Lipstick
I'm still not really clear on what set Blaine off. In the days
following Kyle's wedding he seemed perfectly happy to obey my edict
that he not leave the palace and visit unsecured areas of the city. Of
course, we didn't much leave his room for those days, so I was
fairly unconcerned when his comm link rang for the thousandth time and
he took a call from yet another acquaintance.
"Kourt, listen, I forgot all about it, but I'm scheduled to appear at
a charity benefit show tonight. That was Makir, he wants me to come
over and do my sound checks in about an hour. You want to ride along?"
Blaine asked as he dug through what he laughingly referred to as his
wardrobe. I don't know what to call the thing, but when you have
clothes enough to outfit seven large families in high style, it is no
longer a wardrobe.
"Where's this benefit?" I asked, calling upon what I knew about the
various districts of Kais.
"In Langnastraad. Don't worry, it's not as bad as all that," he
replied, dismissing the dangers of that unsavory district out of hand.
"Not that bad? It's a hotbed of crime! It's... it's... unsavory and
dangerous and..." I argued.
"It's where I'm going, okay? Don't wear your fucking uniform. You'll
stick out like a three-day-dead seagull."
I argued. He ignored me. I reasoned. Silence. I went to my room to get
my lightslate to reinforce my point, but when I returned, he was...
gone.
Gone. If the Council hears about this, I'm going to be a
three-day-dead seagull.
How a man as... flashy and attention-oriented as Bail Blain Garu can
disappear into thin air is beyond me. No one saw him leave the palace.
No one saw his transport, a racy black custom jobbie known as the
Wraithe Spawn, leave the area. How can no one notice the damn thing?
He drives like a maniac! It's a public health issue to not see him
coming!
The few friends of his I could locate in the immediate vicinity of the
palace swore they knew absolutely nothing. Each one advised me to
check with some other person, most of whom probably didn't exist (at
one point I recognized the name of a fictional character from one of
Blaine's comic books). It hardly took a Force probe to determine that
they were lying, what with the sideways glances and the gazing at the
ground and the outright smirking. I mentally debated the ethics of
judiciously applied torture to one particular hair
stylist/sculptor/sex worker who giggled behind a fringe of blue fluff.
I was acutely aware of time passing by while I chased phantoms around
the darkening streets of the capitol city.
Finally I thought to go by that weird restaurant by the beach and
corner the Singing Waiter. After some shuffling and blushing on his
part, Jules drew me a map on a napkin and headed me into the darkest
heart of West Beach. Of course. Where else would he be?
The stars were putting in their glittering appearance by the time I
crossed the city via air cab.
I knew I was in trouble when the cabbie refused to deliver me to the
door of the nameless club, opting instead to leave me several blocks
to the east. I made my way quickly through the early crowds and soon
found myself in front of a towering black building with large steel
doors protected by large, armed guards. From the sound and look of the
place, it was already in full swing by the time I presented myself and
my credentials to the muscle-bound guardians of the club.
They exchanged slow smiles over my head and one ushered me inside,
elbowing patrons aside as he dragged me into the dark, smoky depths of
the cabaret.
At least, I presumed it was a cabaret. Back before I was knighted,
Artur gave me a few lessons in how to bring someone down in a crowded
place; the pre-sets in the holotrainer room included Wild Party, Rock
Concert, Society Benefit, and Cabaret, and this looked the most like
that last one. Maybe I should've had a few more lessons.
Through the haze I could make out a stage with blood-red velvet
curtains, and a slender woman, crooning into an ancient microphone.
Something about her drew my attention as I was pushed down into a
front row seat.
Thin shoulder straps held up a glittering red dress that barely showed
her well-shaped knees; extremely straight black hair hung just above
her shoulders, with bangs cut straight above blue eyes. Red lips, red
fingernails, red pointed shoes with extraordinarily high heels, a
husky voice, a sad and pretty song about fireflies and regret. I was
suddenly shocked to realize that I found her... well, appealing. No,
admit it: attractive. What the hell?
She glanced down towards me and offered a sultry smile, one hand
drawing a slow line up the front of her sequined gown before she
raised her eyes in an obvious signal to the sound booth.
Her song came to an end and there was a pause for the claps and shouts
of the crowded room. Then a quick piano beat kicked in and a new
energy infused her. Trumpets and backup singers reinforced the defiant
message that, after a moment, I realized she was shooting directly at
me.
Think. Think. Think. You think, think about it.
You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free
Let's go back, let's go back, let's go way on way back when
I didn't even know you, you came to me and too much you wouldn't take
I ain't no psychiatrist, I ain't no doctor with degree
It don't take too much high IQ's to see what you're doing to me
Something about the movement of hip and shoulder caught my mind. I
admit, I'm sometimes a little slow on the uptake but this... I
should have known the second I laid eyes on the stage. Of course I
found her attractive. I'd spent the last few days in bed with her.
With him. With Blaine.
