Robert_Sage
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2016
- Posts
- 2
Hey, I just posted this - it's my first chapter submitted here. Please offer any criticisms or opinions.
“How can I partake in such softness when I possess only such hardness?” says the boy, to the girl looking at him. She is brown eyed, caramel skinned, diamond jawlined, freckle scattergunned. On her shoulder is a small, pen-drawn tattoo of a dragon, and around her subtle frame is a sheer, let-your-imagination-run-wild white dress. She wears nothing underneath – a nymph in the shade. She is stretched out on the double bed, her slender legs dangling off; bait for the sharks in the carpet.
“You are taking this all too seriously,” she assures him, speaking softly, applying a dark shade of lipstick to thinly thick lips, the colour of arterial blood left out in the sun.
The other girl glances up, but does not speak. Her eyes are the blue of camera flash afterimages, and her lips are the kind made for kisses in the dark. She is as an hourglass – breasts large, round and of silk, hips and buttocks swooping outwards, prepared for motherhood, prepared for taking a beating. Fertile. She is dressed in high-waisted panties and a midriffed white shirt from an op shop, and thick thigh-high socks on her thick thighs in warning colours – bands of yellow and black. She pushes a lock of infernally-red hair from her eye.
She is nervous.
“Shall we commence the first act?” says the dancer, looking into the boy, nipples pressing through the dragonfly-wing sheer of her dress, hardening to a dark point, the starting strokes of a darkening image. Their stares intersect, vivisect, and devour. She looks behind her, to the red girl, and beckons her hand, like curling, sliding, her fingers into honey. The red girl rises to a kneel, eyes flashing, chest heaving against her shirt, stretching the fabric, cutting her breath down to a shiver.
“How can I partake in such softness when I possess only such hardness?” says the boy, to the girl looking at him. She is brown eyed, caramel skinned, diamond jawlined, freckle scattergunned. On her shoulder is a small, pen-drawn tattoo of a dragon, and around her subtle frame is a sheer, let-your-imagination-run-wild white dress. She wears nothing underneath – a nymph in the shade. She is stretched out on the double bed, her slender legs dangling off; bait for the sharks in the carpet.
“You are taking this all too seriously,” she assures him, speaking softly, applying a dark shade of lipstick to thinly thick lips, the colour of arterial blood left out in the sun.
The other girl glances up, but does not speak. Her eyes are the blue of camera flash afterimages, and her lips are the kind made for kisses in the dark. She is as an hourglass – breasts large, round and of silk, hips and buttocks swooping outwards, prepared for motherhood, prepared for taking a beating. Fertile. She is dressed in high-waisted panties and a midriffed white shirt from an op shop, and thick thigh-high socks on her thick thighs in warning colours – bands of yellow and black. She pushes a lock of infernally-red hair from her eye.
She is nervous.
“Shall we commence the first act?” says the dancer, looking into the boy, nipples pressing through the dragonfly-wing sheer of her dress, hardening to a dark point, the starting strokes of a darkening image. Their stares intersect, vivisect, and devour. She looks behind her, to the red girl, and beckons her hand, like curling, sliding, her fingers into honey. The red girl rises to a kneel, eyes flashing, chest heaving against her shirt, stretching the fabric, cutting her breath down to a shiver.