Deviations in Writing

Sweet, sweet fifteen; devilish dreams yet unseen. Dazzling style and adolescent grace. Fevered whispers fell from her pale [cherry glossed] lips, as nimble bare fingers motioned over her chest in the form of a cross.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..." Upon white [fishnet] knee-high clad knees she knelt, legs parting with trained [slave] movements; silver and plaid Doc Martins [white laces] tucked under her firm derriere. Almond shaped eyes of blue-violet gazed upon the shadowy figure before her; the tip of her tongue darting from between those lips and drifting across, a dangerous purr sounding from her throat. Thin fingers splayed over her thighs, the rise of her thumb lightly touching the [school-girl] pleated [cutesy plaid of dark blue, cornflower and near-black emerald] skirt that danced about her [blossoming] hips.

Gliding between her thighs, her hands lifted over those school-girl pleats and her thumbs brushing over her bare [lightly tanned] navel; a silver [curved] bar glinting in the candle light. Tight button-up shirt of starched ivory cotten [the tag read 'Small' fitting -tightly- on her clearly 'Medium' torso]. Underlying the thin fabric of the 'Catholic-girl' shirt, another shirt [mini-tank] of white blazed the rant of 'Whip Me' in bold, black script [the widening of the boys eyes let it be known that it was perfectly seen]. Petite hands cupped her [almost too heavy] breasts [the faint circlets of 10g. rings showing through the pair of white cottens], lifting the [unbridled] pair.

Seperation of hand from breast was [achingly] slow, as they lifted and slid over her chest and encircled the back of her [bare] neck. With a quick lift, she tossed those golden [Devil's Maiden] curls, showing off the pair of scars [-His- Kiss] that marked [for life, and eternity beyond] her pale throat. As the short sleeves of her school-girl shirt crept up, the silk [sabal] band could be seen embracing her [right] bicep; as well as the chaos star, so [sweet bloodshed] beautifully inked into her [a shade too light to be 'rich'] golden tan flesh of her [left] forearm, a mere inch away from her [kissable] inner-elbow.

"Tell me your name, child," the husky voice of the shadowy figured called out above the pretty, little girl. Slowly those hands dropped, and came to rest [in peace] upon her [parted] thighs.

"Dove," was her candy-coated reply.

"No streetnames." His voice raised not, nor was it rushed; but the words cracked into her like a whip.

"... Tayne." Her voice trembled slightly, violets darkening as her pupils dialated.

"Mmm ... Continue."

"Tayne," she whispered, pausing shortly, "Bastet Meum, baby of the eternal House Meum." Her chin lifted proudly as she recanted her lineage.

"Yesss ... You'll do just fine," said the figure, as he stepped into [her] view and pulled Tayne from the floor and into his cold embrace.

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Violet eyes peered into the darkness.

Upon the couch, Tayne lie across the cool fabric; moonlight parting through the windows and falling silently upon her pale [virginal] white flesh. Thoughts [memories] roared, raged and soared within that twisted mind . . .

"Get your fucking ass back here whore!" The girl darted into the shadows and hit the ground with a squeal, her arms embracing those spindly legs as she trembled in terror. -Thud; thud; thud- came his footsteps, storming out the back door and into the alleyway.

"I've got you now!"

With a sigh, she closed her eyes; reliving her first night on the streets. Much happened that night: her virginity was savagely [bloodily] torn from her body; she learned the nights were cold with no bed, that rats sought out the warmth and lavished against the flesh of their chosen victim [gnawing absently upon the sleeping being].

Man to man she traveled, staying for nights on end with them before being tossed aside for another young [fresher] girl. Nights were spent sleeping in alleyways; huddled near fireplaces in silent inns; curled on couchs of the arenas. Anywhere but home ... But really, where was home?

-Smack- the back of his hand crashed into her delicate cheek [blood and spittle flying free from those cordate lips]. The bruise already seemed to appear upon her milky flesh, the print of her Father's near-fist glistening in the darkness. In the back of her mind, she could hear her Mother's cries of rage [death]. . . .

She never returned home after escaping that situation.

As a yawn fluttered from her [ghostly] lips, tiny hand patting at the delicate flesh as she rose from the couch of the local inne. Into the [cold, Gods damn the winter] night she fled, following the voices [catcalls] and sounds of arms toward a simple domain pitifully entitled: "SM or Spar Ring."

Little did the Dove know, this would be end of her crux of a life, as she knew it.

God, I can't believe I actually moved that RP style into writing. *twitch*

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