Blaine wiggled his fingers at me and lifted his chin in a singularly
defiant manner as if to say 'Yeah, I'm talking to YOU, mister.' I
don't think I've ever blushed so hard in my entire life, and I'm
certain he knew that, too.
Sometimes I think there's very little this prince doesn't know about
me.
You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free
Oh freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Yeah freedom!
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Ooh freedom!
And, of course, he had a point. Until my arrival, I realized, Blaine
had lived the most unfettered, unreserved life on the planet. I loved
the easy goodwill with which he met the universe, all open sensuality
and giving good nature. If I tried to bind this particular exotic bird
up, he'd be gone from my life in a flash of color and light too bright
to look upon and too swift to follow. His very actions this day told
me as much, in no uncertain terms.
There ain't nothing you could ask I could answer you but I won't
I was gonna change, but I'm not, to keep doing things I don't
You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free
People walking around everyday, playing games that they can score
And I ain't gonna lose my way, ah, be careful you don't lose yours
So there it was. A very basic deal. Let him have his life and his ways
and he'd let me have mine. No more trying to mew him up in any sort of
cage or prison, no matter how entertaining the amenities. Take me as I
am, or don't take me at all. I frowned down at my fingernails, trying
to work out whether or not my job as his protector could adjust to his
needs as a person. Trying to work out whether or not I had a choice.
Meanwhile, the object of my thoughts was dancing like a fury, center
stage, an easy target for any motivated assassin.
You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free
You need me and I need you
Without each other there ain't nothing people can do
Oh freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Yeah freedom!
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Ooh freedom!
Of course, there was no choice to be made. Somewhere along the way we
have become more than Jedi and Protected. We're lovers now, I feel
that. Sarafel once told me that the Jedi way has room for all paths.
Watching the Bail as he shimmied and sang, I decided it was high time
for some trailblazing.
The song ended to thunderous applause, with not a few whistles and
hoots. Blaine bowed deeply and stepped off to stage left then, as the
applause continued, returned with a double armload of roses for
another bow. Roses? Who the hell had sent my lover roses? As the next
act -- a trio of fresh-faced young women in modest dresses and
knee-socks -- took the stage, I got up, tripping over the feet of half
the front row as I rushed backstage.
Clearly I was expected; there was Kerol, Blaine's assistant, grinning
conspiratorially as she waved me back and indicated a door. I knocked.
The door opened on a dressing room: a rack of dresses, a shelf of
wigs, a shabbily ornate chair, a lighted mirror, a table covered with
little pots of various colors of powder and paint, along with vase
upon vase of roses. And there at the door, looking down at me, one
painted eyebrow raised, Blaine.
I, classically trained to kill five different ways, three of which
leave no trace, stood absolutely struck dumb before the prince, who
stood at least four inches taller than the last time I had seen him.
The shoes, I thought stupidly, how can he walk in those shoes? A
strong hand, nails painted blood red, took mine and pulled me into the
room.
"So?"
"I --" I knew what I wanted to say, I had a good answer involving the
importance of safety and protection and keeping out of harm's way, and
various things like that. I had one a moment ago, anyway. "I --"
"That's what I thought." A smile quirked deep-red painted lips. And
then I was pulled in further, the door was shut firmly, a hand was at
the nape of my neck, and those lips were on mine.
A hard, deep kiss, tasting of paint and alcohol and the dizzying scent
of so many roses, and the pure strangeness of tipping my head back for
a kiss from Blaine. I'd always arranged to be a little taller than the
prince.
I reached around him then, once I found my head again, to pull him to
me, to grind my gurden up against the hardness I could feel there
through the dress, to feel for... what? An unfamiliar fastening there
at his back confounded my fingers, which suddenly felt entirely
unsuited to the task. I felt those lips smile against me then, and
then a whisper in my ear, in the husky new version of my lover's
voice. "Let me show you."
He stepped back from me then (and how did he kiss like that yet barely
smear the lip-paint? There was a secret to that, I was sure of it),
face flushed, smile glowing in eyes edged with black, and turned his
back. He reached back and nimbly unfastened some sort of hook, then
looked back over his shoulder. He had somehow painted each individual
eyelash with some thick black substance that made them longer,
thicker, and clearly differentiated.
"Take the little metal tab at the top, and pull down."
And I did, and the back of the dress split open, and when Blaine
wriggled slightly, it fell to the floor around his red shoes. He
smiled an absolutely maddening smile, bent down to pick up the gown,
then reached up to hang it, glittering, on the rack.
Gods.
Blaine's body is beautiful, dressed or nude, but I'd never seen it so
curiously arrayed. Seeing my expression, he turned slowly, showing
off.
Strips of black lace and parabolas of black silk cupped his chest in
such a way as to strongly suggest curves I knew very well were not
there. Smallclothes of the same black silk, edged in the same lace,
barely covered his sex, and made the hemispheres of his ass look
somehow rounder -- I think the way the shoes cantilevered the muscles
of his legs had something to do with that, too. A belt of black lace
circled his slender waist, and ribbons of it traced down through the
pants to emerge underneath and support black, translucent... leggings?
