A Spin of My Own


So you want me to be cruel. You crave the ripping pain, fire in your flesh, knife into your bone. You long for the lash of my acid tongue. Oh, but I won't give you that pleasure; I will not sate your lust. Not yet. My touch is soft, and my heart is calm. My potion requires low heat, slow burning fire. Ashwinder eggs are too flammable; they must be frozen, or they will burn you to cinders. A wave of my wand, a spin of my ladle, a fleeting silver sparkle, and I will drown you in crepe-satin passion.


Ptyx, August 2005

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