Beautancus
Well-Known Member
The stink of ether and ass were heavy in the air, as was the distinct- if slightly sweeter, in the estimation of the owner of the only nose that mattered here, smell of nitrocellulose. The room was black-lit, which was all for the better- again, in the estimation of the only eyes that mattered here. A truly thick haze of smoke rose in oily tendrils through that eerie half-light, adding a more than slightly hellish tint to the whole affair.
Which was exactly how August Kościałkowsky, eldest grandchild of the reigning Emperor, and Heir Tertiary to the throne of the Empire of Greater Sarmatia preferred it to be. Far more like his infamous grandfather in terms of private and public behavior and proclivities than his rather moderate and humane father, August was quickly making a name for himself in the highest echelons of the Sarmatian power structure, either as a raging beast with insatiable and outright unspeakable appetites, or as the most likely candidate to see all of Christendom united under the Sarmatian crown- depending upon who one was asking. In those rare few, more enlightened cases, it was calculated that he was all of the above, and would grow to be more, much more.
Running a rather rough hand- much rougher than what one might expect from the future Emperor of one of the world's largest nations- over his closely-cropped hair, eyes partially rolling back and up, it appeared- at least for the moment- that he was more the creature of unspeakable appetites, from where his aide-de-camp/handler, Pułkownik Ludomił Rumsza. Though Rumsza was himself engaging in the same base, and entirely immoral acts that his future liege, and current "charge" was, he had long since convinced himself that it was all in the name of duty...it just so happened that some it was beyond sinfully pleasurable.
In truth, Rumsza found himself fighting back the urge to perfectly replicate the Prince's motions, muscle twitch for muscle twitch. It would have been entirely appropriate, given the circumstances...with his face entirely numb, particularly his nose and lips. Amongst many other things, August seemed to be one of those few people that could take in incomprehensible amounts of drugs, in this case, cocaine, and continue to function at near normal levels. Rumsza tried to keep up with him, most of the time, but it was a nearly forlorn hope, and as such- he usually gave up well before the halfway mark every evening.
Aside from the truly fantastic coke that the Prince always had on his person, there were the endless train of exquisite examples of the female form that were also in seemingly endless supply. Four or five had already made their way through the lavish quarters that they'd "set up shop" in earlier in the evening...well, ransacked...but the cushions were still silken and comfortable. There were only two girls left now, both eagerly carrying out their own duties, heads bobbing at the respective members their mouths enclosed. Yes, it was unavoidable- Rumsza ran a hand over his own close-cropped hair, and could feel his eyes rolling back in his head, quite involuntarily.
So deeply engrossed in his own moment of ecstasy, Rumsza barely took note that the Prince was batting the head full of cornsilk-fine blond hair away from his groin. There was a bit of shuffling and scraping- another line being chopped out, no doubt- and a long, ragged snort. Yes, sure enough, August was taking yet more of it in, pure as the Devil's driven snow. More shuffling as the Prince settled back down on his own cushions, having long since learned and accounted for Rumsza's own "shortcomings" as he called them, August hadn't even bothered to offer his handler another line.
Then there was the grainy slide and click of gunmetal. That particular fetish alarmed Rumsza, and all the girls that were charmed, dragooned, and/or hired into this task. August always carried that on his person, in much the same fashion as his vials of cocaine. A massive .45 that his great-grandfather had carried from Stary Hrodino to Saray and back again- lovingly maintained and oil, and recently enameled. August called the bastard thing "Radosław," after the proud warrior that had borne it, and his line. And now, "Radosław" was firmly pressed into that head full of fine blond hair, forcing it back down onto that same member it had been occupied with previously.
"Gonna have to do a fucking bang-up job to keep up with this blow, bitch...so, uh, blow," August had a momentary fit of stereotypically maniacal laughter at his own poor joke, "...like your life depended upon it. Which it does."
