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#wolfred
Within his paw smeared bloodied red by a deliberately mocking thorn sat a blanched ripple-y guarachera strip of cloth confined narrowly between the love and the life lines. TWO ROADS! what remained of her remained of the underthings beneath fluffing rows of silk the heavy skirt had been raised above the ankles the creases no longer hidden in shadow, one leg hoisted over the back, the reigns held expertly. Hey Beauty! As it happens, the card numbered Eight is Strength (also Lust) She had surely fled She has surely flown through the trees and away Not on foot at-all while the three saw her pass. great speed. The two sisters with that prince vulgaris looking on curiously Three daemon goblins watching from a distance a disturbance a smallish crashing and afterwards a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed within the leaves that shudder and give up the delicacy, slyly into stubby fingers Lovely Dark Deep The Woods are Laughing! Did you notice any scent? Did it linger between the thumb and the ring? the remnant of her flowers, Petals flouncing, swirling in odorous potentiality. a scrap, yes a deep seated souvenir Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think? we want her. there are things that we want to do with her. dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine sweet, settling instead to gaze upon the still clutched still a little springy sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness and ***** and yet No memories 3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built with a clean sheet for the curtain, paper cut-outs and some sticks. it’s called acting. the wine and the wafer. hidden in the trees’ darkening ‘the mattress’ lays where the leaves will crumple meanwhile, he’s petulant: - why, if you’d just get off of that high horse! - how long are you going to resist? - are you STILL angry? - why won’t you just let me stick it in you? she telegraphs her response, cough: ‘you do know that in this particular scenario (fingers pointing downward and across as if to suggest that the scenario had a specific location) You are the wolf, right? The wolf... I, the girl, am in the forest with my basket and I have got a cute little blood red crushed velvet swing coat With matching hood and a single task And YOU (with those other two ******* have decided to bore ME with this **** Daresay slow ME down? Of course I will get rid of YOU. Wait, who am I talking to? Let me also add that there never has been any high-stepping on my part, nor ankle twirling, no mandate to impress a stale balcony, no sign of gaslit illuminated pink bows that lay down flat perfectly upon the straps that snap perfectly at the thigh, NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine) NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn and yet I know that that determined creature, a hairy monster more faithful than Argos, is prepared to wait a lazy eight at grannie’s cozy house in a sickly corner over-eager and overwrought with pandered fantasies and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me. What I WILL admit to is that the touch of those grubby fingers transubstantiated at my waist invisible approach as usual from behind impatient and impractical, always too quick to make himself a beast to rid himself of being a man knowing how way leads onto way but I doubt if I should ever come back’
0
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 12:38 PM UTC
swiggins
WOLF RED
Within his paw smeared bloodied red by a deliberately mocking thorn sat a blanched ripple-y guarachera strip of cloth confined narrowly between the love and the life lines. TWO ROADS! what remained of her remained of the underthings beneath fluffing rows of silk the heavy skirt had been raised above the ankles the creases no longer hidden in shadow, one leg hoisted over the back, the reigns held expertly. Hey Beauty! As it happens, the card numbered Eight is Strength (also Lust) She had surely fled She has surely flown through the trees and away Not on foot at-all while the three saw her pass. great speed. The two sisters with that prince vulgaris looking on curiously Three daemon goblins watching from a distance a disturbance a smallish crashing and afterwards a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed within the leaves that shudder and give up the delicacy, slyly into stubby fingers Lovely Dark Deep The Woods are Laughing! Did you notice any scent? Did it linger between the thumb and the ring? the remnant of her flowers, Petals flouncing, swirling in odorous potentiality. a scrap, yes a deep seated souvenir Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think? we want her. there are things that we want to do with her. dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine sweet, settling instead to gaze upon the still clutched still a little springy sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness and ***** and yet No memories 3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built with a clean sheet for the curtain, paper cut-outs and some sticks. it’s called acting. the wine and the wafer. hidden in the trees’ darkening ‘the mattress’ lays where the leaves will crumple meanwhile, he’s petulant: - why, if you’d just get off of that high horse! - how long are you going to resist? - are you STILL angry? - why won’t you just let me stick it in you? she telegraphs her response, cough: ‘you do know that in this particular scenario (fingers pointing downward and across as if to suggest that the scenario had a specific location) You are the wolf, right? The wolf... I, the girl, am in the forest with my basket and I have got a cute little blood red crushed velvet swing coat With matching hood and a single task And YOU (with those other two ******* have decided to bore ME with this **** Daresay slow ME down? Of course I will get rid of YOU. Wait, who am I talking to? Let me also add that there never has been any high-stepping on my part, nor ankle twirling, no mandate to impress a stale balcony, no sign of gaslit illuminated pink bows that lay down flat perfectly upon the straps that snap perfectly at the thigh, NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine) NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn and yet I know that that determined creature, a hairy monster more faithful than Argos, is prepared to wait a lazy eight at grannie’s cozy house in a sickly corner over-eager and overwrought with pandered fantasies and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me. What I WILL admit to is that the touch of those grubby fingers transubstantiated at my waist invisible approach as usual from behind impatient and impractical, always too quick to make himself a beast to rid himself of being a man knowing how way leads onto way but I doubt if I should ever come back’
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