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| Lady in Black Lace | |
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| Topic Started: 19/09/2008 - 02:48 am (211 Views) | |
| Erical | 19/09/2008 - 02:48 am Post #1 |
Leader of the Surete
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((OC: Okay, Sieg? No Lucien please until Giry and Odile have chatted a bit. He can be watching her from across the room, of course! But I want Giry and Odile to have a chance to converse)) Odile knew that her dress matched her eyes. She had been told three times, by some of the more forward members of the public and she was just about ready to hear it again. The glittering, gaudy hubbub of the lobby entertained and thrilled her. How she did love Paris. Brilliant, Beautiful, Treacherous Paris. The ormolu on the woodwork shimmered with a refined glow under the caress of the candlelight. Her dress trailed against the plush of the carpet - a gentle and luxurious tug which reminded her that her dress was very very fine indeed. There was a good deal of lace at the train. It had cost such a lot, and was nearly as becoming as the little flowers that had been embroidered on the bodice. She looked down at them with a little thrill of sheer pleasure. They were gold and silver, and nestled at exactly the strategic spot on her ever-so-white bosom. Any lower and the 'poor dears' would drown in their own drool. Any higher and she wouldn't have the pleasurable feeling that all the red-blooded men in the room were dislocating their eyeballs in a vain attempt to see more of her. She flicked her fan and used the gentle breeze to fluff a few curls becomingly around her face. "Wasn't the Daae creature exquisite? Such a sweet child. I could have died when she began to sing, truly I could." Robert leaned in, obviously intent upon making some sacharine comment on how she was the only divine creature in the opera house. She leaned away from him and covered her mouth with her fan - deflecting his stale kisses. Now was not the time to suffer bad-breath and a mouth that tasted of raw milk and second-hand tobacco. Robert was getting - old. Tiresome. His head bobbed eagerly - like a duck, Odile thought - and his stutter, so disengenuous and charming when she had first met him - was beginning to grate on her nerves. She needed, she thought very clearly and coolly, to be rescued. And she wasn't very particular about who her rescuer was. Edited by Erical, 19/09/2008 - 02:50 am.
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death  •  •  •  • 
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| Alandree | 19/09/2008 - 07:43 am Post #2 |
 
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"Madame? Won't you tell Miss Daaé that I said 'Hello.'?" Squeaked a young man, no bigger than a pre-pubescent child. Giry gave him a curt nod before pushing her way out of the theatre, rolling her sleeves back down to her wrists, and feeling the sudden urge to borrow one of Erik's lassos and stopper the breath on these people like the torrent flow of an opened and shaken champagne bottle. It was not often that she resorted to such drastic thoughts, but tonight she had at last been stretched a thread too far. This was not, surprisingly, due to the ongoing throng of young men with whom she had to deal with, all asking for people. Christine chiefly. It was, rather, a result of overseeing the show from the wings. In Christine's numbers, she, Giry, would suddenly be able to pick out de Chagney from miles away; sitting in box five, eyes glued to the young prima donna. That sort of look...she had only ever seen on one other person for Christine. Erik himself. At length, Giry managed to shuffle her way out of the crowd of men. Some might be naive enough to suppose that they were after her. Hah! Not that she'd desire such a thing. But there had been some occasions where folk would ask about it. She would scoff and wave them away like smoke. When she reached the lobby, those same men appeared to have scattered themselves already. They were transfixed on another woman. How very typical. Giry couldn't see her face, nor did she really wish to, but it took no strain of the mind to comprehend that she was a force to be reckoned with. Attempting to slip across the way without being noticed, Giry hitched her skirt up a tad and kept her eyes to the ground, milling between people like hedge walls in a maze. |
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| Erical | 19/09/2008 - 02:17 pm Post #3 |
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Leader of the Surete
