"I like the smell of grease," she murmurs, untangling his cobweb hair. Her dewdrops entwining the creases on his skin, she innocently alights his sweetest desire.
Succumbing to her gentle flames, he taints her soul with saccharine kisses, fingertips splaying the peachy residue. Nectar and ambrosia belie her every crevasse, echoing her kindred words.
The furrows are enticing: he wants to ripen them for all of eternity. Her sweetness is a muse, one he yearns to lacquer with his meandering lips.
He moistens the rivers in her hair and clavicles, forever parched by the deepest sinner. Feminine delicacies are gnawed at again: patches of numbness unwittingly rip - scars unveil and give rise to incomplete stitches, her dainty ecstasy beginning to fray.
Like cracked porcelain the trance becomes shattered - a vase drops as their last sugar cube falls. Frigid with fear, her eyes reek of an untold tale.
Demons eclipse his rose-tinted glasses, the fleeting joy a remnant of her memories: once deflowered, she screamed - among torn petals and dripping nectarine. Mysteries enshroud his slovenly thoughts, never showing the pitfalls of such intoxication.