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.
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.
She never falls in love.
She just works.
Their cocks all different.
Their lips curving and coming to life as they smile when she rolls and gasps.
When her fingers are needy.
Her body wet.
Leaving tiny white marks imprinted on the sheets.
On her journal.
For when they wake.
She is gone.
© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe