Killer Queen

One long, milk colored leg slung over the back of the couch was the first thing I saw when I walked into the room. The number of times I’d encountered this on my visits I couldn’t even count on my fingers and toes. She was a drunk, but a classic drunk like Marie Antoinette. She was only too willing to help after a bottle of Moet et Chandon’s finest.

“Is that you, Oliver?”

I walk around the sofa and see her sprawled out. One arm is extended toward the blue-green bottle of Imperial Rose, her thin fingers stretching their hardest, the other arm is over her forehead in a dramatic way, and the leg that isn’t tossed over the back of the couch is laying on the edge of the coffee table. Her foot wiggles a little and she drops her high heel off, sighing as she does.

“I thought it was,” she says, retracting her grasping hand. “I can smell your perfume from next door.”

“I only wear it for you,” I reply, settling myself in the chair next to her sofa.

“Of course you do,” she says, sitting up and crossing one leg over the other. She’s all the lady in front of company.

I met Rose three years ago outside a bar. She walked out and my breath was suddenly nowhere to be found. Her red hair was piled on top of her head and curled to perfection, her green eyes were worldly and landed on me in almost a condescending way, her skin was the color of spilled milk, and the clothes she wore were extremely elegant and form fitting. Rose was every bit the lady.

She slips her other shoe off and leans back, casting me one of her ever-famous condescending looks. “Why are you here, Oliver? I thought your wife forbid you?”

I smile and shake my head. I take my hat off and set it on the arm of the chair. “You know Meg could not keep me away from you.”

It’s her turn to smile and she does so in a way that it would make a succubus shiver. She reaches for her cigarettes on the coffee table as she continues to smile in her smoldering way.

“You flatter me, Oliver,” she says as she lights the cigarette. A wisp of London cloud twirls it’s way toward the ceiling as she leans against the armrest of the couch, casting me a luxurious look. “Your wife knows you’re here, then?” She pulls the filter into her mouth and takes a long drag, her cheeks hollowing out.

“She does,” I say, unbuttong my suit coat. “I hope that doesn’t put a wrench in the works, Rose.”

“Oh, really now, when has anything ever put a wrench in what I do?”

Rose takes another long drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ash tray. She blows the smoke in the other direction and then gives me a Cheshire Cat smile.

“Well, then, we both know why you’re here.”

I nod, loosening my tie. “My wife may know now, Rose, but the public doesn’t. I would still very much like to keep it away from public eye.”

Rose smirks. “Anything for you President Johannsen.”

She walks to stand in front of the mirror and takes the bobby pins from her hair. Crimson curls travel down her back and bungee at her waist as she shakes her head and ruffles her hair with her fingers. She undoes the few buttons still done up on her green jacket and tosses it behind her. Leaning closer to the mirror, she wipes a lipstick smudge from her lower lip and turns back to me.

“Where do we start?”

I get up from the chair and walk over to her. I put my arms around her waist and look down at her. Not a woman on earth could ever be more beautiful than she is and no other woman could be more hazardous to me.

“Where do we usually start?”

Rose smiles and presses a small kiss to my neck before dropping to her knees. She turns me so I’m standing directly in front of the mirror and the scene I see is quite peculiar.

There’s a tall man with finely combed dark hair with gray at his temples wearing a white button-up and brown trousers. He’s got blue eyes and tan skin. He’s mildly attractive in a middle aged way. In front of him is a buxom red head wearing nothing but a green skirt and black fishnets. Her hands work at his belt and his zipper and the man closes his eyes.

“Twelve hundred will do, right?” I ask as she stands up to unbutton my shirt.

“Maybe thirteen, Mr. President,” she replies, nipping at my collarbone. “You know how I like my pretty things.”

I sigh. “You’re a killer, Rose.”

She tugs at my trousers and pushes them down my legs as she kisses my chest. She stops exposing my body to send a wink my way. “Maybe, but I’m guaranteed to blow your mind.”

Killer Queen

DudeRun

Mount Vernon, United States

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Artist's Description

Based on the song of the same name by Queen.

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