Violet Decedents

Violets skirts were clutched at the bends of her hips and billowed out around her plump behind. Her breasts had been liberated from the confines of her tightly drawn bodice. They struggled over the ridgid fabric, grateful for the freedom. 

The rose tinge of her nipples were barely noticeable against her pale mounds but their taunt nubs was enough to bring a priest to his knees. Her seam glistened against the flickering bursts of amber candle light. Full dewy drops rolled down the creases of her folds like a delicious flower springing forth from a misty English morning. 

The woman beside her was eager, her thighs spread unashamed of the heat radiating from her core. Greedy fingers delved deeply into her parted sex like an exotic dance that only she knew the rhythm to. Violet was patient. Obedient. Exquisite. Her golden curls had begun to unfasten, bouncing chaotically against the floral rug against her back. 

A picture of angelic innocence that not even the most masterful of painters could capture. 

I was going to destroy it. 

Each deliberate brush stroke of blushing pink would be replaced with scarlet—her body bent and her mind broken. The sweet plump curve of her lips abused and swollen. 

It was the darkness I kept buried which was rising. Begging to sin again. She would be my painting for only paintings captured true beauty.

Her friend was lost at sea—battling the currents of her orgasm. She was pathetic, but would prove to be useful in this decadent evening. My goblet was far from empty, the wine still danced along the silver rim but I was ready—ready to taste the freshly squeeze drops from the sweetest fruit present in this room. 

She trembled as I approached, the wine long since forgotten. Her stockings were slipping down the endless slopes of her legs threatening to pass the knees. Even through the material, her skin was soft like the texture of the top of a petal. The meat supple enough to melt in your palms demanding kneading fingers. 

Her lips curled and the softest sounds tumbled past them the higher I climbed. She quaked against my shoulders. Her innocence was invigorating and I was too damned to deny it. The woman beside her was no longer limp from desire but poised on her knees as her hands fumbled through Violets skirts excited to assist. 

She tasted like divinity—something I craved but couldn't obtain. It brought my senses to life and made me eager to please but no matter how much I tormented those delicate folds, I didn't feel fulfilment—I needed more. She would come apart as the seams over and over again but it wouldn't be until she was utterly ruined that I would cease my assult upon her. 

Because no matter what—there was something beautiful in her destruction and I had to have it.