isolt griffin
I'm more alive than I've ever been
It was a rare thing, indeed, for the customarily demure young woman to act so boldly with her lovers; surely none of the suitors in her mortal life had gained such a glimpse of the lascivious minx that seemed to hijack Isolt's mannerisms as she pulled her fiance insistently into the darkness of the foyer. She was cross with him for his abandonment, that could not be denied, and yet deep within the most protected and private portion of her soul there was an erotic leviathan unfurling from the abyss of a deep slumber. Awakened by Damon's presence after so long a time and ravenous for the beast that lay within him too. Slyly does she press her own back against the wall of the foyer, slender digits still twisted into the fabric of Damon's jacket as she pulls him to her. In the moments that he leans to kiss her, their lips meeting as if fate could not tolerate for them to be apart, a deep, wanton warmth spreads from the depths of her core down every appendage. Her body flushes entirely from a caress as simplistic as this.
Show me, she considers demanding of him, her mind cast in the darkness of the considerations of what, exactly, he might offer as penance for his wrong-doing. Yet before the invitation can even skate against the curl of her tongue does her lover resort to far more innocent avenues of conversation. Even still does a simper, impish in its very essence, draw its curve unto her cherry lips as she regards him through glimmering azure eyes. "Well, there is this one guy," she begins, casually hooking her fingers into the folds of his jacket to coax it away from his frame until it lands haphazardly upon the floor behind them. "He left his fiance all alone, without a word, no call, no explanation, and no way to satiate her... needs." Next does she move to the buttons of his faultlessly-pressed shirt, fingertips making subtle and prompt work of the fastenings before she settles them against his bare chest. "It's cruel, really, how needy she's become since he's been gone," the words hiss from her lips in no more than a siren-esque purr, her voice and her body calling, in unison, to the carnal beast that (though she has yet to truly encounter it) she knows crouches within him.
The supple bulbs of Isolt's fingertips travel a nearly excruiating line of leisure down the rippling canvas of bulging muscle that is Damon's torso until they halt upon the clasp of his trousers. Only then does she lean in, the inviting cushions of her upturned lips stopping just shy of his own, a single query leaving them before the delicate planes of her hands slide ever so smoothly into the front of his slacks.
"How would you punish him?"