[u][b]Lust[/b][/u]

Jazz music from the main floor trailed her steps, now intermingled with the telltale sounds of moaning that grew louder in a crescendo. The handmaiden, a stocky older woman, carried a plush cushion, upon which lay an intricately designed gold mask with fanciful swirls of silver and studded diamonds, and walked past an open set of double doors into an extravagant bedroom. The walls and ceiling were crafted from a rich mahogany accented by warm amber lamps; thick silk curtains, which pooled to the carpeted floor, drew over the windows with an outside view of the gardens. 

To the left of the entrance, in the sitting room, heavy couches and arm chairs waited on the expansive persian rug by the crackling fireplace. There was a smoky, roasted meat flavour in the air. Shadows flickered across the life-like portraits of men and women. Some were recognisable, like the figures of Casanova and Pope Alexander VI, some were of commoner means or looked haggard; the people of varied ages spanned across different epochs as distinguished by their dress styles, from tribal-wear through to pinstripe suits, and all had been captured with a wild glint in their eyes by the same hand. 

The handmaiden turned right - a man screamed at the top of his lungs, whether in excruciation or hedonism it was impossible to tell; then only the music lingered - towards a wafting perfume, strong and tantalising, reminiscent of night floral blooms - with the bitterness of charred flesh. A lesser servant would have been unsettled in their task, but the handmaiden, who had been serving Lust since the fourteenth century, said simply, “Madam,” and waited for her mistress with her sight cast on the floor.

There stood, as the centrepiece of the room, a magnificent bed crowned in a gold headboard inlaid with an orgy of snakes writhed in embrace: a lone naked beautiful woman, who was the source of the scent, was lying on a spread of smouldering twigs; uninjured. Her luxurious dark hair curled in waves around a heart-shaped face, her equally dark, kohl-lined eyes showed the frustration she felt, with sensuous lips now pursed in a line; her body, of strength and soft skin, was unusually tense post-coital. Lust pondered if she should summon another damned spirit to help scratch the itch just a little more and, in thought, started unwittingly caressing herself. It had been two days since she had last corrupted a soul, two days since she had tasted [i]real[/i] pleasure. She had to content herself with the weak incorporeal imitation the eager damned spirits gave (who were sent into worse tortures in Hell upon their return), under orders from the Dark Lord as was tradition.

The handmaiden made not a sound but her presence reminded Lust that the masquerade ball was beginning.

“Roxie is in the manor, Madam,” she said, as if reading her mistress’ mind; her posture stayed stoic.

“Is she now?” Her interest piqued, Lust got out of the bed that instantly reset into a pristine condition and went to the nearby dressing table. She remembered the girl, she remembered all of her corrupted souls: a young wild naive who had been too easily manipulated like so many others before her. Roxie was a [i]dirty[/i] girl, a kind of Lolita fantasy innumerable men enjoyed, and therein laid her strength suitable for the game - and a clue as to what kind of a person her mysterious guest of honour was. “Is she the only one?”

“So far, yes, she is the only one of your Sin, Madam.”

Lust looked into the mirror. The form was an exquisite design from the masochistic pyromaniac she had just fucked. She supposed she could appear like the man of Roxie’s dreams, the one she had given her soul away to years ago, but Lust would experience little from yet another damned spirit. So she was clothed in fiery red without any directive inspiration. The slender straps over her graceful shoulders held up a deep neckline and a revealing back. The silken dress ran long, with a high slit down from her hip, that swept by her matching stiletto heels. Lust wore the mask the handmaiden had brought over.

“Celeste,” she lifted up the chin of the handmaiden and gazed into her eyes, “How do I look?” What reflected to Lust in her dark brown eyes was Celeste, dressed in the habit of her mortal church, engaged in all manners of depravities with her fellow sisters and parishioners at the altar.

“Beautiful,” Celeste whispered, as if in a trance: who she saw was the bearded young man that endlessly cried and pleaded for her to stop.