Parisian Designs
Mar. 15th, 2009 10:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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tenebrae_nostro
"They must all be French. Parisian, preferably. Well educated, talented, beautiful, intelligent, charming, worldly and able to both please men and women not to mention myself." She said tongue in cheek. Most certainly, without even a shadow of a doubt, It would be hardest to please her. "Six should suffice." Catherine dictated the mystical Venusian number while throwing open open the balcony shutters, allowing the warm night air to kiss her bare shoulders like an attentive lover. Sydney barked out in a short fit of laughter that did not fade when his cockney accent brushed harshly against her purred Parisian cadence. "Meh'dem, allow me to suggest the cream duh la cream of Parisian society," Catherine cringed as he intentionally butchered her language to get a rise out of her. "Per'aps you would consida' the fine danseuse tahitienne from the quartier Pigalle? I hear the ladies of Boulevard de Clichy are particularly talented. Did you know, maîtresse, that they do a wondrous little trick with a string of beads?"
She could see it coming a mile away. And although she placed her hands on her hips in annoyance, she demanded with feigned curiosity that dripped with dry sarcasm, "Ah, vraiment? Vous m'en direz tant!" Oh, really? Tell me about it. Her tone strongly suggested that she already knew. What was better was that he knew that she knew, but the banter was agreeable nonetheless.
"Yes." He reaffirmed with vigor as he leaned forward from his place on the couch. Zenia Zydane rolled her stormy eyes despite the smirk on her face. Bored, she played with the ends of her dark brown hair as she waited for the Englishman to finish. "They take this string of beads that looks like em' fake pearls. This long." He adds incredulously, measuring nearly two meters across with his arms while looking between the two woman as if he was recollecting a catch on his last fishing trip with his mates.
"And what, mon cher, do they do with these string of pearls? Mmm?" The smoke from the cigarillo she had 'borrowed' from between Sydney's lips wafted out from her own in short bursts.
"I'm glad you asked." Silence. The women tried not to snicker. My, my, wasn't he trying to set the scene with his dramatic pause as he looked from one to the other. "They take the string of beads and put it up their muff." Zenia grabbed a sidearm pillow and heaved it over her head. "No, no, wait. There's more, just listen'." His hand came up to grasp the pillow before she smacked him upside the head with it. "Then, then, a man pulls it out...with his teeth."
Catherine nodded slowly, a slow grin of bravado spreading across her face. "Interesting. I hope that for your sake, Sydney, the string of pearls is long enough for you to hang yourself with. For if you bring me a common whore, I promise that I will not afford you the pleasure of auto-eroticly asphyxiating." She turned back to look out the balcony door at the glittering lights of the city, her hands grasping the wrought iron rail as if she meant to twist it into a different pattern. "No. I won't. This matter is of the utmost importance. I have a contact for such things in Paris. Madame Giry. You will remember that she has an expertise with finding such young talent from all around the world." After all, that is how Sydney met his ghoulish fate. The classy looking East End crime boss needed a high class trophy at his side while on business in Marseille. He got what he wanted. Almost. "You shall liaise with her and she will provide you with a number of suitable courtesans."
Business made her thoughts stray far enough so that she ignored Sydney's mumbled, "Courtesans? Aren't they just high class escorts?" remark. Zenia's pillow finally found the upside of his head. "Oiy." He pointed his finger in her face. "You behave." Their voices receded into the background. Escorts? Perhaps they would be called that nowadays, but when Catherine got through with them, they'd be 'escorts' of the highest order and class, no matter how good they were already expected to be. They would be her eyes and ears. Her Parisian network was formidable. If a politician broke wind in Asia, they'd hear about it in France.
For the love of Caine, complained Catherine in a brooding seethe that narrowed her eyes into little slits as she stared at her new home from the penthouse balcony apartment that she purchased on her Sire's stolen credit card. It amused her and saved her a phone call that she did not want to make. Childish games, he would retort. Catherine would argue that he used to buy her diamonds, apartments, expensive clothes and whatever else she had fancied when she was mortal, why not now? Why not indeed. Why not, since she was doing so much for him despite the fact that it benefited her more? If she was going to be forced to live here for awhile, than she sure as hell wasn't going to suffer through it. Except, that this had not been part of his plan.
