chas cumberland + d6 + fin

Heels to emphasize your ass. A skirt to show off the slope of calves that have been toned by years of dashing between streets and rooms. A blouse that suggests it could be unbuttoned as quickly as those quick finger tips could remove trousers and those prim lips could coax a climax from even the most stalwart partner. 

No one need know what you had to do to get to where you are now, particularly as regards your sexual prowess. You may never have had intercourse, but there's so many more ways to reign pleasure down on your temporary king.

Many of your friends would be surprised by how much a good blowjob can help a situation. One hundred after a ninety-seven? Extra grain from the tessera sign-up?

Many would be surprised that getting your application dropped on the right desk can be just as easy as dropping to your knees like you're before an altar and moving that mouth like you're speaking in tongues.

"You're cheating."

If people knew what you'd done, that's the first thing they'd accuse you of,  but it's not.

No. You're using the assets you've developed. Just because a resume doesn't say, "Given over 400 blow jobs resulting in climax," doesn't mean it's not true. Sometimes, actions speak louder than words on a page.

"Actions speak louder than words, Chastity," your mother said. "Your name may be Chastity but I expect you to act on it too. We can't afford any more kids in this house."

Some mother you had. Instead of talking about how you should celebrate your womanhood now that you'd started your period, you got the "Don't Fuck Because You Can Get Pregnant Now" speech. Thanks, Mom. Like you'd fuck any of these jobless losers anyways.

You'd always been attracted to the big three. Power. Wealth. Prestige. Youth and good looks could only fade away, but it's the strength that it takes to grapple these three things from the world and to hold it (when the rest of humanity snap like dogs at your feet, begging for scraps and waiting for the first opportunity to bite the hand and become the master) that attracts you.

Any man who could command that kind of strength was the man you wanted as your commander, because, let's face it, Chas: you're a much better-- and goddamn scarier-- second-in-command than top dog.

Most people are flies or some variation of unintelligent flying insect. There are a rare few who are wasps-- the kind who, on their own power, can remove the bugs as a problem. They are the wolfs of our world.

I, however, am a spider. One of those kinds that are tiny but make those huge webs that you can never see until it's too late. I need a web to catch my prey, but, baby, you'd better believe I'm pulling the strings from the background the whole time.

Sexual interactions are just... they're just a natural part of being a woman in a world dominated by men. I try not to think about it too much, especially when I'm doing something to them. I don't let them do stuff to me. Hell no. That's for me and me alone. But should they want to bare themselves for a young woman to suck off so she can get more food to feed her starving siblings, I'm not going to complain. 

Let's just say I've gotten really really good at... turning off the excess noise. Like thoughts. And feelings. And qualms. And questions.

Sex is a mindless act anyways. It's one of the remnants of humanity's evolution, when two individuals are overwhelmed by chemicals within their brain that have evolved to encourage intercourse for the perpetuation of the species. To assign special meaning to that is pointless.

Why haven't I lost my virginity yet, then? Because I feel no need to perpetuate the genes of undesirables. In order to better the species, the strong must propagate with the strong to produce strong while the weak with the weak allows the weak to die out. 

People say I'm cruel for not pitying the less fortunate. I respectfully disagree. If one allows the less fortunate to die out, we no longer have them and it's only the strong.

People also say it's a dog-eat-dog world. I respectfully disagree. It's a spider-eat-fly world.

Thank Ripred I'm a fucking spider.

You take a deep breath, trying to keep thoughts of home planted in your mind.

Peeling pine floorboards, rotting in a few keys placed and ready to jab splinters into a bare foot like a mouse trap quivering to snap-- that mouse trap was under the sink, a pat of peanut butter perched for its pint-sized prey.

Lucas is laid out on his straw-stuffed pallet in one corner of the living room. Keenan's eight year-old frame is snuggled up against his older brother's back, somehow conquering the smell of strong liquor that is no doubt fastened to Lucas' tattered flannel shirt.

Not even fifteen and already following Dad's footsteps with drink. At least father had the decency to not come home drunk every night.

The twins, Turing and Regis, sit at the kitchen table, their little legs swinging to touch the ground as they work on the homework they hadn't completed last night. Already drawing circuits and learning about the districts.

"I want a boy to win the next Games," Regis says, grinding his pencil into the paper. "August says he gets to be Kirito every time because he's the only one with almond-eyes."

"Just tape your eyes," Turing offers with a shrug. "That works, right?"

Regis shakes his head. "Nah, I already tried that. It doesn't stay like August's."

"Oh... well... yeah, I hope a boy wins too then. One of the dark-haired ones, so nobody else can be him."

You shook your head with a small smile before glancing towards the top of the stairs as the floor above creaked.

You know it's just the building.

Mother hadn't been feeling well lately. No matter how much the twins screwed up their little grade-schooler faces and wailed, she could barely open her eyes, much less get out of bed. With Dad missing for the past six weeks, Mom's mind on the fritz and moths swarming from the cupboards where food had once been proudly displayed, it was up to you, the oldest at almost-sixteen.

And that's why you were outside this door. This ornate, golden door with its lion's head for a knocker and a butler with a blank face greeting you with a bland "Good evening, Miss. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here to see Emerson? Is he home?"

"Your name, Miss?"

"...Chastity. Chastity Cumberland."

He glanced you up and down-- at your jeans you'd patched with old baby clothes, your father's ancient button-up and the bulky, black boots encasing your feet-- and after arching one manicured eyebrow, he waves you in and gestures to a bench for you to take a seat on.

Opulence. Utter and complete luxury. Sure, it wasn't as nice as the justice building, but the gleaming tile, the freshly-painted plaster walls and the decorative flowers were incredible. The fact they had a whole room dedicated to the entry of their home was even more awe-striking.

However, this was to be expected. You hadn't come to Emerson's home for kicks. 

Then, he's standing at the top of the staircase. "Well, Chastity! What an unexpected surprise. I thought you didn't associate with the likes of me."

"I've come to learn. Teach me."

"You've got moxie, but there's a word I'm looking for. A certain magical--"

"Please."

His grin twists and he motions with his hand. "Come on up, Miss Cumberland."

You follow him up the staircase, embarrassed by how garish your boots are in contrast to the gentle white beneath your feet.

He closes the door behind him as you step into his bedroom. 

"No sex," you say. "I keep my pants on, but anything else goes."

"Aw, that's not so fun," he says. His fingers grip his zipper, tug it down and manage to free himself from the confines of his trousers. "But whatever. Get on your knees. Time to learn how to pray."