[FOOLISH] c a s a n o v a[openn]

[s.u.i.c.i.d.e]

Xx. She knew how to satisfy a man. She knew when to challenge him, when to fight him, and how to correct him with a fierce, vicious slap. She knew when to fall silent, when to remain patient, and let him be in charge and in control so he could feel mighty, macho and important, despite the plumber's shameless number flashing mockingly on the wicked fridge. She knew when to lie down on her back and give him what he desired after a long, hard day at work, when he was too tired to talk, too impatient to listen, except for the harsh cries of her desperate moans while they passionately f*cked. She knew when to chide him, when to trick him, when to smack him, and if she ever misbehaved herself, to let him smack her back. She knew that if she wanted him to come to dinner on time, she'd only have to holler "STEAK!". She knew how to scare him sh*tless by accidentally slipping the razorblade against his neck while straddling his lap to shave his chin. Oops. Just a small cut, love. Nothing a kiss can't heal. And if he was too busy and preoccupied with sorting bills while she lay restless, alone and naked in bed? Easy. Call him up to devilishly tease, "Honey, I'm not wearing any panties". Oh, that would send him dashing up stairs, running red lights like a wild ravenous animal, and not without boyishly tripping on the reckless, foolish stairs either. Drive him crazy leaving a perfumed trail of rumpled, dirty clothes that led to the grinning bedroom door. Make him fierce with jealously while she flaunted that new red dress he'd bought her by dancing in front of all his hungry, wolfishly male friends. She could be a mother. A lover. A dancer. A warrior. A wife. A seducer. And your most faithful friend to the end. Love was rough. Love was cruel. Love was immensely wild, devilishly intense, maddening chaotic, desperately amazing, painfully real and achingly delicious. Push and be pulled. f*cked and be f*cked. Owned and be used. Want and be wanted. A passionate, intense fang-filled caress that left hot lovers breathlessly gasping for more in the dirty, disheveled mattress of their twisted sheets. Once you've tasted true love, you'll begin to embrace your deeper, darkest and wildest of erotic dreams. The moist curling to your boldly roaming fingertips. The raw heated touch of sharp hissing teeth. The breathless screams. The nerve-racking shivers. The raking of nails against the dark sweat of flesh. The harder groans, the rougher bites and the sweet, hot ache of violent needy kisses. The seductive whispers sliding mischievously down your thighs and the slender glistening hands deliciously stroking your sex. Love was insane. Love was beautiful. It made you covet, it made you desperate, but best of all, it made you touch, feel, taste and see. That's the best part about being madly inlove with someone. It made you believe.

Casanova was either at war with something; or she was f*cking it. She was restless, ambitious, wild, impatient, lawless, rowdy, playfully vicious and vindictively spiteful. Exquisitely needy, desperately demanding and seductively, d*mningly, strangely, irresistible. Never the regally enticing epitome of an elegant woman, a dashing woman, a clean eloquent and mesmerizingly gentle woman, her fearsome affairs, violent provocation and devilish misdeeds were boyishly dealt with a malicious gambler's card rushing out on the furious Manhattan streets. Gunning down romance with every erotic purr, salivating from the silken chill of her hot intoxicating lips, and ravaging flesh with the streetfighter relish of a sinful rebel armed with arson, poison, flame and gasoline at the very wicked touch of her sultry, slender fingertips. She was a mare who did not know how to behave. A mare who wore her tangled, wicked locks in strangled curls of a lion's disheveled mane. There was dirt under her sharp nails. Gunpowder on her charred skin. And hot spicy fire in her blood. Satan in her flashing scorpion eyes and tango devils on her dancing luscious hips. Starved, deprived, driven by lust, excited by war and consumed by sex, the erotically playful fantasies she relished, ravaged and so strongly possessed swathed her in a cold, seductive mystery of luscious, tantalizingly dark and devious romance. While this fierce intensity, this reckless passion and hateful abandon in her sadistically wild untamed spirit, proved a menacingly intimidating and fiery challenge to any passing hungry male, that never stopped the curious ones, the desperate ones, the ambitious and arrogant ones, from getting maliciously burned by the ravenous skin of her wild intoxicating flames. If you were playing with Casanova, you were playing with fire. The seductive whispers curling against your ear in the cruel, tempting dark. The moist tongue licking up the fleshed path of your toned chest and down to your bare neck. The slender thighs that strangled you. The sweet devilishly red lips that bled you achingly dry and left you ever so desperately wanting and ravenously drunk on the wine of her sex. Casanova knew how to intoxicate, knew how to charge you, excite you, without so much as setting her slender matchbox fingers over your exposed, thrilling flesh. Don't let the gentle golden curls, the soft dimpled smile and the sweet schoolgirl looks deceive you. She was a naughty, vicious, raging tiger underneath; a d*mn freak on a leash. If you dare spare her a salaciously wanting bedroom look, boy, you better look fast and you better look quick. Because gaze at the dark simple beauty of her mesmerizing eyes for too long, and soon she'll be plaguing your mind like a virus for which there is no cure, taunting you with a kiss for a cure. She'll be haunting you in your dreams. She'll be screaming at you in your nightmares. She'll be on your bed, waiting. She'll be in your lap, kissing. She'll be on you on, devouring. When you wake up every morning, she'll be in your god d*mn fruity loops cereal, too.

