16155/Girls Interrupted

Girls Interrupted
Date of Scene:	30 March 2024
Location:	Club Lux, Melville
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Satana, Vampirella

---

Satana has posed:
She hungered. And when she hungers she hunts. Only she'd drained herself in a complicated ritual and, being lazy, she's come to Club Lux, a den of sin.

Radiating sensuality, she'd had men and women aplenty flocking to her, seeking her attentions, while she sought their sin.

Heinrich Absel had no idea how much he would owe to Vampirella, for just as Satana was about to invite him to her room deep in the back of the club, positioned by Lucifer for ease of discreet body disposal, her eyes fell on Vampirella.

Heinrich was forgotten, to his ironic regret. The hungry Satana, soul screaming for sustenance, failed to recognize her earlier visitor.

This was the one.

---

"Where have you been all my life?" the succubus' voice purrs from behind Vampirella as the warmth of her body, now well inside "personal space", although not quite touching, reaches the vampire's skin.

"I'm Satana, your lover for the night."

Vampirella has posed:
Vampirella isn't here. Vampirella doesn't exist. Vampirella, after all, is an alien from an alternate dimension whose species just so happens to be almost exactly the same thing as vampires, from a planet where the animals and vegetation alike few not on water because the planet had no water, but on a substance indistinguishable from human blood (O negative, if you were wondering). That's all nonsense. Obviously, no such dimension or world could exist, so neither could a person from it.

Instead, there is Ella Normandy, a perfectly normal human from some European country obscure enough to American sensibilities you could believe that's where she gets that accent from; oh, let's say Hungary, why not. Ella, being a normal human whose sense of touch isn't sensitive enough to count the threads in a bed by touch, totally doesn't resent how human outfits--if you're keeping track, a sleeveless, purple top made of satin with some playful peasant ruffles at the arms and waistline; a sleek, knee-length leather skirt so dark you could be forgiven for thinking it's black rather than green, especially under club lights; a gold armlet she took from a monster fifty years ago who did not object after she finalized its death; and lavender heels that she personally feels are not quite high enough to justify the point in their toes--cover enough of her skin to make her feel like she's gone blind. She doesn't burn with resentment of the bizarre human shame that makes them dress this way, suffocating their skin to the endless stream of information the breeze offers. She doesn't see their eyes as blank and vapid, like the eyes of cattle or sheep or... um... armadilloe? Do humans herd armadillos? Those are the ones with kinked fur and long necks, right?

Above all, since Ella is human, she doesn't feel at all alone in this den of her fellow homo sapiens, because they see her for who she is and accept her for it.

So when the voice behind her speaks up, with a confident opening line Vampirella honestly admires a bit, she turns around slowly to see who it is. Her green eyes sparkle with amusement to find it's the woman she'd been falsely sent to murder some months ago by a demon who might or might not have even meant it. She looks at Satana for a very long time, at least three seconds, without saying a word; then her right hand begins to rise with serpentine grace, slow, elbow bent slightly, until her hand is over her head like a student asking for teacher's attention... except if the student stood with her hips cocked at that angle, left foot so far out to the side only the toes of her shoe touch the dance floor, teacher would likely have cause for disciplinary action.

Satana has posed:
Satana drinks in her soon to be meal, still not recognizing the woman, her hunger driving her blood into a boil as her eyes removes the clothing that Vampirella rails against in her spirit. Very visibly undresses her. Sliding down, face to feet, then making the languid journey, replete with side trips and stopovers, back to the face. Spotting the pose and recognizing it, Satana tears her eyes away, focusing momentarily on the disc jockey (whose eyes go glassy in response). Moments later a tango starts up and Satana slithers into place, neutrally, letting Vampirella choose if she'd lead or not.

"I usually don't like dancing," she murmurs into her partner's ear, pressing whole-body against her to do so. "It's just fucking set to music, after all."

She pauses a heartbeat.

"And I can't abide music."

Her hot breath tickles the vampire's neck as she suppresses a giggle.

"But for you, my dear, I'll make an exception."

