05-11-2015, 04:54 PM
the game is not played alone.
life has a hopeful undertone.
Just as she is fragile fawn, she is also a delicate china doll. She is the ivory-skinned doll sitting in the corner with the rosy pink cheeks and bright red lips and green eyes that reflect the brilliant color of her mother’s. She sits perched atop a dusty little shelf while the snapping and rolling of the other angry fighting toys of her home bicker and war and kill. She is a doe, she is a doll, and she is a princess.
When she regains her composure, she comes to the conclusion he is a different type of evil. She can sense the darkness behind his eyes, but he is a foreign breed compared to what she lives with. He is not a wolf. He is not a fighting toy. Perhaps he is a jaguar or perhaps he is a kitchen appliance.
She can feel his eyes trace the young lines of her body, but she doesn’t yet understand the purpose. However, the unyielding, childish curves of her body will soon give way to something more womanly; something very close to the wild beauty of her mother. She will certainly be a looker when she is fully grown – poison ivy decorating her slender curves like the ivory of a bride’s dress, intense green eyes standing out against the white bark and bay of her face, long legs dancing across the ground in light movements – and there is no doubt she would be a priceless collection to anyone’s harem.
He asks her where she might be going and she glances down toward her feet, licking her lips in a sign of submission. “Just… exploring,” she says quietly, a soft murmur against the breeze of loud voices surrounding her. “Where were you going?”
When she regains her composure, she comes to the conclusion he is a different type of evil. She can sense the darkness behind his eyes, but he is a foreign breed compared to what she lives with. He is not a wolf. He is not a fighting toy. Perhaps he is a jaguar or perhaps he is a kitchen appliance.
She can feel his eyes trace the young lines of her body, but she doesn’t yet understand the purpose. However, the unyielding, childish curves of her body will soon give way to something more womanly; something very close to the wild beauty of her mother. She will certainly be a looker when she is fully grown – poison ivy decorating her slender curves like the ivory of a bride’s dress, intense green eyes standing out against the white bark and bay of her face, long legs dancing across the ground in light movements – and there is no doubt she would be a priceless collection to anyone’s harem.
He asks her where she might be going and she glances down toward her feet, licking her lips in a sign of submission. “Just… exploring,” she says quietly, a soft murmur against the breeze of loud voices surrounding her. “Where were you going?”
cerva
eight & noori