular layout; even if it were live video, I doubt you would see much more movement than what's captured here. It's all being spoken with body language; all the communication is wordless.
Thanks to Advizor for putting together this week's Flash Fiction Friday. Go check him out, won't you, to see who else is playing.