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Purple Prose

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Jamein gaped pensively across the anchor, her bosom hanging low, like the menacing rainstorm clouds above, while her tears blended moistly with the miasmic foggy mist. The reverberation of far-away thunder brought to her brain memories of the past, of a time when the world was youthful and she was blissfully lighthearted. She shrugged her scruffily shawled shoulders, and allowed a fatigued smile to slacken her lips as Sir Pasneil in trepidation approached while a strong wind was fiercely rousing the scanty flames of the lantern that struggled on his quivering pale wrinkled hands.

As soon as Sir Panseil spark had been entirely communicated to Jamein’s tube hanging recklessly on her lips, the lady said, ‘I cannot put up with my breast being referred to as mounds. It makes me imagine of a toffee bar. And with that, I cannot stand anyone bucking, so piss of before saying what you want to utter.’ ‘Arousal being euphemism for erection, what could be wrong with excitement in such a stormy dreadful night? Now that I am warmed to my theme, I have to ‘fess-up’ to a bit violet little phrase of my own. I confess I cannot stand another minutes without your kisses that taste as heroine’s sweet love on my tongue with a primitive dance of mating.’ The tall hardy man replied.

With sleepy uninterested orb eyes, the lady answers slowly, ‘The hardness of your manhood is like a turgid shaft so you think, but in real sense is just like a wet sponge laid on a wooden casket.’ She did this as her gaze traveled down the beefy chest and her pale pink lips tenderly swaying promise of future delight, Sir Panseil just smiled unwisely. He held her closely to her chest and a hot sleeve of love could be felt in the dense fogged air. The heat of her feminist drove great nest of desires on his body. He felt jealous and could not share anymore the moist warmth of the lady with the cold; hence he pulled her in his bedroom with a lot of quivering desires.

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