Status: Active
Human Indulgence
Chapter Three
It was unsure to his mind how such an angelic harlot tainted his bedclothes with colourful screams of such a handsome throat. His senses lay listless, for the trials of enduring such a beauty during dawn’s precious glimmers of denial and night’s empty ignorance of rapid ravishing, particularly that of foolish young men, had but exhausted the last remaining talents of the boy. Soft nostrils cursed her perfumed neck, the scent of vanilla infused with lavender talons, along with other delicious fragrances of winter moors and wildlife’s eminence. Oh, how his jaw lingered between limp and abandoned pillows in hope of a twin to her fragile touch, the colour within his Fuscia lips longing similarly for the moist fissure of her plump petals of crimson. The sound of her voice, oh, such a melody forced even the sweetest of songbirds to silence their tuneful beaks, and what a loss to his eardrum that sound was. The taste of her lips as her muffled speech became entrapped within the mouth of her lover, the scent of her body as it eradicated his youthful peach of flesh, the sound, such sound of her moans and cries for him, the touch of a her finger-dusts upon his chest. The senses of such young fellows mourn for the loss of glorious nights, in usual circumstance, yet that of the straw-headed solemn scribbler was alas far too extraordinary for the mere thought of describing his vexing present as “average” would both shock and disgust every ragged gossip woman attending market that evening.
Yet a sense remained, a sense so dominant and often malignant to the bruised sir that his name was to be etched upon such a sense so distinctively that a shower of gold shall be earned from his love for it. Despite the scalds on his darling shell, and the harshness of her words as the truth that once was spoken to his vacant expression, a sudden flicked of enjoyment jolted through his lightly fractured skeleton. Her velvet taunts suddenly poetic wooing, and the devilish quiver of her mouth simply a smile.
By profession, the impressionable teen painted love with his eyes. It was near impossible not to, as each pupil radiated with boiling sparks of blue, the brilliance of his innocence truly effecting one’s immediate judgement of the mischievous artist. Of course, his eyes had not been so fine without his gullible vision.
Jars of dried and cracked paint hung from brittle bars on his window, quenched and desperate for their master’s touch. Rushing towards his canvas, gaining an awry brush from his writing desk, each jar began to jingle in turn. As did the floor boards, and every other panel in the room. The attic was of feeble temperament, even more so after last night’s ventures.
Presenting his brush to the newly fallen raindrops from the window sill, ensuring to dampen it before moistening each pot of rainbow flavours opened to reveal shades of the world one could deeply appreciate in such a dismal attic. At once, his fingertips began to flicker across the page in delight. Why, the beauty of her face could not wait, as the passion in her eyes practically leaped from his exhilarated memory to the canvas within a matter of seconds. Eyes were always discovered first with this particular painter. He enjoyed the glances they shared as he sculpted her fine lips, resisting the taste of the paint against his lips. His wild waltz of intense desire with both his memory and the portrait itself forced him to believe that his pulse was alone in the room, only to be interrupted by the cough of a darling old man of 75, soon to be followed by continuous rustles of a newspaper.
The old man smiled at the canvas. Dressed in dominant shades of deceptive evening, with a splash of dove wings upon a broad chest, his adolescent acquaintance drew a boisterous brush to the eye of the decrepit old fool. His resplendent companion was certainly an artist, or rather the portrait itself.
“You are quite the artist” Jean’s mouth twinged as he spoke. With each word, his throat ached with frail lumps of skin. A smoker’s cough rippled through his whispering strands of short white hair, leading to a sweet chuckle at the paper within his grasp. Tugging at the frames of his glasses, paining his fingertips to grip the frozen metal. How unusual bitter temperatures were of pleasant months. This, perhaps the most pleasant of months, bore hardly any sunshine, neglected by the richness of golden beams, in turn mourning over the aluminium mornings in which Prince Charming’s kiss could scarcely wake the fair maidens of street corners, little children on pavement slabs. Each lay where they died, until some savage human allowed their dog to dismantle the limbs of the angelic urchins.
