Site hosted by Build your free website today!

The Query:
Treading on velvet,
Prey's heartbeat resounds.
Stalking in shadows,
No trace to be found...

Quarry's pulse quickens,
Sense predator near--
Find which way to bolt,
Avoiding this snare.

Hearts race in time,
Primal dance acting,
Instinctual fear
And reason impacting.

Used hesitation,
Cunning prevails--
Trap closing swiftly,
The captured one wails...

... too late.

So speak panther's child,
That flame in your eyes...
What sets it burning--
The hunt... or the prize?
~the renegade poet~

Golden-green beckons, a sweet lure in the darkness... and concealing shadows part before the undulation of a swaying stride. Tribal drums whip a circle of torches into frenzied dancing, throwing their eager gleam to froth in the depths of those eyes, to paint tanned curves... to kiss the lazy curl of a sweetly sadistic smile and spark the murderous tips of ten razorsharp claws...

Bare feet whisper silent seduction over a lush carpet of emerald grass, darkened only by night's persistent drape. Overhead, a crescent moon rides the smooth sea of a cloudless night, its silver reflection mocked by the heightened passion of the torches.

Short, black spikes sweep forward to create an abrupt frame for her tanned features; large, wide-spaced eyes return dizzying reflections tenfold, their golden-green hue a throwback to her denied birth-rights... the suggestion of exoticism, augmented by the predatorial sway of her stride. Sleek curves play a taunting game of hide-and-seek with the torchlight, challenged only by the veritable second-skin of black leather. Ears, throat, belly all free of ornament; she is exhibition enough... the definition of sinewy muscles is only enhanced by an armband of thorned vines, wrapping its cruel embrace around her left biceps...  and cruel it is; in response to the frenzy of the torches, the inked design writhes with a malignant delight all its own, long thorns winding and digging anew into the flesh beneath...

But no notice is taken by the bearer of that charmed tattoo. The jungle's rhythm excites a sensuous ripple from the still form in the circle's center; a foot stamps, her hips twist and a bullwhip drapes from one hand to rest with serpentine coils patient along the ground. At her belt, silver strikes against silver with a merry jangle, adding both melody and reflection to the scene...

... her back arches, bare feet bracing wide...

...her arm lifts, the figure-eight flicks of wrist setting the bullwhip to slice, singing, through the air above her head...

.... and the dance is completed with the downstroke, sending eight feet of leather screaming forward to the resounding crack of whip on bare flesh.

The bound slave jerks, grunting into the stick tied into his mouth... the clearing goes quiet, hushed, interrupted only by the crackle of hectic flames...awaiting the dance of each stroke to start anew...

Baghiira's Response:
Instinct wars with calculation
Primal fear consumed by hunger
Analysis dies amid sensation
Higher intellect rent asunder.

To dance in the moonlight
The seduction of deception;
A chase in the dark night
Twists wanton perceptions.

To stumble or fall
Is to plummet from grace;
To answer yearning call
And fill voided space.

A heated chase winds to end
With gasping prey finally caught;
Another hunger sated--
Another lesson taught.
-response: ©MOB-

Tales of the Jungle Cat:




Everything here is ©. Don't be a punter.