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A bare, blank slate.
Admirable when naked. but. it yearns for dark forbidden scribbles
Words submissive falling at the knees of the dominant hand.
One whose veins are obtrusively urging to pierce through the owners flesh, whilst they begin painting them onto the body of it. The slate.
Strokes ease off of the utensil.
Bristles bending in a manner that teases the slate.
A dip into dark globs of paint caress the emptiness of the utensil. The stroke. Slow, graceful, as smooth as the canvas that it was sinning all over. The vibration, orgasmic, back and forth. A bend in the back of the canvas. A beautiful arch, enticing to the artist. A mystic blend of vivid colors, creamy paints, an easel blended, half full, and half empty. Stroke after stroke the canvas echoes the bold strokes from the artist. On the journey to perfec.. not perfection, completion. A masterpiece. Defined around the round, hourglass edges. A petite top.
Just enough to have a handful of emptiness, the grip.
A twirl and tug on the mystic strands that creep right below the arch.
Tickling the spine
