Did you feel the purr….? The roaming of claws against all your owned black… The ever so slow that strokes your lines and mid bank … Mimicking licks in scribes as danger roams the rough tongue… Even your thoughts and dark walls that need scratching ever so slow are like the verse of an animal whose back slithers with her neck close to the wood…. Grind unorthodox to the movement…… Moving ever so slow against the grind of cold steel and purrs of chastity sense the shadows upon the city…The dirt of gritty and salvation lapped upon warm milk with the shriek of a murmur and an arch worth climbing....

I did…. A languid purr rolling over your cragged tongue…. I became an inflicted wound in the dark… While throbbing claws scratch ‘neath layers I wasn’t prepared to reveal… But it was you…. Heretical psalms that lay in your paws nestled under each of your licks…. You wring me ever so gradual within your grind and grit…. My curves cast across concrete and steel where you’ve harvested against a dirty crescent moon…. And I’m at your will… To expel and be demonized…. Exorcised by your bewitching parlance… and feline dance......
 
Did you taste the mimic of you against my papillae ….Pa-pi-laa….? graveling like the sand between a cool harp and hot hairs of cream…. Finger me this the stroke of sharp and delicate facing dermis and demise…. those claws are decadence amongst posture or anything else with order… .It seems that the lick thick slice is needed…!!! Because there is a twisting of necks that howl against our whiskers… against a wall of darkness against our lines searching bright spots against our flesh that needs feeding.. how about we lick across prey?… how about we lick into steps of sensual and dark eyes wide open.. how about we spark madness upon the hunched back of a fence. And…Yes, it was I --- who only wanted to just seduce you from the beginning seduce with frequent prowling and belly flips of black magic and sharp claws and nine lives and verses full of moons to pierce your walls with. How about it was I….?.….

I dare not deform in favor of another.... For it is the comforting shrill within your wretched guts that holds me still... scream me cold into the onyx....while I sit in the lingering waft of your ardor to strike at me with such severing determination... only you could understand why arches scowl heavy in anticipation of your morphed compassion.... you understand the necessity.... how scratch marks must dig heavy in code... in a cryptic tongue that will lick itself clean... it is grooming in comfort through viscous gluttony... your seduction came in blatant rhythm and your hip hop ditched in grooves carved along the small of my black.... I don’t have a choice.... and I shall wait to scream within the drunken slur of urgency..... until you’re satisfied...... Because....it was you.

In A Twisted Clutch - A Lady Avel  & Thai Chy Folie à Deux

His mouth was parted slightly
Breath hard and spurred into a parch
Lustfully becoming thirst and hunger
Sucking his teeth in keen apprehension
He was becoming crude and carnal in his nature
Fingertips and palms nagging for the grip
Such a fucken hankering need....
 
To own and prey on virginal hues
Soothing her fears in the dark
In the midst of stark madness
Recording his name within her gasps
And the need is, oh so urgent 
Imperative to make her feel at home 
Within his blinding clutch 

Because in this case....
Red words would bare no fruit
In the restraining of breaths

She backed into the coldness
Her body, bare and exposed
She felt the frigid 
Those subtle drafts flirting about in the room
Where there were no words
She was being feasted on in sight and sound
And her breath quickened 
Evading death
Her eyes were inviting and fearful
His hands and thumb pressed on
She’s never felt so safe in aphotic spaces
So she abandoned into this wonderful exchange 
Inviting him to narrow as she pressed forward

A breath away from touching her mouth with his
He held back so she could surrender in the silence
And the Blackness in the fade
He’d already won in so many ways
Because her acquiescence 
Made him rattle in the grooves
Moving him to stir her soul further 

In the pitch of peace

A Gripping Tale

Personal Time

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