There was much bestial slurping after that, and for the life of him, Rumsza could not keep himself from giggling. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt that this assignment would see Rumsza hell-bound, despite the constant assurances of the Prince's personal chaplain to the contrary. An instant later, the act was finished, despite the darkness of that thought...but that too was the nature of his current assignment. He'd grown entirely too accustomed to this sort of depravity.
It was a good few minutes more, time that Rumsza spent chain-smoking five cigarettes, and taking another, and hopefully final line, before it became apparent that August was...finished.
Smiling, and caressing the still nameless girl's cheek tenderly, August helped her up from her knees. "That was well done old girl, well done indeed. I would go so far as to say that you will likely never do that any better, for the rest of your life. Now please, do go clean yourself up."
Bowing deeply, and obviously fighting to restrain her horror- and relief- the girl scraped away from the Prince, and hastily turned to make her break for the "powder room."
"You know Rumsza, it's a damn shame...but that girl has just done the single greatest thing that she can hope to do in her life, the best possible way. Motivated as she was..." There it was, that sickeningly murderous gleam in his eye, the one that those "fortunate" enough to know the Emperor at any level beyond the most casual would recognize instantly.
"August, please..."
"No Rumsza, best not to let her carry on, burdened by the knowledge that she has nothing left to live for." And with those words, August clicked the safety on "Radosław" off, and leveled the gun at the back of the girl's head- and fired once. The pinkish-gray spray that exited the front of the girls head, likely squarely between her eyes, given the Prince's preternatural skill with the damnable gun, painted the inner wall of the bathroom in less than the blink of an eye. The force of the shot carried her forward, almost doubling her over, before she hit the thickly carpeted floor, a slab of so much dead meat- the last of her lifeblood quickly soaking that same carpet.
"Dammit all August. What a fucking mess."
August simply laughed- and laughed harder when the girl that had been "occupied" with Rumsza hurried back into the room to see what the commotion was about. She dropped to her knees instantly, screaming and squalling- and obviously pissing herself. August stood, and walked to her side. "Don't cry girl, you'll live. It's up to Rumsza what to do with you, and I doubt he's inclined to cap his evening off the way I have. I only ask that you see to the mess that your friend has left..." Nodding back to the crimson mess at the door to the bathroom.
Rumsza lit another cigarette, and could do naught but shake his head.
Which was exactly how August Kościałkowsky, eldest grandchild of the reigning Emperor, and Heir Tertiary to the throne of the Empire of Greater Sarmatia preferred it to be. Far more like his infamous grandfather in terms of private and public behavior and proclivities than his rather moderate and humane father, August was quickly making a name for himself in the highest echelons of the Sarmatian power structure, either as a raging beast with insatiable and outright unspeakable appetites, or as the most likely candidate to see all of Christendom united under the Sarmatian crown- depending upon who one was asking. In those rare few, more enlightened cases, it was calculated that he was all of the above, and would grow to be more, much more.
Running a rather rough hand- much rougher than what one might expect from the future Emperor of one of the world's largest nations- over his closely-cropped hair, eyes partially rolling back and up, it appeared- at least for the moment- that he was more the creature of unspeakable appetites, from where his aide-de-camp/handler, Pułkownik Ludomił Rumsza. Though Rumsza was himself engaging in the same base, and entirely immoral acts that his future liege, and current "charge" was, he had long since convinced himself that it was all in the name of duty...it just so happened that some it was beyond sinfully pleasurable.
In truth, Rumsza found himself fighting back the urge to perfectly replicate the Prince's motions, muscle twitch for muscle twitch. It would have been entirely appropriate, given the circumstances...with his face entirely numb, particularly his nose and lips. Amongst many other things, August seemed to be one of those few people that could take in incomprehensible amounts of drugs, in this case, cocaine, and continue to function at near normal levels. Rumsza tried to keep up with him, most of the time, but it was a nearly forlorn hope, and as such- he usually gave up well before the halfway mark every evening.