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How exactly does one tell a gentleman that he is standing on one's toes? And that if he is standing on one's toes then he is rather too close to one? Odile wasn't quite sure, but she settled for a very lady-like cough, and then a genteel shove against the unfortunate man's chest. He stumbled backwards and flushed beet-red as the others guffawed. Dieu - what fools they all were. Odile felt some of her feathery-light happiness die and she was tired, and irritable, and suffocating under the pressure of too many loud voices and compliments. Usually this would have been better than watching her husband's face as he read her latest string of bills (a delicious pleasure in itself) but tonight she was tired. What did any of them know about the refined nature of her soul? Could any of them truly understand the gentle quality of her woman's heart? Petulantly, she sidestepped a young Marquis and pouted. They drooled. She pouted some moore, and couldn't help but smile just a little as full three of them had to mop their brows with lace handkerchiefs. There was a rustle of skirt - and a figure moved by. Odile followed the woman with her eyes. An odd creature, surely... with a cane and such poor taste in fashion! Why, there was hardly an inch of lace on her dress, and the neckline was a full two inches higher than fashion dictated this month. But - wait... Odile was remembering something from her last business meeting at the opera house. As part of her social duties, she felt it behooved her to make some small contribution to Paris's cultural heritage (those had been the words Louis had used, hadn't they?). If she had known that much of her generous donation went to a certain 'ghost' - she would have been thrilled and outraged. But mostly thrilled. Ah - oui. This was Giry! The lady who taught the dancers. And the little things had been too too sweet tonight. In a burst of womanly comradeship, Odile decided to ignore her personal rule about talking to other women when surrounded by perfectly serviceable men, and stepped forwards. A gap or two opened in her crowd. "Madame Giry? A moment, please?" Edited by Erical, 19/09/2008 - 02:17 pm.
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 19/09/2008 - 02:37 pm Post #4 |
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Damnation. She'd been caught, but to her surprise it was a woman's voice who called to her. Freezing in place, and shoulders slackening she replied. "Oui?" Turning round (reluctantly), her jaw set, Giry now saw the face of the siren. Madame Collard. Of coarse. Who else would dare venture out in public with such attire? And there was her gaggle of play-things in tow. "Madame. What a delight." Her tone raised at the end, in an attempt to sound jovial. She smiled and tried not to be embarrassed by Collard's ghastly cleavage. Instead, she glanced around at the parted crowd, feigning nonchalant. It had not occurred to her how very much she disliked other women her age. They were all set with putting on airs. Trying to maintain the youth that was slowly dripping away like a block of butter forgotten on a window sill. "Uh, did you and your...companions enjoy the show?" It was not difficult to discern Madame Collard's adulterous habits. She, Giry, was not one to pry however, and she tried her best not to pass judgement so very quickly. But it was difficult. |
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| Erical | 22/09/2008 - 12:01 am Post #5 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile watched in amused surprise as the other women tried to look anywhere except at her - ah - bodice. My, a prudish Parisian? One in the Theatre, no less? How quaint! And how she did disapprove. The disapproval of other women always made Odile feel better, and now was no exception. She fluttered her fan coyly, and cast a little glance at the nearest gentleman from under her lashes. He was still hooked and gaffed and drooling. In such company women could not afford to like one another. They had to fight, claw and stab to get to the top. It had been a hard lesson for the stupid little chit from the provinces to learn - but she had learned it well, had she not? Not a soiree in Paris that she was not invited to. Not a ball, or a dance, or a masque that did not come to her before anyone else. Not a man in the wide city who did not secretly wish to hold her, kiss her, and then - well, they all knew in which direction the little dears' minds ran, didn't they? Did they enjoy the show? How polite! Odile positively beamed approval at the funny little dancer woman. How could one not admire a woman so determined to avoid her own prejudices in a conversation! She even bit her tongue to prevent herself from correcting the slip - not Madame, Baroness! I paid a lot for that title, and I'll be damned if I'll be called anything else! Madame Giry met her gaze, and for one moment Odile felt herself tugged violently back in time. 'Plie and rest. Sur les pointes, mademoiselle… non! Echappe, a la…." There she was again, a gangly girl with too much hair and not enough bones to hold it up. Her dancing teacher - so like Mme Giry, small and wiry with cold eyes that had seen every mistake - trying her very best to get her to plie correctly. Was every dancing teacher small, redoubtable, and equipped with a cane? It seemed so. But Odile had been very fond of her teacher - back when the world had seemed so much smaller and sensible than it was now. She found herself dropping the flute-like falsetto and coquettish smile, and reverting like a butterfly creeping back into its shriveled caterpillar skin to the sensible and practical girl she had been. Long before she had become the worldly-wise and practical woman. "It was lovely, Madame. Your dancers were tres belle! I can see you take pains to make them perfect, and it shows." Sincere. A la! She was being sincere! |
