He spreads her legs, caresses her silky inner thigh, elated by her
ecstasy. He begins with her lips, tentatively tasting tongue and teeth,
gently urging her mouth to open like a flower in full bloom. He kisses
her, enjoying the sensation, kissing down her neck and cupping one
perfect breast. His mouth is warm and wet as he tenderly suckles one
pink rose bud, devouring every shiver emitted by his victim.
He moves along her stomach, his tongue flicking her belly button as it journeys down. He revels in the smell of her, sweet and heady, full of Eros' secrets and whispers. He grazes his lips, soft like satin, against her thigh, trailing down to the crook of her knee. She is his goddess, his living work of art; he devours every delicacy offered up on the altar of lust. He is as passionate as any Grecian lover or fairy-tale prince, breathless before true beauty.
He returns to her lips, those sweet plumped lips, full of delicious longing. He nips her bottom lip, cherry colored flesh caught in an ivory snare, tantalized by their luscious shape and curve. He is captive to her, tamed by her and seduced by need. He nibbles on her ear, tugging playfully on one ripe lobe, his hand skimming over her skin until goose bumps begin to rise. He moves his hand in-between her splayed legs, teasing fingers dance along her skin, eliciting whimpers as her hips thrust upward, searching for fulfillment.
In a moment he is on top of her, pinning her to the bed, heat racing through his blood at a break-neck speed. He grinds hips against hips, keeping her pinned beneath him. Muscles ripple through his shoulders as he controls arousal and rage. He holds her hands above her head, sliding one unoccupied hand down to the straps attached to the bed. He pulls the binding up and secures her hands.
At first she struggles, fluttering like a caged butterfly, they always do. Then she laughs, a nervous little giggle spilling past those luscious lips. He does not laugh, only intent on what will be his masterpiece, his intricate labyrinth, a puzzle of flesh. He leans back on his haunches, surveying what is to be his wonderland, gathering every detail and point. He rolls off of her, releasing her legs and hips, his gaze drifting over her.
She blushes, such a pretty shade of pink, a rose would be jealous. She seems to realize she is naked, trying to escape her trap in a futile attempt to cover herself. He permits himself a moment of inward laughter as he watches her struggle, only a moment. He pulls her legs apart, tying one to one side of the bed and tying the other to another side. The crimson flush spreads, racing like rosy fire over her perfectly flawless ivory skin.
Gingerly, he bends to clasp a pert nipple, a hand snaking down her stomach and in-between her legs. She fights the straps, trying to close her knees, he laughs around the breast in his mouth. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike his last piece. Methodically, he strokes her until she is slick against her will, continuously nibbling on her rosy tips. Rhythmically, he follows along, low moans escaping his lips.
"No," he says to himself, he will not crest that wave yet, not until he has finished this vision. She must be perfect, the ultimate deconstruction of mortality, a living puzzle fully taken apart, piece by piece. Then he must put her back together, a modern day Dali, a more brilliant artist than Picasso. He releases her breast and stays his hand, allowing his fingers to lazily trace her clitoris. After a moment he removes his hand completely and leaves to retrieve his tools.
Alone, she begins to tremble. Fear and arousal warring with one another for the right to her mind. She contemplates escape, shaking the fists held tight in their bonds. There seems to be no way out of this now. No foreseeable escape or improbable rescue. Her heart sinks as realization takes over, rising into terror that threatens to stifle her. She screams, pleading with the emptiness to release her. No one hears her, except for him, gathering his tools.
He returns, his heat replaced with a cold plastic smile. He is Ken about to return to his Barbie, his toy and the love of his life. He thinks to himself in Technicolor verbs, laying out his art and expressing his heart in shades of blood and bone. "Where to begin?" he wonders. Pulling out a pair of scissors he moves to her head. He grabs at her long braid, pulling hard and away from her scalp. She hears the snip of the shears and feels the release as he claims his prize.
Carefully he sets down the braid, laying down the scissors and returning with a straight razor. Ever so gently, he begins an incision at the connection of labia to labia and slowly moves upward, bisecting her. She cries out, a cold shiver going through her as the cut blossoms under his touch. Recalling his scissors he gingerly cuts flesh from skin, working as a seamstress with her fabric. She gags, trying to focus through blurring vision. Blood pools underneath her, soaking the bed.
For hours he strips skin from flesh, the woman who once lived within long since departed, probably from exsanguinations. He is so careful, laying out each finished piece like patterns for a dress. The woman no longer exists, she is only a perfect body, a puzzle to be undone. He will lovingly peel away skin until she is only muscle and bone. Setting aside what he has cut, preparing for the moment when it will be sewn back together.
Once he has finished skinning her, sticky with her blood and other various fluids, he will violate that thing of muscle and skeletal mass until he has reveled in the last of what she was. Then he will rearrange his pieces of human clothing on his last piece’s skeletal mannequin, pinning here and there until it hangs perfectly. Or perhaps this time he will try to make it into leather, which would last much longer. It makes him shiver, remembering how smooth she was and how soft the leather would be.
Once he is finished he will discard the petty parts of that once supple body, wallow in the bloody bed and masturbate to the delicious memories now invading his mind. He will bleach her bones and dye her hair, recreate her on canvas and in photographs. He will put back together this puzzle, content for now with this plaything. For his next piece maybe he’ll splatter blood on clean bone or paint clean skin with hollow needles full of color.
