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Minuets On Paper

Tags: dark
One cannot write ominously
without a semblance of luminosity, 
and a cup of grog. 
To ward away chills.
Cellos humming goodbyes
and sighing. 
As my quill minuets on paper.

Under the spell of Fata Morgana...
my muse. 
Simmering titillation of sensuality,
and a touch of erotic desire.
She seduces me.
Writing lines.
Hungrily etching,
I scribe. 

Tasting her cunt, 
my tongue simmers within... 
within her womanhood chalice. 
Like lovers at a cotillion on silk. 
Dancing entwined. 
Her petals dripping.
She accepts the un-living, 
into eternal rest until dusk..

Her breasts lay upon my shoulders,
as she presses her torso against my spine.
Her dark shadow kisses me.
Lips flitting my neck.
She lactates into my grog, 
igniting the swill of my cock. 

Until the shutters close tight,
upon the tower of Dartmouth.
My mausoleum by the sea,
we make love.
Three miles from Aberdeen.
As my quill minuets on paper.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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