florencía

014

CAN I DO THAT?

"i sleep naked baby."
His voice rings out within an atmosphere so deathly quiet a pin drop would merely burst the ear drums of all sensitive to such a serenity. For it was smooth, sultry and inviting of the way Florence's body grows tense with anxiousness and apprehension, her nervous system and its surroundings having skyrocketed with such an emotion alongside a pulsing rush of adrenaline as she swallows down hard before the lethal gaze of the inebriated. He listens to the sultry vehemence that feasted upon her contentment before him. And how so direful did it sounded against the temptation that taunted his existence entrapped in the solemn nurture of her palm and obedient to the way she orders him and his sluggish existence into a closer seated position upon the edge of the bed before her. With fluttering eyes, rather fatigued, yet conscious; he fell victim to her touch. Her nurture. And for the perspectives in which others couldn't seem to compare to what she exuded into his pores. For the ones that would never be able to, he vulnerably allows for her hands to undress his form of the long sleeves of his white tee and the uniform over top it up over his head, freeing the torso from a warmth that lacks in the aromatic textiles thrown over her shoulder to embrace its warmth and the sultry fragrance of the cleanly gallant. And from then she fought against dropping her jaw at the captivating sight, mouth salivating as though she'd been a famished animal posed before prey, but was a deprived woman who consumed the the ink embedded deep into the flesh of Maurice's tense body and the way it trails from what she'd seen frequently upon his face down to the waistband of his trousers that he fumbles with.

"Babygirl, help me take these off please?" He pleads gently, his toned torso flexing uncontrollably as he pushes himself from a former position upon the very edge of the mattress. He stood to his full potential height before her, and with every inch his height amassed, her head follows with a heaviness that yearned for nothing more than to put a stop to the sudden storm that brews from within. She pushes her emotional torrent aside and nods hesitantly, sliding his pants down his equally as toned legs alongside the shoes that once clad his soles to place directly in the corner of her bedroom. Clad in lust, he observed her. With slitted eyes, rather intent, yet curious; he saw the way she yearned for it. For him. For the atmosphere they share. For the anticipation of the near future. For the many languages of the land that trek; that pervade translucently through shell-like of all who listen upon it. For the perspectives on the world he had no control over. For the perspectives on himself, the ones he had no control over. But she acted oblivious to it. He felt the contortion consuming the physiognomy of his. And how so subtle it was. Under surveillance; yet rather oblivious; he felt. With a subtle expression of deep thought and lingering yearn, she had become the most beautiful woman one could ever be granted the ability to briefly glance upon. The manner in which the honey in those curious read upon the velvety marbling of the grey and white above captivates the anticipated examination of interest. The deep intent in the fathomable arch of the brows over long lashes that flutter frequently. The melanated speckles that dance effervescently over the highest points of those intricately carved features. They grew bashful under the manner in which time elapsed; the way it crept under the noses of existence. The manner it which it teetered. The clock spun over the capacities below. One: obfuscated, empty, mimicking ghost towns. The other: inundated, saturated with purpose, expediting with a rare sense of clarity.