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The Art of Deception.His eyes seemed so real, yet in her heart she knew he'd perfected the art of deception.
She shuddered with every touch, screaming at herself to just stop it, it wasn't right because it wasn't real. She couldn't stop.
His strong hands were all she needed. His kisses on her face and his arms around her already half naked body. Love was her medication, except it wasn't love at all. It was pseudo affection that never amounted to anything more. Each time she told herself it would be the last. Each time she told herself it might be different. But each time it was the same. A bit of fun for him, a bit of affection to fill the void for her. Temporary fixes that were far more damaging than she ever thought. Every time she convinced herself it might be more than what it was, he ripped out another fragment of her heart.
All she wanted was for him to love her, but love was not a concept he understood. When she awoke each morning wrapped safely in his arm she prayed he would want her another
A mere reflection.His skin was like silk as he lay next to her. His soft breathing was like music to her ears. His arms tightly wrapped around her naked body, his lips resting against her forehead. She never wanted to move. As he awoke he murmured a few words and she smiled and kissed his lips softly in response. He yawned then flipped himself over so his body was pressed against hers. With every kiss her heart beat a little faster, he whispered the sweetest words and eventually her heart melted. He stroked her face and kissed her forehead as she fell swiftly back to sleep. Her fear of waking up and finding he was gone was merely just nonsense. As she woke for the second time that day in his arms, she realised she would never feel this way again.
As the train pulled faster she smiled to herself. His musky scent still on her clothes, his sweat still embedded in her skin, his warm kisses still on her lips. The scene she always watched with fascination flashed past her, but he was the only thing in her min
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More