The Majesty of Lady Die: Beauty Edition

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Sia Breathe Me

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Allow me to provide you with a mental picture of sorts Grueheads. Right now I am rubbing together both palms with demented glee. This is not to say that I have hatched some impish plan for global domination as my plans really aren’t all that heinous. It merely represents my elation at scribing about one of my darkest pleasures, our True Scream Queen and esteemed monarch, Diane Foster. Peruse my back catalogue and you shall discover many instances when the Crimson Quill had bled passionately and candidly about this salacious siren. It may initially startle some to learn of my lack of inhibition when deep red flows in her direction. In fact it is my inability to filter which our sovereignty rejoice most excitedly. No restraints are provided, tastefulness always ensured, but inner desires well and truly laid out before you like the proverbial buffet.

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I can’t hold this back as Keeper doesn’t play like that. I’m an all-in kinda guy and, besides, how could you not be when faced with such an exquisite American Rose such as she? Horror aficionados the world over must’ve rubbed their sweaty hands together in synchronicity when she first appeared on our screens and, as the beleaguered Audrey Miller, she all but died for her cause. Every last fiber went into her breath-stealing turn as Baby Sister and, for Keeper, I cast my mind back instantly to Marilyn Burns’ exhausted primal response to her torturous treatment at the hands of the fucked-up Texas Waltons. She exhibited the same dread, the same confusion, same metamorphosis as Sally Hardesty. Tobe Hooper actually gave his leading lady scant warning of what she was in store for, thus enabling her to not just add scared, but be fucking terrified, whereas Diane was producer for The Orphan Killer and was under no illusions as to her imminent anguish. In fact, she helped hook that shit up.

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The pain she endured while shackled in those barbed-wire bracelets, was more authentic than many initially anticipated. Each stinging movement was felt, each groan of displeasure bona fide. But she wasn’t just thrown in the deep-end like Burns, she offered herself of her free choice, and was conscious of her forthcoming trauma. Yet her performance doesn’t reflect this, indeed, she doesn’t appear to have even give one. That, my friends is what bagged her the coveted Mid West Rising Star Award in favor of fellow hopefuls such as Anne Hathaway. This is why we all rejoiced so; when paths were destined to open up before her she chose the path that led to all of us.

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Chance encounter then? Let’s just say we’re privileged; her conviction bleeds from within, notably through her eyes which lure us into soft embrace with the faintest of glances. They display yearning, vulnerability, delicateness but are offset by furious passion, unshakable resolve, and murderous intent. I’ll never get over those peepers, they appear magic-bound and could reduce an alpha to fluid at their own free will, should she desire.

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I’ve stated before how she prowls like a feline before the lens, owning it and manipulating it into something majestic every time without exception. There’s an animalistic quality to her in these instances, she devours us, and we can but facilitate such. Meanwhile, her illustrious pelt fits so elegantly. Her flesh is forbidden but we can but look; her taste deadly but we must feast. Her breasts are pure symmetrical perfection, sumptuous orbs of divinity which glow like fiery beacons. I imagine her flavor to be heavenly and, often when perusing her optical offerings I actually feel that alloy tang in the back of my palate. Somehow, inexplicably, she has transcended the image and lies pressed against me.

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She caresses, teases, bites softly; our nostrils sting with her sweetness. We look bemused by the melange of beauty before us, every piece we explore is simply flawless. All the while we feel pulses of yearning beneath the sheets. Her crimson nectar is the ultimate prize. At her soft center is the prohibited fruit from which we wish to feast upon. One bite would be all it took for her to absorb our souls eternally. I think I can speak for us all when I say that it matters not to us and we’d pay the price gladly. Such dark essence bleeds from every pore, sending us into euphoric delight.

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Do we cum? Fuck yes we do. Does she mind? To put it plainly, no. Does our beloved Dark King harbor disdain? Again, a simple no. Creative souls can look beyond such wasteful endeavor. This is their art and they wish only to share that with all of us. A true artist lends themselves to the safekeeping of their addressee and doesn’t hold back. You reveal yourself every time you choose to share your passion. You trust in your vision, know of their implications. Your eyes are wide open.

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Our Dark King and Queen share a bond which transcends simple man-made pitfalls like envy. They appreciate honesty, as does any decent media professional worth their salt. I adore that about them, I can be exactly who I am. No requisite for bashfulness or restrain through my prose. Their work is unflinchingly forthright so naturally they appreciate the sentiment. Thus, my words dance around such beauty like no other can. Nothing is processed, my prose bleeds from the Crimson Quill and they read it with all of their addressees. Trust is key and they choose to do so. Integrity goes a long way after all and Matt and possess have this in abundance. Moreover, they know I do too.

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Diane Foster is an anomaly, there isn’t another auteur on the scene who possesses her truth, sensuality and purpose. Nobody else appears so much to be from another time than she. Her classic beauty is quite simply breathtaking. This is true to such a point that I find myself musing over whether or not she is the reincarnation of an iconic figure. It appears that she holds more than a lifetime of insight within her palatial peepers. They hold within a secret and we bask in their effervescent rays. To our Dark Queen, this is a love letter from every one of us. It would seem fitting to end with the dripping of my own deep red honey, through way of some mouth-watering dark poetry.

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Words seem insufficient when speaking of you,
How does one convey such veneration?
This love that we feel, is so honest and true,
and there’s no hiding our delectation.

 

You dance in our hearts, bloody footprints you leave,
You kiss our desires , make them flourish,
You allow us to quench from your infinite font,
And quench until we’re wholly nourished.

 

The honey which flows is deliciously sweet,
It gushes and rushes our senses,
Blood runs to the quill, fresh spice from the kill,
The second your sweet dance commences.

 

Dark pleasures excite from which we gain light,
Both perennial and customary,
No other can claim to evoke such delight,
You’re a one-off, unique, solitary.

 

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Click here to read Beast Edition

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)

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