Carrie sat upon a broken pillar base wearing
deep purple a shawl about her shoulders. It
had fallen from her hair, it seemed to me, for
golden strands were yet caught in its pattern and
locks restrained within it. She looked beyond
the steps to lush green rolling away to distant
grove and lowering sky. Her feet together were
placed upon an elbow of fat brown vine.
Rose
lifted her chin and flaunted, taunted, with her broad-brimmed
hat beneath which her eyes did flash quite boldly.
What a hat it was, adorned with flowers and birds unto a
rapturous tower, a brilliant pinnacle far above its satin brim and
satin broad streamers rippled from it as Rose moved like
accolade to her slender back, the falling folds
and lifting tucks and puffs, the loops and
laces, flounces and ribbanding, flute and ruche
of her pink dress. How
low the bodice swooped in ready deference, in high praise, to
her full breasts pressed upward offering to
all the world.
White,
her breast, save for the 1 black patch placed
there beckoning, demanding,
devoted lips. 1 could
no more than glimpse allured like
the whisp of an enviable dream the tips of
her glass heels, the toes of her gilt satin shoes. Pink.
Pink were her hidden toes like precious warm
buttons of desire.
Her
dark hair was elaborately confined in gleaming
arabesques and cleverly selected, 1
might even deem mapped, portions were allowed
to fall upon her naked cream shoulders in scented
ringlets lightly dancing. The lilting brush
careless with such cream could drive 1mad to
caress just once before expiring sweet
cream soft skin with perishing lips and fingertips.