"It's horrible." She spat out, suddenly agitated. "This city does not breath, it does not live!" Catherine lamented, throwing up her hands and then dramatically gesturing down at the neon lights and streets below her. "Is this supposed to be impressive? Neon flashing palm trees?" A string of French profanities flew from her mouth over the city. Flicking the lit cigarillo off the balcony, without regard for Sydney's protest that this was his last one, she had no regard for where it landed or on whom.
Still, her annoyance was...manageable. Obviously, she knew that she could survive anywhere, fit in and flourish with a smile if she had to even if what she really wanted was to salt the earth of this horribly ugly city.
"So. That take cares of the first order of business." From a walnut colored antique secretary desk, Catherine produced a sealed letter. It was the proposal for a posh French supper club cum intellectual saloon reminiscent of the favoured dwellings of the new aristocracy who wanted to mingle with the literary euro-intellectuals of the early 1900's. Decidedly less humble then the 'cafe' she told the Prince that she wanted to open. But if she was going to set up an operation, she might as well make it long-lasting. Worthy of being erected by a Tremere. "Sydney, run this over to Prince Tristan." Unlike Zamor, Sydney wasn't old enough to know of their sorted history. "I want this proposal on his desk before the ink dries." Of course, there was no mention of the 'escorts' in the proposal. No need to mix business with pleasure even if the business was pleasure and vice versa.
Mais oui, the restaurant would nearly be a carbon copy of the successful restaurant she owned in Paris. Complete with high class working girls who had a taste for information in order to feed their other addiction. She would make this city bareable. If she couldn't be in Paris, than she would bring Paris to her.
"Wait!" She ordered. Having lost herself in the details of the proposal, she forgot to emblazon the envelope with her wax seal. Her heels stopped midway to the desk. Ah, but who needs a wax seal? With an amused chuckle, she puckered her red lips and kissed the fold of the envelop, dropping it back into Sydney's open hands. With a quizzical expression, he shook his head and gestured toward his mistress. "Brazen, that one is." Zenia smirked from under dark eyes in agreement, but said nothing as she returned her business of taking care of her mistresses business. In this case, finding suitable dining for this evening. The maîtresse had expressed an interest in something refined and lean.
It was fortunate, then, that the great grand daughter of Anna Pavlova was on tour with the Russian Mariinsky ballet.
tenebrae_nostro "They must all be French. Parisian, preferably. Well educated, talented, beautiful, intelligent, charming, worldly and able to both please men and women not to mention myself." She said tongue in cheek. Most certainly, without even a shadow of a doubt, It would be hardest to please her. "Six should suffice." Catherine dictated the mystical Venusian number while throwing open open the balcony shutters, allowing the warm night air to kiss her bare shoulders like an attentive lover. Sydney barked out in a short fit of laughter that did not fade when his cockney accent brushed harshly against her purred Parisian cadence. "Meh'dem, allow me to suggest the cream duh la cream of Parisian society," Catherine cringed as he intentionally butchered her language to get a rise out of her. "Per'aps you would consida' the fine danseuse tahitienne from the quartier Pigalle? I hear the ladies of Boulevard de Clichy are particularly talented. Did you know, maîtresse, that they do a wondrous little trick with a string of beads?"
She could see it coming a mile away. And although she placed her hands on her hips in annoyance, she demanded with feigned curiosity that dripped with dry sarcasm, "Ah, vraiment? Vous m'en direz tant!" Oh, really? Tell me about it. Her tone strongly suggested that she already knew. What was better was that he knew that she knew, but the banter was agreeable nonetheless.
"Yes." He reaffirmed with vigor as he leaned forward from his place on the couch. Zenia Zydane rolled her stormy eyes despite the smirk on her face. Bored, she played with the ends of her dark brown hair as she waited for the Englishman to finish. "They take this string of beads that looks like em' fake pearls. This long." He adds incredulously, measuring nearly two meters across with his arms while looking between the two woman as if he was recollecting a catch on his last fishing trip with his mates.
"And what, mon cher, do they do with these string of pearls? Mmm?" The smoke from the cigarillo she had 'borrowed' from between Sydney's lips wafted out from her own in short bursts.
"I'm glad you asked." Silence. The women tried not to snicker. My, my, wasn't he trying to set the scene with his dramatic pause as he looked from one to the other. "They take the string of beads and put it up their muff." Zenia grabbed a sidearm pillow and heaved it over her head. "No, no, wait. There's more, just listen'." His hand came up to grasp the pillow before she smacked him upside the head with it. "Then, then, a man pulls it out...with his teeth."
