Status: Complete.
Peepshow Ruffles
Chapter Seventeen
He felt the twirl of ruby strings upon his shoulder as he slept, to be greeted by odd feathers peeping intrusively through his satin pillowcase, riddled with the essence of cheap rum and memories of several nights ago. He could feel her moist lips, plump with sumptuous desire, aligned with the rum-infested saliva of his rapture of her beguiling thrashings. Her frame rested against his tepid chest, gently, lightly colliding with its muscle, gradually eroding the dusty fingerprints of his darling’s legacy; moments behind the rouge curtains during rehearsal, reciting their love for one another in the elephant, or typing sweet messages upon bare keys in a humble poet’s dwelling. He felt his tormented recollection of a lustful evening once again fall as his eyelids rose, morn was approaching and the Rouge anxious to explore the beauty of his mind.
His body lay stung, bewildered once again. Something had occured, yet his mind collapsed in a desperate search to reveal what. Too soft to be a glance, too haunted to be a kiss. Her touch still lingered on last night's glove, which aimlessly lingered on last night's cocktail glass.
Christian often woke in similar fashions, unable to tell whose green eyes he studied as they sparkled luminous with the finest of emerald shards and pixie dust; Satine, or merely his company three nights ago. It the latter, he questioned, why had he not also recalled the sight of her perfectly tarnished thighs as they frolicked away from him the night before, or the flutter of her skirt as it twittered through the midnight breeze, revealing swift glances of her behind so hastily gripped between Christian’s inky palms those dreadful days previous. Yes, those were truly awful days, laced with the sins of a villain. Yet, Christian still felt the tinge of excitement ripple through his veins as the thought of her mutterings in his ear, and her velvet whispers under his bed sheets.
His rumpled blankets fell to the floor out stepping a marble figurine which even the greatest artists of the holiest of havens could not have dared to imagine. Though visibly strenuous, Christian felt his bones become amiable and brittle; his face and figure read a tale of a young man’s quest for love, yet his expression and posture evolved the angelic sonnet into a poem of an old man’s weeping and despair for the loss of his lover. He no longer felt adrenaline without a woman. He no longer wished to rise from bed without at least the hope for a woman.
His feet flirted with the floorboards, gracing their oak with his skin as he explored the rapturous wind ruffling his typing paper. An animated little creature swam through the autumnal breeze, peeling slightly at the corners and dancing through Christian’s alcoholic irritation. His fury soon turned to urgency as several spots on his naked body recognized the shape and texture of an image which dominated the leaflet. His dazed fingers snatched the page from within the crisp wind’s grasp, it’s mourning echoing throughout the golden trees outside. His forefinger grazed the image, the legs of her. The raw sensation of laying his eyes upon them once more triggered excitement within his skeleton, planting his lips upon them, smoothly scattering a small kiss upon them, and the name of their owner; Adele.
Clothing, shaving, even drinking, these simple tasks could resume after dawn broke the sleep of the burlesque house before him, all that Christain felt he could find the energy to do was cover his naked body and find the woman whose scarlet and lavender painted skin both aroused and saddened him.
"Christian! Christian, wake up!" A voice was heard from behind the barrier of a rusty lock, but muffled with the pleads of a beggar, was certainly enigmatic. Again, the bells of his visitor's vocal chords chimed, leaving Christian uncertain of his chapel behind the door.
His body lay stung, bewildered once again. Something had occured, yet his mind collapsed in a desperate search to reveal what. Too soft to be a glance, too haunted to be a kiss. Her touch still lingered on last night's glove, which aimlessly lingered on last night's cocktail glass.
Christian often woke in similar fashions, unable to tell whose green eyes he studied as they sparkled luminous with the finest of emerald shards and pixie dust; Satine, or merely his company three nights ago. It the latter, he questioned, why had he not also recalled the sight of her perfectly tarnished thighs as they frolicked away from him the night before, or the flutter of her skirt as it twittered through the midnight breeze, revealing swift glances of her behind so hastily gripped between Christian’s inky palms those dreadful days previous. Yes, those were truly awful days, laced with the sins of a villain. Yet, Christian still felt the tinge of excitement ripple through his veins as the thought of her mutterings in his ear, and her velvet whispers under his bed sheets.
His rumpled blankets fell to the floor out stepping a marble figurine which even the greatest artists of the holiest of havens could not have dared to imagine. Though visibly strenuous, Christian felt his bones become amiable and brittle; his face and figure read a tale of a young man’s quest for love, yet his expression and posture evolved the angelic sonnet into a poem of an old man’s weeping and despair for the loss of his lover. He no longer felt adrenaline without a woman. He no longer wished to rise from bed without at least the hope for a woman.
His feet flirted with the floorboards, gracing their oak with his skin as he explored the rapturous wind ruffling his typing paper. An animated little creature swam through the autumnal breeze, peeling slightly at the corners and dancing through Christian’s alcoholic irritation. His fury soon turned to urgency as several spots on his naked body recognized the shape and texture of an image which dominated the leaflet. His dazed fingers snatched the page from within the crisp wind’s grasp, it’s mourning echoing throughout the golden trees outside. His forefinger grazed the image, the legs of her. The raw sensation of laying his eyes upon them once more triggered excitement within his skeleton, planting his lips upon them, smoothly scattering a small kiss upon them, and the name of their owner; Adele.
Clothing, shaving, even drinking, these simple tasks could resume after dawn broke the sleep of the burlesque house before him, all that Christain felt he could find the energy to do was cover his naked body and find the woman whose scarlet and lavender painted skin both aroused and saddened him.
"Christian! Christian, wake up!" A voice was heard from behind the barrier of a rusty lock, but muffled with the pleads of a beggar, was certainly enigmatic. Again, the bells of his visitor's vocal chords chimed, leaving Christian uncertain of his chapel behind the door.
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Sorry :(