Crimson Thorns

Crimson Thorns

By

Ophelia Mae Hancock

April 18, 2022

Dedicated to J, my passionate partner in crime:



Raven can see it all so well now in her twisted little mind's eye, the stormy grey that it is. She gently fingers back the ebony curl that has fallen within the vision of that hazy gaze. The type of hazy gray blue that leads captains to sailing directly into the eye of the storm. The type of turmoil that draws them in, such as a Charlotte's Web. You will find refuge here, yet it will be within the smoke. It offers up a similar sense of comfort and reminensce of those decades old threadbare brilliant blue jeans that no one ever wants to let go. So familiar and so soothing of an azure shade as to remind you of laying in a field in the Summer as a child, gazing at the sky. A return to the mind of a child, with all of the hopes and dreams that come with that state of youth and naivete. The magical sense that it all really does seem possible.

Raven does have a way of dreaming up the most eloquently delicious adventures within her own impish mind. She gives a wry curling of her tender lip. Her notions tend to be well beyond the mundane. God only knows what the simple folk do. She is very much like the little girl with the little curl. When she is good, she is very very good, and when she is bad, well, you know. Perhaps she needs a bit of a reprimand to comb her hair in a pleasing direction. She has quite the flair for enticing the baroque, which is beyond the level of most's comfort.

Raven feels an impulse rise within herself, her not-quite-dangerous spirits wanting to come out and play. So lively are they, that if they are given an inch, they take a mile, and run headlong with it as if escaping an inferno. Speaking of fire, she beckons the warm balmy candlelight that soothes her mind and casts shadows upon a secluded place. A place of no knowledge, one of no return. Many tiny flames converge to create one tiny hell.

The amber glow of the flames adore the presence of the object of passion and love that has been setting in its vial of life giving fluid. Raven's inspiration has been tucked away, its thirst quenched in the pristine fluid. It is jealous, impatiently awaiting its time for attention, much as an unruly toddler.

Oh mirror mirror on the wall, she has captured the most primal of all. She has enticed the wild buck to eat the forbidden grains from her tiny hand. As he eats greedily, she wonders, what to do, what to do?

All sense and reason, whatever small amount she had to begin with, has been cast aside. Raven pounces upon her King much as a feral cat would upon a field mouse, and she toys at him in much the same manner. She tentatively takes the elegant bloom in her tenuous fingers. She lovingly places it in her mouth as she leans upon her King to massage and caress his chest, to meld him to her will. As her passion rises, she feels a bit of a wild sting upon her velvet lip. A taste of crimson wildness fills her mouth, and spurs her on.

Raven's building urgency has now mellowed into a sensuous longing, much as one would wish to savor a fine meal rather than devouring it. She very delicately traces the succulent petals of the elegant bloom over her King's aroused quivering flesh. She can see his chest rise and fall as his breath comes in gasps.

Raven starts at her King's forehead, his royal crown, and lightly sweeps the tender petals from cheek, to nose, to a butterfly kiss upon his stately lips, then an erotic brush of his neck, which sends him into shivers of delight.

The arching of his back seems to beg for more attention, so she traces the lush bloom downward, toying at his hardened nipples, further down his chest, downwards to his stomach, all the while taking note of his labored breathing. Raven allows the bloom to drift downward like a cloud, down, down, down, letting it linger in his most reserved, private, scandalous parts, as they twitch, begging for his Pincesse's own personal touch.

Raven's King grasps his Princess in a tight passionate embrace. She swoons over his hot gasping breath in her ear and over her swan like neck. He tangles his fingers into her damp ebony curls in a most primal manner, drawing her to him as if begging for the dessert rains. He places a strong primal grip upon her neck, asserting his control of his Princess, leaving her light headed, her body totally devoted to her King. She can smell his muskiness rise, along with sensing his body heat, in waves like the Summer sun. Her womb tightens under such a heady sense of chemistry, and she becomes a slave to his utter rawness.

Now is the time.

Raven's passions spur her on to straddle her King much as a thoroughbred horse. He heaves a whimper of encouragement and lays his body bare to his Princess. She rises up with all of her remaining strength and dives upon and envelopes his aggressiveness with her submissiveness. A sudden bolt of electric charge pulls them together like a magnet. The beast within him dives in for a passionate primal bite upon her neck, which brings a whimper of a desire for more. Entanglements ensue based upon their own primal instinct, needing not thought nor reasoning of the “civilized” mind. No, they have been instilled since the dawn of time.