Leg to leg. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Hand in hand. She's ready for the dance. Ready to entice. And then to feed.

Vampirella has posed:
"Shut up," Vampirella advises. Her voice is low. A Vampiri would have heard it just fine, even under the roar of the pounding speakers, a discordant mess of electronic distortion so lo-fi that she doesn't fully understand how any human could call it music. Can Satana hear Vampirella's suggestion? If not, maybe she can read the shape of the two syllables on Vampirella's glistening, cherry lips. Is that lipstick, or are her lips just that color?

Does it matter?

Vampirella's hips rock from side to side with the beat, pulled entirely by her core muscles, a magic trick that seems to ignore her thighs entirely. The hand over her head remains flat as Satana takes it, but the arm around Satana's waist is curled, possessive, allowing her fingers to rest on the swell of Satana's opposite hip. Her eyes, warm jade, never leave the demon's, one of few women tall enough she needn't look down to meet her gaze. Her breathing is slow and steady: no human dance's exertions would push her to heavy breathing.

Is that a smile on her lips?

Satana has posed:
Santana doesn't work with the music. Given how bad most humans are at anything involving listening, or rhythm, she just goes with what her partner does in movements with supernatural accuracy.

Though she does use her legs as well as matching Vampirella's hips. After all how better to rub bare skin, escaping the slits of the Chinese gown, against bare skin of her opposite number while she rocks her hip against the other's with urgent pressure, a hint of a rolling motion added to signal desire. Invitation. Intent.

She also obeys, but since that leaves her mouth without anything to do, she decides to employ it in other ways, head resting on the shoulder and lips now nibbling at the neck. The earlobe. Her hot breath flooding and sliding down beneath the light fabric that feels so heavy.

As a trial she changes the rhythm, just a hint, just the addition of the heartbeat she feels as an overlay. Then slowly increasing it's speed, hoping to heat up her meal.

And, let's be honest, enjoy the process. Because this one intrigues.

Vampirella has posed:
Who wants a dance where you don't react to your partner? Vampirella is willing enough to follow the rhythm, stepping back and forward in heels that seem like a hazard to dance in--they should at least have ankle straps, right?--but Vampirella is a predator from another world, and it's been a very long time since she misstepped. Her sleek legs stretch effortlessly back and forth, side to side; her arms are now cobras dancing to the music with Satana's, swaying up and down. At the touch of lips to flesh, Vampirella smirks a little and allows it, allows Satana the chance to observe the rise of gooseflesh on her neck, before she twirls away on her toes in a fan of shining black hair to press against Satana's back. Her hands find and seize Satana's wrists in a loose grip and guide the demon's hands up to cross in an X over her chest, as if hugging herself against a chill. No doubt she feels frozen solid as she dances with Vampirella's heat and softness pressed frankly, shamelessly to her back; with Vampirella's face weaving from one side of Satana's to the other, taking turns puffing hot steam into Satana's ears.

Satana has posed:
That engenders an open laugh. A combined laugh of delight and amusement. Delight at the sensations--it's so rare for prey to be so enjoyable; it's almost a shame to end this soul--as well as delight at being treated like she were the subservient one.

Which is a role she plays, however, and plays well. The sinful are always wanting, after all, to be in charge. That's why the sin. To be in control.

So Satana spins in place. Allows her hands to be moved over her chest. Savours the softness and hardness both pressed againt her; pressing back where she can to signal that the game has more room for manoeuvring.

And if she slips ever so subtly free to let Vamperilla's hands hold something other than her wrists, at her chest, that's fine as well. The warmth feels good, and the slight poking into Vampirella's hands and between her fingers might just bring more to the game.

Especially when she throws her head back, letting all and sundry see the flagrant abuse of the rules of decency and catching Vampirella's cheek against hers.

"I'm Satana," she says, barely audible over the noise of the sound system.

And then it's time to turn tables. She's been faux-prey long enough. It's time to predate.

Her freed hands move back, grabbing first at the hips to augment and synchronize the mutual rhythm, then further back to cup. To tease. To signal. You have me, but I have you. M.A.D. Mutually Assured Desire.