and, during her kiss, she sucked his breath from his lungs so that her own
bosom heaved with it.
She sank her teeth into his throat and drained him. He did not have the time
to make a sound. When he was empty, he slipped straight out of her embrace
down to her feet with a dry rustle, as of a cast armful of dead leaves, and there
he sprawled on the floorboards, as empty, useless and bereft of meaning as his
own tumbled shawl.
She tugged impatiently at the strings which moored her and out they came in
bunches from her head, her arms and her legs. She stripped them off her
fingertips and stretched out her long, white hands, flexing and unflexing them
again and again. She stamped her elegant feet to make the new blood flow
more freely there.
- Angela Carter, "The Loves of Lady Purple"
|Pop S/S 2007, Mert & Marcus|