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Sweat on his hands. Sweat in his hair. Bludgeoning heart. Body rocking with tension and arousal. His mouth was agape, dry, and he licked his lips with his tongue limp like a dead fish, drying on the shore. His breath encouraged his blood excitedly as he swiftly sifted his fingers through his stringy brown hair which flopped back over his eyes, the sweat dripping into them. His chair was fragile, the wood weak with age and the pressure of scores upon scores of desperate men and some dripping women spanning the years. There were five chairs all together spreading either side of him, each as pathetic as the next; its nails protruding spitefully around the rotten splinters. They stood crookedly as if looking down, mocking the grey concrete and its many wounds and drawn markings invisible in the nightlight. The rectangular room had windows at the walls either end, neither of which he sat again
One day she lay alone in her bed,
Her solid red pajamas beaming,
Like frozen blood on dead skin,
Still in a moment of forgetfulness,
Soon to awaken as the,
Melting the dead image into flow,
Glowing like a dandelion,
Offending the poppy,
Across the canvas sheets,
Recalling to the state ever begging,
"Let me be in peace again."
The blooming primaries finally,
To mornings unwanted,
Pale in the shadow of the day.
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More