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She Inked My Flesh With Her Bleeding Love

She inked my flesh with her bleeding love, the way no one else could. All I could feel was her running motion of emotions brushing against the skin. It was my body that became a canvas for her to ink. All the love she poured as colours, all the strokes oozing red hues, all the sanctity of art that I missed, she gave it all to me.

"Love was never mine or her. It was just art between us. Art where we unfold and unwind the entwined emotion of darkness mixed with the light of making love." - A Mixed Nerve

she inked my flesh with her bleeding love

I had never felt alive till then. The furiousness of skin, the bristles' strokes of hair, the thumping sound of pleasure and the magic happening in front of my eyes was a sight to behold. The knocking of heaven's door, the stairway to heaven repeating in the background, brought "Hotel California" to my mind while I was being a part of the divine art with the deity herself.

She was exquisite in all forms, she was my love, my lust, my devotion, my reason for happiness, and she was my own form of art and I her artist. And everything changed that night. I was her canvas and she poured hues of red as the colour of her art.

The breathing moments had increased, the sweat-filled odour had become the smell of earth inside the room. The dark night was smiling. The fire still burned bright in us. The emotion-driven pleasure was never lost midway. The souls had found their happy home. The art had found its canvas.

Love-dripping hormones had made sure the art wouldn't stop until the fire of desire burns out. We kept getting closer and closer to each other's nature of desire and our souls danced while we made love.

Her art was all I held upon. The lust kept growing, our bodies synced in the motion of snakes winding up to beat the cold. Her art had become immortal and her nature imprinted on my soul. The night had fallen short of the love that grew in our souls. Lust had carved scriptures on our bones.

It was her first time. Her senses had become numb. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she poured as colour. She knew how raw the art was. She had fallen in love with the art. She had always dreamt of creating art and now she can call herself an artist of emotion. She wanted me just the way I craved for her flesh and bones.

The love between us immortalised with the thought of two souls bonding as one. Never knew love would form ripples of vibration in each cell of us. She never wanted, just sex. She wanted a devotee for herself. She had found that in me. We had found love in art and had found us in each other's heart.

The red ink of bonding was the rainbow of our love. It formed the start to a never-ending love between us. My heart was inked, my eyes with a red hue, my blood had mixed with the ink she poured, I had turned into a red rainbow of love, lust, and desire for art.

She inked my flesh with her bleeding love, the way she had dreamt of. She inked my flesh with each drop of her red tone. The darkness had succumbed to the rays of sun piercing into the room, while we lay in silence admiring the night of bleeding love and making art.

We cherished each moment we had, a night of art and a night of entwined romance. Bed made a glory remark with red paint as the only mark. The sweat-filled room had turned gloomy as it had no more scene of art. The love, the red hue, and the rainbows of love drawn on my skin were a memory of her magical art.

This is a description of a night spent by two artists. The love they poured as art was everything they craved and needed.

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