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 22/09/2008 - 03:18 pm Post #6 |
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Well, it didn't take an idiot to recognize the condescending looks she was being given. Giry felt rather like a lowly, monochromatic sparrow, standing aside the painted, coyly turned-out peacock. Feathers immaculately plumed, head held out, flicking about the room, hungry for a mate, or for some confirmation that indeed, he was exquisite. She felt all gazes in the room turn her way. Well, not on her, precisely. But in her general vicinity, since the female peacock was right there. It made her uncomfortable, even if the stares were not directed at her. They all were surely aware of how contrasting each woman’s aura was, juxtaposed to the other. Collard’s sincerity did not go unnoticed. But Giry was too unsettled to respond in an equal way. Instead, she resigned to a flat tone, “Mais oui. Merci. They are dedicated.” And that was about all she could say. Was there a point to her initiation of such falsely polite candour? “There was…something you wanted? Ma…” But she trailed off, and clicked on the Baroness part. Of coarse. If there weren’t enough reason for a boy to throw himself in front of her, the barony element would surely send his head spinning. That explained the drooling from afar. “Baroness. Pardonne moi.” |
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| Erical | 23/09/2008 - 04:55 am Post #7 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile blinked. What had she wanted, anyway? A moment's talk with a person who was not actively trying to get close enough to see if her bosom was - as young Francois had Oh So Elegantly put it - real all the way down? Or had it been an impulse? She felt embarrassed suddenly, put out of step by her sudden candor with this strange little drab bird of a thing. After all, she was a Baroness. Baronesses were not candid. Not even when in tragic circumstances. One simply fluttered one's fan faster, and danced harder. "I -" she faltered a moment, and felt a flush mount up her face. Dear lord, was she stammering? In front of this crowd and before the dancing woman's piercing eyes? She drew herself up to her haughtiest height and forced a smile - bright and charming enough to dazzle a prince. "No, Madame. I merely wished to congratulate you on the fine performance tonight." She threw a coquettish glance around the crown like a net, and caught the nearest young fop in it's meshes. The thrill of seeing his eyes skim over her and then come to rest on her bosom - her neck - her lips as though magnetically drawn to her... the power made her feel better and worse at the same time. "And to ask you about the ghost. It's all over Paris, my dear. Is there any truth in the rumours?" Perfect. She had regained her light-hearted tone, and sounded positively trivial. Nothing quite so in fashion as triviality. Edited by Erical, 23/09/2008 - 04:56 am.
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Sieglinde | 23/09/2008 - 12:24 pm Post #8 |
Inspector Javert / Erik / Lucien
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Lucien was leaning to a pillar, not far from the ladies. He was thinking about a poem - about a ballad which would tell the legend of the opera ghost. Lucien wondered if that man really existed, but his fantasy said yes. He wanted to write about the lonely soul who was hiding in these catacombs, about the man who was suffering behind the mask... no, has was not a demon, the poet thought. He was a lost man, a monster with a golden heart... As he was thinking about this, he noticed the two elder ladies. Both were attractive, although not maidens soon. He knew Madame Giry - he saw her before - but he never met the other lady, who was - in the eyes of a poet - beautiful like Mother Earth. Lucien believed in nature, not in God; he was pagan like most poets, and wrote a lot of poems about greek shepherds and nymphs. The boy was beautiful this night. He was slim and fragile like a girl, his silver-blonde hair shined like the early spring's sun. He wore a white, ruffled shirt with deep red pants and redingote, and a silver-embroidered crimson vest. His dark blue eyes glittered because he drank a glass of wine. He was like a greek marble statue - imagine that Psyché and Narcissus met and had a son; he would have been like Lucien. |
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| Alandree | 23/09/2008 - 03:33 pm Post #9 |