A true artist and lover, Romeo alone with a deconstructed Juliet.
He moves along her stomach, his tongue flicking her belly button as it journeys down. He revels in the smell of her, sweet and heady, full of Eros' secrets and whispers. He grazes his lips, soft like satin, against her thigh, trailing down to the crook of her knee. She is his goddess, his living work of art; he devours every delicacy offered up on the altar of lust. He is as passionate as any Grecian lover or fairy-tale prince, breathless before true beauty.
He returns to her lips, those sweet plumped lips, full of delicious longing. He nips her bottom lip, cherry colored flesh caught in an ivory snare, tantalized by their luscious shape and curve. He is captive to her, tamed by her and seduced by need. He nibbles on her ear, tugging playfully on one ripe lobe, his hand skimming over her skin until goose bumps begin to rise. He moves his hand in-between her splayed legs, teasing fingers dance along her skin, eliciting whimpers as her hips thrust upward, searching for fulfillment.
In a moment he is on top of her, pinning her to the bed, heat racing through his blood at a break-neck speed. He grinds hips against hips, keeping her pinned beneath him. Muscles ripple through his shoulders as he controls arousal and rage. He holds her hands above her head, sliding one unoccupied hand down to the straps attached to the bed. He pulls the binding up and secures her hands.
At first she struggles, fluttering like a caged butterfly, they always do. Then she laughs, a nervous little giggle spilling past those luscious lips. He does not laugh, only intent on what will be his masterpiece, his intricate labyrinth, a puzzle of flesh. He leans back on his haunches, surveying what is to be his wonderland, gathering every detail and point. He rolls off of her, releasing her legs and hips, his gaze drifting over her.
She blushes, such a pretty shade of pink, a rose would be jealous. She seems to realize she is naked, trying to escape her trap in a futile attempt to cover herself. He permits himself a moment of inward laughter as he watches her struggle, only a moment. He pulls her legs apart, tying one to one side of the bed and tying the other to another side. The crimson flush spreads, racing like rosy fire over her perfectly flawless ivory skin.
Gingerly, he bends to clasp a pert nipple, a hand snaking down her stomach and in-between her legs. She fights the straps, trying to close her knees, he laughs around the breast in his mouth. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike his last piece. Methodically, he strokes her until she is slick against her will, continuously nibbling on her rosy tips. Rhythmically, he follows along, low moans escaping his lips.
"No," he says to himself, he will not crest that wave yet, not until he has finished this vision. She must be perfect, the ultimate deconstruction of mortality, a living puzzle fully taken apart, piece by piece. Then he must put her back together, a modern day Dali, a more brilliant artist than Picasso. He releases her breast and stays his hand, allowing his fingers to lazily trace her clitoris. After a moment he removes his hand completely and leaves to retrieve his tools.
Alone, she begins to tremble. Fear and arousal warring with one another for the right to her mind. She contemplates escape, shaking the fists held tight in their bonds. There seems to be no way out of this now. No foreseeable escape or improbable rescue. Her heart sinks as realization takes over, rising into terror that threatens to stifle her. She screams, pleading with the emptiness to release her. No one hears her, except for him, gathering his tools.
He returns, his heat replaced with a cold plastic smile. He is Ken about to return to his Barbie, his toy and the love of his life. He thinks to himself in Technicolor verbs, laying out his art and expressing his heart in shades of blood and bone. "Where to begin?" he wonders. Pulling out a pair of scissors he moves to her head. He grabs at her long braid, pulling hard and away from her scalp. She hears the snip of the shears and feels the release as he claims his prize.
Carefully he sets down the braid, laying down the scissors and returning with a straight razor. Ever so gently, he begins an incision at the connection of labia to labia and slowly moves upward, bisecting her. She cries out, a cold shiver going through her as the cut blossoms under his touch. Recalling his scissors he gingerly cuts flesh from skin, working as a seamstress with her fabric. She gags, trying to focus through blurring vision. Blood pools underneath her, soaking the bed.
For hours he strips skin from flesh, the woman who once lived within long since departed, probably from exsanguinations. He is so careful, laying out each finished piece like patterns for a dress. The woman no longer exists, she is only a perfect body, a puzzle to be undone. He will lovingly peel away skin until she is only muscle and bone. Setting aside what he has cut, preparing for the moment when it will be sewn back together.
Once he has finished skinning her, sticky with her blood and other various fluids, he will violate that thing of muscle and skeletal mass until he has reveled in the last of what she was. Then he will rearrange his pieces of human clothing on his last piece’s skeletal mannequin, pinning here and there until it hangs perfectly. Or perhaps this time he will try to make it into leather, which would last much longer. It makes him shiver, remembering how smooth she was and how soft the leather would be.
Once he is finished he will discard the petty parts of that once supple body, wallow in the bloody bed and masturbate to the delicious memories now invading his mind. He will bleach her bones and dye her hair, recreate her on canvas and in photographs. He will put back together this puzzle, content for now with this plaything. For his next piece maybe he’ll splatter blood on clean bone or paint clean skin with hollow needles full of color.
A true artist and lover, Romeo alone with a deconstructed Juliet.
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