A crimson chortle called close the pigment on her plain, pink, parted lips. Those lips, they knew the song, they quivered and hastened the sale of their chastity to it, they offered themselves, fleeting to the night’s cause; those lips, thus eager to merge with that singer of slatterns’ verses. Her lips, they expanded, they were enflamed with seduction as she guided the stick across them. The plain—that pale—pink, it had soon parted from her lips. Replaced with a red as heavy as that bleeding on the petal of a primrose, the application of colour to the face was her first prance down this path.
“But, I know I’ll mean something to you,” she whispered to the nervous harlot whose arabesque visage was floating as oil on the mirror in front of her; her reflection was as a bubble of soap—and what an irony! for soap is clean—whose rainbow was spiraling downward on the smooth—that slick—piece of deceptive glass before her. She knelt down to adjust her stockings, those tight fishnets, ensnaring the catchy legs of her proffered body, that neophyte Pisces. That nefarious princess.
She pouted, her lips curled into one; they wrinkled at their ends, they squeezed together as raisins packed tight alongside another in a box, a bright red package. And this she was; kissing the air, smack! Kissing nothingness with great passion, she admired the wares she was soon to sell, “…for it is more than nothing that I do.”