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Oh, that. Giry was surprised someone such as her would actually have interest in such a thing. She assumed she was far too wrapped up in herself to give a damn, or take in any sort of knowledge that didn't concern personal appearance. But surely nobility must have at least a tiny keyhole through which they might see the ‘real’ world. She imagined Odile peeking through hers with girlish delight, though with rather dull and unknowing sort of eyes. "Baroness...I had no idea such a thing would interest you." She said, unsure, really, of what the other woman's intention was. If it were simply to goad Giry into being humiliated, then she'd have none of it. Though she'd sworn never to deny Erik's existence… “Yes, I believe the fiasco concerning Soprano C is to blame for the Populaire’s rising infamy.” She spared the girlish boy a furtive glance, though not in any way stirred by his presence. Just another hopelessly love-struck dog, awaiting the chance to chomp the bit at the Baroness's feet. |
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| Erical | 24/09/2008 - 04:56 am Post #10 |
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Leader of the Surete
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(OOC: Is Odile making Giry very uncomfortable?  )How... sensational! Why, this was far better than Madame De Brigny's tale of the vengeful servant girl who's ghost returned and blacked all the Madame's dresses with soot! Odile clapped her hands together, and beamed - composure almost fully restored. "A la! How thrilling! Have you seen him, Madame? Is he very tragic?" Odile's concepts of ghosts were - perhaps - a little vague. They mostly consisted of the few sensational books she had read while still young enough to allow herself to do such things, and several very dull operas - all in German and she hadn't understood a word. Still - the ghost had been tres chis, tres tres romantique! She glanced briefly over her crowd with the practiced air of a woman counting how many sheep were left in her flock. A few more had gathered at the very fringe - and oh they were trying so very hard to pretend indifference. How sweet. Oh dear - the great oaf of a English-man was here again, with all his monocles and 'Gadzooks'. How tiresome. Odile would never have admitted to the reason behind the prejudice, but she disliked the English intensely. No one particularly interesting tonight - she thought absently, about to turn back to the far more interesting subject of the ghost... when she saw the petite ange leaning against the pillar. What a cherub! And - oh my - he was looking her way! Odile felt herself flush like a schoolgirl, oddly flattered by the pretty boy's attention. Edited by Erical, 24/09/2008 - 04:57 am.
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 24/09/2008 - 12:01 pm Post #11 |
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((Giry isn't a very comfortable person in general.)) She blinked, and observed the other woman's careful intake of the crowd, decidedly disconnected. "And what ghost is not?" Was her reply, thinking she should probably keep her position ambiguous. The Baroness was not someone she fancied getting personal with. Nor did she wish to sullen her reputation in such close quarters. All these men...it was odd how quickly their attention could go from one flighty bird to the other. First Carlotta, back in the day, when she was young and charming. Then Christine, with her angelic disposition and unfaltering beauty. And then this creature. So coquettish and charming it was almost sickening. Shifting her weight to one foot, Giry folded her arms, crossing her customary shawl over her shoulders, and tried to ignore everything. She was of no mind to be jealous. There was no possibility of upstaging herself, anyway. But perhaps merely being present among such outright, madly searing, staring gazes was enough to wish one could disappear in a puff of red smoke. Like Erik might. Now there was a being she could be jealous of. |
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| Sieglinde | 26/09/2008 - 05:37 am Post #12 |
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Inspector Javert / Erik / Lucien
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He gazed the baroness sometimes, but not constantly. He was very shy yet; didn't even know he was beautiful. His ancient Greek ideals filled his mind, and he imagined a perfect man as a mix of Ulysses and Heracles. But he... he was just a girlish lad. He could be Patroclos; he wrote a wreath of sonnets and elegys about Patroclos' secret love for Achilles and his immolation. Oh, it was so clear. He had these two main themes; the sunny, cheerful eclogues and the depressed love poems. But now, he wanted something new - a dark, romantic ballad, not even in classic form. He tried to write ballads, but those were Villon-style lays, funny and - in argot; no, he wanted now this other type of ballad, what those German poet-gods used. Like Erlkönig. He began to think about the story of the Opera Ghost. Of course, he needed angst; he needed a beautiful woman who this mysterious phantom loves; and he needed a villain... Maybe he could ask Madame Giry, but the woman didn't seem too friendly. Or she was jsut tired... He looked at the baroness again, and smiled at her, timidly but charming. |
