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Zephyr The Vandal Part 2

Lion Tamer, Part Two

By Shadowstar BoxerPublished 6 years ago 14 min read
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Gran Seraf

Memories towered over me in the form of a granite archway trimmed with white gold and held fast by four pewter columns. Just beyond the impressive stone entrance was an elaborately framed mahogany double door that stood at least four feet above me. For a moment, I was again a sixteen year old girl; adjusting my misshapen bra, looking up at the monstrous wooden gates as if they would open on their own. I placed one palm against the resin coated beads that decorated the wood carved ribbon sloping down from top to middle. It may sound strange that I felt at home while entering a plush bathhouse known for decadence, corruption, and sexual deviance, but the world had left my younger self with little or no choice. My options included homelessness, incarceration, or quite possibly a rancid life of random unwanted pregnancies. Perhaps I could have subjected myself to an American street life of poverty and illegal substances shared with the dregs. Even more “ghetto fabulous” would have been a careless drowning into the pitfalls of uninspired, unmotivated, cowardly, abusive pimps. I could have lent myself to the care of one lucky ponce so that he could barely generate any income, break bread with vagrants, and pay for their protection with my ungracefully aging husk of a soulless human shell.

…OR I could have accepted a more than generous invitation from world wise Madame Gran Seraf, and be whisked away into a spellbinding existence of seemingly bottomless wallets, suspense, perfectly choreographed pleasure, and acceptable sin; all the while being rescued from a recently injured Supreme Court judge turned John and a juvenile con attempt gone horribly wrong.

Fortunately for us all, I chose the latter option.

“I can see your toes peekin’ at me from underneath the door,” spoke a sultry jazz from inside of the house, “Darlin’ darlin’, where do I be-GIN?”

“You can start by making sure that no one else can see this tragedy. I already walked here barefoot,” I responded in a jovial tone, “Please spare me the embarrassment.”

“Honey-child I don’t DO pedicures, so someone ELSE will have to spare you. That’s what it is, unless you brought a little somethin’ that your mama might LIKE.”

“I thought you were supposed to be an angel,” the words came from a warm place in my soul. There were very few people who had the moxie to get under my skin and find a friend instead of incurring my wrath, but only one of them owned that unique voice.

The doors opened wide with a tall chocolate bombshell posed brazenly in between. She exuded a tribal beauty that shook your vision if you stared at her for too long; peat black hair teased into a stylish lopsided mohawk hairstyle and deep gun-metal grey eyes that cut a swath of light directly into your own sit just above an unmistakably African nose and plump red lips. A quick sashay showed off her dangerously curvy cocoa colored body, complete with abundant breasts and salacious hindquarters that ended in powerfully toned legs. She stunned the night in a blood red Greek goddess gown with a yellow gold hem. Her left shoulder was covered with a crescent-shaped diamond brooch. Her right arm was uncovered except for a simple platinum armlet. At forty-five years young Gran Seraf represented her business just by living. No one ever dared to cross her. Nobody would have ever had the chance. She was matron saint to the closed-curtain desires of an entire city. Even if you could have managed a meeting with her that could net you some kind of leverage, the word on the street would be your head on a platter before dinner time. Her decisions made profit kings out of stock trading juniors, and penniless pariahs out of millionaire vultures. Her mother taught her well. The Gran Seraf namesake was in great care.

“You know, MY Madame did pedicures,” I snapped at her with a joking scowl in her direction.

“Yea well, my mama was nasty like that. You lucky asses had it easy when she was still running things.”

Seraf finished the last sentence with my arms around her neck. A life weary and long overdue embrace melded us together. Our friendship spanned over two of her family’s generations. It was just plain good to see her. We chatted incessantly as we walked past welcoming servant girls and run-boys. She told me about what I had missed during my travels to Europe. For instance; my missions in Czechoslovakia were assigned to me at the same time that Seraf’s mother, the first Gran Seraf and my Madame, decided to leave the business and placed her successor in charge. Apparently there was barely enough time for a celebration before Seraf had to regulate a large party of visiting mercenaries.