Tights? His legs somehow looked a mile long, and softly shimmered.
I felt... disarmed. By him, or possibly by the shockingly exotic
creature he had turned himself into. It seems I was not the only
shape-shifter in the room this night.
He picked up a slender glass from the dressing table, and took a long
sip of some sort of green liquid. I noticed a similar, empty glass
nearby, marked with a ghost of red lips. Finally, a complete sentence
managed to make its way out of my mouth.
"You should have let me taste that for you, it could have been
poisoned!"
A slightly skewed smile. "That would be redundant. It's green
Chartreuse."
So far, I'd not seen Blaine drink besides wine with dinner, but the
slowing down he disliked at most times worked well in this role. He
was slightly more languid, loose-limbed, flowing. He seemed at no risk
of falling asleep in his clothes, as he'd assured me the least
quantity of strong drink could be relied upon to make him do.
He licked the corner of his mouth with a slightly pointed tongue,
turned his back to me, bent over, and planted the palms of his hands
on the seat of the chair. High-heeled shoes, well-parted, toed in
slightly. His ass, covered as it was by a scrap of black silk, was
perfectly rounded.
I stood still for one long second, during which I could quite clearly
hear the sound of applause outside; the girls must have finished their
song. By the time my pants -- black denim, a little too stiff -- hit
the ground, I'd made a long, hard, thick cock that ached for the
inside of this audacious prince. I pulled down his black silk
underclothes a little more roughly than was strictly necessary. One
finger between his impossibly long legs found him quite generously
oiled. Two fingers, and he pressed back with a wriggle, looked back
over his shoulder, and purred, "Fuck me NOW. Hard."
My hands around his slender waist, I plunged into him, and he made a
small sound of hungry delight. Gods, he was deliciously hot and tight
inside, like a hand fisted strong around me, and he pushed back
against my hardest thrusts. I pounded into him, knowing that he could
take it, knowing that he wanted it, glad to give it to him. He grunted
with each shove, a primal, aching, sound, wanting more. I reached
around him and wrapped my hand around his cock, squeezing and pumping
in time to the thrusts. His passage tightened around me suddenly, then
again and again, as he screamed loud enough (he later told me) to be
heard throughout the building. I caught him up in my arms and held him
through a moment's surprised tears, his and mine.
I felt incredibly conspicuous, sitting there in a sticky vinyl booth
in a round-the-clock restaurant two blocks from the nameless nightclub
as the Spare Prince of Eab Nanoorn explained the arcane workings of
his favorite breakfast foods.
"See, you have the four kinds of syrup on the table already, and then
here's the warm syrup that comes with the pancakes, and you can
put on a little of the berry one, and then some of this other one..."
Being a woman for the evening made Blaine even hungrier than usual, to
the point where a taste of each of his entrees and side orders was an
ample late-night breakfast for me. Pancakes, two kinds of eggs,
biscuits, toast, fried bread, assorted fried meats, and fried
potatoes: nothing but the best in grease, sugar and starch for my
prince. Where he put it, I have no idea; there was no extra room in
the red dress, sequins blazing. Possibly he burned it off as soon as
it entered his body; the sweet hot coffee he was drinking had him
nearly bouncing in his seat.
Blaine's high-heeled red shoes had long since been shed, and were
beside us on the booth seat; his feet, glossy red toenails shining
through holes in the toes of his stockings, rested on the seat
opposite. The black paint had smudged around his eyes in a most
charming manner; not much more than the outline of the red paint on
his lips remained intact; his black wig, while still very shiny, was
just slightly off-center. Now he was attempting to explain the
difference between regular and Bejoran waffles; where was the
waitress? The explanation required examples.
I was happy to offer a few nods and affirmative sounds in return; his
chatter was pleasant, but I was dead-tired, and at that point wouldn't
have been much of a defense against anyone looking to abduct the Bail.
Eventually Blaine must have noticed my fatigue, as he finished up the
last of the strips of fried, salty meat, wiped his face with a napkin
(leaving streaks of makeup), tossed a few large bills on the table,
and summoned a cab.
"What about the Wraithe Spawn?" I asked as we settled into the dark
leather interior of the aircab. "You're just going to leave it where
it's parked?" That was the least of my worries, but I could picture
his pique if it were stolen, and the chance of that in this
neighborhood seemed somewhere near 100%.
A long, loud laugh greeted that remark. "It's in the palace garage, of
course! Makir gave me a ride to the club. What did you think?"
"I looked for that damn think for an hour! I can't believe you didn't
drive..."
A warm snuggle against my side, and Blaine's head was suddenly on my
shoulder as he sleepily replied, "She doesn't drive, of course."
I figure that'll be my part of the act, next time.
-end-
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