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| Erical | 27/09/2008 - 02:33 am Post #13 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile shifted slightly, her lace train drifting over to the right and passing in very grave danger of being stood on. Her feet were beginning to ache in the high-heeled shoes, and with that would come the lower back pain that had been plaguing her for weeks. Merde, it had never hurt so bad to look good. Maybe she was getting old? Now there was a truly terrifying thought. Giry looked every it as uncomfortable as she was feeling, so there was some comfort in that. Odile was by no means unpleasantly disposed to the other woman - but if she had to feel wretched then she was glad someone else was feeling wretched right along with her. Sometimes it was as though the men didn't even notice how much damned trouble she - and other women - had to go through to look well for them. The only things they seemed even vaguely interested in were getting the finery off. Little buttons - how many little buttons had she resewn over the years? A la. Oh dear. There was that awkward feeling in the air - like she had missed something. A question? Odile shook her head slightly to clear out the muddle of thoughts and tried to concentrate on the little woman's words. "Tragic? I s'pose so, Madame. I know so little of ghosts. I mean -" the picture came vividly to her mind - fueled by several ridiculously purple novels which she kept under her bed. A wan, elegantly melancholic dark man who pined in the shadows for his long lost life and his long lost love... "Is he haunting the opera because of some dark secret? Some love he cannot forget? It must be so romantic to have such a mystery surrounding you and the theatre!" The little cherub was smiling at her - oh so shyly. Alors, he was a sweet thing. She smiled back over Giry's shoulder, and fluttered her eyelashes just once. Edited by Erical, 29/09/2008 - 03:23 am.
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 27/09/2008 - 12:04 pm Post #14 |
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((Erm, I don't believe Giry was looking at her questioningly at all. :P)) She wanted to humour her. Really. But there was only so much she could do in this sort of company without ripping all her hair out in frustration. So, Giry resigned to a stiff, rather slow nod, "Who can say, who can say..." Though of coarse, Giry knew that it was exactly that. Well, not to the letter. A lost love, was rather, in his case, a love which most probably would never be found in the first place. Not to mention the tragic deformation the poor man had to endure. It seemed the Baroness was being taken up by one boy in particular. That feminine one. What women saw in such boys was beyond her. "...Oh yes, mon Dieu. Such a mystery." Her tone throughout was...well...at least she was trying to sound enthused. But it came off a bit patronizing, to remark truthfully. Perhaps the other lady wouldn't catch it. "Well, Baroness. If there was nothing else..." She trailed off, awaiting a reply. Hoping Collard would at least recognize Giry's intentions through that powder-caked cranium of hers. |
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| Erical | 28/09/2008 - 12:55 am Post #15 |
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Leader of the Surete
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((OOC: Oh, my apologies. I simply meant that Giry was asking her a question was all. I was messing with the timeline just a leeetle, so it probably didn't play out quite the way I intended.  ))
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 28/09/2008 - 12:22 pm Post #16 |
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((Hrrm, Okie. I think I understand. :P)) |
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| Sieglinde | 06/10/2008 - 08:56 am Post #17 |
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Inspector Javert / Erik / Lucien
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Lucien collected all his braveness, and he stepped closer. "Good evening, my dear ladies." He bowed. "I can barely hope that you forgive my impertinence, but I couldn't resist." He looked at Odile, as if a young shepherd would look to Aphrodite, if the Goddess appeared before him. "Divine lady, allow a simple poet to watch your beauty." A soft, pink blush appeared on his marble-white, dainty face. He was adorable, but he didn't know. At home, he was afraid of girls; only his mother told him he's beautiful, but he thought it a lie of love. How could he be beautiful - he's too thin, to fragile. He wanted to look like a man, a real man, but he wasn't able to grow beard. In fact, his face was so smooth as a girl's. "I've heard - unwillingly - that you talked about the Opera Ghost..." |
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| Erical | 07/10/2008 - 02:25 am Post #18 |
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Leader of the Surete
