|
|
Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
|
8:01p - the latest from my fevered brain
I imagine the layers being stripped from your body like an eighteenth century dissection print. Defensive words and gestures first; the timid animal of your rhetoric stroked to calm in my hands. Your mouth under mine wants affirmation and a sanction for this behaviour and eyes like dark amber plead with me to make it fast, take it slow. Clothes, not the least significant part of your armoury, begin to fall away with sighs, uncovering a tender throat, nipples redder than your lips and that abandoned strand of greying hair which disappears invitingly into your modesty.
More to come, probably.
current mood:  creative
current music: Sting - Stolen Car (comment on this)
|
|
|
|