Golden-green beckons, a sweet lure in the darkness... and concealing shadows part before the undulation of a swaying stride. Tribal drums whip a circle of torches into frenzied dancing, throwing their eager gleam to froth in the depths of those eyes, to paint tanned curves... to kiss the lazy curl of a sweetly sadistic smile and spark the murderous tips of ten razorsharp claws...
Bare feet whisper silent seduction over a lush carpet of emerald grass, darkened only by night's persistent drape. Overhead, a crescent moon rides the smooth sea of a cloudless night, its silver reflection mocked by the heightened passion of the torches.
Short, black spikes sweep forward to create an abrupt frame for her tanned features; large, wide-spaced eyes return dizzying reflections tenfold, their golden-green hue a throwback to her denied birth-rights... the suggestion of exoticism, augmented by the predatorial sway of her stride. Sleek curves play a taunting game of hide-and-seek with the torchlight, challenged only by the veritable second-skin of black leather. Ears, throat, belly all free of ornament; she is exhibition enough... the definition of sinewy muscles is only enhanced by an armband of thorned vines, wrapping its cruel embrace around her left biceps... and cruel it is; in response to the frenzy of the torches, the inked design writhes with a malignant delight all its own, long thorns winding and digging anew into the flesh beneath...
But no notice is taken by the bearer of that charmed tattoo. The jungle's rhythm excites a sensuous ripple from the still form in the circle's center; a foot stamps, her hips twist and a bullwhip drapes from one hand to rest with serpentine coils patient along the ground. At her belt, silver strikes against silver with a merry jangle, adding both melody and reflection to the scene...
... her back arches, bare feet bracing wide...
...her arm lifts, the figure-eight flicks of wrist setting the bullwhip to slice, singing, through the air above her head...
.... and the dance is completed with the downstroke, sending eight feet of leather screaming forward to the resounding crack of whip on bare flesh.
The bound slave jerks, grunting into the stick tied into his mouth... the clearing goes quiet, hushed, interrupted only by the crackle of hectic flames...awaiting the dance of each stroke to start anew...