Flashing the cool, pacifying chill of her enticing stare against the bare curving of the stallion's smiling lips, in a lush provocative lull that sounded half animal, half purr and half croon, salacious amusement and delicate laughter left the sensual lines of her plump vermillion lips. She was growing fond, growing gentle, of his shyly intoxicating and deviously silent company. Boyishly cruel for all his dark, deceiving disparity, his iron confidence a stony calm that chilled, tensed then wickedly faltered. There was something about a man in his desperately aching and tragically sweet loneliness that made him even more beautiful, even more tempting, even more exasperatingly real and terribly delicious. Perhaps it was the lack of blatantly foolish male arrogance, or the shimmering boyish glisten of wild narcissistic idiocy. There was a silent power to him, a gentle glory and compassionately stern understanding where the shadowed ferocity of his golden eyes hauntingly revealed. Impatient, unpredictable, intense. Provoking fear and stroking the flames of desire, pleasure and sweat. The electrifying silence thrilled across the sultry, beckoning room in crackling waves of intense heat and blinding flare of destructive passion. Flirtatious, dark, and violently deceiving, Casanova's eyes remained on the hard stone of his devilish form, the porcelain chill of his white skin that glistened as fair and beautiful as the rivaling moon. She traced the toned curve of his lithe muscles, found the bare flesh of his smooth waist and mentally savored it with the dancing play of her seductive scarlet gaze. Dark lashes, long and angelic, curved against the soft blushing skin of her tender cheeks. The shyly strong, pungent musk of his male sex suggested repent aggression, secretive violence and sheer masculine dominance. His salivating groin devilishly raw to the bold, hardening touch, she could vividly imagine and see the deliciously excruciating pain that warped and twisted the sadistic cruelty of his elegant, boyish features. Resisting the wild masculine urge to seize her slender hips and give it to her hard, fighting everything that he long desired and perversely craved. In their dark, sensual courtship, like two mating tigers locked in a steel cage, grinning innocently, Casanova laughed softly, a bare curving of her seductive lips. Like a bitter hateful chill, like a wild anxious growl, sheer feline and feminine bemusement left her cruel, mesmerizingly wet razorblade mouth. Purring salaciously, she studied him quietly while the man restlessly paced back and forth, back and forth, hard rippling muscles brushing ruggedly across the metal iron bars. She took the hard contours of his chest, and the dark grime of his mysteriously provocative smile. Eyed the sinewy flesh of his athletic figure and danced across the firmness of his toned hips. Her admiring, ravenous eyes deviously widening with a slick predatory menace to this sweet, divine speculation.
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muse ehh. i just used an old post. i assume this will be fine for now, next post, i hope, won't be recycled. mehh.
tagged obviously for a stallion.
puppet casanova, the slave by choice. so... yeah.
theme addictive - truth hurts
notes ehh. this is for a stallion. sorry. i'm just tired.

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