SylvereApLeanan
Posts: 8275
Joined: 11/1/2007
From: Hell
Status: offline
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You think you're wet now? Try this:
She spread her skirt and dropped into a curtsy. Tilting her head to one side, she exposed the graceful line of her neck. Her lilting voice resonated like an angelic chorus. “I am yours for the night.”
He mumbles a protest but the words twist on his tongue, catch behind aching teeth. An insidious voice whispers in his ear – lilting, childlike, and disturbingly familiar. The voice paints images of the girl's dress lying in a puddle of black lace at his feet, of a sultan’s banquet contained between her breasts, waiting only for him to peel away the white cloth wrapping and drink from the pulsating chalice beneath. Yearning, needing, craving…and it’s there, so close, so easy…
Fists clench, fail to keep errant fingers from sliding along that span of velvet ribbon and beyond. Her body trembles at his touch, dark lashes fluttering across porcelain cheeks. Throat works convulsively, drinking air redolent with the scent of her desire. She rises from her curtsy, eyes kept lowered, not daring to meet his.
“Shall we adjourn to a private room, my lord?”
The last remains of his shredded soul shriek NO! while a voice he barely recognizes as his echoes back to him from a vast distance. “Yes.”
She leads him through the warren of rooms and, at last, draws a crimson damask drape across the mouth of an alcove, gestures for him to make himself comfortable on a small couch done in ebony varnish and a faux suede fabric the color of dark chocolate.
Slender, deft hands draw apart the laces of her corset and loosen the stays. Unfastening the clasp of her choker, her throat is laid bare. Fingers entwine in raven-black hair. Tenderly, gently caress silken skin. Hear feather-light heartbeats flutter within, like trapped birds struggling to break free of their imprisonment. Entranced, enraptured, hold her in thrall with nothing more than a glance. Anticipation of ecstasy, lips part in delight.
A single, sharp thrust and then…hot life on his tongue. Metallic, thick…ripe fruit on the vine. Tender, succulent treat more potent than the finest wine. A spreading coolness in the wake of evaporating agony. A pale form shrouded in wisps of lace slips from his arms to sprawl limply on the couch, a broken doll cast aside.
For this is the blood of my covenant…
*Edited to fix formating
< Message edited by SylvereApLeanan -- 2/18/2009 7:51:09 PM >
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Sylverë
Dark Muse
30 Fluffy Points
Grumpy Cat is my spirit animal.
Shadow Governess & Mean Girl
"There's something that doesn't make sense. Let's go and poke it with a stick."— The Doctor
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