Pool_2

Caitlin was elevated, classical. Katherine was earthy, sensual. But he confused that distinction in his weakened state. "My Caitlin, they are the sun and moon in a dueling twilight of milk and rose. I chill on the one and burn on the other with my hand reaching down to the soft fur of your.." "Gavin! Stay with the nipples. Get your hands off my, my, .." "Your?" "Yes! Mine. It is not yours. Not yet." "It could be." "You have a key, have you now?" He could just fancy her fists on her hips, upside down akimbo, her scolding lips pressed, as his, to the crack under the door. His were grinning. "I do. But, that must hurt." "What?" "Your face on the stone with your fists on your hips." "How'd you.. ohhh.... What key?" For all their whips, they hadn't killed the poet. He told her of his love, as he had so many times, but added a new thought, an insight that came from the whipper who jeered, "I -whip- Christen -whip- thee -whip- dead -whip- meat." When Gavin pointed out that this iambic trimeter had an inverted final foot, the jailer spit out that he'd stick his uninverted foot up the youngster's inverted ass, and abruptly switched to flogging in spondees. "Gavin!" Katharine was horrified, she knew what that meant. He was bleeding." You ARE bleeding, aren't you?"