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(OOC - Odile has no sense of tact really...) Odile aimed a pout in the general direction of Madame Giry. She had wanted to hear details, not be fobbed off with a vague 'yes yes, dear' answer. She felt rather as though someone had patted her ever so kindly on the head and told her to run of and play - there's a good girl. And - oh dear, the little dancer lady seemed to be bored. Odile was far from used to boring people, so she blinked several times and gave herself a chance to get used to the sensation. It wasn't very pleasant. Interesting, but - no. Not pleasant in the least. And her feet were hurting - and she felt deflated and... the pout grew bigger. 'Good evening, my dear ladies'... Oh. Oh mon dieu - mon cour... the little angel boy had come over and was bowing to her. Odile pouted in his direction too. It was a pout that spoke volumes of being patronised by people you were technically patronizing and how much corsets hurt when one was her age. '...couldn't resist...' The lad grew more entrancing with every syllable he uttered. And - oui. He was blushing. How utterly charming!! What a sweet little chiot! And how unsure of himself. Perhaps she wasn't getting old after all. By the time her little charmeur had mentioned poetry and the opera ghost, Odile had decided. Here was her new love - one who would delve the depths of her soul. One who would understand her fine nature and worship her. One who would not be bored and look at her as though there was nothing at all between the front and the back of her very fine powdered wig. "Merci Madame," she smiled first at Giry. "You have been so kind to answer my questions. I believe my new escort will see to my safety for the rest of the evening..." Oh - oh, she was forgetting something! She reached into her tiny bag and pulled out a little purse, holding it out to Madame Giry with a 'sweet smile' (she termed her smiles in the following categories: sweet, charming, innocent, shy, seductive, entrancing, and cruel. The last was reserved for false lovers and lovers whom she wished to torment.) "Voila. A little gift from me to your dancers - my humble thanks for their beautiful performance tonight." |
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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| Alandree | 08/10/2008 - 09:31 am Post #19 |
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((And that’s why we love her. XD)) Giry frowned at the boy. His sickly sweet words, all wrapped up with some infallible honey, made her nauseous. She’d just never seen the appeal of such femininity in young men. He was fair and thin and looked rather like he might blow away in the wind should he be pushed off balance, or unhooked from gravity by a commandeering hand. She stepped back a bit, almost involuntarily, as he neared. Obviously it was the Baroness he was interested in. Who else could conjure such agonizing confessions from a boy who looked like he’d barely finished developing from a foetus? Giry chose to ignore his mentioning of the Opera Ghost. She’d had enough of that for tonight. Quirking an eyebrow as she referred to him as a ‘new escort’, Giry attempted to communicate finality back at her, wrapping her shawl around herself more precisely, and inclining her head, albeit rather awkwardly. But she froze when the lady offered her a gift for her dancers. How…what word could describe this? Asinine? Ostentatious? Whatever it was, she decided there was no sense in taking offence. Holding out her hand she took the purse and gave her a curt nod, “Merci. I’m sure the company will be…most honoured. Especially when they hear of who it comes from. Adieu, Baroness.” And with that, trying her hardest to avoid contact with the boy, she swept towards the stairs, ready to ascend and, at last, find a bit of solace in her room. She hoped. |
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| Erical | 11/10/2008 - 08:12 pm Post #20 |
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Leader of the Surete
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(OOC: XD - Hee!!)) A la. People were always being honoured and charmed by her. It was sometimes rather exhausting being so - important to so many people. Odile kept a politely regretful expression on her face as she nodded to the departing Madame. While that had been educational, it had also been uncomfortable. There was something about the way the dancing teacher looked at her - as though she could see a lot more than other people did and the view offered her no pleasure. Odile sighed - it had been quite a while since she had felt as though she needed to act her age. And yet if she had to select one single message that had seemed to be burned into her brain by Giry's stare - that would have been it. Time to find a reason not to think about that, she turned to the young boy - the ange. "Bon Soir. I am the Baroness Odile Collard." She smiled, and made a slight bow - more to let him have a better view of her bust-line than anything else. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" She pitched her voice at her very best soft and seductive tone. |
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"Warm?" "Hot as hell." "Good. We're no angels." - Philip Fouche. A Young Doctor's Scrap With Death • • • •
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