Was it my morale sense of transgression that warned me about the way her eyes batted murder. Sardonic, tongue slapping amusement pinching her tongue of poison spit. Tapered elbows and teeth, malicious monster of snarled locks, her hair taut with rope and lace. Artistic powder to smudge forth a veil of charm and allure, it was all the flavor of immoral nature. Dread drain lurker for besieged veins. Red velvet nectar defining her gloss lips, in sadistic law. Pale armor of a cold clammy casing, she sundered the glare of the moon. She sustained a garlic tolerance, whilst hushing a waxen flame. Might I neglect the fact of my pin spotted throat?