Catherine nodded slowly, a slow grin of bravado spreading across her face. "Interesting. I hope that for your sake, Sydney, the string of pearls is long enough for you to hang yourself with. For if you bring me a common whore, I promise that I will not afford you the pleasure of auto-eroticly asphyxiating." She turned back to look out the balcony door at the glittering lights of the city, her hands grasping the wrought iron rail as if she meant to twist it into a different pattern. "No. I won't. This matter is of the utmost importance. I have a contact for such things in Paris. Madame Giry. You will remember that she has an expertise with finding such young talent from all around the world." After all, that is how Sydney met his ghoulish fate. The classy looking East End crime boss needed a high class trophy at his side while on business in Marseille. He got what he wanted. Almost. "You shall liaise with her and she will provide you with a number of suitable courtesans."
Business made her thoughts stray far enough so that she ignored Sydney's mumbled, "Courtesans? Aren't they just high class escorts?" remark. Zenia's pillow finally found the upside of his head. "Oiy." He pointed his finger in her face. "You behave." Their voices receded into the background. Escorts? Perhaps they would be called that nowadays, but when Catherine got through with them, they'd be 'escorts' of the highest order and class, no matter how good they were already expected to be. They would be her eyes and ears. Her Parisian network was formidable. If a politician broke wind in Asia, they'd hear about it in France.
For the love of Caine, complained Catherine in a brooding seethe that narrowed her eyes into little slits as she stared at her new home from the penthouse balcony apartment that she purchased on her Sire's stolen credit card. It amused her and saved her a phone call that she did not want to make. Childish games, he would retort. Catherine would argue that he used to buy her diamonds, apartments, expensive clothes and whatever else she had fancied when she was mortal, why not now? Why not indeed. Why not, since she was doing so much for him despite the fact that it benefited her more? If she was going to be forced to live here for awhile, than she sure as hell wasn't going to suffer through it. Except, that this had not been part of his plan.
"It's horrible." She spat out, suddenly agitated. "This city does not breath, it does not live!" Catherine lamented, throwing up her hands and then dramatically gesturing down at the neon lights and streets below her. "Is this supposed to be impressive? Neon flashing palm trees?" A string of French profanities flew from her mouth over the city. Flicking the lit cigarillo off the balcony, without regard for Sydney's protest that this was his last one, she had no regard for where it landed or on whom.
Still, her annoyance was...manageable. Obviously, she knew that she could survive anywhere, fit in and flourish with a smile if she had to even if what she really wanted was to salt the earth of this horribly ugly city.
"So. That take cares of the first order of business." From a walnut colored antique secretary desk, Catherine produced a sealed letter. It was the proposal for a posh French supper club cum intellectual saloon reminiscent of the favoured dwellings of the new aristocracy who wanted to mingle with the literary euro-intellectuals of the early 1900's. Decidedly less humble then the 'cafe' she told the Prince that she wanted to open. But if she was going to set up an operation, she might as well make it long-lasting. Worthy of being erected by a Tremere. "Sydney, run this over to Prince Tristan." Unlike Zamor, Sydney wasn't old enough to know of their sorted history. "I want this proposal on his desk before the ink dries." Of course, there was no mention of the 'escorts' in the proposal. No need to mix business with pleasure even if the business was pleasure and vice versa.
Mais oui, the restaurant would nearly be a carbon copy of the successful restaurant she owned in Paris. Complete with high class working girls who had a taste for information in order to feed their other addiction. She would make this city bareable. If she couldn't be in Paris, than she would bring Paris to her.
"Wait!" She ordered. Having lost herself in the details of the proposal, she forgot to emblazon the envelope with her wax seal. Her heels stopped midway to the desk. Ah, but who needs a wax seal? With an amused chuckle, she puckered her red lips and kissed the fold of the envelop, dropping it back into Sydney's open hands. With a quizzical expression, he shook his head and gestured toward his mistress. "Brazen, that one is." Zenia smirked from under dark eyes in agreement, but said nothing as she returned her business of taking care of her mistresses business. In this case, finding suitable dining for this evening. The maîtresse had expressed an interest in something refined and lean.
It was fortunate, then, that the great grand daughter of Anna Pavlova was on tour with the Russian Mariinsky ballet.
