Timothy

Jack's Twisted Kingdom
2013-03-23 03:23:42 (UTC)

last threads of a lust fragmented

the salty leather rope twined at the ends, an allusion perhaps, to the erstwhile havoc played upon my mind by a wretched circumstance. naught for a time playing with those cords, twirling them around my fingertips and breathing in the soft sweat sheared off her heaving chest, droplets cascading across the breadth of her collar bones, the saline scent wafting and hitting that most succulent of notes. Its that heady beat of tempestuousness that rallies around my glided cage, in tantalizing light. Her faint whispers echoing throughout the nights end. all things in good time. a breath, a kiss on the air, the cheek does remember, the thighs feel the thud, the hammering of the knee into her fine rump, those perfectly pink lips pounding with abated gossamer wings, the trumpeted triumph of jack booted heels on the bare concrete vineyard, droning on in succession. The tightness, the creeping step over the edge, she glides into the endless night, her corset torn asunder by fingers so bloodied from slashing against the steel latches and boning of her selfworn cage and that doe eyed look of hunger, those lilting pouty lips, that casual gait, her shivering bowlegged step towards me, her crawl over broken shards of champagne long since drunk. She arrives, she does not beg, I demand nothing from her but that fire blazed look in those deep mufti-hued eyes, I indulge myself, and in the end, my selfish zeal, overrides the flail of my heart, and I find that want some more.