“Zephyr, those motherfuckers were the most well-paid maniacs I ever met. We had to call in the local militia to help us kick ‘em out! The run-boys were backflippin’ and stabbin’ and kickin’ the shit outta EVERY-body, child. I guess it didn’t help that one of the girls thought it would be funny to sell them swill at silver prices, so they were PLENTY drunk before the fightin’ started. ” We turned a corner and were greeted by a mess of commotion storming down the corridor. Almost as if on cue from Seraf’s remark about drunkenness, two half-dressed men were chasing four very cute, very scared young servant girls. Their clothes were disheveled, undoubtedly torn from a struggle with their antagonists, leaving their breasts to march freely to the beat of their escape. Seraf squeaked with alarm upon observing the situation. The memory was enough to make her unpack a slim cigarette. At that time I took the opportunity to reveal the ten-pack of exotic tobacco blend from Mumbai. I always had a carton imported on the weekends in case of the need to negotiate or barter with Seraf for information. Money gifts are for the greedy, gifts that satisfy perversions are for hedonists, and gag gifts are for fair weather acquaintances or family members. But personalized gifts are reserved for those priceless souls who remain near and dear throughout the years. Seraf quietly accepted the package, took a long draw of the tobacco’s tangy sweet scent, then reached behind her left ear and made a small sheet of rice paper appear from thin air. Our stride slowed enough for her to balance the rolling paper with a bit of tobacco between her fingers.

I sidestepped the herd and pressed my back against the wall. Meanwhile, Seraf had navigated into its path while expertly weaving between the escaping girls. Once they were past she stopped but continued rolling her cigarette as if nothing was in her way. Time seemed to slow as the men barreled toward the nonchalant Gran Seraf…and then I saw it, a tragedy of delicious proportions. The men never noticed how swiftly Madame Seraf had licked and sealed her tobacco stick while simultaneously slipping a slender, double-ended golden hook from one of the folds in her gown. It was already too late for the bumbling soon to be ex-patrons so I reached into my own dress for a handkerchief. There would definitely be blood; the only dilemma was whether I would be cleaning it from my feet or my face. I had faith in Seraf’s skill, but it was the angle of attack that would determine the amount of any spray or spattering.

She lifted the hook to eye level and caught the men directly in their eye sockets. They stalled and collapsed like crippled horses, writhing in blood spewing agony. Thankfully enough gravity did its job by letting the blood fall before it reached me. To conclude her ravishingly fluid arm movement, Seraf let go of the hook device, used a match (something else of a magically appearing thing, from what it looked to be) to light her cigarette with one hand, and with her other hand revealed a PDA used to phone the run-boys. With a sexy turn on her heel she returned to me with thin streams of smoke trailing behind her. In the distance were skilled male attendants cleaning up the refuse left by their Madame’s divine intervention.

My sweet, powerful Seraf drew on her cigarette, cleared her throat, and continued our previous conversation as if nothing had ever happened.

“They fucked my wig UP, girl.”

“I imagine you had a few words to say about that,” I managed to say without snorting laughter. Obviously this was a tale from before her Mohawk days. She was famously short haired, even more famous for her stylish hair pieces. It was her idea to start buying more hair products and accessories for the girls. The resulting hike in revenue was astounding and she was able to start hiring professional stylists for in house duties. Eventually, they were all hired permanently. Beauty is never a bad investment, especially when it is your most valued commodity.

“Words? Bitch please, I just started slappin’ folks. Confused the hell outta those bastards long enough for the militia boys to put guns next to their brains and escort them off the premises,” Seraf spoke as she slowed just enough to grab a scuppernong off the plate of a passing fruit vendor. Most likely he was the only one allowed inside for the day, which meant that they had a room ready for him and an escort waiting to lead him out the next morning.

“Why did you call the militia, Seraf? I’m sure the police wouldn’t have minded a round-up of travelers.”

“We’re in a brothel, honey. Police who come to VISIT are only on a visit to cum, right?”

Most women would have found entry into the Gran Seraf to be incredibly easy, if they could only summon the nerve to go inside. It was very easy to be intimidated by the thick aroma of rose hips and passion fruit potpourri, the soft warm hue surrounding the sleek lamp posts that bordered the front walk, and the echoing dainty chuckles of fledgling and veteran alike. From the love suites on the very top floor, the streets were serenaded with juicy exclamations from customers and their hosts in the throes of “love”. The lush décor and expensive architecture reminded me of my days in training. While the other girls pampered themselves with tea formalities and various styles of makeup, I was learning the intimate arts of lovemaking from four different sexual experts; this went on top of my already demanding Geisha and pick-pocket practices. By the time I got my first commissions the men of this city were well aware of my capabilities. They knew that Zephyria Aine MacThorne was not a myth, but a living specter of magical pleasures able to drain riches from any caliber of man. Whoever had not learned this probably had not yet checked their accounts, or felt the lightening of their pockets. Touring and mastering each of the “sleeping chambers” at Gran Seraf is how I acquired the name “Vandal”. If you were not enough for your customer, then I ransacked your operation and took him from you…or her. It didn’t matter because I could satisfy them all. You were better off laying alms at my feet and pledging your undying allegiance to Zephyr the Vandal.

