From the far back of the club stood a vivacious woman whom had dressed to kill tonight. Both literally and figuritively. Whereas most women would dress scantilly, the dark seductress chose something classy and sexy; revealing just enough to make one's mind wonder what everything looked like underneath. Figure-hugging slacks made of black suede hugged her lower body and a blouse of fine, maroon colored silk adorned her upper half. The buttons were left undone just enough to allow a quick peek of deep cleavage if she should happen to bend over or lean in close while reaching for a drink from the bar counter.
So why would a woman whom had been trained to kill dare to enter a gentleman's club? Here is the perfect place to
enlist the services of the unsavory sort. The why's and when's are not important at this point.
Syren had suffered through three previous dances. The women were as good looking as a dead Rancor rotting away in the dry, hot desert of Tattooine - to put it mildly. Then the fourth dance began. At first, Syren paid the woman no mind, expecting her to be just as ugly and just as terrible at dancing as the others.
It wasn't until a group of men moved closer to the stage, pawing at the woman's long, silky legs; vying for her undivided attention that Syren actually tore herself away from checking out the ass-ends of a few of the men lingering nearby.
"Hey. Pardon me, little lady. How would you like to make a thousand credits tonight?"
A nudge against her elbow drew her attention to the short, rotund geeky man propositioning her. A slender darkened brow lofted lightly as Syren peered down to the man.
"That's right. You're a gorgeous woman and I'd pay you a thousand credits to get up on stage, strip and get kinky with that dancer up there now."
The corner of Syren's pouty mouth twitched as she scoffed a derisive snort. Eyes as black as sackcloth rolled and she placed her hand over the stout man's face, then shoved him away from her.
"You'll pay the next man in the parking lot you see to sleep with you tonight in the back alley.", she stated with a slight motion of her hand.
"I'm sorry, Miss. I though you may have .. oh nevermind! I have a date in the alley!", the chubby man re-iterated, eyeing Syren through eyes that looked a little glassy. She forced a quick grin as the man nearly tripped over his two feet to get out of the club.
The scene in which she returned her attention to was ... well, let's just say it was
terrible! The dancer was doing so well until she gave the impression of enjoying an act of the oral kind with another woman in the audience. Of course, the victim's face burned bright red as the men spurred the lesbian-action to go on. Once her face was free of the dancer's thighs, the woman ran from the club.
This made Syren chuckle.
The lights went out. This is exactly what Syren was counting on.
Easily, she made her way through the club up to the stage, tossing her cloak over her shoulders and the deeply cowled hood upon her head along the way. From there, she descended to the lower level, taking the same course as the dancer. She waited for the opportune moment, holding a small straw-like object to her lips. As the dancer opened the dressing room door and took her pay, Syren blew into the dart shooter. The poison-tipped dart struck the male Twi`lek at the side of his neck. It took a moment for the poison to do it's job, but the reaction of the dancer was well worth the pause.
The dancer backed herself against the wall. This pleased the dark mistress even more as there was now only two ways to get past. And with Syren standing right there, the dancer wouldn't be getting away so easily.
A boot heel clicked against the floorboard quickly as Syren took a step, then another, closing the distance between she and the dancer. The scent of fear is intoxicating and this dancer was quivering from it! If one could become literally drunk from such an emotion!
Syren's approach halted as soon as the two female body's were separated by a scant few centimeters of space. The dark-eyed woman, cloaked in velvet, stared intently into Sylvia's eyes while placing both of her hands flat against the wall on either side of Sylvia's head.
A subtle sniff followed, as if taking in the scent of the woman's perfume. It wasn't the perfume. It was the literal stench of fear that infected Syren's olfactory nerves.
At this point, the two women were so close that Syren's cheek brushed against Sylvia's; the caress as light as a feather and a warm breath wafted against Sylvia's ear.
"Your ... services ... are required tonight ... elsewhere."
Syren allowed her lips to graze lightly against Sylvia's earlobe before pulling back just enough to gaze intently into the woman's eyes. This woman would not deny her needs this night.