Primal Instinct

Excitement at a feat untried weighs deliciously on the air. Three women as yet uninitiated into the world of fantasy hover on the edges of it, like catalyst snowflakes to a crushing avalanche. They are as rare as Unicorns and the funny thing is they seem to forget how well those creatures weave magic.
The night breeze is silky against their skin as they laughingly link arms, personal style undiminished even at the daunting prospect of judgemental once-overs.
Let them stare, the fiery red-head muses. After all, she is no stranger to unwanted appraisals at the cost of being unique. She is glad she wore her leather cowboy boots. Or cowgirl. She grins mischeivously to herself.

They promenade along the city sidewalk until the yawning door is before them. Timidly they step back, pushing the leader of the pack to enter first as he laughingly acquiesces, remnants of ocean water and his last cigarette still clinging to his Parisian leather jacket.
The darkness swallows them whole and now they know there is no going back as they sign their names in the book, still huddled together, the thrill of potential wickedness pricking their skin as tendrils of pulsing music tickle their ears. Their leader snakes his way through the dark night club looking for all the world like a Rockstar with clutching groupies, no matter that he'd rather kiss the boy lurking at the edge of his female entourage.

The hazy blackness is suddenly shot through with lines of brilliant colors, glowing needles on a midnight quilt and the one in the cowboy boots marvels at the striking beauty. Shards of leftover diamonds glitter on her skin as she glides beneath the immense disco ball, noticing the light gives her best friend's skin an ethereal glow.
The bar is ahead and she follows her Rockstar, pretending she has done this more times than she can count, surprised at how comfortably she wears the color-stricken darkness. Yelling her drink of choice over the roar of the music, she is glad no one can see her blush as she tells a strange man she wants Sex on the Beach. Although she has tasted many flavors, she's never had a drink before. Never one to call her own, not really a fan of double straws and plastic cups. But tonight is a night of firsts and she smiles inwardly as she sips the naughty cocktail, congratulating herself for remembering that she likes the taste of this one.

City air welcomes them as her group takes respite on the cool patio, the beat of the music changing as the ivy-clad walls absorb the quiet murmurs of cozy couples. Laughingly they pose for numerous photos, blue lightening against the night sky as the camera captures new friends and old, the two women in heels giggling with the Unicorns as the Rockstar drags long on his fresh cigarette.
An arm raises in salutation as another group joins them, hasty introductions exchanged as conversations quickly ensue and the auburn-tressed virgin chides herself for the lingering glance she gives the dark-eyed devil in their midst. But now he has her in his grip and she can't escape, nor does she want to. She likes how free she feels and hardly thinks she can blame the vulgarity in her glass - even without the alcohol she often fights the dark side of her nature. A truer Gemini there never was.

She moves with the flow of their ever expanding crew, boys who love boys and the women who wish they didn't parading back to the luminescent dance floor. Fingers thread through hers and she can hardly tell who is guiding her as the beat pounds rhythm into her blood. She dances like no one is watching, drowning in a carefree ocean. She spies the Devil watching her, his gaze full of enticing temptations. Dark and light duel inside her, forces clashing like swords of steel, and she is faced with two choices. Snow rests on one shoulder while crimson stains the other and it isn't long before she feels the scarlet threads join the raging tapestry in her veins.
They move together, molten lava racing through her as she gasps at the sensuous prickle of his warm whiskers on her neck. Soft contours mold to hardened planes and she knows the dark is winning. She thinks he mentions demons and only grips him closer. He purrs against her ear as they swim in a flashing sea of lights, riding waves of electric passion, the residue of salty sweat tingling on their skin.

Soon, though, she feels the cold pierce of conscience and recluctantly breaks free of his tempestuous grasp. He is too dangerous. From the wall she watches her friends mingle with the crowd, exotic strangers to this new world and she thrills at the knowledge that men crave those women who are hard to catch. She is glad to be herself, an individual with many shining facets, two separate beings in one body and she wonders at her ability to adapt to her surroundings.
Maybe she shouldn't question it.

The dark is decadent, after all.