Yet what beauty is there in a rose with no thorns? Where is the tragic poetry of love? Where is the bittersweet symphony? The same velvety rose that softly caressed her King can lovingly bring his Princess vibrantly to life. It can go from sweet and light to dark and stormy.

As she bestows herself upon her King, he reaches for the bloom of lust and softly traces it over her supple chest. She arches her back at the cloud-like sensation, taking it all in. He lets the bloom of life slip down and lovingly tease at the breast of his Princess. She can hardly breathe. The petals tease at her already hardened nipples. Princess mewls like a newborn kitten and tightens like a fuse.

Raven's mind runs wild with animalistic notions.

Manic thoughts comsume her pretty little head. They jump up and wave with their tiny viscous paws. They beg, please, our Mistress, allow us entrance from the beyond. She is feeling such an electric rush that she can hardly deny her little psychological children their belonging in her rush. She invites them to think. She shares her dark desires with her spiritual offspring, what should mama do? She confides in these dear ones, able to trust their every thought. They ask mama, what do you really want? She doesn't need to contemplate, she knows. I want to live! I want to draw it all in and take it all in! I want to scream bliss! I want to become unstable with the intensity of unreasonable pleasure!

All possible logical reasoning has evaporated. Her mind goes to the greatest of desires that she had previously thought beyond her grasp. But now, personal imps spur her on. Heady thoughts, heady desires. Her now overloaded mind thinks the thorns should rip at me in a most lovingly intense way, expose the true me. The thorns must expose the sweet crimson nectar of life. I will bring my true intimacy to my King, she muses, and truly bare myself to him. I will offer up this, my tiny offering of my own personal sweet wine . Vitality can drip for him and him alone. I must bestow this great gift of cosmic dedication to him, and him alone.

Forces of nature overtake her, and she grasps the rose from her King. Much as a brilliant bolt of lightening jolts the calm of the storm to life, Raven makes a most heady rip of her delicate flesh upon her tender chest, with the thorns of love. She gasps in excitement over the sensation. Here, my King, an expression of my dedication, such a sacrifice, such a profession of contentment and commitment.

Raven tosses her instrument of devotion aside, and leans forward, hovering over her King. He rises and clutches her in a tight embrace. He laps at her offering like an excited pup, experiencing its copper-like taste. He nurses at her life force. She wishes to truly give her all to her King, and he can truly be one with his Princess.

The tenuous veil between the concrete and the ethereal has parted. A steady rhythm has formed between the sexual and the spiritual, one feeding off the other. He greedily nurses at her life force as he ruts away at her as never before. He is gaining strength from his Princess, her gift of sustinance. The more lovingly brutal he becomes to her, the more sacrificial she becomes to him. As if by magic, the stars and planets align in just the most precious of ways. With an incredibly animalistic howl, he thrusts deep and hard into her. She returns her passions by digging her miniature claws into his back, such as a feral kitten. Her King blesses his Princess with his life essense, flowing deep within her.

They slump against each other, one supporting the other. His body radiates the heat of 1,000 suns. Raven embraces her King as a toddler might cling to the ragtag teddy bear before it is taken from her. Time to cast aside childish things. She fingers a lock of damp hair from his forehead and tucks it behind his ear in the most mothering way. She watches a bead of sweat trickle from his brow and wash down to his neck. She lovingly draws it to her lips. She can taste the saline he is releasing. He is the salt of the Earth to her. She adores him.

He collapes back, drained from such a symphony of destruction. His mighty chest rapidly rises and falls, seeking the refreshment of the atmosphere. His heaves of respiration resonate with a burly rumble. Traces of her crimson essence besmirch her King's chest. She relaxes her posture and drapes herself over him. She places her lips to his, her coppery taste lingering. Raven cooes in delight. She is utterly depleted of energy. She has spent what she had mustered to her dark doting.

The great mystery of an eerie life has been discovered by the King and his Princess. A veil has been drawn back to expose it's inky darkness. They have both found it to be all that it has been promised to be, and so much more.