Saturday, November 7, 2015

Body Fiction 1

To keep a promise, here's a bit of a different Saturday Post!

Six Separate Thoughts - Part 1

The shoes were pinched. They were jewel encrusted, heeled, and satin underneath her petticoat, but they were pinched. No wiggle room; certainly no air. Still, they were just too pretty to remain hidden under a dress encircling three feet round. Shoes of such beauty should be seen. Unfortunately for the young lady, ankles in this era should not.
Foolish intrigues amongst these powerful families annoy me, with gilded goblets and gossip, but I’m the part that makes the magic, and she paid with her toe.
In this guise, no one cares about me unless I hurt, fall off, or need painting. Foot hygiene bordering on the manic is the rage in London these days, so painting isn’t big here yet. It will be. Perhaps I’ll be put to use again. A new body, part of a new woman, a new time, a new future, a new past.
As soon as the deed is done, I’m leaving.
The slide-roll-slide friction of her gait was something akin to a rude massage. The relief when she sat down felt decadent, like butter on toasted bread. Unfortunately it was not too long before she was asked to dance by our conquest, ending my respite with an extended hand.
If I had a neck, I would have rolled it in preparation for the grand performance. Sensation ceased. A cinnamon and pepper spark inside my soul began flickering tiny fire, and while wrapped in perfect etiquette, I sent my yeasty dream up his spine, into the crook of the neck with the gentlest kiss of a single fingertip sensation, behind and then into his ear; felt more than heard.
I returned bodily to the discomfort within her squish-pull-point lope about the ballroom. The sheerest curtain of frenzy fell around them, as if they were the only two in the room. A passionate air current ribbon wove tendrils around their never-touching wrists. The most accidental graze between the backs of hands, scandalous despite the gloves, began a storm of flipping fans, adding air to the fire. I claim full credit as the arsonist.
They’ll be married by Michaelmas, and her child will have a last name of good standing, within the same bloodline no less.
Time to go.
It actually works in her favor. It will hurt when I take my leave, and she’ll most certainly stumble. Perhaps there will be a fall, and the dutiful if not suddenly attentive fiancĂ©-to-be will save her publicly. She’ll have a lock of her hair in his coat pocket before the end of the night.
It is a shame about the shoes though.
For Seddybear - This was fun!
With words, song & prayer,
TiMo V

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