The Lace Chrysalis
Evangeline is silent on the bed, still, encased in a lace shroud, a cocoon trapped inside a dream. Heartbeat echoes a steady rhythm, Mistress wakes, gasps, and stares at her lover breathless, shocked, her face veiled. Calm, she eyes her beauty, perfect shape and symmetry, curves tattooed in a silk chrysalis.
Wrapped in white, a complex weave, woven hieroglyphics. Her hands gently move over taut ribs and stomach, no seams to tear, no way in, to unravel, to touch her soft skin. Further she caresses, she twitches and starts to move, arching her back, undulating her body, gliding down the bed, the floor, the velveteen walls.
Slowly she crawls, gossamer sprays, she secures herself. She feels everything upside down, collecting stories in her mind, projecting colours through her skin. Colours that once seen render eternity. Colours of lust. Colours that elude tongue, ears, nose, touch, song, sky and earth. Beyond spectra standing in plain sight, humming in an empty cathedral.
It’s the colours they chase in their dreams, it is what they are.
As if space, all known physics and the fulfillment of time is solved in a slant of sunshine, reflected off the right dye on the right day. A colour that only exists in words or silence. Beyond violet, or yellow, as bold as blood or a rose… a beauty simple as black.
The paradise they see. The frills of peacocks tilting in nocturne twilight on a Egyptian scarlet palisade dancer could not compare. Sounds of lust, the sphinx drools with her once mechanical tongue, the scales of a rainbow, a note in a melody, a taste, to flavour her. Mistress positions cushions scared she might fall. Blue and yellow satin spins and turns into a giant parrot, squawks and flies around the room, nesting in a cornice of fleur de lis.
The morning light hits the edges, reflects back and forth across the room, oscillates wildly, spins and projects a passage…
‘look for a knife, tell the trellis a story of loss with edible flowers of eve’
Mistress stands and caresses her binds. Upon her finger a diamond band, needle sounds a wax cylinder, eternal ancient voices, Evangeline their sweet vessel.
‘…cut me free’ they whisper, ‘cut me free’ her sweet mouth moans.
Elegant hands tremble, engraved silver blades, no fear, no distractions, delicate love awakened, eye to eye. The oak drawer opens, the parrot swoops and glides, scissors sever the sky.
The first cut, she trembles. Minute incisions, tiny moths nibble their metamorphosis. Evangeline sighs, her mouth sucking silk, she cries close to her lover’s ear. Mistress opens her own legs wide, inside her thighs deft touches, exquisite in knowing that she watches, another tightly bound.
Second cut, must be delicate. Her nipples hard escape the weave, each breast gently reassured with soft tongue flicks. They taste like metal and blood. Voltaire is mesmerised, wanting, having licked them while she sleeps, Evangeline driven mad with pleasure, often wondered why it scratches. He wants to fuck her. Often, Mistress would come home, the place a mess, pigeon feathers, a half eaten head, anger mounted on the varnish. He jumps the balcony and sulks into the street to fuck some other bitches howling in the night.
The mayor’s wife shall be sleepless.
She cuts more. The shear’s slice a hollow sound of sharpened steel passing, pulling threads, cold metal pinches. A narrow valley, lines her wet orchid. Mistress follows the slit and she drips like a cut flower, open, pink and bursting. The lace is soaked with sticky sap she follows the trail of juice to her stem, begging like a thirsty mouth, tongue thrusts worships the forbidden.
The final cut to free this lucid dream, her pointed tips lift and shear her centre bare. Her feet, her legs, navel, breasts, her throat, her lips, to kiss, a tongue to suck, their hands clasp a passionflower, they become scissors falling in velvet.
© Abbie Foxton 2014.
Find more from Abbie by heading over to her blog and by following @thehungryfox on twitter, you can also find Mistress and Evangeline on twitter by following @SacreCoeurNoir