London

November 24, 2008 § 2 Comments

 City lights of glitter scarlet and woven golds come to life around them.

Their feet padding across the rain piled slick en black footpaths.

Breath caught out into the midst of clear ice and chocking breezes.

Holding them.

Pushing them to see.

The smell of winter rich rain and frozen leaves.

Clinging.

Present.

Hidden.

Together as one.

Hissing and coming to life.

Hands pulling.

Mouths devouring.

Urgent in a small space at night.

Their tears when they part glisten and leave ruby streaks.

His hands open her.

Push.

Tease.

Her mouth wraps and curls.

The only sound around is the soft scraping of old dead leaves, dancing across the pavements.

Wind hitting their ears.

Moans and sighs.

Red crimson cheeks.

Bodies rubbing against the harshness of stone soaked alleys.

Corsets, knickers and suspenders fallen to the floor.

Silk piled upon satins, soaked by the rain.

Private.

Cold.

Secret.

 

 

© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe

Advertisements

Moonlight

November 19, 2008 § 3 Comments

The bedroom that they were in was filled with sloping rich and purple walls.

Candles of every scent and brightness had been placed around, to create illusion and shadows.

Their breath pushing whispers around the room, unweaving like gold.

The bed that they lay on sewn with gentle silk and satins, each tiny twist of the needle obvious.

Their bodies that lay on the bed, entwined and captured.

Their paleness shocking to the moonlight that danced across them like clear glass.

His body pressed on hers delicately and urgent at the same time.

“No noise” He said, his lips moving effortlessly against her neck, his hand covering her mouth.

Her legs spreading wider against him, allowing him to enter her dripping pussy deeper.

Their bodies moving in unison, tiny droplets of sweat trickling down the arch of their backs.

Their hands searching for a thread of pleasure.

Their voices quiet, calm, passive.

His hands pressing to her breasts, their rosy red surroundings growing like new born poppies, uncurling ever so slowly.

Their mouths closing around each other, moaning in their needs, echoing and promising.

Their story and passion whirling and twisting.

Their orgasms releasing, opening, bursting like a thousand tiny bubbles.

Their bodies left.

Pale and lifeless.

 

© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe

Shadows.

November 10, 2008 § 2 Comments

The stage was illuminated with a hazy wash of deep orange and red.

The tiny lights and candles creating moving shadows along the deep oak floorboards.

It was only him.

It was only her.

The soft beat of the deep flute.

The gentle tap of her toes.

Her hips moving.

Tricking.

Teasing.

Her costume ghostly white diamonds.

That reflect tiny dancing beams of pearls.

Her back arched.

Her moans.

Escaping.

Leaping.

Echoing.

She moves only for him.

Her wetness gathering like thick sewn silk between her porecelin thighs.

Her hands running.

Gripping.

Pushing.

The sheer almost ghostly shadow of her frame twirling and twisting.

Is she real?

The tiny dark tendrils of her curls.

Sweeping.

Bouncing.

Her passion building.

Her orgasm so close in reach.

He wants his hands there.

Tracing.

Painting.

Observing.

But for now she is a ghost to him.

They only exist in the shadows.

 

© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe

Paris

November 4, 2008 § 3 Comments

 The tiny lanes of Paris curved and weaved.

Little boutiques quilted with vanilla coloured silks and satins.

Pastry shops lined with pink frosting and pearlescent swirls of twinkling sugar.

The rivers running quietly round and round.

The lights of the night creating shadows of hidden secrets.

The delicious smell of hot aromatic coffee, running like tiny rivers down the streets.

She stood out from a crowd.

Her shoes pattering across the cobbled uneven paths.

Her hair dark as the night around the city moonlight.

Her black coat hiding her black and silver boned corset.

Matching suspenders, the diamonds twisting with the sway of her body as she walked.

Her lips creating illusion of lust and freshly washed cherries.

She loved Paris.

Men offered.

She answered.

Yes.

No.

She can never remember names.

Or Even faces.

Just their smell.

Their hands covering the contours of her petite ballerina frame.

Their mouths lacing her sex.

Curves.

Feet.

She never falls in love.

She just works.

Their cocks all different.

Larger.

Smaller.

Their lips curving and coming to life as they smile when she rolls and gasps.

When her fingers are needy.

Wanting more.

Her body wet.

Leaving tiny white marks imprinted on the sheets.

On her journal.

For when they wake.

She is gone.

Gone.

 

© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for November, 2008 at .