Aside from the truly fantastic coke that the Prince always had on his person, there were the endless train of exquisite examples of the female form that were also in seemingly endless supply. Four or five had already made their way through the lavish quarters that they'd "set up shop" in earlier in the evening...well, ransacked...but the cushions were still silken and comfortable. There were only two girls left now, both eagerly carrying out their own duties, heads bobbing at the respective members their mouths enclosed. Yes, it was unavoidable- Rumsza ran a hand over his own close-cropped hair, and could feel his eyes rolling back in his head, quite involuntarily.
So deeply engrossed in his own moment of ecstasy, Rumsza barely took note that the Prince was batting the head full of cornsilk-fine blond hair away from his groin. There was a bit of shuffling and scraping- another line being chopped out, no doubt- and a long, ragged snort. Yes, sure enough, August was taking yet more of it in, pure as the Devil's driven snow. More shuffling as the Prince settled back down on his own cushions, having long since learned and accounted for Rumsza's own "shortcomings" as he called them, August hadn't even bothered to offer his handler another line.
Then there was the grainy slide and click of gunmetal. That particular fetish alarmed Rumsza, and all the girls that were charmed, dragooned, and/or hired into this task. August always carried that on his person, in much the same fashion as his vials of cocaine. A massive .45 that his great-grandfather had carried from Stary Hrodino to Saray and back again- lovingly maintained and oil, and recently enameled. August called the bastard thing "Radosław," after the proud warrior that had borne it, and his line. And now, "Radosław" was firmly pressed into that head full of fine blond hair, forcing it back down onto that same member it had been occupied with previously.
"Gonna have to do a fucking bang-up job to keep up with this blow, bitch...so, uh, blow," August had a momentary fit of stereotypically maniacal laughter at his own poor joke, "...like your life depended upon it. Which it does."
There was much bestial slurping after that, and for the life of him, Rumsza could not keep himself from giggling. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt that this assignment would see Rumsza hell-bound, despite the constant assurances of the Prince's personal chaplain to the contrary. An instant later, the act was finished, despite the darkness of that thought...but that too was the nature of his current assignment. He'd grown entirely too accustomed to this sort of depravity.
It was a good few minutes more, time that Rumsza spent chain-smoking five cigarettes, and taking another, and hopefully final line, before it became apparent that August was...finished.
Smiling, and caressing the still nameless girl's cheek tenderly, August helped her up from her knees. "That was well done old girl, well done indeed. I would go so far as to say that you will likely never do that any better, for the rest of your life. Now please, do go clean yourself up."
Bowing deeply, and obviously fighting to restrain her horror- and relief- the girl scraped away from the Prince, and hastily turned to make her break for the "powder room."
"You know Rumsza, it's a damn shame...but that girl has just done the single greatest thing that she can hope to do in her life, the best possible way. Motivated as she was..." There it was, that sickeningly murderous gleam in his eye, the one that those "fortunate" enough to know the Emperor at any level beyond the most casual would recognize instantly.
"August, please..."
"No Rumsza, best not to let her carry on, burdened by the knowledge that she has nothing left to live for." And with those words, August clicked the safety on "Radosław" off, and leveled the gun at the back of the girl's head- and fired once. The pinkish-gray spray that exited the front of the girls head, likely squarely between her eyes, given the Prince's preternatural skill with the damnable gun, painted the inner wall of the bathroom in less than the blink of an eye. The force of the shot carried her forward, almost doubling her over, before she hit the thickly carpeted floor, a slab of so much dead meat- the last of her lifeblood quickly soaking that same carpet.
"Dammit all August. What a fucking mess."
August simply laughed- and laughed harder when the girl that had been "occupied" with Rumsza hurried back into the room to see what the commotion was about. She dropped to her knees instantly, screaming and squalling- and obviously pissing herself. August stood, and walked to her side. "Don't cry girl, you'll live. It's up to Rumsza what to do with you, and I doubt he's inclined to cap his evening off the way I have. I only ask that you see to the mess that your friend has left..." Nodding back to the crimson mess at the door to the bathroom.
Rumsza lit another cigarette, and could do naught but shake his head.