Beauty

Satin sheets lay pretentiously upon a mattress shamed with desire, and oak frame which bared the burden of daily ravishment. Grand fur expanded across the velvet comforts, stained with the fingertips of impressionable young women, charmed by daring eyes so despicable that one’s fantasies commonly moulded into the marble pupils, engulfed by a flame of chestnut seduction. Savage affection scarred the opulent threads, each night creating tiny nooses from glorious tapestries. Bare skin cursed linen with provocative obedience, as foolish darlings ruptured a barrier of silence through hungry sighs. Legs entwined their searing flesh within a cradle of abrupt velvet tones, examined intensely by a devious vision. A predator of virtue, his face camouflaged in the youth of charming interpretation, who, through a flicker of his eye, found amusement in corruption. For many captivated woman has graced the condemnable stage of scandalous passion with a performance of moral metamorphose, each scanned and enjoyed by he who blessed window shards with fractures of momentous beauty, though never appreciated. From Swollen toes of the brothels, to the noble ankles of respectable deceivers, both had pranced upon the exquisite body of a disloyal rogue.

London portrayed a dismal countenance of dreary cobbles, echoing with the indecency of man, as coarse dew petals leaked from the eyes of gods. Though, through masked contempt, each droplet of rainfall held within a slight burst of passion, as it throbbed upon the window of Mr. Dorian Gray. Through the mention of his name, and the ghastly attraction before their lifeless glimmers, the disgusted spits of class immediately shattered upon his window pane, as if to miraculously join the ambitious condensation parallel. How they longed to sweat down his cheeks, experiencing the warmth and duplicity of such a sculpture, fading once more to the air which his luscious neck would consume.

He did not care for the woman imprisoned in his excitable grasp, nor last night’s whore. He did not care for pretty lace corsets, nor wonderfully embroidered capes; simply cages to the delightful indulgence beneath. Despite cost, or maker, or design, each garment eventually fluttered to a spot on the wooden floorboards, which lined his romantic cellar. Whether it be a spotless dress of a Duchess, or the dingy cloth nightshirt of a governess, Dorian took pleasure in watching them surrender to his dusty ground. Each dainty item was one against ethic, an enemy of beauty.

The bare spine of a social esteemed woman slanted horizontally across the bed. Her eyelashes fluttered in rest, but not in slumber. Never in slumber. Once a woman had dreamt in the arms of a man, she was to be bound to the poor cretin. Dorian’s slender wing stirred her limp figure, the beating instrument inside her chest creating a rhythm unmatched by any other. It was the pulsing of Dorian’s fulfillment, almost an hour glass crafted from fine liquid, in which each grain of contamination oozed from one compartment to the other. A game of balance, which was far too well favoured by Mister Gray. His fingerprints embedded into the small of her back, causing eyes, burned with embers of his fiery soul, to pounce upon his beauty. Dorian smirked at this gesture, created purely by eye contact, and pressed his cosy lips to hers, laughing gently as to not startle the quiver of honeycomb hair strung loosely from her forehead. Plump fuchsia lips lingered near her’s, as he savoured the flavour of bitter whiskey upon the arch of his throat. The intoxication of the woman, Roxanne, simply widened his deceitful smile until flawless crinkles appeared at the poles.

Roxanne’s hair flurried in realization, tearing her lips away from his in seductive disgust. Her eyes fell upon his face once more. The blossoms of his lips a tale of Spring, and the raven of his tangled hair a novel of September’s mysteries, his brilliant eyes pleading with a secretive Summer, yet his morals bleeding a merciless winter. With a captivated shriek, Roxanne muttered the name of her tormentor.
“Dorian”

Dorian’s head lay facing her solemn stare, though his grin continued to throb with devious intrigue, nodding slowly, as to continue to conversation.

“Dorian” Roxanne began to regret the sour thoughts which had laced her mind with resentment, “My eyes lay bewildered, caressed, by the enchantment of such a face. Yet, as I flock against those lips, those lips which sear my flesh until scalded with darling grace” her hand brushed against a rosy cheek, “I fear that your soul is no more than a pit of crisp chippings.”

Sensing that the guest had outstayed her welcome, Dorian cupped her chin in his perfect hands, before smothering them in his venomous essence once more. In a matter of minutes, the female would have exited his dear home, and scurried back to her dense partner. This thought had crossed Dorian’s mind, simultaneously, as the smile of a felon lurked amongst his dashing demeanor.