The Hell- Bound Mistress: The Taste

The Mistress adjusted her crimson sleeve of silk and took another leisure draft from her long opium pipe. Then she breathed a puff of swirling opium smoke in the space between the two of them. Her white painted face- despite the dirty streaks upon it- blushed with the warm buzz of sake and numbed from the slices of too much fugu sashimi. 

And although awake, her intoxicated head swayed aimlessly, bobbed to the unheard Shamisen music only she could hear. She looked like a stork, or white crane like creature, with gilded hairpins and caked in the mark of her customer's clinging seeds- which she wore like a badge of triumph.

A good night. Her brain's well fucked out. Several times over.

All things considered, It had been a good night for her Mistress, none of her moans were even fake. And although the pack of happy men had already left, drunk and laughing like yelping mad dogs, their curdled marks still stuck to the Mistress's cheeks and the ends of her red lips, like errant spiderwebs, or long white shifting whiskers in the night's breeze.

But neither she nor her Mistress paid any mind to it, it was a typical thing, of typical nights here. That premium face of her Mistress's is the Number One tourist attraction of the entire Red Light District after all, typically congested with so many male genitals.