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

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