10-18-2017, 04:07 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
The pale and delicate moonlight illuminates the darkness within her watchful gaze – the insidious abyss of her blackened iris roving over the length of her feminine physique, while her heart is thrumming excitedly within her chest. She is tantalizingly close – she can almost taste the dogwood and pine lingering along the scarlet of her roiling flesh – tendons fluid; bones shifting.
The air is rife with the electrical current seemingly stirring within her very skin, and she is drawn to her, magnetized by the sheer energy moving within the gleam of her wild, ravenous gaze. She does know desire when it is shown to her, and she can see within her dilated pupil, with her subtle shifting under the warmth of her breath - snap!; electricity sparks close to her ivory forelock and near to her erect and forward-facing ear, and she cannot contain her trill of laughter.
”Ooh, Sparky,” she croons as she has turned to face her, while her nostrils flare, inhaling the tantalizing scent of her – enveloping her, luring the predator closer to a prey she yearned to covet, to explore. Her breath mixes with her own, and she can almost taste the sweet grain that is lingering across her tongue, and she is left wondering if she can taste the metallic copper of blood lingering on hers, too. ”pop, electric. I like that,”
Slowly, her shoulder presses against her own as she presses past her, writhing the length of her slender physique into the heavy dips and ridges of her curvaceous figure, encircling her – though the dangerous gleam of her dismay gray eye never strays from her own. ”You must feel the same .. spark that I do,” she muses, her smile wicked and impish.
”You could be so much to me, Sparky,” she breathes across the swell of her hipbone as she rounds the swell of her rump, tempted to rake her sharp incisors down the length of her spine but seeing her quiver beneath her soft ministrations of exploratory delight is more than satisfactory. ”a muse, most of all. You have a lover, don’t you? His scent is all over you – and the scent of another; you have two.” She pauses, aligning with her shoulder then, looking toward her through her two-toned forelock, draped over her two-toned gaze. ”Sylva is having an .. autumn festival of sorts; an armistice in the spirit of the season.”
Then, her dark lips press against her shoulder, lingering for only a moment, warm and lurid.
”Come. Bring your lovers,” she croons, her smile deceivingly demure as she begins to retreat into the dense woodland lining the ravenous, roiling river. ”I hope to see you there.”
The air is rife with the electrical current seemingly stirring within her very skin, and she is drawn to her, magnetized by the sheer energy moving within the gleam of her wild, ravenous gaze. She does know desire when it is shown to her, and she can see within her dilated pupil, with her subtle shifting under the warmth of her breath - snap!; electricity sparks close to her ivory forelock and near to her erect and forward-facing ear, and she cannot contain her trill of laughter.
”Ooh, Sparky,” she croons as she has turned to face her, while her nostrils flare, inhaling the tantalizing scent of her – enveloping her, luring the predator closer to a prey she yearned to covet, to explore. Her breath mixes with her own, and she can almost taste the sweet grain that is lingering across her tongue, and she is left wondering if she can taste the metallic copper of blood lingering on hers, too. ”pop, electric. I like that,”
Slowly, her shoulder presses against her own as she presses past her, writhing the length of her slender physique into the heavy dips and ridges of her curvaceous figure, encircling her – though the dangerous gleam of her dismay gray eye never strays from her own. ”You must feel the same .. spark that I do,” she muses, her smile wicked and impish.
”You could be so much to me, Sparky,” she breathes across the swell of her hipbone as she rounds the swell of her rump, tempted to rake her sharp incisors down the length of her spine but seeing her quiver beneath her soft ministrations of exploratory delight is more than satisfactory. ”a muse, most of all. You have a lover, don’t you? His scent is all over you – and the scent of another; you have two.” She pauses, aligning with her shoulder then, looking toward her through her two-toned forelock, draped over her two-toned gaze. ”Sylva is having an .. autumn festival of sorts; an armistice in the spirit of the season.”
Then, her dark lips press against her shoulder, lingering for only a moment, warm and lurid.
”Come. Bring your lovers,” she croons, her smile deceivingly demure as she begins to retreat into the dense woodland lining the ravenous, roiling river. ”I hope to see you there.”