Post by heart on Dec 10, 2008 3:51:39 GMT 10
----M A R I E;;
Stillettos in desperate need of re-heeling clacked on the pavement as a young woman made her way towards the Roadhouse. The shoes in question, atleast 6inch spikes protruding from the sole, were attatched to lithe legs, bare until mi-thigh where a pair of short demin hotpants covered what little dignity was left to be hidden. Her midrif was displayed, melting into a black corset-style top, which accentuated every curve on her body. Her poker-straight black tresses were pulled back into a messy ponytail which plainly hadn't seen a brush since the previous night, possibly in excess of 24 hours before. Large silver hoops dangled from her lobes, matching the heavy pewter-colored eyeshadow. Her eyes were ringed with thick, though well-applied black eyeliner, and heavily coated lashes grazed against the skin below her eyelids as she tried to watch where she walked. But damn, was everything fuzzy! She probably shouldn't've had the whole bottle of Absolut vodka, but what the hey. She only lived once. Her walk was labored, almost a stumble. A sly grin spread over her face, red lipstick-clad lips parting. Ah, yes, a Tuesday night and Marie was ready to drink until Thursday. As per. She loved routine. Drink, sex, sleep, eat, drink. Her perfect day.
A hand was laid on the door to steady herself, before it was pushed open and she entered the bar. She had no handbag and no money, but she knew she'd still be more drunk by the early hours than she was now. Men always bought her drinks. Sweet, dirty suggestions rolled from her pierced tongue like greetings, and an empty promise was nothing to her. As long as she got alcohol, it didn't matter. Sure, sometimes some men couldn't take no for an answer afterwards, but there was usually another man to rescue her, and then the process started again. See? Routine. Marie loved it! Although blatantly too young to drink (legally), it was astonishing the amount of blokes who'd risk jailtime for a piece of young ass. She pitied them sometimes. Ha. No, scratch that. She really, really didnt.
Wandering up to the bar, she grabbed the first available stool and heaved herself up onto it. Crossing her legs slowly, she didn't care, or more than likely didn't notice that her black g-string was visible above the waist band of her hotpants. Bracelets rattled as her arm was placed flat on the bar, long, black fingernail tapping on the worktop. Eyes scanned the room. Who would be the first to help her along the way to complete intoxication?
[/font]