Scarlet Passion ( Archived) (10)

Red, the color of shed blood,
Strong fingers, running through this flood,
Gently braiding, a silken rope of hair,
Bind to passion, lost are freedom, and care.

Slow, teasing, a light, demanding touch,
No control, the hand passionate caress wields,
Her mind melts as tension slowly builds,
Writhing, pleading for the touch of his sword,
Not so fast, it is he that says the last word.

The brush of a feather, the smell of leather,
And acute, her lungs fill up to refute,
This pleasure felt as near pain,
He shrugs, ignores her cries, and does it all again.

She's over the top, her skin is burning
And deep inside her something's churning
A tidal wave sweeps her, and penetrates deeper,
And this is when he stabs her once, and again,
A fleshy blade that spins her round the bend.

And she feels like she is dying of pleasure
And, measure for measure, its worth every spasm.

.... the muse, who is responsible for it.

I notice you don't deny the description, however...

Of course I don't deny it... that would be senseless, you know......

Ayuh.

Denial is a river in Egypt. :P

okay...