ardashir

“Oh, now don't get lost, Fatima my sweet!” Then, under his breath, the man costumed as a swashuckling feline Errol Flynn hissed into the mike in his mask connected to a bud in the other suiter's ear, “Do you even know where you're going, you baggage?” “Tabbe, my love,” the crimson vixen dressed like a dancer from the Arabian Nights purred back at him, costume's eyes half-lidded with long lashes, “unlike some people I always know where I'm going.” She rolled her hips as she passed several young men dressed in some sort of SF military outfits. They gave appreciative wolf whistles as she did. Fatima muttered under her breath into the small mike in her mask, “I know who I'd rather be with, too. Jerk!” Before either could say more one of the 'soldiers' set their arm around Fatima's curvy waist and gave her a squeeze. She lightly slipped out of their clutches with the ease of long practice. “Oh, no, good sir! My dearest love Tabbe,” she bowed in the direction of her feline compatriot