She was a doll. A perfect creation of what was inside of him. A writhing nest of black coiled hair, of blue, blue eyes and perfect, moist lips. There was something calculatingly delicate about the way he placed her hands beside her face and fixed her dress just so. The way his fingers traced every contour as he applied the oil and dusted her with powder. The way he gently tucked the daisies into her hair. No eyes had ever loved that much. No white flesh had ever yielded so easily. Malleable. Melted. Something fragile and powerful opened up like a flower. 

He prettied her up again, and then slid his tongue inside. There was a milk taste, something sweet as melted cotton candy resting there. Thin red ribbons clung to his tongue as the flesh melted against it. 

If this was control and submission it was unclear who was using either. As he commanded she willed. A perfect symbiosis. A perfect action and reaction. 

As her arms circled his neck she whispered something secret in his ear. The others looked away knowing this was not for them. Though fascinated they were, uninvited they had become. And they knew it. And they left.

“You didn’t say a word,” he said smiling against her throat.

“But it got them to leave,” she answered and slipped her cold fingers beneath his shirt.