03-18-2014, 02:48 PM
Two girls, gentle as butterflies, young. The first was drenched in color from what caked her temple to what streaked up and down her spindly arms. Her slender legs. Her long neck.
The second was awkward and squat. Neither were overly pretty in the traditional sense. A woman who took his breath away was always one arranged for an extremely particular circumstance.
He was the only other one to share the train car. The ebb and flow of movement reminded him of swaying in the saddle. How long since a generous horseback ride carried him far and away over rolling green hills?
He stretched his legs momentarily, only enough to uncross and recross the other direction. The girls continued their chatting, and he was not shy about eavesdropping. The first butterfly mentioned paint, and Dane's imagination bloomed vibrant and colorful - her soft, fleshy hands dipping, smearing, rubbing against cool canvas. Her hair tumbling down her back, its ends licked by paint.
He placed a hand in the pocket of his tweed coat, and fingered what was found within. Soft. Silky strands. Hair black as night.
Like Aria's.
His blood warmed below the waist, seduced by silken strands and the satiating need for intimacy of the most powerful sort unquenched by the one whose hair he caressed. He balled them up in his fist, contemplating, and continued to watch the butterflies flit about, oblivious to the presence of an admirer.
Edited by Dane Gregory, Mar 18 2014, 02:54 PM.
The second was awkward and squat. Neither were overly pretty in the traditional sense. A woman who took his breath away was always one arranged for an extremely particular circumstance.
He was the only other one to share the train car. The ebb and flow of movement reminded him of swaying in the saddle. How long since a generous horseback ride carried him far and away over rolling green hills?
He stretched his legs momentarily, only enough to uncross and recross the other direction. The girls continued their chatting, and he was not shy about eavesdropping. The first butterfly mentioned paint, and Dane's imagination bloomed vibrant and colorful - her soft, fleshy hands dipping, smearing, rubbing against cool canvas. Her hair tumbling down her back, its ends licked by paint.
He placed a hand in the pocket of his tweed coat, and fingered what was found within. Soft. Silky strands. Hair black as night.
Like Aria's.
His blood warmed below the waist, seduced by silken strands and the satiating need for intimacy of the most powerful sort unquenched by the one whose hair he caressed. He balled them up in his fist, contemplating, and continued to watch the butterflies flit about, oblivious to the presence of an admirer.
Edited by Dane Gregory, Mar 18 2014, 02:54 PM.