“Oh, gracious, what a woman! What a woman, indeed! To write such lovely stories.” Jean stared at his paper in wonder, pulling it closer to his eyes to study the small fiction piece. In wonder, the young man stared over the shoulder of the elderly fool seated upon his best chair. It was truly beautiful, her manipulation of the English language whirling in his head in such a way that his eyes grew infatuated with her very name. Outrageously flirting with her syllables, the pure ingenuity of her metaphors, and the dashing fairness of her similes. Why, what a name to have, one to posses the oceans of the eyes of a naïve painter.
Yet a sense remained, a sense so dominant and often malignant to the bruised sir that his name was to be etched upon such a sense so distinctively that a shower of gold shall be earned from his love for it. Despite the scalds on his darling shell, and the harshness of her words as the truth that once was spoken to his vacant expression, a sudden flicked of enjoyment jolted through his lightly fractured skeleton. Her velvet taunts suddenly poetic wooing, and the devilish quiver of her mouth simply a smile.
By profession, the impressionable teen painted love with his eyes. It was near impossible not to, as each pupil radiated with boiling sparks of blue, the brilliance of his innocence truly effecting one’s immediate judgement of the mischievous artist. Of course, his eyes had not been so fine without his gullible vision.
Jars of dried and cracked paint hung from brittle bars on his window, quenched and desperate for their master’s touch. Rushing towards his canvas, gaining an awry brush from his writing desk, each jar began to jingle in turn. As did the floor boards, and every other panel in the room. The attic was of feeble temperament, even more so after last night’s ventures.
Presenting his brush to the newly fallen raindrops from the window sill, ensuring to dampen it before moistening each pot of rainbow flavours opened to reveal shades of the world one could deeply appreciate in such a dismal attic. At once, his fingertips began to flicker across the page in delight. Why, the beauty of her face could not wait, as the passion in her eyes practically leaped from his exhilarated memory to the canvas within a matter of seconds. Eyes were always discovered first with this particular painter. He enjoyed the glances they shared as he sculpted her fine lips, resisting the taste of the paint against his lips. His wild waltz of intense desire with both his memory and the portrait itself forced him to believe that his pulse was alone in the room, only to be interrupted by the cough of a darling old man of 75, soon to be followed by continuous rustles of a newspaper.
The old man smiled at the canvas. Dressed in dominant shades of deceptive evening, with a splash of dove wings upon a broad chest, his adolescent acquaintance drew a boisterous brush to the eye of the decrepit old fool. His resplendent companion was certainly an artist, or rather the portrait itself.
“You are quite the artist” Jean’s mouth twinged as he spoke. With each word, his throat ached with frail lumps of skin. A smoker’s cough rippled through his whispering strands of short white hair, leading to a sweet chuckle at the paper within his grasp. Tugging at the frames of his glasses, paining his fingertips to grip the frozen metal. How unusual bitter temperatures were of pleasant months. This, perhaps the most pleasant of months, bore hardly any sunshine, neglected by the richness of golden beams, in turn mourning over the aluminium mornings in which Prince Charming’s kiss could scarcely wake the fair maidens of street corners, little children on pavement slabs. Each lay where they died, until some savage human allowed their dog to dismantle the limbs of the angelic urchins.
“Oh, gracious, what a woman! What a woman, indeed! To write such lovely stories.” Jean stared at his paper in wonder, pulling it closer to his eyes to study the small fiction piece. In wonder, the young man stared over the shoulder of the elderly fool seated upon his best chair. It was truly beautiful, her manipulation of the English language whirling in his head in such a way that his eyes grew infatuated with her very name. Outrageously flirting with her syllables, the pure ingenuity of her metaphors, and the dashing fairness of her similes. Why, what a name to have, one to posses the oceans of the eyes of a naïve painter.
♠ ♠ ♠
Third time lucky! :D