Sorry, LJ cut isn't working for me tonight.
Series Title: A Room in the House of Lady Emyrld
Chapter Title: The Cut of a Lady
Word Count: 1113
Genre: Original Fiction
Rating: M: Mature
Beta: The ever fabu jooles34
A/N: Gorgeous artwork banner by codename_sherry
A/N: As a gift for my birthday thrace_adams wrote a character and setting into one of her TW fandom stories. The character was Lady Emyrld and the setting was an exclusive sex club. This series of stories will tell the tale of the private rooms in the House of Lady Emyrld, the people who work in each theme room and the club itself.
( The Cut of a Lady )
Amita Patel lightly ascended the front steps of the brownstone, the sway of her dark-haired ponytail and soft pad of her trainersa juxtaposition to the pounding beat of Dies Irae from Verdi Requiem blaring from her earbuds. She slipped through the front door, hoping not to be noticed. However, that was of course not the case with Jones manning the door even hours before opening.
“You’re late. Were you saving another life, Amita?” Jones asked, eyeing Amita still dressed in her work scrubs.
“Yes, Jonesy, that’s what we do in the morgue, save lives,” Amita snarked as she brushed past the handsome, half-naked man and headed straight upstairs to her room, still unable to shake the scenes she had witnessed earlier.
Jones closed the door and looked to Mellie, the club’s hostess. “Bad moods are bad for business.”
Mellie gazed thoughtfully towards the stairs leading to the private rooms. “I’ll talk to her.” She quickly followed Amita.
“Am, hold up,” Mellie called out.
Amita pretended that she couldn’t hear Mellie over her iPod and continued to the door of her room.
Mellie placed a hand on Amita’s arm as she tried to turn the knob, “Oh you so don’t get to ignore me girl.” Mellie’s petite frame and china doll looks belied the strength hidden below the surface.
Yanking out her earbuds, Amita turned towards the blonde woman. “What?”
Mellie leaned in close to Amita and caressed her cheek. “You need to wash off whatever happened today so you have a clear head for tonight. We’ve got your special talents booked solid.”
Amita exhaled and her body slumped into Mellie’s touch. “I know, I’m sorry, I just…” Her apology was cut short when Mellie kissed her softly, bleeding the anger and frustration away.
Mellie allowed the taller woman to take charge of the kiss, shaping it into what she needed, forceful, angry, but always with an underlying echo of respect and care.
“Mel, oh sweet Mel,” Amita murmured between kisses, leaning the blonde against the door to her room.
“Mmmm, yes Am, I’m here for you. Take what you need.”
After a few minutes of heated kisses and touches, Amita lifted her head to take a deep breath. She leant her forehead against Mellie’s and they simply stood there, breath raggedy, and smiled at one another.
“Seriously Mel, you always know what I need.”
Mellie quirked her lips. “Isn’t that what a good girlfriend does?”
Amita laughed, “You go above and beyond good girlfriend status. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know.”
“I know,” Mellie replied smugly. “Now go inside and prepare for tonight. Seriously, you’re booked solid. I don’t know what Jones was thinking giving you so many clients tonight when you spent the day in the morgue.”
Amita’s eyes clouded a bit, “It was a rough one today. But you’re right, I need a hot shower and some down-time before the night starts. It’s my fault for saying I could do both today.”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t have eaten so there’s a platter in there for you as well.”
“I love you, you know.”
“Yep, now go.” Mellie never entered Amita’s room in the House; it was an unspoken agreement between them. What happened in the club had nothing to do with their personal relationship.
Amita smiled one last time at the retreating Mellie, took a deep breath and entered her room.
Slipping off her trainers Amita wriggled her toes in the lush red carpet and inhaled the faded scents of jasmine and sandalwood. Pausing at the niche in the wall where her statue of Matangi resided, Amita lit more incense and bowed to the god of her people she most felt as a kindred spirit. Amita, much like the god who defied the Caste system, didn’t believe in traditional roles but she did believe in karma and held herself to a personal code. After a whispered prayer to the deity Amita went to the en-suite for a scalding shower to wash away her day and prepare herself mentally for the night ahead.
Twenty minutes later Amita stepped naked back into her room, a thick braid holding back her lustrous hair. Using the stereo remote, music suddenly blared from the surround sound, the pounding beat of Guilty by Gravity Kills thrummed through Amita, the lyrics a balm, clearing her mind as she went about her tasks.
Turning down the rich satin comforter on the bed as if awaiting a lover, drawing the curtains to dim the light in the room, Amita turned to the built-in wardrobe on the far side of the richly appointed room and began to dress for the night. Black leather trousers and halter-neck top, tall boots and blades strapped to her thighs.
Before long her transformation was nearly complete. Amita rolled out the leather case on the nightstand and checked her instruments. One by one she picked up each blade lovingly and checked there were no nicks and that it was clean. A dagger, a straight razor, a kitchen knife, all her deadly beauty laid out before her.
Amita was used to the feel of flesh giving beneath her blade, it happened every day for her. But those were dead cold bodies, whose life had already been made forfeit. But here in this room, at night, they were warm, breathing, living, fearing her blade, fearing her.
It took strength to wield a blade for pleasure and ecstasy. To feel the power over life and death in your hands and not give in; to pleasure the body beneath your hands, to encompass their fear and their trust, the ultimate surrender.
Amita reached for the final item of her transformation. A slim black leather mask that didn’t really disguise her face, but rather leant her a look of mystery.
Centering herself in the room where the shadows cast across her she sent one final prayer for inner peace and listened as the first knock of the evening began upon her door.
Palming a small blade so it glinted in the light she called, “Enter.”( The Cut of a Lady )