“Certainly, Mister Plombkins, I’ll take care of it.” the willowy humanoid office girl drones.
It’s a skin joint, like any other skin joint, Jack tells himself as he opens the double doors and walks toward her. Stainless steel rats abound in a place like this, it’s all the same. Cages of silver and steel and shiny baubles with mouths and teeth and needs. And the most fun of all- the attraction of exotic financial runs in the pantyhose. Remembering how hard it was to get the information that led him to this place, he’s beginning to lose hope that the man he’s looking for isn’t anything but what he wants him to be, a white mouse among the vermin.
And she’s a tall order, whose slim lines radiate a special kind of chill in that grey silk and those sharp shoulders, the kind you take up to the office and bury in the paperwork. The kind you don’t take home to your mother unless you want to get your ass hitched to a star. He’s got his own star now- no time for trifles.
Still… he doesn’t mind looking. He could use some information, after all.
Her thigh hugs the desk in a tight smoky pencil skirt. Endless legs claw down to the bluish grey carpet in sheaths of tawdry taupe. The seams are classic, easing blatantly up the backs of her calves in dark pinches of coffee. They stir in Jack’s hindbrain a vague sense of need, a sudden urge to go free-climbing up a sheer cliff. He hasn’t done that in ages.
However, the scent of morning roses is cloying, like a crinolin veil cushioned in her modestly piled brown hair. He watches her instead.