The main hall was littered with trained beauties artfully displaying their assets; voluptuous bodies with deep curves accented by bikini sets and barely concealed by see-through chemises, lithe muses with long, slender legs and tempting mouthfuls of breasts, and nubile debutants hugging the doorways of empty rooms like young black widows awaiting their very first mates. Some spoke loudly as if they were bordering full intoxication from the many available substances while other nymphs practiced their skill in capturing prey with just their eyes. One particularly seasoned artisan was so graceful that she was able to allow a bit of her age to show without looking haggard. My attention was drawn through the crack opening of her chamber door as she sat up in her bed, eyes swooning upward from behind a hefty golden trimmed hardback novel; legs pursed together and curled back until her heels brushed her buttocks. She was a viper of the highest order. Immediately she reminded me of myself. With enough time on my hands I probably would have enjoyed her company…and her moist bonne bouche.

Her name was Fione DiClara, an expert kinesthetic masseuse and bath attendant with a very unique tea service that included white and green tea elixirs. The makeup designer assigned to Fione had spent years perfecting her trademark look and she wore it viciously well. While the younger women favored a smoky eyeshadow with Cleopatra-style liner (a theme inspired by your humble author), DiClara chose to retain the classic naturally enhancing grace of pearl foundation, purified amaranth rouge tinted with powdered white rose, and burned almond with cocoa oil as a modest eyeliner. Her perfume sang of freshly ground mint opposed to the mass produced toiletries that assaulted the senses with foreign pheromones. Fione DiClara did not need to speak. She was infinitely more distinguished and noticeable than most of the other flowers. Had I stifled my ambitions, I would be her AND much more as den mother of this establishment.

Fortunately enough for me, senior concierge status allowed me free access to all rooms in the brothel. As the running hall attendant approached he stopped me in front of the door that happened to be separating us at the time. It was a cosmic feeling of perceived destiny and comforting nostalgia. He reached into a small square shaped pouch on his belt. When I noticed that the decorative symbol matched that of my favorite necklace charm, we smiled.

“How did you know he would be here?” the attendant asked without missing a beat. Had professional courtesy permitted, he would have laughed out loud.

“Baron Daedalus is very wealthy and renowned, so my fully furnished room is fitting of his tastes.” I let the words curl like smoke from underneath my lips. “Will you be joining me tonight? Something tells me that he has ordered the entire menu for this…therapeutic exercise.”

“We DO advertise the best ‘rehabilitation facilities’ in the region. I imagine that you might need a bit of help clearing a work space,” he hesitated after the last word, then pulled out a key from the square pouch and held it out to me. As I took it, prepared to open the door, he let out a bit of controlled laughter. It was just enough to let me know that he was ready to get his hands dirty for me. My fingers clasped around his as I joined his introverted felicity. Mild heat raced through him so that he was instantly warm to the touch.

“We haven’t done this for quite some time,” he spoke next to my ear when I drew him closer. The bass of his whisper riveted a stream of nerves from my earlobe down to the base of my spine. It stung the skin just beneath my G-string and corset ensemble, but the goose bump reaction was not very well hidden by my jade halter gown. No matter, any positive response from me would be reciprocated by my attendant at any time I chose.

“Thank you again, Rumael,” I kissed the words against his cheek just before covering his lips with mine. Rumael was one of my lovers in younger times so he was familiar with my methods. In perfect rhythm he tilted his head right and I, left. It was breathtaking the way he remembered to cup my face with one hand and rest the other in the crease between my buttocks and thighs. It always made me stand on tiptoe against him, the perfect opportunity to slip him the candy covered hallucinogen I had been hiding under my tongue. As the tangy dust mixture passed from the capsule I was reminded of how horrible it tasted when I was a young woman. Too many times I had attempted to apply it properly only to find myself sharing the disorienting experience with my customers. In hindsight those were very taxing days, but at the time I had more fun being high and making money off of the random strangers who sought to take advantage of my impairment. I rarely slept with exhausted patrons after the festivities waned because there were always predators skulking about, searching for an unsuspecting call girl from which to steal a touch. Some were even brave enough to try making a moment’s innocence into unadulterated sexual assault upon sleeping ladies.

This is why we recruited our attendants, like Rumael, from a local Middle Eastern “butler’s” guild. They are exceptionally skilled with cutlery.

Rumael released our embrace with a deviously hungry smirk slanted across his face, and then I noticed that oh-so-familiar flame blue glaze covering his genetically cinnamon colored irises. The drug was working, which meant it was time to breach the entrance to my old home where my prey, Baron Daedalus Gideon, was unaware of the exquisite hell approaching.

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