cyprian

My-oh-my-oh Mindy Moloch,

You talk a load of filth, such squalls of grueling kink as would make the Marquis de Sade throw up a little in his mouth. Prisons don't have slang for hobbies which you've diagrammed on your Twister mat. And those rosary beads you tell through your toes smell seamy.

She's fixing me with her humid grey eyes as one leg -- foot bare, toes shimmering -- dips precise time into a basin filled with... what? Each thick slap of the svelte metronome slicks the wood floor with prismatic tendrils barely violet and veined with pearl.

"The rosary belonged to a Borgia Pope who used it as a tickling addition to his holy of holies," she lies, twining her toes through it, "And the foot bath is not cum and liquefied plums, because that would be impractical." I wonder.

The slapstick skirmish between my goggle-eyed ego and terrified id rages. One paws to go over and give in, deliciously, even on pain of certain death; the other flails for the door, embedding fingernail shards in the floor as he is pulled to certain depravity. The hot fugue of steam and sweat and wood closes in.