The virgin paper is penetrated by the pen. The ink leaves its mark. The paper can no longer be pure. Currants and vanilla.
Scratch, and leave a trail behind on the pure thinness. Red marks, red ink. Bites, nips, two wedded fighting fish; flop about, in the moist, wet air. Sounds penetrate the dark, twist it, because all things black must be done in the dark. The blood is black, the hearts are black, the noise is black, black, black.
Two bodies shiver as if it is cold and not hot, and four blinking moons close, at the cusp of a pseudo death.
"The paper is a virgin," is the whisper of burning ecstasy. "Until the ink touches it, and writes a story." The whisperer is male, and, and dripping with sweat in his pleasure. "You are paper, my dear; you are the flesh of a tree. You are cream and milk and snow. You are opaque ice. Rough glass and wine." A dim and gloomy smile. Then shiftings of sweet pain. It is tender and raw.
"Sadist," a voice hisses, followed by a pained curse. The voice sounds like many, and sounds like honey. For honey is golden, and can scald.
All there is is a rasping sound called a chuckle, before faces kiss and there is a human mewl. "Can ice be fire? My sweet," the male shadow croons. There is blood on his teeth, iron soil on his tongue.
"Bastard," comes the cliché murmur, and there is a sticky feel that overtakes the miserable setting. A yowl—its mother is painted red. Lips can be so dark; the marks do not show at first. Pursing lips—roses can be black.
The shivering tableau drips red and black—or is it simply dark?—the colors of hell, of Satan.
"You're beautiful." The whisperer pulls out, grunts with effort. "You are paper, and you are an apple. I am a writer, and what is a pen? What is insanity?"
The red and dark painting chokes on hate and love, lust and pain. The writer bends, laps up the red sea. "You are beautiful. There has been no story such as this in forever." His breath is of pepper and ice; "I am the soul of a pen. You are paper. Paper cannot stay a virgin. I will write your story for you, and leave wet marks that will dry to scars."
"Fuck you," replies the stubborn victim, close to a sea of tears.
"We are," the whisperer, the writer, muses. "It is called making love, it is called fucking, it is called sex. You are a white lily pressed to paper, and I am the bee. My juice is black.... Je t'aime." He bends over, to lick the salty crimson tide. "I will mark you. And I am not insane"—the monster and the artist lets out a dry sound like a cackle—"I am a writer." He bends over, his hands spiders, to plunge, to violate.
And the wolves cry to the bloody moon.