Masculine, Alpha, Nobility

 

 

Suggested Audio Candy:

 

Zsa Zsa LaBoum “Something Scary”

 

Can you feel that pulse? I ask that you stop whatever you’re doing and listen closely as it’s in your chest and growing more pronounced by the second. Rhythmic poundings, each sending reverberations through your rib cage, and rattling your heart in its fixture. Both delicate and thunderous; it is the tap on the window frame and big bass drum. I feel nothing else right now for I am in the presence of royals and all ventricles are filled to overflowing. They’re clotted, the crimson feels like convoluted sludge, yet still it moves like a rattlesnake. This is the way it manifests when the platter presented involves our dark king, Matt Farnsworth.

Looking into his baby blues offers a gorgeous feeling of insecurity as we attempt to decipher whether his peepers smile or snarl. He is prowling as I scribe this, climbing towards your bedroom window with the intent of ravaging your soul, dancing on each of your bones, and sucking the marrow from around them, spilling none whatsoever. That beat, the tuneful din you hear is not from within you…it is his heart beating as he’s already inside your quarters and about to strike most decisively.

Nobody stalks like our noble King, few inhabit his darkness as it is too dense to navigate. As First Knight I have traversed his inner sanctum and even managed to run my tongue fleetingly along his pulsating cerebral candy crate. It tasted both delectable and, in the self-same moment, sickeningly bitter. Basted with brilliance, his is a cocktail of endowment overflowing with the belief required to realize every goal he sets himself in life. Nothing out of reach, everything at his fingertips, and cruor caked-up behind his grimy nails. Is he a deity? Those spherical blues would suggest divinity but then could he actually be the devil? His serpentine tongue flicks against your pelt in a most ungodly fashion so jury’s out on that one.

The pulse you discern is, in fact, emanating from further down his midriff. Royal loin; prime rib and bloodied. We’re talking the choicest cut marinated with madness and seasoned in sanguine solution. Beneath those palms it lurks, snarling and spitting voraciously. It’s feeding time Grueheads, time to slacken any panties, for you are about to be entered in no uncertain terms. Literal or metaphorical…it’s your call to make. Comforting or annihilating…his. Recline and lubricate swiftly as his sand blaster moves both surreptitiously and with unflinching purpose. All elegance is for our dark queen as she lures travelers in akin to a salacious siren for him to devour.

Failure is just a word to him, one he has no great liking for or requisite to use. Why worry about something you’re never culpable of? That’s why he’s a monarch…his cojones possess their own cojones. I’ve been First Knight for a number of months now, have served my dark king and queen with steadfast, and have had my broadsword by my side at all times. Moreover, my cruel associates, the Grueheads, share the fire within which I char. We believe in our royals unconditionally, love them unreservedly, and are prepared to fight alongside them to the bitter bloody end if it means the maintenance of liberty. No questions, no split loyalties or mutinous cancer, just the plainest of beliefs and shared vision. Until the bitter bloody end!

I’m Inside You

Do you hear that growl? Please listen in closely,
You’ll likely discern it as gargling mostly,
That tang in your throat, I believe would be bile,
If you’re not left gasping, then you’re deep in denial.

 

Lock up your windows, commence then to hide,
For our dark king is near, he’s already inside,
The scent of your fear, his nostrils doth flair,
You’re feeling uneasy, but he really don’t care.

 

Lay back and accept him, his nails on your flesh,
Sweet agony guides you, as the blood starts to mesh,
He’s thrusting his darkness, commanding your space,
One hand round your throat, other grasping your face.

 

Our king is not wasteful, he won’t spill a drop,
He devours from within, no intention to stop,
He’s licking your brain now as he slathers its honey,
He’s so far inside you, it’s no longer funny.

 

He shatters our hymens, takes innocence back,
And then keeps on feeding as  bodies go slack,
Concealing a monster, it’s spitting ferocious,
It’s utterly postal, yet still brimming with focus.

 

Each clench courts more madness, as he slides in the pain,
With the loss of your essence, his perpetual gain,
He’ll gently respect you, and leave you intact,
Then leave you to ponder, was this fiction or fact?

 

No matter just leave it, consolidate fast,
The next one’s a doozy, the subsequent blast,
With tongue on your eyeballs, he’s sucking them whole,
Then mounting your skull-cap, and fucking both holes.

 

You think it is over, no weight on your chest now,
I warn in advance, there’s no point getting dressed now,
You’ll need all your strength as he will come back,
With Keeper beside him for dual-pronged attack.

 

 

 I know right? May as well get those showers running. Check the temperature, achieve optimum settings, then crank that shit up to thirteen and wash away the grime. Relinquish those gowns as they won’t be required; then lather yourself for our dark king. As you reach your first beacon, feel his tepid breath as it makes each neck hair sway. Discern also his tongue, which jabs persistently in your underarm, licking its salt. Gnaw, tear, consume. Feel his oppressive girth as it taps lightly against your lower spine bracket, requesting to come inside but with no intention of wiping its boots on your welcome mat. Whether you accept or reject, he shall still inject. That intravenous penis already has your inner floor plan. It’s as though every one of his tattoos is animated, tugging and nuzzling your epidermis, sending shock waves of sinful bliss into each nerve ending.

Arch that spine, inhale and exhale. Allow your eyes to flicker and drift in and out of a conscious state. He wants to take you as your body limbers, rock you to sleep viciously with his vile lullabies of madness. That’s me playing my hurdy-gurdy in the darkest recesses of the room, while sipping mead from a tortured skull. Alas poor Yorick, there’s none left for you. Get your own skull you fucker. The sound you hear is of cherries popping globally, even the battle-hardened may have learned a thing or two about the darkness of desire and the desire in darkness. King Matt supplies oodles of both, ladles it in like a Romanian canteen worker. And there’s nothing sloppy about the way he dishes up seconds.

Every inch of Our king bleeds investment. Any ropes were learned long ago and since then he has been gestating, animating, creating and patiently waiting. Every one of us is lubed and waiting at insertion and The Orphan Killer: Bound X Blood is growing closer with every day. Marcus is in our ears, axe handle gently cracking at our spleens. “Let me in little pigs or I’ll huff and puff” I suggest we do as he says little piggies as it’s better that way. With our dark king pulling the bloody strings and Baby Sister growing increasingly restless and tainted, the slaying will commence any day. I’d say now is a good time to grab that bed rest. Just remember to deadbolt those doors, keep one eye open, and have plenty of morphine on hand.

 

Sinning is everything,

 

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013