Fiction and Creativity
Deema is a Siren, living for the kill until she finds a reason to give instead of take.
She's in the depths of a lost reserve and the song she hears howls a sad refrain that promises she'll forget. Slow steps lead to a cacophonous harmony of angry ocean churning until bitten ankles are numbed and the piercing pain gives way to stiff movements. She's urged forward. A fresh sting of cold hits her thighs in a shocking protest of discomfort.
He loved it when I showed him that Victoria's Secret is that she is a man after his own heart. I could see the reflection of the smile that has now reached his eyes in the mirror above the fireplace.
Mags was always sober and her strut placed one foot in front of the other, hips leading and swaying to the authority of her sex and the power of her gaze. She could undress a man with one look and strip him bare. There was no gray area for Mags. The men loved or feared her, and anyone caught in her seduction wanted her or to be her. She was a vixen but shared her knowing smile with anyone brave enough to openly stare at her. She knew she would be fuel for a few fantasies that night and she was confident in her gifts. Her barter was attention and she had enough of what she craved to last for days just on the way to her car.
He looked at her, realizing he didn’t have to ask her out. He finally saw that she had chosen him. He looked at her petite frame and long legs and knew she would follow him to his place. Without a word, he reached for her hand and paused long enough to feel how small it was in his hand before leading her down the street to his house.
Brielle smiled like she just stumbled upon an orgy in the making. She leaned in to kiss Anna, first breathing in her essence, then tasting her lips. She liked the feel of her lips, so supple and so out of practice. For Brielle, kissing Anna was like teaching, something she had sworn off decades before. She deepened the kiss and as she reached out to touch her thigh, she began feeding Anna.
A poem about pride.
In this moment she despised everything about Sam. She hated the clothes he wore. She hated his insecurities. She hated his conspiracies and blank stares when he was too high to respond. She hated the way he wanted to talk face to face for privacy, but couldn't suck on a mint after his bologna sandwich.